Two Down (3 page)

Walking behind the maid’s starchy form and listening to the taffeta rustle of her black uniform, Belle experienced the same unease Rosco had encountered during his initial visit to White Caps, although to Belle the engendered memories were of sojourns to the unconventional homes of her professor parents’ friends. She recalled similar dimly lit and foreboding hallways, the slow tock of a grandfather clock, paneled doors that hid unseen rooms—and a sense of dread that she was about to endure another excruciating interview: What Has Little Annabella Graham Learned at School This Week?

Emma turned a polished brass handle and opened a heavy door revealing a surprisingly cheery room that boasted a pleasant fire burning beneath a marble mantel alive with cupids, swagged ivy, and carved bouquets. Bunches of late-blooming roses dotted the many tabletops.

“Mr. Polycrates has arrived, ma’am. And Miss Graham.”

Sara stood. Imperious, ice-blue eyes swept over Belle, registered the faintest whiff of approval, then moved to the man of the evening. “Well, well, well, Rosco. I knew you were a handsome devil, but you have certainly outdone yourself. I do so admire a man who handles a necktie to perfection.”

“Right . . . Something I picked up at the police academy.” He cleared his throat and turned to Belle. “Sara, this is Annabella Graham.”

Sara extended a regal hand and waited for Belle to approach. “So nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Graham . . . I am assuming it is Miss . . .” The great lady wore an evening dress almost as antiquated as her home. Jet beads glimmered on black chiffon while over her shoulders was a tippet of ancient brown mink.

“Call me, Belle, please, Mrs. Briephs.”

“If you wish, Miss Graham. I’m so pleased Rosco has been able to add a little . . . distraction . . . to his life.”

Belle attempted a winning smile. “I try not to distract him too much.”

“You are a very lovely young woman, and I’m sure you distract him to no end. Although you should add some weight to your frame. In my day, a man would hardly waste a glance on someone as waiflike.” She turned her attention to Rosco. “Well, dear prince, I believe our public awaits. Shall we be off?”

She marched toward him, took his arm, and they paraded to the front door with Belle dutifully trailing behind. When she eventually caught Rosco’s glance, she rolled her eyes in such an exaggerated fashion, he almost choked to keep from laughing aloud.

I
n honor of the dinner dance, the Patriot Yacht Club’s security guards had been outfitted in replicas of uniforms worn by Revolutionary War marines. Matching the Colonial-era theme, all exterior electric lighting had been reconfigured into oil lanterns and bayberry candles that illuminated only a few figures at a time while leaving the rest in darkness: women in silk evening dresses hurrying in and out of the light, their escorts half-hidden in timeless black, and the gaitered, brass-buttoned marines who stood at attention as if awaiting General Washington and his entourage.

Approaching the long brick building along a cobblestoned drive, Belle took it all in. If it weren’t for the fact that she’d been crammed into the backseat of an antiquated, slightly rusted, red Jeep, and that the two cars arriving immediately prior to Rosco’s were glossy black Lincoln Town Cars, she would have sworn she’d slipped into an earlier era.

Belle had remained quiet for the ride from Sara’s house, opting for a speak-when-spoken-to attitude that only compounded the absurd, little-girl sensation of being stuck in the back of Rosco’s car. It was like acting a part in a movie, she decided; tonight she was no longer Belle Graham, once married, now divorced, a woman who had a successful job, owned a house, voted, paid taxes, and was romantically involved with one Rosco Polycrates. Tonight she’d been thrust backward through the decades to a time when young women were “girls” and older women their superiors—and despotic chaperons.

Sara had seemed content to spend the trip complimenting Rosco on everything from how exhilarating it was to “travel in such a manly vehicle” to his “choice of haberdashery.” Belle practiced smiling to herself, although sometimes the expression turned grim; it wasn’t easy to compete with a woman of eighty-plus—especially on that lady’s uneven playing field.

As a uniformed valet opened the passenger-seat door, Sara suddenly seemed to remember Belle’s presence. “Rosco must be quite smitten with you, Miss Graham,” she murmured in a stage whisper. “He usually doesn’t wear socks, you know.”

Belle forced a smile. “Call me Belle . . . please . . .” then added a determined: “I’m sure Rosco’s choice of footwear is your influence, Mrs. Briephs.”

Sara laughed as she took Rosco’s arm. “We must have tea one of these afternoons, dear girl . . .” She paused for a moment to consider the invitation. Belle could see years of female machinations spinning across a seemingly serene face. “On second thought, I’m free Monday. Shall we say four o’clock?”

Belle groaned inwardly, but a glance at Rosco revealed the importance he placed on her friendship with this fierce old woman. “That will be very nice, Mrs. Briephs.”

“Good. Now, Rosco, let us brave the beasts . . . one of them being my brother, Hal.”

