by Arlene Kay
I changed the subject to horses, something that my friend was equally passionate about. Soon Babette was absorbed in a discussion of the need for therapy horses for children and the opportunity to use our rescues for that purpose. I added my two cents’ worth about my love for the beautiful Raza, an Arabian mare and current resident at Cavalry Farms. The hour passed without a single reference to Pruett and his physical prowess.
Later that evening I grew restless. Sleep eluded me, and my thoughts strayed to long forbidden subjects. Am I lonely, horny or losing my sanity? None of those choices seemed appealing. To complicate matters, Thatcher’s throaty purrs were a Greek chorus, chanting the word traitor. In a fit of desperation, I crawled over to Pruett’s side of the bed, grabbed his pillow and cried my eyes out.
* * * *
The next day I busied myself by doing mundane chores—things that were tedious but had to be done. It took discipline but somehow, I forced myself not to watch the clock or count the hours until six pm.
I spent more time than usual getting ready, even making the supreme sacrifice by blowing dry my hair and applying makeup. Glamour was foreign to me and always had been. I was far more comfortable in jeans and a sweater than pantyhose and a dress. Still, I told myself I was doing this for Babette, Ethel and maybe a bit for myself.
When he arrived, the glint in his eyes told me that the effort had been worth it. Pruett gave a slow, disbelieving shake of his head and smiled. “Wow! You clean up nicely, Ms. Morgan. Beautiful.”
It wasn’t hard to return the compliment. No leather jacket tonight. He wore a navy pinstriped suit, red tie and a crisp white shirt with French cuffs.
“What’s your cover story?” he asked. “These people are pretty sharp.”
I was proud of the scheme I concocted. It evoked forgotten times from my army days when I was pressed into undercover sting operations. I squared my shoulders and grinned. “I am acting as an agent for my sister who has two pre-teen girls who love horses. No names of course but that should open conversation about Carleton. He teaches junior high and above according to Babette.”
Pruett nodded. There was a glint of surprise, even admiration in his eyes. “You have a talent for deception. I’ll have to remember that.” He edged away from my dogs and led me to his car. Tonight, in acknowledgement of the occasion, he drove a black Jaguar sedan.
“Quite a car,” I said. “Jags have always fascinated me.”
“What about the men who drive them?” he asked. “Any opinions?”
“None. By the way, doesn’t Ella’s mother attend these events?”
Unknowingly, I had killed the mood. Parental neglect was apparently a sore point between the two celebrity parents. Pruett hunkered down, gripped the steering wheel and glowered. “Monique is doing a shoot somewhere in the south of France. She’s a big believer in laissez-faire parenting. I am not.”
After that, I knew enough to keep my big mouth shut. In lieu of commenting I merely changed the subject. “I’ve never been to Hamilton Arms. Passed by it several times but I had no reason to go in. According to the website, their equestrian program is top notch. Boarding stables, riding rings, the whole shebang.”
“It’s impressive. Should be with what they charge for tuition. It’s a Quaker school so they expect participation by parents in addition to shelling out the big bucks. Service they call it.”
I closed my eyes, envisioning Pruett, or the fabulous Monique Allaire, performing mundane chores like peeling potatoes. Just the thought of it made me smile.
“Something funny that I missed?” he growled.
“Nope.” A sudden thought made me bolt upright. “We won’t run into him tonight, I hope. Carleton, I mean.”
Pruett waved a hand in dismissal. “Already handled. Tonight is exclusively for K through six classes. Ella enters second grade this year. Now remember. Our man Croy deals with upper form students. I suggest we split up as soon as the reception starts. Women won’t discuss another man with me standing there.”
I agreed, since whenever Pruett appeared, women tended to forget that other men even existed. Fortunately, Babette avoided most school functions even though as a former faculty wife she would have been welcome. If she blundered into the room, our plans would be ruined. I’m not much of a drinker but I rued the fact that this event was strictly non-alcoholic. Booze, the ultimate social lubricant, has the capacity to loosen the lips of even the most reserved matron. Far easier to spark a candid discussion of Dr. Croy and his habits if my new acquaintances had a cocktail or two under their belts.
