I went back to give the good news to the owners, and they gave me a small box of fudge in return. That night, when Cindy asked me where the candy came from, I told her I’d taken it from a baby.
This morning I sat idly adding items to a grocery list Cindy had given me at breakfast, and realized that suddenly it was almost the beginning of August, past the halfway mark in our Season, and still Cindy and I had not had that conversation. My talk with Mom about it had come back to me sharply only last night.
During dinner, Cindy had mentioned that the bathroom and the kitchen were strongly in need of painting, but somehow she had sounded tentative, as if she weren’t sure she should bring it up. Like maybe she figured it was my house and she had no right to be telling me about the décor?
I felt awful. Had I made her feel she wasn’t a full-time partner? What the hell was the matter with me that I’d rather go chasing alligators and the fraudulently injured than have a plain and simple talk with the woman I loved? Sometimes I really worried that I had a blank spot in my emotions somewhere.
My first instinct, upon hearing her comments, had been to reply that I thought the rooms did not especially need painting. Thankfully, I had not made that statement! I looked around the kitchen and agreed it was a bit shabby, and that I’d noticed a little peeling in one corner of the bathroom. Yes, we should run over to Jake’s Hardware on Saturday and get some paint chips. Then we’d get Harmon in to do the work whenever he was free.
She had seemed very pleased and said she loved looking at paint chips. But I knew I had simply applied a Band-Aid to the wound. I had to get my act together. I poured more coffee and sat back down to rehearse my little speech. I was going to give it tonight, for sure!
A tap on the back screen door interrupted my rehearsal. It was Carla Brownlee, our next-door neighbor, a pleasant woman in her early fifties.
“Carla! Come in. How about a coffee?”
“That sounds good and, here, your favorite cookies—oatmeal Scotties.” She placed a covered paper plate on the table.
“Are they ever my favorite! Thanks, I needed that.” I put the mug in front of her, remembered she took milk and actually poured some into a little pitcher, placing it neatly near her, along with the sugar bowl, napkin and spoon. Mom and Cindy would be proud. “So, Carla, what’s new in the ’hood?”
“Well.” She hesitated slightly. “Good news for Bob and me. You and Cindy may not agree.”
“My God, you haven’t gone and sold your place, have you?” My stomach gave a lurch. The Brownlees had been good, friendly— but not too friendly—neighbors for years. Who knew what their replacements might be like? Like reaching for a life preserver, I grabbed a cookie.
“No, no, not even a thought of that,” she quickly assured me. “But we have rented it—the whole house—from next Thursday through Labor Day.”
“How did you ever manage that?” The Brownlees rented six rooms to tourists and provided a lush Continental breakfast to start their days. The house was luxuriously furnished and boasted elegant table settings and accoutrements. Bob Brownlee had a museum-quality collection of seventeenth and eighteenth century snuffboxes which he kept displayed in a locked glass cabinet. All in all, the place was lovely.
Carla set down her mug. “Well, you know the realtor, Ellen Hall?” I nodded. She and her partner were friends of ours. “Ellen called me last week. It seems some big Broadway producer is going to do a Shakespearean play out at the amphitheater over Labor Day weekend. They’ve been rehearsing in New York, but will start rehearsing up here soon, of course, and they need rooms for the actors and the rest of their people. Ellen mentioned lighting technicians, and sound people, wardrobe folks . . . all sorts of people I never really thought of whenever I saw a play. They’re renting out several houses in town.”
She sipped her coffee and continued. “It can’t be easy. I know we had a tough time canceling our regulars and finding other places they could stay.”
I lit cigarette number two for the day, hard on the heels of number one. I’d have to watch it to stay within my quota of five . . . well, I would try.
“I hope to God we get the actors and not the band.” I lifted my head skyward.
“Good grief, is there really a band? Well, yes, I suppose there would be, since it’s a musical.” Carla laughed. “Fear not, my dear, you are getting the leading actors, the stars! Shakespearean actors! Surely, Shakespearean actors will be well behaved. And the director himself will be in our own ground floor bed-sitter.” She said “director” as if she were saying “emperor,” and then sobered. “Alex, I really do hope they don’t bother you and Cindy.”
