“Before he got kicked out of BC, Rusty met her at a frat party. At the time she was a student at Wellesley, a couple of years younger. If you recall, Rusty was used to women throwing themselves at him. When beautiful, brainy Vivian gave him a chilly reception, I imagine he was intrigued.”
“Maybe I should have given him a chilly reception,” I said. “He never noticed me anyway.” A skinny sophomore, I tutored in the high school writing lab where Rusty was sent for help with his English essays. I secretly swooned over him, the high cheekbones, the curly copper hair. Not only was Rusty gorgeous, he had a sense of humor, unlike many jocks, and he never took himself seriously. When sports writers labeled him “New England’s best high school quarterback,” he shrugged. Football, he told everyone, was his ticket out of Granite Cove.
“Basically, Rusty was out of his league,” she continued. “Vivian was Chestnut Hill, and he was the housing project. Yet it was a definite case of opposites attracting.” She gave me a sly look. “I hear they had a sizzling affair.”
I stared in disbelief. “Dr. Klinger and Rusty Favazza? Get out! Where are you getting this information anyway?”
“Tiny has been moonlighting a couple nights a week at The Sacred Cod where Rusty’s a regular. Tiny’s become his confessor.”
The funky wharfside restaurant is known for its generous drinks and fresh seafood right off the boats. “Rusty’s a regular?” I asked.
“When his disability checks hold out.”
“How is he disabled?”
“Fractured pelvis from working on a tuna boat in California. During a storm, the mast split and fell on him.”
“Poor guy,” I said. “Still, I still can’t imagine Vivian Klinger and Rusty Favazza getting together. Talk about polar opposites.”
“She wasn’t a Ph.D. back then. She was a sheltered college student living at home. I don’t have to remind you about his effect on women.”
“Everyone had a crush on Rusty,” I said. “Remember Ms. Snelson, the guidance counselor who drove him to Maine to tour Bowdoin? What a scandal when it got out they’d stayed at a motel.”
“Uh huh. Rusty swore he’d slept in the car.”
“Right. Come to think of it, I wonder what Rusty saw in Dr. Klinger. She couldn’t have been what you’d call a fun date.”
She sighed. “It was probably one set of glands calling to another.”
“Is that why she eventually settled here?”
“To rekindle an old romance with an alcoholic ex-con? Is that what you mean?”
“Rusty’s an ex-con?” I asked.
“According to Tiny, who gets it from the source, the sword fishing was just a cover for drug smuggling. Rusty did two years in prison.”
“Sounds like he’s been on a slippery slope.” I thought about high school heroes and the pressure to live up to the public’s expectations. We demand much, and when they fall, we take it personally. “If all that is true, why in the world did he come back?”
“He claims he ran out of choices. He got out of prison and didn’t want to go back to the life, so he came home. He was living at the shelter downtown until his disability checks from California got transferred to Massachusetts.”
“But it’s so weird that Dr. Klinger ended up here in Rusty’s home town.”
“Rusty introduced her to Granite Cove. One day they borrowed her old man’s sailboat and headed down the coast. When they sailed into Granite Cove harbor, she fell in love with the place, said she wanted to live here someday. Perhaps her vision included Rusty as well. Who knows? Her old man had other plans for her that didn’t include marriage to a wharf rat.”
We came to the end of the sidewalk, finding ourselves confronted by a busy thoroughfare. I looked at Betty Ann. “Are you ready to go back? We can cross here and continue our walk. I’ve got a few more minutes.”
“I’m ready to go back.”
We turned and retraced our route. When we got within sight of Green Pastures, I said, “Are you okay? What about tonight if you crave a smoke? What will you do?”
“I’ve got a video program I watch. It’s all about replacing negative conditioners with positive conditioners.”
“You mean like reaching for a candy bar instead of a cigarette?”
She laughed. “Don’t I wish. No, it’s basically what we just did. Since I associate lunch with smoking, I substituted a positive conditioner—walking. Right now it’s a piss-poor substitute as far as I’m concerned, but the program claims I’ll actually come to prefer the positive.” She kicked a rock at her feet. “If only I had a better reward system.”
