Death Wears a Beauty Mask and Other Stories (24 page)

“Truthfully, I thought of her as little as possible.”

“You're not answering my question.”

“I try never to speak ill of the dead.” He paused. “But if you must know, I found her boisterous, vulgar and obnoxious. She possessed a shrewd enough mind, but she talked so fast and so incessantly that her brain never seemed able to keep up with her mouth. And when she laughed, I thought the chandelier would shatter.”

“Well, that certainly fits in with what I read about her,” Sunday commented. She was silent for a moment, then turned to her husband. “Henry, if Arabella really was stooping to blackmail with Tommy, do you think it is possible she had tried it before, with someone else? I mean, is it possible that between the sleeping pill and the martini, Tommy passed out, and someone else came in without him knowing it? Someone who had followed Arabella, and who suddenly saw an opportunity to get rid of her and let poor Tommy take the blame?”

“And then carried Tommy upstairs and tucked him into bed?” Henry again raised an eyebrow.

They both fell silent as the car turned onto the approach to the Garden State Parkway. Sunday stared out the window as the late afternoon sunshine turned the trees, with their copper and gold and cardinal-red leaves, aglow. “I love autumn,” she said pensively. “And it hurts to think that in the late autumn of his life, Tommy should be going through this ordeal.” She paused. “Okay, let's try another scenario. You know Tommy well. Suppose he was angry, even furious, but also was so groggy that he couldn't think straight. Put yourself in his position at that moment: what would you have done?”

“I would have done what Tommy and I both did when we were in a similar state of mind at summit meetings. We would sense that we were either too tired or too angry—or both—to be able to think straight, and we would go to bed.”

Sunday clasped Henry's hand. “That's exactly my point. Suppose Tommy actually staggered upstairs under his own steam, leaving Arabella behind. And suppose someone else really had followed her
there, someone who knew what she was doing that evening. We have to find out who Arabella might have been with earlier. And we should talk to Tommy's housekeeper. She left shortly after Arabella arrived. Maybe there was a car parked on the street that she noticed. And the countess from Palm Beach who called, who so urgently wanted to talk to Tommy. We've got to contact her; it's probably nothing, but you never know what she might be able to tell us.”

“Agreed,” Henry said admiringly. “As usual, we're on the same wavelength, only you're farther along than I am. I actually hadn't given any thought to talking to the countess.” He reached his arm around Sunday and pulled her closer. “Come here. Do you realize that I have not kissed you since 11:10 this morning?” he asked softly.

Sunday caressed his lips with the tip of her index finger. “Ah, then it's more than my steel-trap mind that appeals to you?”

“You've noticed.” Henry kissed her fingertip, then grasped her hand and lowered it, removing any obstruction between his lips and hers.

Sunday pulled back. “Just one more thing, Henry. You've got to make sure that Tommy doesn't agree to a plea bargain before we at least try to help him.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?” he asked.

“An executive order, of course.”

“Darling, I'm no longer president.”

“Ah, but in Tommy's eyes you are.”

“All right, I'll try. But here's another executive order: stop talking.”

In the front seat, the Secret Service agents glanced in the rearview mirror, then grinned at each other.

•  •  •

Henry was up by sunrise the next morning for a ride around a portion of the two-thousand-acre property with the estate manager.
Back by eight-thirty, he was joined by Sunday in the breakfast room, which overlooked the classic English garden at the back of the house. The room itself was decorated to complement the view, with a wealth of botanical prints set against the background of Belgian linen awning-stripe wall covering. It gave the room a feeling of being constantly filled with flowers and, as Sunday frequently observed, was a long way from the upstairs apartment in the two-family house in Jersey City where she had been raised, and where her parents still lived.

“Don't forget that Congress goes into session next week,” Sunday said as she eased into her second cup of coffee. “Whatever I can do to help Tommy, I have to start working on it right now. My suggestion would be that I begin by finding out everything I can about Arabella. Did Marvin finish the complete background check we asked for?”

