by M. M. Silva
Deciding to take the bull by the horns, I approached the officers with a small smile as if to welcome them to the party. Meagan-Maloney-Hostess-of-Mourners-Ice-Cream-Socials-Extraordinaire.
“Are you in charge here?” one of the policemen asked, hitching his belt and kind of getting a little too close to my personal space. He was of the tall, lean, and mean variety, with extremely close-cropped hair, a fair complexion, and light blue eyes that were almost clear. I put his age in the late-twenties, but everything about him was pinched.
I tilted my head to one side. “I’m not sure if I’m in charge, per se—”
“So who is?” he interrupted me.
“Well, I don’t know if I’d say anyone is in charge. It’s just that—”
“You’re trespassing.”
I guess we’d moved past the issue of who was in charge.
“Officers, here’s the thing.” I looked to the second policeman for some help, but he might as well been made out of stone for all the reaction I got from him. “I was at Rosenthal’s Funeral Home because I had a meeting with the director to discuss a case I’m working on. I’m a private investigator from Boston.”
Blank stares from both. Dropping my resume didn’t have the desired she’s-one-of-us effect. Okey dokey.
“After I met with Mr. Rosenthal, that man”—I pointed at Herman—“thought I was a friend from his childhood. As you can see, he’s quite old, and sadly he has Alzheimer’s. His sister recently died, and she’s being buried today.”
“Is that her?” Lean-and-Mean hitched his thumb toward the hearse, and I wrinkled my nose at him. The question seemed a little insensitive.
“Ummm, no, I’m not sure who that is,” I said.
“This oughta be good,” he said, folding his arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes.
I went on to explain the chain of events, and just as I was wrapping up, a dark sedan pulled into the parking lot, and Mr. Rosenthal jumped out before it’d come to a complete stop. He didn’t seem nearly as calm or refined as I’d seen him less than an hour before, and his face was the color of eggplant.
As he marched toward the officers and me, his eyes were locked on mine, and he looked furious.
“What is the meaning of this, Miss Maloney? Have you no respect for these people or my business? Are you trying to ruin me by stealing my vehicle and destroying my reputation?”
My face instantly flushed, and I began to stammer. “Of-of course not, sir…uh, Mr. Rosenthal. I-I was trying to leave when—”
“When you went out for a jaunt in my hearse?! You are a sick young woman, and you should be ashamed of yourself,” he huffed. Then he turned to look at the officers for the first time. “Gentlemen, I would like this lady and the other thief arrested for stealing my vehicle, and I would ask you to assist us as we restart the procession to the cemetery for this other family.”
Lean-and-Mean-Cop and Silent-Cop both looked stunned that an uppity funeral director was giving them marching orders, and I was pretty surprised myself. Fortunately, my reaction time—and temper—were quicker than both of theirs. I took a step towards Mr. Rosenthal and lowered my voice.
“Listen to me carefully before you bark out one more comment about anyone getting arrested. Your hearse was left unattended in front of your facility, which provided the opportunity for your customer—a sweet, senile old man who’s grieving the loss of his sister—to take the vehicle for a drive. Why did he do this? He wanted ice cream, to get away from the tragedy of the day and have some friggin’ Rocky Road. Now, if you’re so worried about publicity and the well-being of this family and Herman’s family, then I suggest that we all thank our lucky stars this didn’t end in a complete disaster. Look around you, all three of you.” The trio of men did as I directed. “What do you see? Do any of you want to make this a bigger deal than it really was?”
As I said this, an adolescent boy with black hair that fell over his eyes waddled over and snapped a picture of the four of us with his cell phone. “Awesome! This is going on Facebook right away. Could you guys cuff the girl or something cool like that? Maybe you could Taser her and a boob could pop out?”
I turned to the policemen with a questioning look, and they glanced from me to Mr. Rosenthal. His tense body sagged, and I knew I was in the clear.
“Beat it kid,” I snarled. I’d Taser his ass.
Mr. Rosenthal wouldn’t let up. “Fine! I won’t press charges, but I need to get this procession moving. Everything is on a strict timetable.”