“I’m sure it will be perfectly fine. But seriously, Carla, things like Bob’s snuffboxes . . .”
“ . . . are in the bank. The rest of the silver and china and crystal are safely locked in a closet in the basement. Our tenants will be left with everything expendable. I think it’s a win-win, Alex.”
I wondered if she considered the grand piano, the carpets and the appliances expendable? Perhaps I was remembering the tale a friend from Connecticut told us about the amount of damage Liz Taylor and some husband or other once wreaked on a lovely summer rental by the beach on Blue Hill in Westport. He said the owner’s wife went into a nervous collapse on viewing it when they returned home. And there were only two of them!
Carla finished her coffee and continued. “We’re making about as much as we would if we rented daily, at full capacity, with none of the stress. Ellie and Betts, our regular maids, will continue taking care of things, only we don’t have to pay them! And Thursday bright and early, Bob and I are off to spend the rest of the summer at my sister’s place out on the Michigan peninsula. Now, Alex, if you have any problems at all about the tenants, call Ellen. She’s handling everything about the rental. Tell Cindy bye for us.” She stood, smiling, arms outstretched.
I got up and gave her a hug. I wished them well and hoped they’d gotten a sizeable damage deposit. Little did I guess that no damage deposit existed that would cover the events the players would bring to town.
63
Cindy and I did not have that conversation that night. We were too busy wondering what our new neighbors would be like. Neither Cindy nor I were sure that “Shakespearean actor” automatically translated into “desirable neighbor.” And even if it did, we weren’t too sure that people one thought of as Shakespearean actors would be doing a modern Hamlet musical set in rural Georgia.
Thursday morning, Cindy left for work with great regret. I had strict instructions to call her the minute the players arrived, with full descriptions of what they looked and sounded like and what they were wearing. Did she think they would be in Elizabethan attire? She had hinted strongly that I should spend the day weeding the flower bed along our driveway, so that I would just happen to be out front and could casually make them welcome when they drove up. Would they say things like, “Fie, my good fellow, park-est not in front of yon fireplug?”
I finally got her out of the house—late—and had just decided on another coffee, when the phone rang. It was my mother. She knew both Cindy and I had busy schedules, so if we were inviting the travel-weary actors over for drinks and nibbles this evening, she would be happy to make up some canapés and bring them by. I told her I thought it might be just a little premature to strike up friendships so early in their stay, and we parted rather stiffly.
Moments later Aunt Mae took her shot at it. She believed that little pots of herbs always made such thoughtful welcome gifts. If I would like her to select some especially unusual ones and later bring them by, she would be more than willing to do so. Just let her know how many were needed. I told her I didn’t know which, if any, of the actors might be into cooking, but if I heard of any interest in herbs, I’d let her know. Her good-bye seemed just a little cool, also.
I gave a drooping Fargo his breakfast. He ignored it and sat by the back door, head down, a picture of despair. He had somehow deduced he would not
be running errands with me. “Angel Dog,” I explained, “It’s too hot to leave you in the car when I’m going into stores. Parking lots are like ovens. You would melt.”
Ready to go out the door, I offered him a farewell biscuit. He sniffed it and looked away, so I put it beside his dish. As I went out the door, he staggered weakly toward his bed, overcome with terminal depression. I knew damn well he would scarf down the biscuit the minute I was out of the driveway. I knew he also had food, fresh water, a rawhide, a cool kitchen, and I’d be back in two or three hours, so I really felt no guilt. Much.
Still alive upon my return, Fargo circled the yard in apparent restored health, checking for two- or four-legged intruders, rolling in the grass, taking a playful nip of a tomato plant, just to tease me.
I made several trips carrying the groceries, the cleaning and the wine into the house and nobly stowed them away. I put the grass trimmer line in the garage, and noted I’d forgotten to buy mulch. Then, back inside the house, I sat down beside the answering machine, to calm its nervous twitters.