Pruett swung into the valet lane, surrendered his keys, and helped me out of the Jag. He frowned and gave the young parking attendant a tight smile as though envisioning his vehicle being savaged.
“Something bothering you?” I asked.
“That kid looks barely old enough to drive. Let’s hope he doesn’t take the Jag on a joyride.”
Seeing Pruett lose his cool was curiously satisfying. On the other hand, I had never owned a car worth worrying about. No one runs amuck with an ancient Suburban.
“Ready?” he asked. “Remember our objective.”
His arrogance rubbed me raw. I was no rube in need of handholding or stage direction. Instead of responding, I settled for a curt nod and moved briskly into the reception hall. Pruett was immediately surrounded by a scrum of fawning females led by a buxom blonde with flowing locks. As she locked a proprietary arm around Pruett, I recognized Babette’s friend Jacqui Parks from last week’s meeting. This was the woman who had reputedly shared a moment with Pruett. Whatever they shared must have been memorable since Mrs. Parks practically salivated on the shoulder of his Savile Row suit.
I headed straight for the punch bowl and easily faded into the background. Several women milled about the table and one of them, a petite redhead wearing thick glasses, took pity on me.
“You’re Babette’s friend, right? Part of the committee.” She lowered her voice to conspiratorial levels. “You found her body, didn’t you? Ethel, I mean.”
I nodded. “Perri Morgan. We met once before at Sheila Sands’s house.”
She flashed a vague smile my way. Obviously, I had failed to make an impression. “I’m Charlotte Westly. Girls in grades one and eight.”
Despite a feeling of guilt, I responded with my cover story. “My sister asked me to check out things in the high school for her, but I feel out of place.” That part was true at least.
Charlotte lowered her voice again. “Want the scoop on what really goes on in the upper form? My husband’s on the Board of Trustees so believe me, I’ve heard it all.” Mrs. Westly’s candor surprised me and I wondered if she often got the chance to dish the dirt.
I used an unassuming, tentative voice. “It’s just that Penny—my niece—is very naïve. More comfortable with horses than humans. Vulnerable if you get my drift. She’ll be living with me and—well one hears such dreadful things about predators in schools these days.”
Charlotte nodded. “Understood. But don’t worry. Hamilton has a first-class guidance department. You probably know that the head counsellor is Dr. Croy, Babette’s better half—or rather former half.” She sighed. “He’s dreamy. All the mothers adore him. Such a personal touch. Your niece will be in good hands with him.”
“He’s not around much but I understand his credentials are impeccable.” I sighed. “Let’s hope that murder doesn’t spook people. Guilt by association, you know.”
Charlotte leapt to Carleton’s defense. If she wondered why a relative stranger would broach such a sensitive topic, she chose to ignore it. After patting my arm, Charlotte said. “Oh that. Dr. Croy had nothing to do with it. He only joined in because of Babette. Besides, Ethel wasn’t anyone important. Just a secretary. Probably a love triangle or drugs.” She shrugged. “They’re all over the place these days. Not at Hamilton Arms of course but elsewhere.”
&nbs
p; Duplicity does not come easily to me, but the memory of poor Ethel’s corpse spurred me on. I swallowed my misgivings and focused on the goal. “It’s just that I’m all alone and raising a teenager is such a responsibility without a man to help.”
Charlotte took off her glasses and wiped them on a cloth she had plucked from her purse. Without thick lenses shielding them, I could see her eyes clearly. They were small and glittering with malice.
“You’re in luck, dear. Lonely females, married or not, are Carleton’s specialty. All shapes, shades and ages too, even ones you’d never expect. Results guaranteed. But I’m sure you know that.”
My senses went on full alert. “Surely not with the children though. My niece is only fifteen.”
My new pal stiffened. “Carleton has absolutely zero interest in kids. He likes money, perks and fine living. Guess Babette kept him on a pretty short leash and a man like that needed his space. Next time you see him, just ask about Hamilton. You’ll see.”