“Are you kidding? How about a healthy heart?”
“I’m not talking about the health aspect. I’m talking about something else.”
“No more dog breath?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Let’s say I quit for good. Know what my reward will be?”
“You tell me.”
“Jonah. When Tiny tells the court our home contains no secondhand smoke, there’s a good chance we’ll be awarded Jonah.” She closed her eyes. “Does that sound like a win-win situation?”
I tried to come up with something encouraging to offset the bleak picture she painted. Yet I could not, because my attention was drawn elsewhere. In a remote region of my mind, associations were forming. They’d been set in motion when Betty Ann discussed negative and positive conditioning. Although my brainstorm needed time to percolate, I felt I was onto something.
I had stumbled upon a solution to Raul Phipps’s neurosis.
Seven
“Egads! What in the name of God…?” Yvonne’s face registered dismay as she examined a stack of photos recently delivered by the lab. “Are these yours, Rose?”
Without turning from my monitor, I said, “Are you referring to Mabel Snodgrass’s birthday party?”
“No, this looks like some kind of dog, if I had to guess.”
“Oh, then that must be Raul.”
“What kind of dog is it?”
“He’s a miniature Hairless Peruvian. Worth a fortune.”
“If he appeared at my door in a blizzard, I’d throw water on him.”
“Even if you knew his owners were Mr. and Mrs. Phipps of the Miles O’ Tiles fortune?”
“Oh, that’s who he is.” She held the photo at arm’s length. “I’m sure he’s got his positive qualities. It’s like abstract art. Seen with an uneducated eye, it appears bizarre. Yet when you develop an appreciation, a whole world opens up. I imagine it’s the same for exotic dog breeds. Mr. and Mrs. Phipps no doubt discern qualities that the average person cannot fathom.”
“He’s been going toity in Mr. Phipps’s shoes,” I said.
She sighed, placing the photos on my desk. “I suppose he’s got his reasons.”
“He may. In the meantime, I think I’ve found a solution to the problem.”
“Good. I’m glad you’ve gotten over your obsession with the murder.”
I flashed a goody girl smile and at the same time felt a twinge of guilt. My interview with Veronica Klinger would take place during working hours. Yvonne would not approve. On the other hand, how many nights had I worked at home past midnight doing the housekeeping hints column?
I picked up a photo of Raul from the pile; it was a close up. He resembled the mutant from the movie It’s Alive! The puckered skin was the color of a slug.
I shuffled through the stack until I found the one of Mrs. Phipps cradling a sleeping Raul. She beamed with maternal pride. “How about this to accompany my story?” I held the picture up.
Yvonne slipped on her glasses and peered at it. “We’ll put it in the Coastal Living section. I’m sure Mrs. Phipps will be pleased.”
“When people see Raul, they’ll say, ‘What in hell is that?’”
“In that case it’s your job to educate them,” she said, her voice as sweet as melted penuche.
The night was cold and misting when I took Chester for a walk. With my collar turned up and an umbrella tuc
ked under my arm, I set out, walking around puddles to the end of the road. I wished I’d worn gloves. The cold numbed my fingers.
Dark clouds skittered across a faint, ghostly moon. All in all, it was so dreary I felt like an alien who’d landed in a hostile environment. Spring in New England is like that. It will break your heart. One day you’re wearing cutoffs, the next day you’re scraping ice off your windshield. A stretch of good weather—three days is considered an undeserved blessing—convinces us that spring has arrived. Then it snows. You’d think we’d wise up, but we never do. Hope for spring springs eternal.
Coming home, I heard the phone ringing before I opened the door. Normally I don’t answer at night, unless I’m expecting a call from my dad. He’s suspicious of answering machines and won’t leave messages. I decided to answer:
“Hello?”
“Ah, just the girl I want.”
My first impulse was to tell the caller that at age thirty-nine I was hardly a girl. Likewise, my dad can’t get it right. He calls women girls unless they’re pushy. Those, he calls dames. In any case, it was no time for a lesson in political correctness; my feet were wet. “What can I do for you?”
“You could pay me the honor of having lunch with me tomorrow.”