Cassie just thought I might want to advise the actors she was always ready, should they need a fast trip anywhere. Cindy wondered if anything was going on yet. Billy Whitmire reminded me he had tuned Carla Brownlee’s piano back in June, but if any of the actors felt it needed some small adjustments, he’d be happy to run over. Free of charge, naturally. Mildred Morris wasn’t sure the cast would have brought any office personnel along, so if they needed help in keeping track of local expenses, filing invoices or anything like that, she could come by almost any time and would be happy to help out. Cindy wondered crossly where on earth I was.
I ignored the other calls and called Cindy to report all quiet at the front lines.
I popped a Bud and went out to join Fargo. He had forgotten his earlier pout and trotted over, ready for an ear-fondle.
I complied, and now it was I who sighed. “Fargo, my love, our thespian troupe ain’t even in town yet, and already they’re driving me crazy. What the hell will it be like once they get here?”
He rolled onto his back, my signal to provide a tummy scritch. Projection is never a problem with dogs.
Chapter 9
My plans for Friday morning had been to mount a bunch of photos and put them in their frames, ready to go to the various shops and galleries that carried them and needed replacements for those they had sold. Actually, I spent most of the morning on the phone.
Vance called. He and Dan just wondered if we were all right. We had been with them—and in perfectly good health—last weekend at the Poly/Cotton Club, but I thanked him for his concern, and no, no actors had yet arrived.
Lainey called, just wanting to make sure the blister on Cindy’s heel had healed properly. It had, nearly two weeks ago. No, no actors in sight.
Even Mary Sloan called. She and Ann hadn’t run into us in ages and were just wondering how we were. And had we met anyone famous yet?
Peter and the Wolf called, just to say “Hi.” “Hi” included a subtle question about “Anything new going on?” No, nothing new. Except our newfound popularity.
I looked at Fargo, who took that moment to walk to the door and give me a quizzical glance. “You are right, Dog of Dogs. It’s lunchtime, and I have accomplished nada. I think I’ll repair to my ‘other office’ and let the answering machine do what those clever people at G.E. built it for.” I eased around him and was out the door before he realized he was left behind. “I’m sorry, Fargo,” I called. “We go through this every summer. It’s just too hot!”
Ever efficient, I took the car and stopped by Gammon’s Nursery to pick up the forgotten mulch. Then, with incredible luck, I got a parking space right at the head of the alley leading down to the Rat.
The day was having trouble making up its mind what it wanted to do. I’d awakened to clouds, which gave way to sun. Now the clouds were moving in again.
Even at the Wharf Rat there was no escape from the world of drama. Joe’s opening words were, “Are they here yet?”
“Not as of half an hour ago, and I’m already sick of hearing about them. Just give me a Bud, Joe. My phone has rung off the hook for two days. How does word get around so fast?”
He beat his hands on the edge of the bar and intoned, “Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom. Okay, one Bud. Want a pastrami? It’s nice and lean.”
“Why not?”
“Hi, Alex.” The aroma of garlic and beer was a sure ID.
“Hello, Harmon, how are you?”
“I understand you got a bunch of actors movin’ in next door at Bob Brownlee’s place.”
“Yes, but they aren’t here yet.” Maybe I could just tape this sentence and play it when asked.
“Well, Bob, he ast me to look after the yard while they’s away. I’m glad to do it, of course, they’re nice and they always pay good. But it’s a perfect excuse to be there a lot and keep an eye on things.”
Unthinking, I replied, “Oh, I think all the valuables are safely locked away, Harmon. You don’t have to worry about theft . . . not that I have any reason to think they’d steal anything. They’re probably perfectly honest.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” He raised his chin and straightened his stance. “I’ll be on the lookout, never you fear. You tell Sonny there ain’t no drugs gonna go in nor out of that place but what I know it. You tell him I’m on the job.”
“I will do that, Harmon.” And I knew Sonny would be thrilled. I had no idea if our unseen actors enjoyed an occasional recreational drug, or shot up heroin four times a day, or were clean as arctic snow. But I did know one thing: Bob Brownlee was going to have the best kept lawn in Massachusetts.
