“—who’s after my fortune,” I agreed. “The last thing we need is to give him a reason to think you’re a gigolo creep bastard who’s putting me in danger.”
Jack looked at me thoughtfully. “This should be an interesting brunch.”
***
I’d forgotten how massive the house was. It seemed to sprawl across the landscape, a conglomeration of arches, tile roofs, stucco, and iron work that comprised the architectural style Old California.
Houses of similar size, if not design, were visible through the trees. To the left was an enormous attempt at a château, and to the right a mock-Tudor monstrosity with predictable red geraniums in boxes at every window.
The rear of the property, I knew, faced the Hillsborough Country Club golf course. I had been a member of the club when I’d lived in the house as a teenager. In the stretches of time when I wasn’t at school or some camp, I’d escaped the house and its inhabitants by swimming, playing tennis, and golfing. Outdoor activities had had the advantage of being of no interest whatsoever to my cousin Cece, who at that time had been going for the world record in obnoxious behavior.
The car came to a stop at the foot of a sprawling staircase that led up to massive wooden doors, complete with heavy iron fittings. Jack gave a low whistle as he got out of the car. “Cozy.”
The doors were suddenly flung open, and Harry stood in the doorway. He threw his arms wide and yelled “Charley!” loud enough to send a flock of doves shooting out of a tree. There he was, wide grin in place, wearing a loose-fitting silk Hawaiian-print shirt, knee-length cargo shorts, and Birkenstocks. “Baby Doll! Get your butt over here and give an old man a hug!”
I approached him warily, not letting go of Jack’s hand until Harry threw his arms around me.
“Damn, girl, you got skinny!” Harry held me tightly. Over his shoulder I saw Jack mouthing “Baby Doll?” with raised eyebrows. Then Harry pushed me away, positioning me at arm’s length to get a better look. “Don’t tell me you’re turning into one of those damn stick women!”
“Hardly.” The only comment Harry ever made to a woman about her appearance was that she looked like she’d lost weight. He figured it was always safe territory. “Harry, I want you to meet Jack.”
Harry’s eyes held mine for a just fraction of a second before he turned to Jack, but it was enough time to see the flash of anger. “Jack!” he said heartily, simultaneously shaking his hand and clapping him on the shoulder. “The famous Jack Fairfax! Of whom I’ve heard so much.” This last was directed at me.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Jack said, in a voice I’d only heard once before, when he’d been addressing an Admiral at a diplomatic party we’d attended in London. It was a long way from the casual, teasing tone I was used to.
I suppose I stared at him in surprise, because there was a moment’s awkward silence. Then Harry boomed again. “Well, let’s not stand here all day! We’ve got some celebrating to do! What are you drinking, Jack?” We moved into the house.
There was no foyer or entry hall. Once inside the door, we were in the “great room” that ran the width of the house and nearly the length, at least on the ground level. It was decorated as it had always been, in sturdy oversized mission-style furniture. Dark cherry pieces with straight, clean lines and comfortable cushions were scattered around on area rugs, forming clusters here and there on the enormous expanse of wide-planked floor. The rear wall consisted of four arched windows looking out on a terrace with a pool and garden below and the golf course beyond. Harry kept talking as he led us to the bar, a huge carved altar rescued from a Watsonville church that had been damaged in the earthquake of ’89. One of the aunts had discovered it and had it converted to suit Harry’s alcoholic purpose.
“Champagne, I think! That only fits an occasion as festive as this! How about a glass of champagne, Charley? Or a mimosa! That’s the thing! Mimosas for our wedding celebration brunch! Let me just call Gordon.” He pressed a button concealed in the ornate carving of the bar and barked into a hidden intercom. “Gordon! Get up here with some O.J.! We need mimosas up here!” Then he turned once again to Jack, a broad smile not reaching his eyes as he said “Mimosa okay with you, Jack? Not too ‘girlie’ for a Navy man?”
He didn’t wait for a reply. His voice was a rough, gravelly baritone, years of whiskey and cigars having given it its character. “Wait ’til you meet Gordon, Charley, he’s only been here about a month but I can’t figure out how I ever got by without him. He cooks, he keeps the weirdoes away from me—” a weirdo was anyone who asked for money— “and he keeps everything running according to the plan.”
