The River Killings (Zoe Hayes Mysteries) - Softcover

Merry Jones is the author of nine books, including the humorous bestseller I Love Him, But... and the nonfiction Birthmothers: Women Who Have Relinquished Babies for Adoption Tell Their Stories. Born and raised in the Chicago area, she now lives outside Philadelphia with her husband and two daughters. This is her second novel in the Zoe Hayes mystery series.

Chapter 1
The water gleamed silver and black like a stream of mercury winding through the night. The almost full moon and the traffic lights on Kelly Drive spilled some light our way, and Susan had clipped a red blinking flash onto the back of her spandex top. Even so, as we shoved off the boathouse dock, we were clearly alone on the inky river, only a thin layer of carbon fiber separating us from the chilly waters of the Schuylkill River.
For June, the night was unnaturally muggy. The weather had been abnormal lately, the air swelling, sticky and humid, with temperatures in the high eighties too early and for too many days. After sunset, the air had begun to cool, but it hung heavily, as if exhausted from the day.
Maybe I was projecting; I was drained, having spent a long, stifling day at the Institute, finishing paperwork and saying good-bye to patients, some of whom wouldn’t be there anymore when I returned from a two-week break. My head was crowded with their incomplete art projects and unfinished therapy programs, and I wanted simply to collapse at home, sorting myself out, chilling under a ceiling fan.
By contrast, Susan had taken the day off, staying in her air-conditioned Center City home, supervising contractors who were putting in skylights and redoing the deck. She’d been desperate to get out of the house and singularly unmoved by my claims of fatigue.
“The water’s completely calm,” she’d promised. “The row will be easy and quiet. The river will be empty—no coaching launches to speed by and wake us. In fact, there won’t be any other boats out at all.”
She sounded pleased, as if being the only boat on the river in the dark was a plus. Frankly, I was uncomfortable rowing at night. The water was too black, too silent. Rowing on it seemed risky.
I’d tried to put up an argument. “Susan, we’re still novices.”
“Exactly. That’s why we should go now, while it’s quiet. It’ll be easier water than during the day. Trust me.”
I’d sighed, still resisting. “What am I supposed to do with Molly?” Molly was my six-year-old daughter. So far, she’d usually been at school when we rowed. Or, on weekends, she and Susan’s daughters Rollerbladed or rode bikes along the river on Kelly Drive. But at night, what was Molly supposed to do? Nick was working late again, and with Angela off on her honeymoon, I had nobody to baby-sit.
But Susan had been undeterred. She’d offered to bring two of her daughters, Emily and Julie. “They’ll all stay at the boathouse,” she’d said. “They’ll watch TV in the lounge for an hour.”
“What about Tony?” Tony Boschetti was the boathouse manager, and we’d heard that he wasn’t happy about members leaving their children alone there.
“Screw Tony. They’ll stay in the lounge. They won’t bother anybody.”
She’d had me. Molly and Emily were best friends; Julie was older, almost eleven. They’d be fine. After all, we’d only be gone for an hour.
And so, despite my reservations, I’d agreed to go. We’d left the girls in the lounge with sodas and bags of popcorn, then gone down to the deserted dock, gotten into the Andelai and shoved off.
Susan was energized. In just a few months, she’d become an avid, if not particularly skilled, sculler, bringing to rowing the same relentless fervor that she applied to the rest of her life. Susan did nothing halfway; if she wanted to swim, she threw herself wholeheartedly, headfirst, into the pool. Somehow, she successfully managed her marriage, her three daughters, her active criminal defense law practice, her volunteer work at a homeless shelter, her second term as PTA president, her position with the Neighborhood Town Watch, and her never-ending process of redecorating her home and preparing not just healthful but delectable meals for family and friends. Sculling was merely the newest of Susan’s many passions, and I knew from past experience that it was best not to interfere; for a time, she would be utterly consumed.