The voice dripped oil. I recognized the caller. “Hello, Mr. Alfano. Thanks, but I’m pretty busy around lunch time.”
“You career gals are always busy. Don’t you have any fun?”
“You know how it is, stories breaking out all over town.”
“And you have such a unique way of writing about them.”
Bunny Alfano was doing what he did best, slinging the BS. As always, the man had his reasons. He faced a run for office and needed positive publicity. Nonetheless, I was intrigued. Bunny, with his Who, me? demeanor, had the inside story on Settlers Dunes as well as certain people in high places. The guy had the goods on everyone. If I played to his vanity, I might get him to spill those goods. Although it wouldn’t be following the highest journalistic standards, it reflected Yvonne’s policy regarding our advertisers: tit for tat. “Want to meet at Stella’s?” I asked.
He chuckled. “I hope you’re joking. My brother likes that hash joint, but I’m fussy.”
“I mention it because it’s convenient.”
“Listen, darlin,’ forget convenient. How does the dining room at the Olde Shores Country Club sound? I’ve got a private table. Meet me there at noon, okay?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Now I’m a happy man. By the way, don’t forget your camera.”
“I never do.”
The next morning I rummaged in my closet, searching for something suitable to wear to the venerable Olde Shores Country Club. Although I had no idea what the landed gentry wore to lunch, I doubted it was a denim miniskirt.
I settled on a navy skirt and white blouse. Posing in front of the mirror, I asked Chester, stretched out at my feet, “What do you think?” He lifted his head, regarded me silently and went back to sleep. Just as I thought.
Before leaving, I phoned the office. Fortunately, Yvonne didn’t pick up. I left a message at her extension saying I was going to reshoot Mabel Snodgrass’s birthday party. It wasn’t a lie. In all my photos, Mabel appeared to be in a coma. Her family had erred by holding the party during Mabel’s nap time. When she periodically awakened, I hurriedly snapped pictures. None came out very good. The pictures made her look not only old but mummified.
Before hanging up, I hastily added that I’d be seeing Bunny Alfano. “We don’t have a file photo of him. I’ll take care of it.”
The drive along the coast was so beautiful I felt like weeping. The sea sparkled like a field of diamonds under a pale lemon sun. It was one of those rare days when the smell of the ocean is so strong you can taste it. Passing the giant rocks overlooking Thatcher’s Island, I had an urge to stop the car, kick off my shoes and climb those ancient, sun-warmed boulders worn smooth by centuries of crashing waves.
Nearing Hemlock Point, the houses got bigger and farther apart. I passed the narrow, sandy road leading into Settlers Dunes, almost missing the fresh, new sign stuck in the sand outside the entrance. I stopped and backed up to get a look.
Dark blue lettering stood out against a white background. It read Coming Soon: Cormorant Cove, Oceanfront Villas of Unparalleled Elegance! In the corner of the sign was the ubiquitous trademark: Ask Martha!
I floored the gas and peeled out, tires screeching and spinning in the sand. Of all the ballsy maneuvers, Martha’s was in a class of its own. This time she’d outdone herself. Her so-called development, whether legal or not, required a devious mind coupled with a steely assurance.
Obviously, she wasn’t working alone. Most likely Bunny was behind the scenes, clearing the way when the opposition reared its head. It would be interesting to find out who was supplying the upfront money.
Thinking about Martha Farley had destroyed my pleasure in the beautiful day. Were she a true aristocrat, perhaps I wouldn’t be so harsh. But Martha was a phony who’d undergone a major transformation. Not only had she acquired a proper boarding school accent since high school—she had been three years ahead of me at Granite Cove High—but a sense of entitlement, as well.
This in spite of the fact that our backgrounds were similar. We both came from poor-but-respectable families. However, the former Martha Muldoon had bagged Spencer Farley. The union had opened doors, allowing her to create Ask Martha!, a real estate business that catered to Hemlock Point’s rich and famous. Every week I’m forced to see her mug smirking at me from Ask Martha! ads in the Gazette along with the latest multi-million dollar estate for sale.
