The Ring on Her Finger (6 page)

Wow, Lucy thought. That was actually an answer with some information. Funny how he could talk easily about someone else’s cars, but not about his own bad self.

She stifled a sigh of frustration. “So then—”

“Look, Lucy... Ms. French,” he hastily corrected himself. He halted suddenly, circling her wrist with loose fingers to stop her forward motion, too. The second he touched her, however, he released her again, with such vigor and velocity that she almost thought she had burned him. Then he took a giant step backward and said, “I’m not much one for chitchat, okay?”

Well, not unless it was about cars, she thought. She opened her mouth to apologize, then realized she had nothing to apologize for. So she only said, “Fine. No chitchat.” No nothing, as far as she was concerned.

She spun around and hastened her step to put some distance between them, then remembered she had no idea where she was going. Still, as long as she stayed on the path, she should make it to the big house, shouldn’t she? Unless, of course, her previous assumption that Max was luring her to a secluded rendezvous was right.

Well, a girl could dream, couldn’t she?

And dream it would be, she was certain. The man clearly wanted nothing to do with her. She must have just imagined those heated looks he’d been giving her. And a good thing, too. The last thing she needed was to get involved with someone while she was pretending to be someone she wasn’t. She had enough trouble on her hands.

“Ms. French,” she heard him call from behind her, his voice sounding apologetic, even if the rest of him hadn’t seemed so.

Lucy stopped and turned around.

“I’m sorry,” he said unapologetically. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I just—”

“What?” she asked when he didn’t finish.

He only shook his head and said nothing, and began to stride forward again. When he reached her, he kept going, a silent indication that she should follow him. Follow him and not say another word. So she remained silent as she walked along behind him, focusing instead on the uneven path. It turned out to indeed be a shortcut, emptying into the garden at the back of the Coves’ house. She noticed a garage here, too, smaller than the carriage house, and assumed this was where the Coves kept the cars they drove around town for daily jaunts.

By the time Lucy reached the house, Max was already there, holding the back door open for her. He looked so incongruous, an oily grease monkey making such a gentlemanly gesture. He’d even buttoned up his shirt as he’d walked ahead of her, and she discovered she had mixed feelings about that. On one hand, it made it impossible for her to enjoy the sight of his naked torso. On the other hand, it did keep her from drooling all over herself.

“After you,” he said, sweeping his hand in invitation.

“Thank you,” she replied as she passed him.

She entered what appeared to be a mud room, even though it was the size of the living room in her carriage house apartment, and she sincerely doubted there had ever been a drop of mud on the floor. A heavy, antique deacon’s bench was pushed against one wall, its high back hosting a series of hooks from which dangled a variety of outer wear. Two ladder-back chairs stood sentry against the wall opposite the bench, a variety of footwear stored beneath them. Beyond the mudless mud room was a large, sunny breakfast room, furnished with a wide mahogany table and a half dozen understatedly elegant chairs. Gauzy ivory curtains hung from the wraparound windows, thrown open wide to welcome in the afternoon, and a hammered tin chandelier dangled from the center of the ceiling.

Lucy started to continue toward the kitchen beyond the breakfast room, then hesitated when she realized Max wasn’t following her.

“Aren’t you coming in?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Just tell Rosemary I’m out here. She’ll bring me something.”

Lucy narrowed her eyes curiously. Surely he was welcome past the breakfast room. Nobody, not even the very, very rich were so snobby these days that they didn’t allow the outside help inside the house proper. Were they?

“But—” she began.

“It’s not allowed,” he said mildly, verifying her suspicions.

Wow. Evidently the Coves really were that snobby.

“I’ll wait here,” he said, ending any further objection.

Reluctantly, Lucy continued to the kitchen—the kitchen that was probably larger than most suburban homes. But it was surprisingly cozy, in spite of its size. The house itself was probably about a hundred years old, and the Coves obviously had an eye for fine antiques and good reproductions, just as Lucy did herself. The cherry wood cabinets were almost certainly original to the house, so fine was the sheen of age upon them. The terra-cotta tiles on the floor, however, were much more recent additions. More windows with more gauzy curtains spilled more sunlight into the room, enhancing the appearance of warmth and welcome. All in all, it was a wonderful space, one that put Lucy immediately at ease.