“And you’ll get Herman back to the funeral home safe and sound?” Lean-And-Mean asked Mr. Rosenthal.
The funeral director’s face flushed anew, but he kept his temper in check. “I will take the stolen hearse back to the funeral home, and yes, I will take Herman along with me. But I will not take her!” He pointed at me with a dramatic flourish, as if he was on a witness stand, identifying me as a maniac killer sitting at the defendant’s table.
I rolled my eyes. “Save the theatrics. I wouldn’t take the ride even if I was the corpse.”
With some coordination from the policemen, everyone was on their way in no time, and I soon stood in an empty parking lot with the two officers. Lean-And-Mean wasted a little more time with some mundane questions, but it was clear they weren’t going to do anything about the afternoon’s events.
“We normally don’t do this,” Silent-Cop finally spoke directly to me. “But earlier you mentioned your car was at the funeral home. We can give you a lift back there if you’d like.” Lean-And-Mean shot him a withering look.
“I’d appreciate that,” I said with a small smile. I didn’t know the name of any cab companies in Newport, and the long walk back at this chilly hour of the day didn’t seem very appealing.
As it turned out, Mr. Rosenthal—henceforth called Mr. Fucking Rosenthal—had managed to get my truck towed in the time I’d been gone. How he’d arranged it was beyond me, but my vehicle—check that, Doob’s Mercedes—was most definitely gone.
What. An. Asshole.
Silent-Cop said they’d wait for me while I went inside to find out where Doob’s truck was, and that was met with another death-stare from Lean-And-Mean. Silent-Cop maybe thought I was cute, or possibly amusing, and that definitely didn’t meet with his partner’s approval.
“We’re not running a taxi service,” Lean-And-Mean chirped as I climbed out of their vehicle.
“Thanks for the newsflash,” I said, but only after shutting the door behind me. I really didn’t need to piss him off any further.
When I went in to pitch my fit, I was told Mr. Rosenthal was shockingly unavailable, so I had to deal with a young lady who looked ready to wet her pants. I kept reminding myself not to kill the messenger. It wasn’t her fault her boss was a dick.
As with all things in life, timing is everything. And, of course, the impound lot where I could retrieve Doob’s SUV was closed. And, of course, it didn’t matter anyway. I couldn’t pick it up if they’d been open, because it wasn’t my vehicle. Doob would be thrilled to know where his Mercedes was spending the evening.
So off I went with the two policemen to Jeff’s place in Jamestown. When the cop car reached the end of the long driveway, Jeff stood outside the front door, with Sampson beside him. Sampson barked when he saw Silent-Cop let me out of the backseat of the cruiser, and Jeff looked ready to burst out laughing.
“Really?” he said as I approached them, a loud guffaw finally escaping his mouth.
“Don’t even,” I responded and bent down to rub Sampson’s ears.
“So where’s Doob’s truck?”
“Impound,” I said with a dismissive wave.
“Impound?” he repeated.
“Yep.”
“And I’m guessing he doesn’t know?”
“Nope.”
“And I’m guessing he won’t be too happy?”
“Cor-rect.”
“And when do you plan on telling him?”
I stood up, stretched, and tho
ught about the question. “Never?”
Jeff leaned against the door jamb. “Sounds reasonable. Would you like a drink?”
“I would like several,” I said and swept a hand through the doorway to lead Sampson inside.
Before shutting the front door behind me, I glanced back at the police cruiser, which had pulled up behind Jeff’s car. Silent-Cop appeared to be writing down the license plate number. What in the world was that all about?
As if he somehow heard the question in my head, Jeff said, “He’s going to check me out.”
“Checking you out? Why?” I asked, mortified I’d now involved Jeff in my mess.
“My guess would be he likes you. Most cops don’t moonlight as a cab company.”
I shrugged. “That’s what his partner told me.”
“So if he thinks you’re with me, and if he can prove I’m a creep or a shyster or an unsavory type, well…maybe he thinks you could be Mrs. Newport Cop someday,” he said with a chuckle.