“I didn’t know the senator would be here this evening,” Rosco answered while giving Belle a clandestine nod of gratitude and encouragement. “I’ll make it up to you,” he mouthed. “I promise.”

“Oh, my dear! He wouldn’t miss this party on a dare! There are more votes in this building than you can shake a stick at—to say nothing of campaign funding in this
all-important
year. I may insist that my brother is a traitor to his class, but,
liberal
though he may be, he remains a Crane in a city where ancestry counts.”

With that, Sara swept through the club’s entrance as two doormen snapped to attention. Naturally, Sara knew their names—and the names of their offspring. And, naturally, her brief queries on everyone’s health were treated like pearls of wisdom.

“Quite a performance,” Belle whispered to Rosco.

“She’s all right,” Rosco answered. “It just takes her a while to warm up.”

“Are we talking geological ages? Or human years?”

The club’s foyer was awash with people and noise. The multicolored marble floor inlaid with a polished brass compass rose did nothing to diminish the clamor; neither did the domed ceiling, which Belle decided resembled a smaller version of the Capitol’s rotunda in Washington. Men in full evening regalia and women with meticulously coiffed and lacquered hair were everywhere; all seemed to be talking at once. Those who weren’t already in animated conversation were busy greeting friends; the air was full of ancient, prep-school nicknames and kisses that brushed past powdered cheeks.

“We’ll head for the club room,” Sara commanded in a stentorian tone. “It’s a mostly male enclave, and Hal will be working the crowd. I want him to meet you, Rosco . . . at long last.” She smiled glowingly, although the expression was not intended for her brother.

As the three pushed their way through the jostling throng, a voice with a curiously mannered British accent assailed them: “Mrs. Briephs! Such an
inestimable
pleasure! An event such as this would never be complete without your
gilded
presence!” The speaker was a diminutive man with a nearly bald head across which a few wispy strands of parchment-colored hair drifted in the breeze. Everything about him was small, almost preposterously frail, but the most outstanding feature of his appearance was a pair of horn-rim glasses so large and prominent they made his eyes look like those of a mutant insect. Six weeks prior, amid great hoopla—and a lucrative new contract—Bartholomew Kerr had been lured from his position as society-page editor of the
Newcastle Herald
to create a gossip column at the
Evening Crier
: a column known as
Biz-y Buzz
that was already the rage of the city’s socialites.

A notepad seemed permanently affixed to Kerr’s tiny left hand while a pencil paused doggedly in his right and a battered camera drooped from a strap around his neck. “You know who’s rumored to be coming tonight, don’t you?” Bartholomew’s bug eyes glinted upward. He nodded briefly but magnanimously to fellow
Crier
employee Belle, while nearly ignoring Rosco—all the while affixing a rapturous expression on Sara. Kerr was a man who knew where his bread was buttered. “A photo, dear lady, if I may be so bold?”

Her picture was snapped before the
grande dame
had
time to protest. “I have not been apprised of the guest list, Bartholomew,” she said. “But I imagine it comprises the usual suspects.” Sara extended icy fingers and moved on before Bartholomew had further opportunity to speak. “Dreadful snoop,” she whispered to Rosco. “When he worked at the
Herald,
my son had the most terrible things to say about him.” Then memory stopped her. “But, of course, you know that—”

A communal gush of “It’s Jamaica Nevisson!” interrupted Sara as the actress made a dazzlingly theatrical entrance. She paused mid-stride as if overwhelmed by the throng before her, then cast down bashful eyes that finally rose in hopeful exultation. In the space of a nanosecond she transformed herself from lowly walk-on to glamorous diva; every inch of her sculpted body reverberated with pride in her well-honed powers of persuasion.

With Jamaica, of course, were the Peppers. Genie shrank back with a gentle murmur of “Good evening all,” but Tom quickly captured a sizable piece of the limelight. A crowd of pedigreed, Ivy-Leagued, moneyed, and socially superior citizens surged slavishly toward the trio, calling out an excited round of “Tom! Good to see you, old man!” “Genie! Looking marvelous as ever!” “And this must be your intriguing houseguest . . . ?”

“Well.” Sara sniffed. “So, it’s come to this! Actresses and
arrivistes
ruling the Patriot Yacht Club! And look at that scandalous frock! What is this city coming to?”

“Here’s to the suspension of reality,” Rosco whispered to Belle.

“The last of the great Greek philosophers, I see.” She smiled in return, then looked at Jamaica again. Envy and curiosity filled her brain. While those thoughts careened around her head, Bartholomew Kerr snapped a photo.

“Very nice, Annabella,” he purred. “
Stage Struck?,
I think I’ll call it.”

“I’d say you were definitely a fish out of water.” The husky female voice was closer to Rosco’s ear than the crowd lining the dance floor seemed to warrant. He took his eyes from Belle and a rather cumbrous and sweaty partner to find Jamaica Nevisson beside him.

