Hide Yourself Away (10 page)

“Are you a friend of the Vickerses or one of these TV people?” The distinguished-looking man seemed to sniff at the second choice.

“Well, maybe both,” Grace answered. “I am with KEY News. I’m interning this summer with Joss Vickers.”

Grace felt the man appraising her, sensed he was thinking
she looked too old to be an intern. She decided to volunteer the information before he asked.

“I’ve gotten a late start. I’m just finishing college now.”

“I see.”

Grace chose to ignore the condescension in his tone. She wasn’t going to get anywhere if her skin was too thin.

“My name is Grace Callahan.” She switched her drink to her left hand and extended the other one to the man.

“Kyle Seaton.”

Grace was familiar with the name she had seen on the shooting notes for the week.

“Oh, yes. You’re the scrimshander, aren’t you?”

Kyle nodded, pleased at the recognition. He immediately pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and held it toward her. “Scrimshander, scrimshaw dealer, and collector.”

“I can truthfully say I have never met anyone in your line of work before,” said Grace, taking the card. “It’s very interesting. I’ve done a little research on it for the broadcast this week.”

“Ah, yes.
KEY to America
comes to Newport and interviews the local color,” Kyle said with a trace of sarcasm. “I’m already wondering if I’ll live to regret my decision to have you people come to my shop.”

“Why?”

“Because I have been the dealer of record to discerning scrimshaw collectors for the past two decades, and I don’t want to tarnish my reputation by appealing to the masses now.”

“Then why did you agree?” asked Grace, genuinely interested.

Kyle shrugged. “Foolish vanity, I suppose. What is it about being on television that makes otherwise sane people expose themselves like that?”

Grace wasn’t sure of the answer, but she had often asked herself the same thing as she watched people reveal the most personal information, and do the most embarrassing things, for a television audience. Tummy tucks and liposuctions and facelifts in cosmetic makeovers for the public to gawk at. Proclamations of undying love and devotion followed by the humiliation of rejection in dating contests for home viewers to cluck at. Swallowing insects and worms in survival challenges designed to make the audience gasp and groan. But the television producers didn’t seem to be hurting for subjects willing to do anything for their fifteen minutes of fame.

Grace decided to steer clear of the uncomfortable topic lest she somehow influence Kyle Seaton away from his commitment to
KTA.
“So you’ve been a Newporter for a long time?”

“A true Newporter has been here all his life,” Kyle declared. “I am a
true
Newporter.”

“I see,” said Grace. “Then you were here when Charlotte Sloane disappeared.”

Kyle’s solemn face darkened further. “Yes. I was. In fact, I knew Charlotte since we were young children. Our families had adjoining cabanas at Bailey’s Beach.”

Pay dirt.

“Do you have any theories, then, on what happened to Charlotte?” Grace asked.

“No, I don’t. Though you’ve heard, of course, the whole town thinks her husband had something to do with it. Sad sort, Oliver. But I’ll say this for him: he has quite a marvelous scrimshaw collection. He had been a wonderful customer over the years. Charlotte was, too, before she disappeared. Always buying some special piece for his birthdays and their anniversaries. But with Charlotte gone, and all the talk, I thought it best to discourage Oliver from coming to my shop.”

“I understand it was on their wedding anniversary that Charlotte disappeared,” Grace led.

“Yes, I think you’re right, though the party that night wasn’t an anniversary party but a fund-raiser for the endangered birds that Charlotte and Elsa Gravell were so worried about. I was there. I heard that Charlotte left the club by herself, in tears, that evening, but I didn’t see that myself.”

“What do you think that was all about?”

Kyle looked down at her sharply. “That’s really none of my business.” Left unsaid but clearly implied was
It’s none of yours either, Ms. Callahan.

“Hey, Grace, come on over here,” the voice slurred, with a pronounced twang.

Sam Watkins, the intern from Oklahoma, waved at Grace, beckoning her to join the other interns who were clustered
around the tattoo artist’s entertainment station. Joss and Zoe Quigley, the student who had come all the way from England to intern at KEY News, were watching as an eagle was drawn on Sam’s hairless chest.

“It’s patriotic, don’t you think, Gracie?” asked Sam, his head bent downward trying to view the handiwork. “Rusty here is doing a right fine job.”

“We’re losing the light. I want to get this done before sundown. Hold still,” commanded the tattoo artist, squeezing a bit more brown color from a toothpaste-like tube and giving a final dab to the eagle with his brush. “Now wait till it dries and pick it off somewhere safe. Outside or over the sink.” The artist sat back to admire his creation.

“How long will it last?” asked Zoe, mesmerized.

“Just a few days to a week,” said Rusty. “It depends on how much you rub it or how much you use soap and water on it.”

Fun, painless, temporary henna tattoos. No lifetime commitment to a design carved into the skin. Grace thought of Madeleine’s angel tattoo and the pain that must have been associated with its engraving, the real desire to commemorate her lost mother with a symbol she would see every day for the rest of her life. The idea was growing on Grace, but she didn’t quite have the guts to get one of her own. But here was a chance to try it out without reaching a point of no return.

“Do you have time to do a small one on me?” she asked.

Rusty looked at his watch and glanced at the darkening sky.
Why not?
He was getting paid by the hour.

“Okay, if we hurry. What’ll it be?”

“Can you do an ivy leaf?”

“Sure, that’s no big deal. Where do you want it?”