Good grief.
CHAPTER 16
Friday, November 8th
I THINK DOOB HAD BEEN PRAYING FOR ARMAGEDDON all week, but much to his dismay, Friday arrived with all-things-gala in the air. To my relief, he didn’t freak when he learned about his Mercedes spending the night in jail. And thankfully, he didn’t have any problems retrieving the truck. Maybe because I called Silent-Cop and asked him to meet Doobie at the vehicle holding place, just to make sure things went smoothly.
Hey, if Silent-Cop thought I was cute, I figured I should take advantage and help out a friend. Especially since I was the one responsible for putting the friend’s baby in impound in the first place.
I had a wonderful lunch with Eileen. She fussed about the home-baked cake, but none of the names on the guest book had jumped out at her as potential bad guys. Still, it was nice to spend some time with her and listen to her stories.
The day seemed to zip by in record time, and before any of us knew it, we were getting dressed for the big event. The plan was to convene around the kitchen island at six o’clock that evening, and I was the last one to get downstairs. When I came around the corner, the sight that greeted me was fairly adorable, like we were all little kids playing dress-up. Jeff looked dapper; Doob looked uncomfortable, yet presentable, and Kayla was—in a word—spectacular.
I circled the island and greeted each of my friends with a hug and a kind word.
“Jeff, thank you so much for these tickets,” was rewarded with a smile.
“Kayla, you are breathtaking,” was returned with an of-course-I-am look from my modest friend.
“Doob, you look the best I’ve ever seen you. Thank you for doing this,” was met with Doob’s complexion turning purple while he stared at the floor.
“I hate this, Meg,” he muttered.
I hugged him again and said, “I know. Just think, in six hours or so, this will all be over.”
His eyes bulged and his purple pallor turned greenish. “Six hours?”
Whoops. “Five?” He rubbed his face with both hands.
Kayla glanced toward the great room and then gestured at the front door. “All right, people, I just saw headlights. Our chariot awaits.”
Since Jeff had sprung for the tickets to the event, Doob took it upon himself to get a limo for the entire evening, which was sweet of him. Not to mention smart. All of us were undoubtedly going to have some cocktails, so having a driver made a whole lot of sense. I only hoped Doob had the guy for the entire night so we wouldn’t have to worry about five hours or six hours or whatever.
The driver was a dapper little fellow, at least seventy years old, with an adorable black driver’s cap on his head and tufts of gray hair sticking out of the sides. He held the vehicle door open for us with such deference we all felt like royalty. Introducing himself as William, he showed us he’d loaded up the limo with all sorts of goodies, including champagne, bottled water, soda, pretzels, potato chips, and mints. When he pointed out the various buttons and gadgets, Doob had a field day changing the interior lights and zipping the center console window up and down. I was certain a disco ball and confetti would soon follow.
Under the pretense of humoring William, Kayla uncorked the champagne, nearly taking Doob’s eye out in the process. The four of us split the bottle on the drive into Newport while enjoying the sparkling lights of the quaint little town with its ocean views. I felt carefree and elegant in my strapless, red evening gown. It all seemed tremendously sophisticated, and I had to remind myself the only reason we were attending the gala was so I could do some sleuthing.
As we wound our way along Ocean Drive, Doob’s nose was stuck to the window, and he whistled lightly. “I did a little research online before we left, but those pictures don’t do these mansions justice,” he said. “I’ve lived within a couple of hours of here for quite a while and haven’t ever checked them out. They are massive.”
“You should see them in the daytime. They’re amazing,” Kayla cooed, like a star-struck teenager. “I’ve been to every single one that’s open for tours. My favorite is The Breakers, which was actually the summer home of Cornelius Vanderbilt, the Second. Can you imagine your summer home having seventy rooms and forty-five-foot-high ceilings in the Great Hall?”
“You sound like a mansion groupie,” I said with a grin.
Kayla shrugged. “I’ve been called worse. My second favorite is Rosecliff. It was featured in the movies The Great Gatsby and True Lies, and it was theeee place to party during the Gilded Age. You can actually still rent it for a wedding or a corporate outing, but I’m sure it costs a fortune.”
