by Joan Hess
As he left, he heard Mary Margaret issuing an invitation to Sitermann-Spitzberg to come by the villa for a drink that evening. To his regret, but not his surprise, he heard an acceptance. He was not convinced that Sitermann had been truthful, but there was no action dictated until he learned otherwise. Except for warning Dorrie, of course, who had met the CIA agent under less tropical conditions and would recognize him as easily as she could identify a single drop of designer perfume. From fifty feet, upwind.
He saw Dorrie standing knee-deep in the water, with Biff nearby to protect her should some presumptuous sea life endanger her petunia pink toenails. They were talking in what appeared to be a friendly fashion, which gave Theo a fragile hope that they had resolved the Mary Margaret issue and might cease the squabbling. He returned to his chaise lounge and dusted the sand off his book. He could not, however, engross himself in the description of the bromeliads indigenous to the island, and he found himself observing his niece and her fiancé with a small frown.
When the two came out of the water, Theo gestured for Dorrie to join him. “Have you and Biff arrived at an understanding?” he asked quietly.
“He says he was just being polite. I pointed out as nicely as possible—considering certain appalling recent events—that he was being obsequious and snively and oblivious to my presence. After all, I am supposed to be the center of his attention. He has no business oiling anyone but me.” Dorrie permitted herself a brief smile. “He had no choice but to agree, since it was perfectly clear who was right, and he swore he would do better. We’re going dancing tonight at some tremendously expensive place so that he can attempt to make amends. He also mentioned a darling little necklace that I’ve had my eye on for some time, so I suppose I’ll be magnanimous this one time. After all, we’re practically engaged.”
“Congratulations. By the way, a most astonishing thing happened earlier, and I wanted to warn you, my dear.”
“Mary Margaret repented, enrolled in a convent—and they took her?”
Theo told her. After a pause, Dorrie gave him a sharp look. “Did you believe him, Uncle Theo? I don’t want to say anything tacky about your friend from the CIA, but I found him most unreliable. Do you recall that ghastly plaid cowboy shirt he wore one evening? And those gold-plated chains that he must have ordered from the back of a comic book? Really, he did not seem the least bit credible last summer, and I see no reason why you ought to believe him now.”
“Then what would you have me believe?”
She flipped her hair back and sighed. “Good point. I certainly don’t want to consider the possibility that I shall go through life being tailed by a spy in a polyester cowboy shirt.”
“Nor do I,” Theo said. “Mary Margaret has invited our pal Sitermann, who’s currently using the alias J. R. Spitzberg, to the villa for a drink this evening, and I would imagine he does not want his true identity announced to the group. I suppose I shall comply.”
“As long as he doesn’t wear a leisure suit, I won’t expose him. But I think you ought to keep an eye on him, Uncle Theo. There’s something about him that makes me feel he’s not to be trusted.”
Uncle Theo agreed.
Eli shuttled them back to the villa in time to shower and dress for their guests. When Theo reached the terrace, he noted that all three girls had spent considerable time with their hair and makeup, in honor of either the count or the Hollywood producer. Or both. On the contrary, Sandy and Biff were in shorts and T-shirts, barefooted, and totally uninterested in the cocktail party, if one were to believe their pointedly bored expressions. Trey was slumped in a chair, engaged in what appeared to be an unsuccessful attempt to get an itsy bitsy spider up a waterspout.
Theo poured himself a glass of rum punch from the omnipresent pitcher and took a seat in a shady corner. He was relieved when Gerry’s station wagon honked at the foot of the driveway. Eli appeared to open the gate, but before he could reclose it, a slim man with strikingly thick white hair came around the corner and up the driveway. His tanned face was in sharp contrast to his white suit, pastel blue shirt, and pale gray tie, and he walked with the air of an explorer in a cinematic jungle. His nose was sharp, his forehead high, his cheeks concave, and his smile perfectly shaped to convey the appropriate combination of charm and wry amusement. All three girls gulped. The boys settled for sneers that went unnoticed by everyone but Theo.
The apparition joined Gerry as she came up the steps to the terrace. “This,” she announced, “is your neighbor, Hal D’Orsini. He is a rogue and a scoundrel, and the only reason he’s not a pirate is that he doesn’t want to risk ruining the crease in his trousers.” She went around the group, murmuring names.