The Marvin she referred to was Marvin Klein, the man who ran Henry's office, which was situated in the estate's former carriage house. Possessed of a droll sense of humor, Marvin called himself the chief of staff for a government in exile, referring to the fact that following Henry Britland's second term, there had been a groundswell of opinion urging a change in the restriction that a United States president could serve only two terms. A poll at the time showed that 80 percent of the electorate wanted that prohibition amended to read no more than two consecutive terms. Quite obviously, a majority of the American public wanted Henry Parker Britland IV back in residence at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

“I've got it right here,” Henry said. “I just read it. It would appear that the late Arabella successfully managed to bury quite a bit of her background. Some of the juicy bits that Marvin's sources were able to come up with include the fact that she had a previous marriage which ended in a divorce that saw her taking her ex to the cleaners, and that her longtime on-again, off-again boyfriend, Alfred Barker, spent some time in prison for bribing athletes.”

“Really! Is he out of prison now?”

“Not only is he out, my dear, but he had dinner with Arabella the night she died.”

Sunday's jaw dropped. “Darling, how on earth did Marvin ever discover that?”

“How does Marvin ever discover anything? All I know is that he has his sources. And furthermore, it seems that Alfred Barker lives in Yonkers, which as you probably know is not far from Tarrytown. Her ex-husband is said to be happily remarried and does not live in the area.”

“Marvin learned all this overnight?” Sunday asked, her eyes bright with excitement.

Henry nodded in answer, as Sims, the butler, refilled his coffee cup. “Thank you, Sims. And not only that,” he continued, “he also learned that apparently Alfred Barker was still very fond of Arabella, however improbable that may sound, and had recently been heard bragging to friends that now that she had ditched the old guy, she'd be getting back together with him.”

“What does Barker do now?” Sunday asked.

“Well, technically he owns a plumbing supply store, but Marvin's sources say that actually it is a front for a numbers racket, which he apparently runs pretty much on his own. My favorite bit of information, though, is that our Mr. Barker is known to have a violent temper when double-crossed.”

Sunday scrunched her face as though deep in thought. “Hmmm. Let's see now. He had dinner with Arabella just before she barged in on Tommy. He hates being double-crossed, which probably means he is also very jealous, and he has a terrible temper.” She looked at her husband. “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

“Exactly.”

“I knew this was a crime of passion!” Sunday said excitedly. “Only it appears that the passion was not on Tommy's part. Okay, so I'll
go see Barker today, as well as Tommy's housekeeper. What was her name?”

“Dora, I believe,” Henry replied. Then he corrected himself: “No, no—that was the housekeeper who worked for them for years. Great old lady. I believe Tommy said that she retired shortly after Constance died. No, if memory serves me, the one he has now, and that we caught a glimpse of yesterday, is named Lillian West.”

“That's right. The woman with the braids and the Lexus,” Sunday said. “So I'll take on Barker and the housekeeper. What are you going to do?”

“I'm flying down to Palm Beach to meet with this Countess Condazzi, but I'll be home for dinner. And you, my dear, have to promise me that you'll be careful. Remember that this Alfred Barker is clearly an unsavory character. I don't want you giving the Secret Service guys the slip.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it, Sunday,” Henry said in the quiet, serious tone he had used so effectively to make his cabinet members quake in their boots.

“Oooh, you're one tough hombre,” Sunday said, smiling. “Okay, I promise. I'll stick to them like glue. And you fly safely.” She kissed the top of his head and then left the breakfast room, humming “Hail to the Chief.”

•  •  •

Some four hours later, having piloted his jet to the West Palm Beach airport, Henry arrived at the Spanish-style mansion that was the home of Countess Condazzi. “Wait outside,” he instructed his Secret Service detail.

The countess appeared to be in her mid-sixties, a small, slender woman with exquisite features and calm gray eyes. She greeted Henry with cordial warmth, then got straight to the point. “I was so glad to get your call, Mr. President,” she said. “I read the news accounts
of Tommy's terrible situation, and I have been so anxious to talk to him. I know how much he must be suffering, but he won't return my phone calls. Look, I know Tommy could not have committed this crime. We've been friends since we were children; we went to school together, including college, and in all that time there was never a moment when he so lost control of himself. Even when others around him were being fresh or disorderly, as they tended to be at the prom, and even when he was drinking, Tommy was always a gentleman. He took care of me, and when the prom was over, he took me home. No, Tommy simply could not have done this thing.”