It was all Nick’s fault. Nick was the man I’d been seeing, and he’d been rowing since high school. The first thing he did when he moved to Philadelphia the year before was to buy a new sculling shell and join a boathouse. And as soon as the winter ice had thawed, he’d begun rowing. Nick rowed when he was stressed or fatigued, when he needed to think or relax, when he needed to work off frustration or uncertainty. He rowed at all hours, often before dawn, and in all weather. When Susan had complained that her thighs were getting flabby, Nick suggested that she take up rowing. Before I knew it, Susan had signed us both up for a Learn-to-Row class. I’d never have taken the class on my own, but Susan had insisted. Rowing would be good for us—less fattening than going to lunch, less expensive than shopping. Besides, she’d argued, fortyish-year-old women like us needed to take action to resist rolling midriffs and the tolls of time.
In the end, though, I took the class not because of anything Susan said, but because I was curious. What was this sport that lured Nick out of bed before the sun was up? For years, I’d been intrigued by the long, sleek shells on the river, the elegant sway of the rowers, the synchrony of their oars. I’d wondered what it would feel like to be one of them, gliding on the water with silent strength and grace. But I’d been an innocent. I’d had no idea how all-consuming this new hobby could become. Or how it would change our lives.
By the time our six weeks of Learn-to-Row classes had ended, Susan had become addicted. She’d urged me to join Humberton Barge, one of the oldest rowing clubs on Boathouse Row, and she insisted that we practice daily, preparing to compete in the Schuylkill Navy Regatta, the first race of the summer.
Susan may have been the instigator, but, in my way, I’d become hooked, too. We’d even hired a coach, the controversial but esteemed Preston Everett, to work with us twice a week. A former Olympic champion, Coach Everett had the reputation of being both the most cantankerous and the most capable coach on the river. It had been Coach Everett who’d assigned us our boat, a double named Andelai. And it had been Coach Everett who’d assigned us our positions. As “bow,” Susan was to steer the boat and give commands; as “stroke,” I was, basically, to keep quiet and obey her.
This arrangement suited Susan perfectly. She enjoyed talking without interruption on any subject that breezed through her mind. As we rowed, she often commented on the natural environment, the lush foliage along the banks, the egrets and loons, the turtles, the ducklings. Depending on her mood, she would rave or rant about her husband, Tim, and any of her three children. She talked about the clients she was defending, the rabid ferocity of prosecutors, the shoulders of the contractors working on her house, the price of slipcovers for her sunroom sofa, a new chili recipe that was rich with chocolate, the outcome of her impending mammogram, how much weight she’d gained or lost, the burgeoning sizes of her teenage daughter’s bras. She saw her role as bow as a license to speak uninterrupted for as long as she wanted about anything. Mostly, I tuned her out. But buried in her monologue were occasional directions about rowing the boat, so I had to tune in at least marginally.
We shoved off the dock, gliding gently away from the glowing lights of Boathouse Row. The water was smooth and sleepy, a dark mirror for the lights, and the boat slid along smoothly, undisturbed, leaving a rippling triangular trail. Rowing at night, I thought, might not be so bad after all. It was peaceful. Romantic, in a way. Maybe Nick would row with me some evening. I pictured it, the two of us alone on the river under the dreamy moon.
“Half-slide in two,” Susan called. “And stop splashing.”
Splashing? I wasn’t splashing, or I hadn’t thought I was. But I didn’t say anything. Coach Everett had been very clear about in-boat behavior. The bow, and only the bow, was to speak. The bow was in command. Everybody else was to keep silent, backs straight and eyes focused forward. They were not even to turn their heads.
“Watch your oars,” Susan ordered.
Watch them? What was wrong with them? And how could I watch them if I wasn’t supposed to turn my head?
“Why?” I called as I rowed, aware that, by speaking, I was breaking a cardinal rule. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re still splashing.”
I was? “With both oars?” I had to shout; the river was quiet but Susan was behind me, and I was faced away from her. And, along this stretch of the river, sounds of traffic on Kelly Drive and the nearby expressway muffled our voices.
“Sometimes,” she shouted back. “And watch your slide.”
My slide? The slide is the part of the stroke when the legs bend as the rower’s seat moves up from bow to stern. But what about the slide was I supposed to “watch”? Was it too fast? Too slow? Too early or late? Why couldn’t she be specific? Was she being deliberately obtuse? Never mind, I told myself. Let it go.
“And relax your shoulders.”
Oh, boy. We hadn’t rowed five hundred yards yet. Was Susan going to comment on my every move for six more miles?
“Watch the splashing,” she shouted, “and give me pressure on p...