* * *
The ratchet screwdriver rasped its song as Finny screwed the facing into the cabinet sidepiece. With any luck, the cabinet itself would be ready for finishing by the end of the day. She tightened the screw with an extra twist. She could start the doors tomorrow. Her fingers brushed over the wood in pleasure.
"It looks very nice." Corinne was behind her, a stack of towels in her hands. The sunshine from the hall window sparkled in the lenses of her rimless glasses.
Finny nodded toward the towels. "By next week you'll be able to put those in here."
Corinne nodded. "Old houses never have enough storage space. I think it's because people didn't have as much, even the wealthy ones."
"Mmmmm hmmmm." Finny set the last screw and drove it in. When she glanced around Corinne was gone.
A half hour later, when she went downstairs to get more sandpaper from her truck, Corinne was at the sink in the kitchen, rinsing off the strawberries she'd picked that morning. She smiled as Finny went out the back door into the riot of flowers decorating the backyard.
Fat, old-fashioned roses held sway in the center round bed, a fountain of petals and scent that drugged the bees and slowed time. Bachelor's buttons, nicotiana, four o'clocks with buds twisted tight until the cool of the evening, daisies and snapdragons towering over creeping phlox—Finny moved through the flowery ether, eyes dreamy at the luxury of an old-fashioned garden. Not for the first time it occurred to her that the supposedly repressed Victorians had it all over the sensual excesses of today—the porn shops and X-rated movies and such couldn't hold a candle to the lush opulence of nature.
When she came back into the house, Corinne was holding the telephone receiver. "It's for you."
Finny held it to her ear. "Finny Aletter."
"Hi, Finny, it's Ty. What can I do for you?"
Her fingers tightened. "Ty, thanks for returning my call. Look, I need to talk to you."
His voice oozed a self-aware smugness that made her teeth grind. "Well, here I am. What do you want to talk about?"
Finny felt a sudden, sharp sadness. He sounded like the kind of sleazeball who considered singles bars his natural habitat. He hadn't been like that when she was seeing him. Screwed up, yes, nauseating, no.
"It's kind of hard to say over the phone." She paused. What to do—lay it out or play verbal footsie? "Uh, I've been trying to help Twee Garrett. You know, about the murder of Judge Sarandon."
"What does that have to do with me?" Ty's voice had gone from syrup to ice cubes.
Finny took a deep breath. "I got the impression that you and Paige Dexter—"
"Wait a minute." The smarmy polish had now disappeared into anger. "What is this all about?"
"Ty, I'm just talking to people who were at Twee's party on Sunday. I don't think she killed Sarandon."
"Finny, I've got business to conduct. Thanks so much for calling." The click of the receiver was loud and final.
"Shit." Finny hung up slowly. Dammit, she hadn't had time to even try to get something out of him.
"It does seem a pity that you're having such problems."
"What?" Finny glanced over at Corinne. "I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention."
"I'm not surprised." Corinne clicked her tongue sympathetically. "It's like doing The New York Times crossword. You get just enough letters to think you're sure to have the word, and then you realize you're not even close."
"That's a fairly succinct description of what I've been doing." Finny rested one hip on the counter. "Except I'm more than a few letters short."
"Well, who can blame you?" Corinne's apple-doll face creased alarmingly with her frown. "When the person you're trying to prove innocent keeps confessing, what can you do?"
Finny smiled at the disgust in her reedy voice. "Well, the one thing I've been trying to do seems to be the last thing I can accomplish: talking to the people close to Twee, especially Paige Dexter."
Corinne let the cool water trickling from the faucet flow over the berries in her hands. "Have you tried going to her house?"
"Not yet, but that's on the agenda."
"That seems wise." Corinne finished picking over the berries and turned off the water. "What are you going to do now?"
Finny straightened. "Work some more on your cabinet, clean up my tools. Then I'll drop by Paige Dexter's house and see what the lady has to say. I wouldn't be surprised if she knows something about Sarandon's death."