“I read you can do the Newport Cliff Walk along the Atlantic and see many of the mansions from there,” Doob said. “I really need to check it out.”
I scoffed. “It’s about four miles, Doob. You’d get about a quarter-mile before falling into the ocean.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Speaking of, Megs, don’t you have—”
I pointed a finger at him. “Not tonight, Doob.”
“Fine, but in less than forty-eight hours, you’re going to be one hurting puppy.”
“Please shut your pie hole,” I said and noticed Kayla’s and Jeff’s quizzical looks. “I’ll fill you guys in tomorrow. For now, let’s just enjoy how the other half lives.”
We sipped our champagne and made some small talk along the way, and long before I was ready to relinquish the lovely limo accommodations, we pulled into the winding driveway to the immense mansion. Soft lights lined the driveway all the way up to the house. Every inch of the beautiful brick façade glowed, and the illumination went so high in the air it was hard to tell where the structure stopped and the twinkling stars began. It was simply stunning.
I reluctantly had to shift from relaxed-cocktail-party-mode to let’s-get-to-work-mode. My plan was to somehow get some time with Mr. Malcolm Gage Johnson, Prick Extraordinaire, and see if I could cajole, harass, trick him into saying something that would help me solve why Charlie died in Jeff’s house. How exactly I was going to do that remained to be seen. I would have to call an audible once I arrived and hope for the best. Getting an audience with this man would probably be more difficult than getting in to see the Pope.
Stepping out of the limo, I noticed a security checkpoint inside the front door of the magnificent house, like a T.S.A. setup at T.F. Green Airport in Providence. I didn’t know if that made me feel safe or sad. Regardless, I made sure no one was looking when I slipped my handgun out of my adorable little clutch and slipped it into one of the handy-dandy storage areas in the limo. No one knew I’d brought it, and it was doubtful I would need it anyway, right?
Brisk air chilled my bare skin as we waited in line to get into the enormous house, but the procession moved along at a quick pace, and Kayla was the first one of our party to walk through the metal detectors.
“Want to frisk me boys?” she asked as she spread her arms wide and waltzed through the framed structure. Batting the fake lashes she’d donned for the evenin
g, she purred, “I promise it’ll be fun.”
A heavily-muscled, six-foot tall security woman with a gray crew cut walked over to Kayla and said, “I’d be glad to,” in a baritone voice. Kayla turned back to us with a help me look on her face, but we were all frozen in place. It was all I could do to not burst out laughing while the woman patted Kayla down and another guard rifled through her small, jeweled handbag.
I was next through the metal detector and breezed through without incident. As one guard handed me back my clutch, another touched me gently on my elbow. I looked up to see a handsome black man, wearing a magnificent dark suit and a wire curled in his ear. He looked like Secret Service, and I briefly wondered if the President was at this gala.
“Miss Maloney,” he said, “Mr. Johnson would like to see you in his private quarters.”
So much for figuring out how to get an audience with him.
CHAPTER 17
AFTER BEING CLEARED THROUGH SECURITY, I noticed all the guests were guided to the right of the sweeping double marble staircase. A sign there indicated the direction to the east ballroom. East ballroom? It needed a directional indicator? Did that mean there were also north, south, and west ballrooms as well? Good grief.
The guard who’d spoken to me ushered me off to the left where there were two very large, ornately carved wooden doors, probably imported from some remote corner of the planet where special wood is grown just for extremely rich people. In front of the closed doors were several three-foot metal stands with thick, purple velvet ropes hanging loosely between them.
“This must be the V.I.P. section then?” I asked my escort, trying to calm my nerves as he unhooked one of the ropes. He gave me a tight smile but didn’t respond. Rather, he brought his shoulder to his mouth and spoke in low tones into a microphone I hadn’t noticed on his immaculate lapel. I couldn’t make out what he said, but I was certain he told someone the subject was in hand and to prepare the guillotine or the dungeon or whatever they had in store for me.