“Watch out, boy, this lady’s big trouble for single guys.”

Tom materialized at her back. Close up, they looked larger than life. Rosco had a sense of something like electrical energy emanating from their bodies; his reaction was to inch forward as if these two people had created their own magnetic field.

“Let me guess,” Pepper’s voice boomed out. “Navigational aids?”

“What?” Rosco’s mind was blank.

“No, no, wait . . . You look like a guy who sees more action than someone who owns a manufacturing company . . . Yacht Club . . . Yacht Club . . . Don’t give me any hints; I’m good at this . . . Wait, I’ve got it! . . . You’re a member of the America’s Cup team, right?”

Rosco almost turned around to see if Pepper was addressing a person other than himself, but Tom’s powerful gaze held him—as did the hearty smile, the perfect white teeth, the knot in the formal tie that Rosco couldn’t have replicated in a hundred years. No doubt about it, Tom Pepper was a charismatic guy. “I’m not a sailor, sir—and never will be. My name’s Rosco Polycrates . . . I’m a private investigator.”

Tom’s infectious laughter pealed forth again. “A private eye! What do you know! . . . And with a name like Rosco!
I like it . . . Strong product recognition . . . That’s good . . . That’s good . . . Marketing is everything these days . . . a private eye . . .”

Then he turned quietly earnest. “Forget the ‘sir’ business, Rosco. I’m Tom, and this is my wife’s longtime friend Jamaica Nevisson. The two gals were actresses together, if you can believe it . . . That’s before I snagged my little Genie away from the boards.” Tom looked at Jamaica with an expression Rosco could only interpret as that of a benevolent relative ignoring a youthful indiscretion.

“I saw your photo in
The Globe,
” Rosco stammered, and immediately regretted the remark. When Tom’s face clouded in anger, Rosco felt decidedly worse.

“Ahhh, then you’ve seen quite a bit of me.” Jamaica drew out the words; although her expression had turned stony, her tone was disturbingly flirtatious.

“Well, it was in the supermarket . . . I only saw the cover. I didn’t open up the magazine.”

“You must be the only man in America who didn’t.” A tight smile played across Jamaica’s wide lips.

“It was an outrageous invasion of privacy,” Tom fumed. His healthy pink skin had turned a mottled red. “Jamaica’s been hounded by that lunatic photographer for years. Coming out here was the only way she could lose him.”

Jamaica kept her sultry gaze on Rosco. “Maybe I should get myself a private dick . . . What do you think, Tom? Get rid of that damned Flack once and for all?”

But Pepper ignored the question, giving Rosco the impression that the investor already had a plan for dealing with Jamaica’s pesky
paparazzo
—a plan, Rosco imagined, involving a phalanx of highly paid lawyers. “So, Rosco, I
take it you and I are the only men here who aren’t mad for water sports?”

“I’m happier on dry land.” Rosco started to insert another deferential “sir,” but stopped himself in time.

“Put ’er there, pardner! I can’t put my feet on anything that rocks or rolls or pitches or tosses, without worrying I’ll lose my lunch . . . I leave nautical pursuits to the distaff side.”

“I still wish you’d agree to come to Nantucket with Genie and me tomorrow, Tom,” Jamaica cooed, although her green eyes remained fastened to Rosco. “It would be such fun!”

“Not for me, it wouldn’t! . . . So, Rosco, how does a landlubber like you find yourself at a shindig like this? Or are you here on business?”

Tom’s broad wink made Rosco relax, and he began to explain his connection to Sara—and then to Belle—while Pepper nodded enthusiastic approval, concluding with a noisy “I like this guy!” that seemed loud enough for half the room to hear.

But before conversation could continue, Pepper and Jamaica were lured away with enthusiastic cries of “Tom! The mayor needs to talk with you about . . .” and “Miss Nevisson, may I introduce . . . ?” In parting, Jamaica gave Rosco’s arm a gentle but provocative squeeze. “Come for supper with your little lady sometime. Genie and I are off on a weeklong cruise tomorrow . . . but after that . . . I plan to be around Newcastle for a while . . . a long while . . .” The way Jamaica said “a long while” made Rosco blush all the way down to his patent-leather shoes.

“I saw that.” Belle had stepped off the dance floor, deserting her sweating partner with a polite but unencouraging smile.

“Who was Mr. Twinkle Toes?” was Rosco’s hurried rejoinder.

“Don’t try to change the subject . . . an
associate
of Garet’s. I don’t remember meeting the man, but he insisted we were introduced five years ago at some museum function . . . Well, what’s up with La Nevisson? Quite a dress, isn’t it?”

But Rosco wasn’t about to be hoodwinked into discussing the actress’s attire—or lack thereof. “She was inviting us for supper.”

Belle cocked her head and gave Rosco a quizzical stare. “Us? As in you and I?”