The weather had finally reached a decision. By the time I got to the car, the dust on the windshield was beginning to spatter into mud. By the time I got home, the rain had settled into a slow drizzle that looked as if it might stay a while. Pulled up in front of the Brownlees’ were two white vans. Or, more accurately, one van was parked in front of the Brownlee’s, the other was behind it, blocking my driveway. Eight or nine people milled around the vehicles, unloading enormous amounts of luggage.
I stopped in front of my house and opened the car door, to hear Fargo barking lustily and ceaselessly out the dining room window. What really intrigued me was that he seemed to be sitting on the little antique table Marcia had given us, and I wondered what had happened to the lamp that ordinarily sat on it.
I got out of the car, to be greeted by a good-looking big, tall guy with his hand extended.
“Hello. We’ve blocked your driveway. I’m sorry. I’ll get one of the drivers to move the van as soon as I can find him. We’re not quite organized yet. I’m Noel Fortnum, by the way.”
We shook hands. I knew who he was. I’d seen him in a revival of Mame, where he’d played Mame’s ill-fated millionaire husband. He’d done some TV stuff, too, I recalled.
“Welcome to a rainy Provincetown. I’m Alex Peres, and don’t worry about my car. It won’t melt.” I smiled. “Nor will I.”
“Well, let me at least see what I can do about getting some luggage out of here.” He turned toward the van and then back. “Oh, hi, Terese. Some of this stuff is yours, isn’t it? Point it out and I’ll get it out of the van for you. And Terese Segal, meet our next-door neighbor, Alex Peres.”
“Everything has an ID tag, all you have to do is look. My room is Number One upstairs. You can put it there. Careful with the laptop.” Ms. Segal, wearing a raincoat and hat with her wispy, carrot-colored hair now frizzled around the edges like some longunstarched lace trim, gave me a head to toe look and dismissed me as one of the dull natives. We did not bother to shake hands.
“That your dog?”
“Yes.”
“I hope he’s not going to be a nuisance. Why is he barking so much?”
“His original owner was a porn film maker. It traumatized the puppy so much he still is frightened of actors.” Actually, Fargo’s breeder was a lovely retired postman with a farm
in Vermont, who probably thought Doris Day films were daringly risqué. And I had owned Fargo since he was eight weeks old. He wasn’t afraid of anybody. He assumed everyone he met loved him. Mostly, he was right. With the charming Ms. Segal, I wasn’t so sure.
“You wouldn’t believe what I’ve spent on shrinks for him. What part do you have in the play? Lady Macbeth?”
I heard Noel smother a laugh. Ms. Segal tightened her already small mouth and answered, “No, I’m not one of the troupe. I’m an embedded journalist for the A-List.” She favored me with a slight wiggle of her somewhat pointy nose, a professional prerequisite, perhaps.
I knew the A-List was one of those weekly magazines filled with information, disinformation and misinformation about various celebrities and wannabe celebrities and used-to-be celebrities. My only question was: with whom was Ms. Terese Segal currently embedded?
She took me aback with her next question. “Tell me, are there a lot of drugs in Provincetown?”
“I really am not up on that,” I answered. “They’ve never been my thing.” And then I had one of my ingenious, but not always wise, thoughts. “However, I know a fellow who does undercover work for the Ptown cops . . . closest thing we have to a narc, I guess. He hangs out at the Wharf Rat Bar, says he gets lots of tips there from the fishermen. Just ask the bartender to point out Mr. Harmon Killingsly, and he’ll be glad to help you, I’m sure.”
She scribbled Harmon’s name into a notebook, nodded and turned away without further comment. I had served my purpose, I no longer existed. Well, thank you, too, Ms. Segal.
Noel was at my side again, having unloaded the contents of the van onto the sidewalk. “She’ll be waiting awhile before I carry her bags up. I haven’t bellhopped since my college days in the Poconos. Since you’re here, why not meet the rest of us? We aren’t all that bad.”
“I’m sure.” I laughed. “Just let me go and see why my dog seems to be sitting on the dining table. I’ll be right back.”
Murder Came Second Page 7