Right. The plan. It was pretty clear what Harry’s plan was this morning. He was trying to charm us to death. The only problem was that I knew him well enough to see what a strain his I’m-just-so-happy-you’re-happy act was to keep up. And the comment about Jack being a Navy man had been thrown in to let me know Harry had begun digging already. I figured it would take about one sideways glance from Jack or one smart-ass comment from me to trigger a meltdown. Right. If that’s how he wanted to play it, fine. I can do charm too.
“Harry,” I cooed, taking his arm and squeezing it. “The place is amazing. It looks just the same.”
“Timeless, much like myself,” he responded, winking at Jack.
“I don’t know,” I teased, reaching up to ruffle his hair. “There might be just a fraction less up here.”
“And a fraction more down here,” Harry finished, patting his belly. “But I don’t care. That’s the price of enjoying life. Right, Jack?” Again with the wink.
“Yes, sir.”
“And anyway, I may be middle-aged, but someday you will be too and you won’t have lived through the sixties!” Jack and I caught each other’s eye as Harry laughed at his own wit and called, “Gordon!”
A slight, fortyish man had appeared at the top of the short stairway that led down to the kitchen and dining-room level. “Where’s that O.J., dude? Charley, I want you to meet Gordon, my new ‘man’ as your friends the Brits would say.” He took the pitcher of juice that Gordon offered him.
“Pleased to meet you, Gordon. I’d like you to meet my new ‘husband’ as you Yanks would say.” So much for my charm. Harry’s smile grew tighter.
There was a moment’s hesitation as Gordon picked up on the tension in the room. Jack was the first to speak, holding his hand out to shake Gordon’s. “Jack Fairfax, Gordon. Pleased to meet you.”
And then a shot went off. Or so I thought, jumping when I heard the loud pop. It was Harry, opening a bottle of champagne and grinning maniacally. “How about we mix these up and then go have some of that great brunch that Gordon’s fixed for us, huh Charley? Right, Jack?”
“Sounds like a plan, sir,” Jack said, still in his reporting-to-a-superior-officer voice.
“Baby Doll?” Harry handed me a mimosa.
I winced. “Whatever, Harry.”
Chapter 4
And so it went, with Harry doing a California spin on the Lord of the Manor, Jack being crisp and polite, and me bouncing back and forth between the desire to keep a lid on the situation and a let’s-get-it-over-with urge to provoke Harry. Adolescent, I know, but my uncle brings that out in me.
On the plus side, the brunch was spectacular. Gordon served cured slivers of salmon on buckwheat blinis with crème fraîche and a dollop of golden caviar. Bliss. This was followed by roasted asparagus wrapped in prosciutto, covered in an egg Gordon described as “brullee’d,” which presumably meant he’d achieved its caramelized surface with a kitchen blowtorch. He was nothing if not handy. There was a perfect mixed-berry shortcake for dessert.
Throughout the meal Gordon came and went silently and swiftly. He was probably the quietest man I’d ever met. He was thin and pale, with close-cropped light brown hair that was thin on top, but brushed forward to make the most of it. His movements were contained and economical. If I were casting a play I’d pick him for the mild-mannered murderer every
time.
It occurred to me at some point that I should ask after my cousin. “It’s a shame Cece couldn’t be here,” I lied. “Is she…” The mind boggled at where she could be and what she could be doing.
Harry relaxed into what looked like his first genuine smile of the day. “She’s good,” he said. “She got out of rehab last week and she’s doing just fine.” I must have had a look on my face because he continued somewhat defensively. “She’s met a nice guy.” He looked meaningfully at Jack. “A good man. They’re living in Marin.”
I choked back the comment I wanted to make and nodded. “That’s great. That’s really wonderful.”
“He’s a doctor,” Harry continued. “Works with addicts. He’s got a good future.” He glanced at Jack again. “And a good past.” He dug into his food.
Uh huh. I got it. The doctor had passed the Harry test. Lucky, lucky Cece.
After we’d finally eaten everything we could, Harry pushed himself back from the table and sighed. “Time for a cigar, don’t you think, Jack?”