"What, William Sarandon's widow?" Corinne couldn't have looked more scandalized if Finny had suggested she perform a fan dance on the deal table.
"It's been known to happen."
"Even so." Corinne pursed her lips. "It's unseemly enough that she's entertaining so soon after Judge Sarandon's death, but, if you're right, and she's in any way culpable, then it's outrageous."
Finny frowned. "Did you say entertaining?"
"Oh, my, yes." Corinne waved a thin hand at the newspaper, folded neatly in its usual place on the sideboard. "She's hosting a benefit luncheon today. It's shocking."
"You don't say." Finny glanced at the pendulum clock on the top shelf of the sideboard. It was 10:42. "What time is this luncheon supposed to start?"
"At twelve-thirty. It's being held at the Bellicombe Mansion."
"Ritzy." Finny let the idea rattle around. Paige would have a heart attack if she showed up at the luncheon, which in and of itself was a laudable goal. But the bottom line remained: How the hell was she ever going to find out anything if she couldn't talk to those closest to Twee?
"If you left right now, you'd have time to change clothes."
Finny's eyes lifted to Corinne's face. The mischief in the old woman's eyes brought a grin to her lips. "I might have to call you to make bail."
"If you need to, I'll be here." Corinne patted her chest, a little tap-tap with her narrow hand. "Goodness, I can't wait to hear what happens. Promise you'll call me."
"You'll be the first." Finny unbuckled her tool belt and headed for the stairs. "I'll get the tools out of the way before I go."
"Don't be silly." Corinne chevvied her toward the front door. "I'll go up and push everything out of the way. You have work to do. Don't waste any time."
Chapter 13
"I'm sorry, what did you say?" The guardian of the guest list was definitely looking askance, her smile shrinking, oh so slowly, as she peered up at Finny, who was at her most elegant in an off-white linen suit and an "I belong here" expression.
"I was told my ticket would be left for me, presumably with you," Finny said. She'd raised one brow for all it was worth, but it wasn't going very far toward impressing the dragon.
"But I don't see your name here." As she bent her head to scan the list yet again, her lacquered hair reflected the light beaming down from the overhead fixture, suspended by the large-linked chain that disappeared toward the upper reaches of a ceiling nearly the height of heaven.
"I can only assume the last week has been just too much for Paige." Finny was trying to decide how one could drawl and sound sympathetic at the same time.
"Oh, of course." Perfect teeth bit at the vermillion lower lip. "Well, it's quite unusual, but I suppose if you just go in, it will be all right. Oh," she added, dimpled fingers catching at Finny's sleeve. "Do tell me how to spell your name for the place card." The fingers of her other hand twitched beside calligraphy pens and heavy bond paper.
"Certainly." Finny spelled her name, checking out of the corners of her eyes for anyone who knew her. She felt as though she were crashing the Mint.
"There, that should take care of it." She waved the small card to hasten the drying of the ink. "Let me see." She perused the seating chart at her right hand. "I'll put you at table seven—there seem to be some empty chairs there."
"Thank you." Finny moved on, resisting the impulse to hurry. From what she'd observed, languid and graceful was in, quick and flustered was out. Damn, she hated to play against type.
The Bellicombe Mansion had been built at the turn
of the century by Jedediah Bellicombe, who had made his fortune carting goods between St. Louis and Denver. He had erected it to assuage the disappointment of his only daughter's failure to marry into European nobility despite his formidable bankroll and her own passable looks. The architectural expression of his we're-just-as-good-as-you-folks sentiments had resulted in a hodgepodge of German practicality ornamented with such fairy tale touches as a crenellated tower at the angle of the L-shaped structure, with turrets at either end.
Finny had entered through the arched gateway, half thinking she could make out the spikes of a portcullis in the shadows overhead. As she made her way to the ballroom for the luncheon, she realized the portcullis was the least of it. Tall, stately walls of stone, double lancet windows, and polished slate floors flowing halfway to forever encapsulated the butterfly colors and Thousand-and-One-Nights scents of the women who filled the air with well-bred laughter and talk.
