She was a local—she had lived on Nantucket for over twenty-five years—but she wasn’t a native. She was from…Pennsylvania? Ohio? That made her a wash-ashore.
A few years earlier, the editor of the Nantucket Standard, Jordan Randolph, had pointed out an error in one of Vivian Howe’s novels. She had referred to a ferry unloading at Steamship Wharf rather than Steamboat Wharf, and he’d verbally flogged her in his weekly editorial, saying that if she couldn’t get the basics of Nantucket correct then she had no place writing about this island. This was met with backlash. The ferries were run by the Steamship Authority so nearly all of us—wash-ashore and native—called it Steamship Wharf. Honor Prentice, who was a fifth-generation Nantucketer, wrote a letter to the editor saying that even he called it Steamship Wharf.
Advantage, Vivi.
Most of the small-business owners in town loved Vivi because her books drove tourism—in particular, they brought in day-trippers with money to spend. When Vivi set a scene in her books at a specific restaurant, people wanted to eat there. When a character bought a dress at a certain boutique, her readers wanted to shop there.
Vivi was also blamed for the downside of tourism. As Lucinda Quinboro sat in a line of cars at the intersection by the high school, she said to her best friend and bridge partner, Penny Rosen, “This is all Vivi’s fault, you know.”
And Penny said, “You’ll blame anything on Vivi.”
It had been a big deal ten years earlier when Vivi and her husband, JP Quinboro, divorced. Some of us knew it was because JP fell for Amy Van Pelt, his young employee at the wineshop (which we never set foot in because the prices were so inflated). JP caused conversations to awkwardly stop wherever he went—the Nickel for sandwiches, Marine Home Center for paint, the Chamber of Commerce for Business After Hours—because no one knew what to say to him except Wake up, man. Vivi moved out, and when her new novel Along the South Shore proved to be a “breakout book,” she went on tour for so long that some of us thought she had left the island for good.
But eventually Vivi returned, and after a while, she seemed to recover. She bought a house on Kingsley that looked great on paper, though once Vivi moved in, leaks sprung and she discovered the fancy wine fridge was on the fritz and there was a pervasive smell of rot at the base of the stairs and she could hear mice (or rats) in the ceiling and she realized she had bought a money pit and decided that would become the official name of the house. She kept the tradespeople among us busy for years—her contractor Marky Mark, her plumber, her cute electrician Surfer Boy, and the person she revered above everyone else: her landscaper, Anastasia.
Vivi seemed to be flourishing and we cheered her on.
The news of her death was a shock.
The Springers had seen Cruz DeSantis kneeling by the body at the scene. They pulled over to ask what happened, but Cruz was too upset to say anything other than that the ambulance was on its way. Had Cruz DeSantis been the one to hit her?
We hoped not.
Cruz DeSantis was a shining star of the just-graduated senior class. He was going to Dartmouth on a full ride, which is a testament to his father, Joe, who owns the Nickel sandwich shop on Oak Street. The Nickel is tiny, but its influence in our community is outsize. Anyone who has ever had Joe’s deviled-egg salad with crispy bacon and lamb’s lettuce on toasted olive sourdough or his grilled salmon with fresh spinach and raspberry-dill aioli on a soft brioche roll will tell you—they may be “just sandwiches,” but there’s a reason why the Nickel is number one on Nantucket’s Tripadvisor in the category “Restaurants, Downtown.”
Joe DeSantis served in Iraq with the storied Eighty-Second Airborne. He’s not only an American hero, he’s a Nantucket hero. He brings the day’s leftover sandwiches (when there are any) to the fire station or to Nantucket Cottage Hospital or to the AA meetings at St. Paul’s Episcopal. He donates gift certificates to every island nonprofit. You (almost) hated to ask the man for anything because he never said no. Joe is also an extremely good listener. He called the sandwich shop the Nickel because of the old Peanuts cartoon of Lucy offering advice for five cents. (A framed picture of this cartoon hangs on the wall of the shop.)
Cruz is as generous, good-hearted, and hardworking as Joe. Cruz bought the Jeep he drives with money he earned at his two summer jobs—he stocks shelves at the Stop and Shop and tutors kids in math and science.
We can’t stand the thought of Cruz’s future in jeopardy because of this accident. All we know for sure is that he was at the scene.
Alexis Lopresti was working the desk at the Nantucket Police Department when the call came in that Vivi had been killed. She has been trained not to divulge any police business under penalty of losing her job, but those of us who know Alexis realize that she does not believe the rules apply to her.
She texted her sister, Marissa, immediately. Vivi Howe was killed in a hit-and-run. They’re questioning Cruz. Falco saw him run a stop sign a couple minutes before it happened.
Marissa Lopresti had driven out Eel Point Road to a sheltered, shallow saltwater pond called the Bathtub where her mother used to bring her and Alexis when they were little. Almost nobody hung out at the Bathtub—buggy and stagnant were words that came to mind—and sure enough, Marissa found it deserted. Once there, she searched through the Jeep, found her phone—it had fallen under the passenger-side seat—and studied the picture that had been sent to her by Peter Bridgeman.
At that moment, the text from Alexis came in. Vivi was dead. The police were questioning Cruz. An officer had seen Cruz run a stop sign and go speeding down Surfside Road.
Oh my God, Marissa thought.
Marissa drove her Jeep straight into the Bathtub, then sacrificed her phone to the icky, squelchy bottom, waded out, and walked, soaking wet, over the dunes to Eel Point to find help.
The Chief
The traffic homicide investigator arrives from the Cape. Her name is Lisa Hitt; she’s fifty or so and what some people might call a dynamo. She has long brunette hair, lots of energy, and always a big smile, even in the gravest of circumstances.
As the Chief is driving her to the scene, he tells her what he knows. When he says the name of the deceased—Vivian Howe—Lisa cries out.
“No!” She slaps the dashboard in front of her. “No, no, no! She’s my favorite author. This is going to sound so stupid, but I follow her on Instagram. I’ve seen pictures of her kids. I’ve watched videos of her home improvements. In fact, when I heard I was needed over here, I booked a room at the Nantucket Hotel because that’s the hotel Vivi mentions in her books—she calls it the Castle—and I made a reservation at Nautilus because that’s Vivi’s favorite restaurant.” Lisa pauses. “I can’t believe Vivian Howe is dead. I think I’m going to cry.”
There’s no crying in forensics, the Chief thinks. “We’re here,” he says. He pulls over just shy of the turnoff to Kingsley. Smith has replaced Falco and is directing traffic around the cordoned-off area. The Chief sees that bouquets are already piling up on the corner. He hasn’t yet told Andrea that Vivian Howe is dead, but she might know by now. It’s a small island.
The Nantucket forensics van pulls in right behind them, and Lisa Hitt gets to work (they call her Lisa Hitt-and-Run, the Chief remembers now) taking photographs, measuring what tracks she can find in the road, collecting samples of Vivian Howe’s blood from the sand and dirt.