“On my foot.”

Rusty shrugged. It wasn’t, by a long shot, the worst place he had ever been asked to do a tattoo.

Grace began to slip off her sandal.

“Leave it on,” said Rusty. “I’ll do it right above the strap line, so you can still wear your shoes while it dries.”

Grace watched as the swirling lines of henna swept across the top of her right foot. But the fascination was over for Sam, Joss, and Zoe, who moved on toward the bar.

“Actually, this tattoo might last a little longer than your friend’s,” volunteered Rusty as he worked. “The skin on the hands and feet is more porous, and the henna sets in better.”

“I’ve just begun thinking about getting a permanent tattoo,” Grace mused.

“I can do that for you,” said Rusty. “That’s my main business. This is just a sideline, to make some extra money. Come down to my place on Broadway and I can give you whatever you want. But let me warn you. It will hurt like hell if you have a real tattoo done on your foot. The needle will be pushing right against the bones.”

Grace bent over to inspect the finished product.

“Why’d ya pick an ivy leaf?” asked Rusty, capping the henna tube.

“Ivy was my mother’s name.”

“That’s funny. I had another girl come in recently and have a tattoo on her foot for her mother.”

“Was it Madeleine Sloane?” asked Grace.

“As a matter of fact, it was.” Rusty looked at Grace quizzically. “You know Madeleine?”

“I just met her today. I saw her tattoo. That’s what gave me the idea,” Grace said.

“Sad about her mother, huh?” Rusty tossed the henna tube into his paint box.

“Yes. Very sad.”

“I was kinda surprised to see her here tonight, after the news I heard on the radio today,” said Rusty.

Grace looked around. “Madeleine’s here?”

“Yeah, I saw her before with some older lady with birds all over her blouse. I was thinking those birds could sure make great tattoo designs.”

After Grace left, Rusty packed up his tattoo supplies, relieved to be getting away from all these highfalutin folk. This wasn’t a world that he was comfortable in. All the posturing and putting on airs weren’t for him. They never had been.

Even back when he was a twenty-one-year-old sailor stationed at the naval base, he was always nervous with his assignment as the admiral’s driver. He’d have preferred to be just one
of the other enlisted guys instead of chauffeuring the brass around in his dress whites.

Seaman Alberto S. Texiera, nicknamed Rusty for his head of thick, russet hair, saw grand ballrooms and elegant parlors as he escorted the admiral to the many functions and meetings around Newport, but he never grew to feel any ease in the upper-crust environments. To this day, he was more at home in the dimness of a local bar throwing back a few beers than at a shindig like this, even though he supposed the Vickerses would consider this an informal party.

These people all have agendas,
thought Rusty. He had only a few ambitions and just wanted to stay to himself.
Live and let live.

So far he had been able to do just that. When he’d finished his stint in the navy, he’d gone to work for the guy who ran the place where he and his pals had gotten their tattoos. The owner had catered to the base personnel, and the tattoo parlor was a no-frills affair. But Rusty had noticed that every so often, a curious civilian would wander in and ask about getting a small tattoo in a discreet spot. On the shoulder, at the top of the thigh, low on the back. Sometimes they were kids, clearly lying about being over the age of consent, but more and more the customers who came through the door were middle-class women wanting to spice things up a bit.

Rusty worked on his designs, and word of mouth spread. He became the artist customers asked for. When the owner decided to pack it in and move to Florida, Rusty applied for a small business loan and bought Broadway Tattoos from him. All had
gone well for a while. But as the appetite for tattoos increased, so had the competition. Where Rusty’s parlor had once been the only game in town, now there were three other places that offered tattoos. “Body art salons” they billed themselves, offering facials, treatments, and massages as well—and in an atmosphere far more posh than Rusty’s. Those soccer moms in their SUVs were walking their pedicured feet through his competitors’ doors now.

That was one of the reasons Rusty had been so glad when Madeleine Sloane came in last month. Though he hadn’t recognized her until he saw the name she signed on her credit card receipt, he could tell when she entered the shop that she was from the right side of the tracks.

He did his very best work on her angel, explaining in advance that it would hurt like the dickens and apologizing profusely for it. As he concentrated on his artwork, his head over her foot, she told him why she was having it done. To honor her mother. Rusty had presumed that her mother had simply died, if dying was ever simple. It wasn’t until he saw Madeleine’s name when she pulled out her credit card that he’d put it all together.

Sloane.

This was Charlotte Sloane’s daughter, the little girl, now grown up, whom Charlotte had spoken about the night Rusty had given Charlotte a lift, the night Rusty had been waiting outside the country club for the admiral, the night Charlotte had run out crying, the night Charlotte had disappeared.

Rusty had been tempted to tell Madeleine that day she came
into the shop, but he couldn’t speak of it, even now. Just as he had never told the police that he had given Charlotte a ride to Shepherd’s Point that night. Just as he had kept it from his boss, returning to the country club before the admiral ever knew he had gone.

It was better to stay to himself.

  CHAPTER  
23

The several hours of cooking finally complete, Mickey reached for his bell. The clanging signaled the opening of the bake. Grace joined the other guests gathered around for the unveiling while Mickey gave them a brief explanation of the cooking process. Then the layers of canvas were peeled away to enthusiastic oohs and aahs from the audience. Billows of steam rose from the bake along with a surge of delicious aromas.