Finny kept a half smile on her lips as she glided through the shoals of conversation groups, managing disbelieving glances at the tapestries hanging from the faraway ceiling. She returned several nods, at least two from myopic-looking women she'd never met. There was no sign of Paige Dexter.
"I beg your pardon."
She'd run aground. The grande dame she'd bumped into gave new meaning to the color lavender, from the lacquered swirls of her hair to the smart frock that must have been designed for a woman some five sizes smaller. "No, I beg yours." Finny attempted a real smile. "I was looking for someone."
Her smile was not returned. "Aren't you that Aletter woman?" The dowager's jaw squared with certainty. "You were the guest of honor at the party where William Sarandon was killed." Her eyes, peering from wrinkled flesh, gleamed maliciously. "Twee certainly went overboard on the entertainment that night, didn't she?"
"That's one way of putting it." She decided on her own brand of haughtiness. "And your name was..."
The old woman waved away the remark with a pillowy hand. "Twee Garrett would hire Barnum and Bailey to pass the hors d'oeuvres if she thought it would make people take notice of her gatherings." She sniffed. "It didn't surprise me at all to learn that she'd committed her little murder at one of her parties. Besides, she's a Cudlow, you know: violent people, the Cudlows. And my name is Emeline Hanratty."
Finny's eyes narrowed. "You must be one of her dearest friends."
Emeline Hanratty gave a refined snort. "We've known each other since our school days."
"Excuse me," Finny murmured, looking over Emeline's shoulder. Paige Dexter had entered from a side door half the size of Rhode Island and was making her way to the head table amidst a group of four or five women who clustered about her like destroyers around a battleship. Her widow's weeds consisted of a lime green dress with cream piping, and had undoubtedly been tailored on her as she stood.
Finny glided through the batches of women who, though still talking, were moving en masse toward the luncheon tables like pilgrims toward a shrine. From the appearance of the head table, its center cunningly wrought into a bower filled with pastel flowers and birds, it was a toss-up as to who was the guest of honor: St. Francis of Assisi or Charles Audubon.
"Ladies... ladies, will you please find your seats?" The plea was broadcast through a microphone that spit in accompaniment to the softly spoken words. The thin, tanned blonde standing behind the flower-bedecked podium laughed lightly for the benefit of those who had already assumed their places at the head table. What can you do, her shrug asked.
The thick hum of conversation did not abate. Instead, it moved like clouds of perfume along with the women, who floated like dragonflies—fluttering designer wings—toward the pink lily pad tables. Finny saw Cuffy amidst a cluster of pastel dresses.
Table seven was half full, and as she glanced over her lunch-mates-to-be, Finny realized that she'd been relegated to the farm league. The ambience was that of mended bombazine and les temps perdu—the luncheon crowd's version of the back of the bus.
"We have a lot to accomplish this afternoon," said the blonde at the podium, and she proceeded to name the various and sundry people responsible for the day's production.
Finny looked around at the hundred or so women who listened desultorily to the introductions of the worker bees, applauding lightly as one after another rose like prairie dogs from their hills to sniff at their moments of recognition.
"And we must give a great deal of thanks to our hostess, the person who made this effort possible and without whom we would not have come together in such elegance and style. She has persevered through a very difficult time to bring us to this pinnacle today. May I present our president, Paige Dexter."
The room itself seemed to sigh as the women rose to their feet, applauding steadily. Paige made the obligatory resistance to coming to the microphone, then, good sport that she was, graciously proceeded to the podium.
When the tumult had subsided, Paige took hold of both sides of the podium and leaned toward the microphone. Her flawless features were intent. "Christine has already thanked many of the individuals who have worked to assure the success of today's benefit. While each and every one of those people deserve multiple mention, I know we're all hungry and anxious to see what delectables await us." She paused for the ripple of laughter widening across the room.
Her eyes moving from table to table, person to person, Paige let a note of seriousness creep into her voice. "We have all had the advantage of education. It is vital for women of our position to share our resources with those less fortunate. I'm happy to report to you that this luncheon has generated more than four thousand dollars that will go to the Better America Through Literacy Foundation. I applaud all of you for your involvement in this effort." She began the clapping, her smile growing as her audience emulated her.