“I am delighted to meet you,” he said with a small bow that produced three more gulps from the distaff faction. “I hope I shall have the pleasure of your company often during the week, and that you will feel mi casa es su casa. And Mr. Bloomer, how kind of you to take time off to chaperone the group. They are quite fortunate to have the benefit of your company.”
His voice was carefully melodious, with a vague Bostonian undertone and a dash of British upper class. It was the voice Theo had heard, well … overheard, the previous evening. The voice of the man accused of being a gigolo. Theo acknowledged the introduction with a nod.
Trey roused himself to light a cigarette from the butt in his hand. “So you were at Harvard with Uncle Billy, old chap? I’ve heard some truly inspirational stories about the good old days and some of your pranks.”
“Indeed.” Hal sat down and accepted a glass from Dorrie, whose eyes were brighter than those of a stuffed animal. “Billy Bob and I had quite a time, but that was years ago when we were mischievous boys. You must tell me how you find our island paradise. Have you had an opportunity to explore the ghetto dubbed MoBay, or have you idled away your hours on the beach?”
Mary Margaret began to describe her adventure on the parasail, not failing to mention how it was, if one could imagine, almost sexual. In the midst of her breathless recitation, J. R. Spitzberg strolled up the driveway, but unlike his dashing predecessor, he was panting as he reached the terrace and his nose would have rivaled a chrysanthemum (Dark Flamingo) for redness.
Mary Margaret arranged the chairs so that she was between the two guests. She introduced her divine new friend from the West Coast, then leaned back and crossed her legs, very much the cat eyeing a bowl of cream. Or, Theo amended, the same cat eyeing a pair of plump little chipmunks. Dorrie lifted an eyebrow at Sitermann’s seersucker jacket, but produced a polite smile before turning back to study Hal D’Orsini.
“Have you made any plans for tomorrow?” Gerry asked. “I was going to suggest you use the company’s van for an outing to Ocho Rios. You can see Columbus Bay and climb the Dunn’s River waterfall, and there’s a large open-air market.”
“Climb?” Dorrie echoed, zeroing in on the pertinent word. “As in scrambling up a bunch of rocks while water and moss and God knows what else drips on your head? That sounds physical.”
Hal leaned across the table to pat her hand. “It’s terribly touristy, but there are guides to help you and it’s quite safe. I suspect you’ve got a firm little body under that charmingly delicate surface.”
Biff growled, but Dorrie squelched any potential comments with a stern look. “I was the captain of the field hockey team at school,” she allowed in a modest voice. “For three years in a row, actually. I protested, but everyone absolutely insisted and I was forced to accept the position. I do enjoy the right sports, but I’m not at all sure I want to climb places where snakes and lizards congregate.”
“Or slime,” Bitsy added, wrinkling her nose.
Hal gave Dorrie’s hand a squeeze before settling back. “I’ll tell you what, children. I’ve got an appointment over that way tomorrow, and I was thinking about running over in my boat. I could pick you up at the pier later in the afternoon and give you a lift back here.”
“Oh?” Bitsy, Mary Margaret, and Dorrie said in unison.
The three gulps brought the total to nine thus far.
“What about the van?” said Sandy. Biff and Trey nodded savagely, as if someone else’s property constituted their major concern in life. Theo knew better, but he was intrigued by the new twists in the plot. As was Gerry, apparently.
“Don’t worry about the van,” she said. “Eli can take you to the pier, then bring the van back and wait for you here.”
“What kind of boat do you have, D’Orsini?” Sitermann-Spitzberg asked suddenly.
“Nothing special, just a little seventy-foot runabout. Sleeps eight, but it’s crowded with any more than that. I use it for fishing, or to flee when I feel inundated with tedious people.”
“How far can you flee?”
Hal stared across the clutter of glasses on the table. “It’s hardly the QE II, but it’s adequate for my simple pleasures. Are you thinking of picking up one for yourself?”