“That's exactly the way I see it,” Henry said in agreement. “So you grew up with him?”

“Across the street from each other in Rye. We dated all through college, but then he met Constance and I met Eduardo Condazzi, who was from Spain. I got married, and a year later, when Eduardo's older brother died and he inherited the title and the family's vineyards, we moved to Spain. Eduardo passed away three years ago. My son is now the count and lives in Spain still, but I thought it was time for me to come home. Then, after all these years, I bumped into Tommy when he was visiting friends down here for a golfing weekend. It was so wonderful to see him again. The years just seemed to melt away.”

And love was rekindled, Henry thought. “Countess . . .”

“Betsy,” she instructed firmly.

“All right, Betsy, I have to be blunt. Did you and Tommy begin to pick up where you left off years ago?”

“Well, yes and no,” Betsy said slowly. “I made it clear to him how very glad I was to see him again, and I think he felt the same way about me. But you see, I also think that Tommy never really gave himself a chance to grieve for Constance. In fact, we talked about it at length. It was obvious to me that his involvement with Arabella Young was his way of trying to escape the grieving process. I advised
him to drop Arabella, and then to give himself a period of mourning, something like six months to a year. But then, I told him, he had to call me and take me to a prom.”

Henry studied Betsy Condazzi's face, her wistful smile, her eyes filled with memories. “Did he agree?” he asked.

“Not completely. He said that he was selling his house and was going to move down here permanently.” She smiled. “He said that he'd be ready long before six months were up, to take me to the prom.”

Henry paused before asking the next question: “If Arabella Young had gone to the tabloids with a story claiming that during my administration and even before his wife's death, Tommy and I had thrown wild, debauched parties in the White House, what would your reaction be?”

“Why, I'd know it wasn't true,” she said simply. “And Tommy knows me well enough to be sure that he could count on my support.”

•  •  •

On the return flight to Teterboro Airport, Henry let his pilot take over the controls. His time was spent deep in thought. It was becoming increasingly clear to him that Tommy was being set up. Obviously he was aware that his future had promised a second chance at happiness and that he didn't have to kill in order to safeguard that chance. No, it just didn't make sense that he would have killed Arabella Young. But how were they going to prove it? He wondered if Sunday was having any better luck in finding a likely motive for Arabella's murder.

•  •  •

Alfred Barker was not a man who inspired instinctive liking, Sunday thought as she sat across from him in the office of his plumbing supply store.

He appeared to be in his mid-forties, a thick, barrel-chested man with heavily lidded eyes, a sallow complexion, and salt-and-pepper hair, which he combed dramatically across his skull in an obvious effort to hide a growing bald spot. His open shirt, however, revealed a wealth of hair on his chest. The only other distinctive thing she noticed about him was a jagged scar on the back of his right hand.

Sunday felt a fleeting moment of gratitude as she thought of Henry's lean, muscular body, his altogether pleasing appearance, including his famous “stubborn” jaw and the sable-brown eyes that could convey or, if necessary, conceal emotion. And while she frequently chaffed at the omnipresent Secret Service men—after all, she had never been a first lady, so why should she need them now?—at this moment, closeted in this squalid room with this hostile man, she was glad to know that they stood just outside the partially open door.

She had introduced herself as Sandra O'Brien, and it was obvious that Alfred Barker did not have a clue that the rest of her name was Britland.

“So why do you wanna talk to me about Arabella?” Barker asked as he lit a cigar.

“I want to start by saying that I'm very sorry about her death,” Sunday said sincerely. “I understand that you and she were very close. But, you see, I know Mr. Shipman.” She paused, then explained, “My husband at one time worked with him. And there seems to be a conflicting version of who broke up his relationship with Miss Young.”