Until she realized she wasn’t alone.

Rosemary was seated at an antique writing desk that somehow didn’t look at all inappropriate nestled beside the state-of-the-art, double-door, stainless steel refrigerator. Beside her stood a woman who could only be Alexis Cove. She looked to be in her forties, her platinum blond hair swept up in a French twist that was held in place with a sedate tortoiseshell comb tucked into one side. She wore tailored beige trousers and a short-sleeved, ivory blouse. A thin gold bracelet encircled one wrist, while an understated gold watch wrapped around the other. Rings sparkled from nearly every finger. Her engagement ring was especially striking. To Lucy’s well-trained eye, even from a distance, it looked to be nearly four carats of exquisite gemstone—unlike the ugly meteorite she wore on her own left hand.

“Oh, here she is now,” Rosemary said upon Lucy’s arrival. She stood and turned to Mrs. Cove. “Lucy, this is Mrs. Cove. Mrs. Cove, this is Lucy French, from Dust Bunnies.”

Alexis Cove smiled, one of those smiles that looked warm, but wasn’t really. The very, very rich tended to erect invisible borders around themselves when they were in the presence of those who were not so rich. Alexis Cove was exceptionally good at putting her perimeter in place. Lucy almost didn’t detect it. Alexis Cove must have been very, very rich for a very, very long time.

“Lovely to meet you, Lucy,” she said with that same warmth that really wasn’t. Instead of extending her hand in greeting, she lifted it to loop her gold necklace once around her finger. “I’m so glad Dust Bunnies was able to find a replacement for Mrs. Lindstrom on such short notice. You’ve arrived just in time. I’m throwing a dinner party this Friday, as we have friends in town unexpectedly. Nothing huge, only twenty or thirty people. But I’m going to have to put you right to work organizing it. Still, I know you’ll be up to the task. Won’t you?”

“But, Phoebe, I don’t know nothin’ ’bout birthin’ parties!” Lucy gripped the telephone receiver in her fist and tried not to succumb to the panic that was still rocketing through her hours after Alexis Cove announced her “smallish” party.

“Calm down, Lucy,” Phoebe said from the other end of the line.

Lucy heard ice shift in her friend’s glass as she spoke, so she figured Phoebe was probably enjoying a Margarita out on the terrace, soaking up some afternoon rays. Oh, sure. Easy for her to stay calm. There was nothing like a Margarita and a view of the ocean—not to mention not being a murder suspect—to make a person feel calm.

“Mrs. Cove must have a regular caterer she uses for her parties,” Phoebe continued. “She doesn’t expect you to do all the work, she expects you to call all the people who do all the work.”

“Well, she did give me a list of people to call for food and rentals and stuff,” Lucy conceded. “And she gave me the phone numbers of everyone on the guest list, too, so I can call them and follow up with invitations I have to send out. Today,” she added meaningfully.

“Then you just have to make some calls and address some envelopes,” her friend told her. “What’s the problem?”

The problem was that Lucy would have to make some calls and address some envelopes. Not that she wanted to tell Phoebe that. Instead, she said, “I just don’t think I can handle all the responsibility, that’s all.”

“What responsibility? If the stuffed mushrooms are too mushy and not stuffy, it’s not going to reflect on you. Mrs. Cove will just never use the caterers again. You’re temporary, Lucy,” Phoebe reminded her. “If she fires you, she’ll have to get another temporary housekeeper. Stop worrying so much.”

“No problem, Phoebe,” Lucy said sarcastically. “Just ’cause I have state cops and the FBI looking for me, that’s no reason to be worried, is it?”

“Hey, I’d worry more about Mrs. Cove than the cops and the FBI,” Phoebe said. “Those high society types can be a hell of a lot more dangerous than gun-wielding G-men. I mean, my God, would you want to meet Martha Stewart in a dark alley after she’d strapped on a couple of melon ballers? Think about it.”

“Phoebe...”

“Come on, Lucy. WWDD?”

Lucy sighed.
What Would Dino Do
? “He’d probably fix a drink, call Sinatra and the boys, hire a caterer, and then sing ‘Volaré.’ But—”

“Look,” her friend interrupted her, “just think about the kind of food you’ve liked at the parties you’ve attended. Think about the most popular recipes in
In the Kitchen with Bitsy and Friends
.”