“Yeah,” Sitermann-Spitzberg said, finishing his drink and pouring another. He drank half of it, made a face, and put down the glass. “Just a little runabout to do Catalina when the mood strikes. My office at the studio can be a madhouse. The writers, the directors, the actors, the endless stream of agents, lunches, openings, the whole crazy Hollywood scene—it can be migraine city, if you follow me on this one.”
“Really?” said Hal, still staring.
There was an uncomfortable moment of silence. Mary Margaret swiveled her head like a weather vane, then clapped her hands. “Well, it’s all settled! We’ll do this waterfall thing, shop, and come back on Count D’Orsini’s boat. I think it’ll be fantastic.”
When Dorrie and Bitsy agreed, the boys seemed to accept the inevitable. Theo, determined to keep a prudent eye on Mary Margaret, murmured that it did sound like a pleasant outing.
“Then it’s a date,” Hal said, standing up. “I must run along now, but I’ll pick you up in Ochos Rios at four. We’ll nibble on caviar and crackers, sip a little champagne, and perhaps catch the sunset on the way back. If there’s anything I can do in the meantime, feel free to toss a note over the fence or give me a buzz. Until tomorrow, ciao.”
Gerry excused herself and went with him to the foot of the driveway. Theo watched them as they halted near the curb for what appeared to be a slightly unhappy exchange.
Dorrie gave Biff a piercing look. “Well, shall we change now so we can leave as soon as we’ve finished dinner?”
Mary Margaret wrenched her eyes off the figures below. “Where are you going?”
“The biggest hotel we can find,” Biff said, oblivious to Dorrie’s darkening expression. “We thought we’d hunt up some calypso music and dance the night away. Why don’t you all come along?”
“Biff,” Dorrie began, “I thought—”
“Come on, honey, we’ll have more fun if everyone comes along for the ride. It’ll be a blast. Trey?”
“Sure. I can’t think of anything more amusing than watching Magsy pick up men in a bar. Once she graduates, she’s going to open the Miss Magsy School of Seduction.”
Bitsy smiled at him. “At least she’ll graduate, which is more than I can say about others of us. But I guess I’ll go along for the ride.”
“I’m going to pass,” Sandy said. “My head’s still blown out from last night, and I’m going to have to pace myself if I want to get in any golf this week. Beddy-bye for this boy.”
“Pooper,” Bitsy said, pursing her lips. “I don’t think that’s very nice. But if you’re going to stay here, maybe I will, too. I never go to bars without an escort; it’s utterly gauche.”
“Why, I’d be delighted to be your escort, Miss Bitsy,” Trey drawled. “In fact, I’d be downright honored if you would allow me to have the pleasure of your company. But if you’re afraid you’ll have too much champagne and start crawling all over me again, you’d better stay here.”
“Crawl all over you? I wouldn’t even walk on you if they flattened you with a bulldozer and carpeted Tiffany’s with you.”
Trey wiggled his eyebrows. “So you say, Miss Bitsy, but I hear the doubt in your voice, the little whisper in the back of your mind that you might not be able to control yourself around me.”
“I refuse to be manipulated by your crude remarks. I have decided to go dancing, but don’t flatter yourself that you’ll get within twenty feet of me. I think I’ll follow Mary Margaret’s lead and pick up men in the bar. As long as they’re not total pigs, they’ll be preferable to you!”
“Hey,” Mary Margaret protested, “let’s leave moi out of this.”
Dorrie sniffed. “If only we could.”
Sitermann gave Theo a look of deep sympathy. “See you around, Bloom.” He told Mary Margaret he would get back to her pronto about their little agreement, then gave the group a mock salute. “Ciao.”
With a sense of envy, Theo watched the spy amble down the driveway. Sitermann had the freedom to spend a quiet evening with a book, or to sit in solitude and watch the stars above the dark water. He could seek out a companion for conversation, engage in a hand or two of pinochle, or even enjoy an early retirement.
Theo, on the other hand, was going dancing.
It was no more dreadful than he had anticipated, although certainly no less so. With some amount of grumbling about the tight squeeze, they managed to fit in the little car. Eli drove them to a mammoth pink hotel with a tile roof and well-lit palm trees. The bar was outside, which helped him to survive the band. Calypso it was not. Dorrie patiently explained the premise of heavy metal, then jiggled away with Biff most of the evening. Mary Margaret settled for dancing with a group of boys at the next table, but faithfully returned to both her drink and Theo’s relief. Bitsy and Trey sat at opposite ends of the table, producing cold smiles and cheap shots with sporadic indifference.