She was still smiling when her eyes met Finny's across the tables of applauding women. The warmth in her face faded more quickly than denim in Clorox. Finny held her gaze, taking a certain amount of satisfaction in getting such a reaction. After the last two days, she deserved it.
Paige, unsmiling, removed herself to her chair, as Christine, who had popped back up like a jack-in-the-box, led the recessional applause. "And now," she trilled, "enjoy your lunches, prepared so brilliantly for us by Le Frileux Gourmand."
As she spoke, a tall, dark man, stylish in a gray Italian suit, walked quickly up the side of the dais and slipped into the empty chair next to Paige. As the buzz of recognition spread through the room, Christine shook an admonitory finger at the audience. "This afternoon's speaker has just arrived, and I know from your reaction that we all look forward to hearing what he has to say today. But first let's treat ourselves to this wonderful lunch. Enjoy." She subsided into her chair.
Finny was glancing around for the exits. Former Governor Garrison Hatch, more familiarly known as Governor Grinch, had been on the lecture circuit since leaving office some two years earlier. If he was speaking today in his usual vein, his audience would be suicidal before he finished. In an effort to highlight problems given short shrift in the optimism of the last ten years, Hatch had carved his own niche in the pessimistic underbelly of any given social issue, making it his business to point out the unpalatable facts that tended to get lost in the let's go, let's grow mentality of most public and private leaders. Many of his listeners had gone from admiration of his willingness to tackle the difficult questions to a fierce dread of having to listen to the specifics of his bleak vision. Darth Vader had nothing on Governor Grinch when it came to a familiarity with the dark side of The Force.
The conversational rheostat was turned back up, and a smattering of applause broke out as a line of uniformed waiters came through one of the side doors with the first of the plates.
"Doesn't Paige look wonderful?" The conversational gambit was thrown out by the soft, middle-aged woman in gray. Her spaniel eyes were too large for her small face, and her mouth was uncertain. She waited for an answer from the adjacent, mannishly dressed woman whose petulant expr
ession deepened at the remark.
"Considering that Chelsea Roche and her group have done most of the work, I don't see why Paige shouldn't look 'wonderful.' "
Finny was grateful for the arrival of her plate. Whatever the iced oval in shredded gelatin was, it had to beat a discussion of internal politics.
"How lovely, oeufs en gelee, "crooned the tailored brunette at Finny's right. "How innovative for this time of year, don't you agree?"
"Very creative." Finny tasted a small bite. Spiced, poached eggs in Jell-O, she thought. Whee.
Cunning cuisine came and went, accompanied by conversational forays led by the various members of her table. Having exhausted the clothes, travel plans, and marriage habits of the head table's inhabitants, Finny's table mates had just begun a discreet interrogation of her when Paige Dexter glided up to her side.
"Hello," she said with a smile to the table at large. "I'm so glad you all could come today. Finny." She glanced down at her. "Could I bother you to come with me for a moment?" She flashed another smile at the table. "Will you excuse us?"
Maybe listening to Governor Grinch wouldn't be so bad, Finny thought as she followed Paige's slim, straight figure toward the door behind the head table. She's probably got an assassination squad back here, just waiting to get me for crashing the place.
"All right." Paige whirled round in the shadowy hallway after firmly closing the door. Faint sounds of chaos wafted through with the aromas from the kitchen. "What are you doing here?"
Finny pushed her hands into her jacket pockets. "I've been trying to get in touch with you for two days. This was the best way I could think of."
Paige's pale eyes were cold with anger. "You have some nerve barging in here. I've worked quite hard to get this luncheon put together and I'm not going to let a smarmy upstart like you spoil it."
"Smarmy?" Finny's hands fisted inside her pockets. "Geez, I'm all for ending illiteracy."
Paige's lips tightened into a thin line. "Leave right now. You don't belong here. I won't put up with this kind of intrusion."
Obstacle Course Page 11