“Oh, yeah,” Lucy said, brightening. “I forgot about that. Pinky Mortonson’s artichoke puffs would be perfect for appetizers. And I’ve always adored Georgie Thurston’s coq au vin, even though everyone knows she stole that recipe from her personal chef, Raoul. She paid him off in exchange for his silence. It was all they were talking about at the club last winter.”

“So all you have left is to send out invitations and call the people on your list,” Phoebe said, not commenting on the Raoul controversy. Though what could she say? Everyone knew Georgie stole that recipe.

Lucy glanced down at the handwritten list she clutched in her other hand. It might as well be a butcher knife with which someone had just tried to eviscerate her—it was that big a threat to her peace of mind.

“I don’t like my job,” she said.

“Yeah, you and ninety-nine percent of the world,” Phoebe replied.

Lucy said nothing for a moment, then, “When can I come home?” she asked.

Her friend sighed wearily. “I don’t know, Lucy. It doesn’t look good at this end.”

“What have you found out?”

“Well, first, that your family is frantic with worry.”

Naturally, they were frantic. A murder accusation was bound to be a blot on the Hollander name. Her mother and Antoinetta must be having a terrible time explaining that to the neighbors. “They don’t honestly think I’m guilty, do they?”

“Of course not,” Phoebe assured her. “They know what a moron Archie is. They’re just worried.”

“About how I’m embarrassing the family name?”

“Well, yeah, among other things,” Phoebe admitted.

Those other things being about how Lucy was also defaming, dishonoring, and/or disgracing the family name, she was sure.

“Should I call them, do you think?” she asked halfheartedly.

“Absolutely not,” Phoebe said emphatically. “The police can check that stuff, and I’m sure they’ll keep tabs on your family’s phone records.”

“Have the police come to see you?”

“Yep.”

“Well, at least they can’t keep tabs on your phone, since you switched with your friend Dominic.”

That was something Phoebe had ensured before Lucy left Newport, so that the two of them would be able to keep in touch under the radar of the authorities. Not that Phoebe had told Dominic
why
she needed to switch phones with him, only that she did. And because Dominic was as big a drama queen as Phoebe was, he’d been happy to do it, no questions asked—at least until the coast was clear.

“Who says they won’t keep tabs on my phone?” Phoebe asked. “Of course, since Dom is heavy into the BDSM thing, they’re going to wonder about some of the new clients calling me. And some of the calls I’m getting for him have a definite ick factor.”

Lucy decided not to comment on that. Instead, she asked, “What did you tell the police when they came to see you?”

“I told them Archie’s a moron who couldn’t execute an arabesque, let alone murder a guy, and that there was no way you could be involved in anything like that, either.”

“And did they believe you and drop the charges against me and say it was all right for me to come home?” Lucy asked hopefully.

“’Fraid not.”

“Damn.”

“I told the cops I hadn’t talked to you since before the Wemberleys’ party,” Phoebe added. “And that I had no idea where you might go, but that it wouldn’t hurt to check your family’s cottage up in Bar Harbor. That ought to keep them busy for a while.”

“You lied to the police?” Lucy asked, aghast that her friend would do that, even while feeling immensely grateful to her for it. “I mean, I thought you’d just withhold information. I didn’t think you’d actively lie to them.”

“Please, Lucy, you make it sound so sordid. I only bent the truth into a many-sided pretzel and danced all over it, that’s all. Anyway, I’m reasonably certain they believed me about not having seen you. They didn’t confiscate my computer records or try to lift prints from the bar glasses or anything like that, even though that would have been really cool to see.”

“Phoebe...”

“I’m not telling!” her friend assured her. “No way would I rat you out. You know too many things about me that I don’t want getting out.”

“Have you heard anything more about Archie?”

“All I know is that he’s still missing, and no one has a clue where he’s gone. The newspapers say he’s suspected of murdering a guy who was trading in government secrets.”

“That doesn’t sound like Archie.”

“No, it doesn’t. He’s much too big a moron to be guilty of something like that.”

Lucy sighed her impatience. “Phoebe…”

“And according to a homicide detective I used to date—”

“Dave?”

“That’s the one.”