By midnight the group agreed to leave. Biff went to the parking lot and returned shortly to say Eli was not waiting for them.
“But I’m ready to go right now,” Dorrie said. “He was supposed to wait for us; that is what he gets paid for, isn’t it?”
“I suppose we could call,” Bitsy said, wrinkling her nose. “We’d have to wake Sandy, but he won’t mind. After all, we can hardly walk to the villa. It’s uphill.”
Dorrie picked up her purse. “You call, Biff. We’ll wait in front of the hotel.” She then herded everyone across the patio and down a sandy sidewalk. Within a few minutes, Eli appeared in the beige car.
“Sorry, folks,” he said, grinning at them, as he got out.
“You might reread your job description,” Dorrie muttered as she climbed in the car. Biff came out of the hotel and obediently leapt in beside her, murmuring apologies for whatever sin he might have committed.
“Oh, I know exactly what I’m supposed to do,” Eli said. “And I’ve been working real hard, miss.”
As the others got in the car, Theo studied Eli, who beamed back with an immensely smug expression. “You haven’t indulged in any substances that might impair your ability to drive, have you?” Theo asked, prudently.
“No problem, Mr. Bloomer. I’m as pure as the day my mammy birthed me. This boy doesn’t do drugs.” His face sobered. “I realize that drugs are a serious problem here in Jamaica, and I hate to see kids and grown men wasting their lives with tokes of ganja. Even the Rastafarians, who claim ganja is a part of their religious rituals, get a little too mellow.”
“Uncle Theo, we are waiting,” Dorrie said from the backseat. “I may develop serious circulation problems in my right leg if we sit here much longer. Good Lord, Mary Margaret, have your thighs always been this flabby?”
Aware that he was putting his life on the line, Theo ignored her. “I, too, am aware of the problem, Eli. For the moment, we should allow these kids to retire to their beds, but I would be most interested in continuing the conversation when we have the opportunity.”
“No problem,” Eli said, once again grinning as he opened the door for Theo. “And now, home, Jeeves. Park Avenue South, here we come.”
Theo closed his eyes for the drive home.
The following morning they began to gather on the terrace after breakfast. Theo had equipped himself with a guidebook that explained the geological significance of the limestone that formed Dunn’s River Falls, although he had little hope anyone would be particularly interested. He took his coffee to a corner to reread the section.
Dorrie came out on the balcony. “Uncle Theo, did you tell the help that we’ll be out all day? Once they’ve cleaned, they have no reason to hang about idling. You might as well give them the afternoon off.”
“Very thoughtful,” Theo answered. “I shall do so before we leave.”
Dorrie bent down, then stood up with a black plastic circle in her hand. “Whatever can this be?”
Trey squinted up at her. “A Ritz cracker with gangrene or a lens cap from a camera, I would guess. Have you girls been snapping photos of the chap next door—for Playgirl magazine?”
Bitsy looked up from a magazine. “You are disgusting. Count D’Orsini, on the other hand, is a gentleman, and we would never invade his privacy. Where did that come from, Dorrie? Has someone been in our room?”
“Let me ask Mary Margaret if it’s hers.” Dorrie went inside, then returned with a worried expression. “Mary Margaret didn’t bring a camera. Neither did I, for that matter. It would disrupt my lines. Could this be yours, Bitsy?”
“Cameras are a la bourgeoisie. I wouldn’t be caught dead with one. There are people who actually sit around living rooms drinking beer and looking at other people’s slides, but I’d rather wear generic than bore people to death with such nonsense.”
Dorrie frowned at the lens cap. “Well, it wasn’t here before we went to the hotel last night, because I came out for a moment to towel-dry my hair. Mr. Robert seems to think excessive blow-drying is responsible for these insidious split ends, so I’ve been avoiding it whenever remotely possible. Where did this come from? Do you think someone was on the balcony last night?”
“That’s a thoroughly icky thought,” Bitsy said. “Do you think some sleazy sort was lurking out there to take photographs of us while we undressed?”