At that moment, a stubby man garbed in tweed, took the microphone. “Oops. There’s my Lord and master,” Charlotte said. “Call me.” She slipped me her card and vanished into the crowd.
Chapter 9
Pruett edged over to me when the program began, all the while scanning the crowd. He wore a hunted look as if he feared being ambushed by his admirers.
“Whew! I thought I’d never escape.”
I resisted the obvious and took the high road. “You don’t look any worse for wear. Mrs. Parks must be a very close friend.”
“Acquaintance.” Pruett moved closer—too close for my taste. The faint scent of his cologne stirred my senses and aroused an uncomfortable stab of desire. I shook it off immediately. “Easy, boy.”
“What about you,” he asked. “Any luck?”
“Some. Let’s discuss it afterwards.”
Charlotte’s husband droned on for far too long extolling the virtues of Hamilton Arms, its moral compass, emphasis on equine sports, and the role of activist parents in shaping their children’s future. By the end of his monologue, I was prepared to embrace the virtues of tough DC schools and gang tattoos over the “Hamilton Way.” Pruett stood so motionless the entire time that he was either transfixed or comatose. When the painful program finally concluded, he clutched my elbow and steered me toward the entranceway.
“Let’s make tracks before someone corners us.”
“I’m perfectly safe,” I said. “It’s your virtue that’s in danger around here.”
He rolled his eyes but kept on moving. The valet sprang into action as soon as Pruett waved a five-dollar bill his way.
“We’re not allowed to accept gratuities,” the young man said with downcast eyes.
“Take a risk, son.” Pruett pressed the bill into the youth’s hand.
“Corrupting the flock,” I muttered, sotto voce.
Pruett stared down at me with a dazzling smile. “I’d rather corrupt you, Perri. We can skip dinner and head back to your place if you like.”
Despite being a grown woman and military veteran, I blushed and turned away as heat rose to my cheeks. Why did I feel so vulnerable around this man? Relax, I told myself.
“I’m ravenous,” I said. “For food. Didn’t you say something about dinner?”
He shook his head and fired up the Jag. “You’re no fun at all. My reputation is in tatters.”
“Deal with it.”
He cruised up Connecticut Avenue into Georgetown, turned on to New Hampshire Avenue, and valet parked in the Four Seasons Hotel garage. “Come on. The restaurant is right across the street.”
Most of my time was spent in Great Marsh, but Pip and I had hit the DC spots for special occasions. Pruett’s mouth fell open when the Maître’d at La Chaumiere greeted me by name.
“How come he knows you?”
I gave him a saucy grin and sailed into the dining room. “You’re not the only one around here who likes French food. Don’t be so conceited.”
“Touchy, touchy. I live around the corner on P Street,” Pruett said. “This is my neighborhood watering spot and I’ve never seen you here before. I’m surprised, that’s all.”
I loved Georgetown, but the upscale shops and astronomically priced real estate were far beyond my ken. Just another reminder of the vast economic chasm that separated Pruett and me.
He ordered wine and scanned the menu. “Any suggestions?”
I always order the same thing—pike dumplings, food of the gods. Pruett would scoff at such humble offerings but so be it. I am neither a gourmet nor a gourmand and don’t pretend to be. In my world, meals were for sustenance, not showing off.
He pored over the menu, debating the merits of duck versus medallions of beef. The cow lost the contest.
“Tell me what you learned,” Pruett said after sipping his wine.
I shared the nuggets of information provided by voluble Charlotte Westly. That made me think. Maybe I was too picky about men. Hard to believe, but to some women, creepy Carleton Croy was actually a sex symbol. As Babette would say, there must be mighty slim pickings out there.
Pruett tugged a lock of his hair as he considered the information. “Okay. Carleton is a player. That doesn’t make him a murderer, especially since he’s on the market now. Hell, they’d have to indict half the men in DC using that standard. We need proof and a motive. Babette has bucks, but why kill Ethel? He certainly knew what his ex looked like, so it couldn’t be an accident.”