That’s why when my dad sold the homestead, he got an out-of-town realtor, although Spencer Farley handled the passing. My childhood home sold for two hundred seventy-five thousand dollars, a tidy sum in the mid ’90s. Martha’s clients, on the other hand, pay that for a poolside cabana.
I glanced at the speedometer and lifted my foot from the accelerator. My thoughts were spinning like gerbils in a cage. Brooding about Martha was definitely bad for my nerves.
Before long I approached the entrance to Olde Shores Country Club. The rambling wooden building looked timeless in the soft spring light. Flowering azalea and tulip beds provided color against sea-weathered gray shingles. On the wraparound porch, a row of empty rocking chairs moved in the breeze as if propelled by ghosts. Farther off in the background, the ocean reflected the robin’s egg blue of the sky.
I found an out-of-the-way parking spot under a drooping bridal wreath. Alighting from my car, I looked around at the manicured grounds bordering the brilliant green of a fairway. It brought to mind the saying, It’s what God would have created if he’d had the money.
I followed a walkway made of crushed shells leading to the entrance. Along the way, several low, discreet signs pointed in various directions to such destinations as the Ladies Locker Room, Pro Shop and Pool. Another indicated the 19th Hole, no doubt the most popular destination.
I climbed the front porch’s broad wooden steps and opened the main door to the lobby. Inside, portraits of stern-faced Yankees in heavy gold frames regarded me with disdain, as if suspecting an interloper. A large Oriental rug in faded reds and blues covered the wooden floor. At the far end of the room, a wide window offered a view of the rolling golf course.
As I checked my reflection in a mirror, a lavender-haired woman approached. A name tag worn over her left breast read Mrs. Procter: Dining Room Manager. “Can I help you?” she asked. Her tone suggested she could not.
“I’m meeting a member, Mr. Alfano.”
Before she could respond, a loud, gravelly “Rosie!” rang out. Mrs. Proctor and I both turned in the direction of the voice, a sound more appropriate for a barroom than a musty old country club.
Bunny, seated at a table near a window, waved a white dinner napkin. If Mrs. Proctor disapproved of Bunny’s boorishness, she gave no indication. She led me through the large dining room, passi
ng tables of well-dressed people who spoke in murmurs.
When we reached his table, Bunny jumped up and kissed my cheek. He wore a blueberry-blue sports jacket over salmon colored pants. The top buttons of his shirt were open, revealing enough chest hair to stuff a small pillow. Mrs. Proctor scurried off. “Is this place the balls, or what?” he said, and pointed out the window. “That’s the ninth tee and behind those hedges, the tennis courts.” He sat down, saying, “Let’s order a drink. Ever been here before?”
“Years ago.” I didn’t add that I’d been with my dad in his truck making a delivery of lobsters to the club’s kitchen. “How long have you been a member?”
“Not long, about six months.”
“I understand they have a long waiting list.” I’d done my homework researching the club.
He winked. “Waiting’s for dummies.”
At that moment Mrs. Proctor appeared, handing us menus and announcing that our waiter would be with us shortly. When she left, I asked, “What do you mean for dummies?’” What I really wanted to know was how Bunny got in at all. In that room of old bluebloods, he stuck out like Barbara Bush at a Harley Davidson convention.
He grinned at me over the top of his menu. “One thing you should know about Bunny Alfano, he doesn’t wait.” He indicated my shoulder bag hanging from my chair. “Get your pen and pad out. That’s a good quote.”
While I dutifully scribbled away, a waiter arrived to take our drink order. Bunny wanted a Southern Comfort Manhattan; I requested iced tea. “Get a real drink,” he insisted. “Live a little. I’m paying.”
“I’ve got to go back to work, Bunny.”
“Don’t worry about it. Did I tell you I know Yvonne? We go way back.” With that, he whipped a cell phone from his pocket. “Lemme call her.”
I put my hand on his arm. “Never mind. I guess I’ll have a Johnny Walker Black.” What the hell. How often do I have lunch at Olde Shores Country Club? Even with Bunny Alfano as my tablemate, it was a far cry from Mega Mug. When we were alone, I asked, “What were you saying about that waiting list?”
Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky Page 10