Pruett made some valid points, but I wasn’t about to concede that. Instead, I doubled down. “Okay. What did you find out besides the fact that Mrs. Parks is still hot for you? She told her friends all about you by the way. Highly complimentary. Top marks.”
For a moment, Pruett was speechless. He lowered his eyes and took another slug of wine. “There is no bad publicity when it comes to romance. Maybe my satisfied customers will sign testimonials? Publish them in the Post.”
Then he turned serious. “As it happens, my friend Mrs. Parks was a font of information. It seems that Ethel was a pearl of great price. She served on a number of committees attending to the tedious details nobody else wanted to do. All the virtues of an indentured servant without the cost.
“Except—Jacqui, Mrs. Parks, had some misgivings about dear Ethel. Nothing that jumped out right away, but there were unexplained shortages in some of the funds—sizable but not huge sums. Nothing that set off alarms. At the time, they chalked it up to sloppy record keeping. Now, it makes you wonder.”
What was the definition of sizable? For me, five hundred dollars would be catastrophic but in their social set, thousands were no big deal. I always assumed that Ethel was a woman of modest means and few wants.
“I’ll get Babette to check out Ethel’s finances.”
Pruett curled his lip. “No offense, but Babette? Doesn’t seem like her sort of thing.”
“She’s a demon when it comes to money. Watches every penny like a hawk. Drove Carleton crazy. Besides, Babette is the executrix of Ethel’s will and has legal status. Even Bascomb can’t argue with that.”
When our entrees arrived, I dug into my pike dumplings with zest. Detective work made me hungry. Unrequited lust didn’t help much either. I noticed Pruett watching me with a snarky grin plastered all over his face. Pip had always applauded my healthy appetite. If Pruett felt otherwise, he kept it to himself.
“I had one of my contacts researching Ethel’s background. Problem is, her records only go back ten years. Before that time, Ethel McCall was a ghost.” He frowned. “If she was in witness protection we’re screwed. Nobody can crack that system.”
He was right of course, but if Ethel had been a con woman, she might have left traces elsewhere. Suddenly it dawned on me. Sheila Sands! Her moneybags hubby presided over a huge conglomerate that included an insurance company and a private security force. Maybe Ellis could help.
He would do anything to please his wife.
“Let me think about it,” I said. “I have a few ideas we haven’t tried yet.”
They lowered the lights and the rosy glow of candles enveloped the restaurant, bathing each table with a special splash of color. He was watching me, staring as if he had never before seen me. Pruett was too sophisticated to propose anything crude, but I knew at that moment what he wanted. I was awash in ambivalence, yearning for love, but wary of being hurt.
“Oops!” I checked my watch. “I didn’t realize what time it was. Better get going.”
Pruett reached across the table and took my hand. “Don’t worry, Cinderella. You won’t turn into a pumpkin yet. My place is right around the corner.”
I looked down, unable to meet those dreamy eyes. “I can call Uber if you’d rather not drive. My pets…”
He laughed as if we shared an exquisite private jest. “Persephone Morgan that’s the damnedest excuse I’ve ever heard. Husbands, boyfriends, kids—yes. But pets?”
“It’s true,” I said. “Zeke will shout down the neighborhood if I don’t tend to him. The dogs have their needs too.”
Pruett held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay. I give up. Ella would never forgive me if I inconvenienced your pets.” He flung money on the table and helped me with my chair.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Let me pay the tip.”
“Perri, Perri, Perri.” Pruett shook his head. “What am I going to do with you? Like it or not, I go old school. When I invite a beautiful woman to dinner, I pay.”
I was speechless, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. He gently ran his finger over my lips and nudged me toward the door. “We better head back to your menagerie. I can already hear that goat calling.”
We rode back to Great Marsh in companionable silence, cosseted by the Jaguar’s soft leather seats and a soothing stream of jazz. When we stopped at a red light, I closed my eyes and, to my abject humiliation, fell fast asleep. Before long, we were back in Great Marsh and Pruett was gently shaking my shoulder.