“Well, sir, I can’t say I’ve ever acquired the habit,” Jack replied, “but I’ll tell you what I would like, and that’s to see more of your house.”
Who was this man? Whoever he was, I could tell his perfect manners were getting on Harry’s nerves. Jack wasn’t being polite enough to be interpreted as kissing up, which Harry would have despised. And he wasn’t in the least bit ironic; there was nothing that could cause Harry offense. He stayed exactly in the zone of irreproachable behavior, and it was pissing Harry off. Suddenly I had a whole new appreciation of my husband.
We wandered around the house for a while, passing through the rooms while Harry kept up a running commentary worthy of the Style channel. Eventually we wound up in the game room, so called not only because it contained a pool table, pinball machine, and assorted other toys, but because the walls were lined with the mounted heads of assorted “big game,” courtesy of a minor, debt-ridden museum that one of Harry’s ex’s had bought out. She’d found the dead animals kitschy.
The house was built on a slight slope, and this room was on the ground level of the south wing. Glass doors looked through impeccable landscaping towards the flagstone terrace and beyond that, the pool. There were board games available on small tables throughout the room, a half-completed puzzle on a poker table, and newspapers and magazines conveniently placed near comfortable leather chairs. It looked like a gentlemen’s club for Norman Bates and friends.
And then there were the weapons. Various axes, bows, arrows, and antique guns were mounted on walls, displayed in cases, or simply scattered around on tables. This didn’t exactly help my nerves. Harry’s attitude had shifted as soon as we entered the room. He was getting down to business.
“I think it’s time for a real drink,” he said, stepping behind a well-stocked bar and dropping the jovial act. “What’s yours, Jack?”
“It’s still a little early for me, sir. Thanks anyway.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Too early? I thought you were a Navy man.”
“Since when does that mean a lush?” I asked, stepping up to the bar.
Harry ignored me and poured himself a large bourbon. “What exactly is it you did in the Navy, Jack?” He took a gulp and moved to the pool table. Apparently there was to be no “What would you like, Charley?” for me today.
“Oh, your average things. I joined after college, so I had some officer training, got my commission.” He shrugged and grinned engagingly. “I’m afraid I didn’t have a particularly distinguished career.”
“Jack was a Commander,” I contributed.
“Really?” Harry flashed a look at Jack, then picked the nine ball off the table. “I thought you guys all had specialties.”
“Oh, eventually I got a graduate degree, so I suppose you could call that a specialty.”
“Really?” Harry said again, seemingly riveted by this discussion. What did he know that I didn’t know? “And just what is your degree in?”
Jack joined Harry at the pool table. He picked up a cue and examined it as he answered. “Meteorology.” He sounded slightly apologetic, as if the degree wasn’t interesting enough to warrant Harry’s curiosity.
“Meteorology,” Harry said, sending the ball across the table.
“Well, if I’m being totally honest—” Jack put the cue down— “the degree is Meteorology and Physical Oceanography.” He flashed me a smile. “I only did the oceanography to impress women.”
“It’s marine biology that gets the chicks,” I told him.
“I must have been misinformed.” He gave me a grin that made me want to grab him and get the hell out of there.
Harry cleared his throat loudly. “So you’re a meteorologist?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A weatherman?”
“That’s what most people say.”
“And the Navy taught you that?”
“Your tax dollars paid for a fine education, sir.”
“Hell, man, don’t thank me,” Harry said. “I’m way too rich to pay taxes.” Then the grin receded. “And I suppose you were predicting the weather in 1998 when you were stationed in Jakarta?”
Damn. I didn’t know the significance of the question, but I recognized the tone. “Harry,” I began, but Jack cut me off.
“No, sir, I wasn’t predicting the weather in Jakarta.”
“No?”
“No.” Jack seemed oblivious to the undercurrent that was making my stomach churn. “I was doing research.”
“Research, huh? I’ll just bet you were. And—”
“On humidity.” Jack spun a ball down the length of the pool table.
“Humidity.” Harry said the word the way Sister Mary Berna dette, Mother Superior of the Immaculate Heart School for (Troubled) Girls, used to say the word ‘lascivious.’”
“Just humidity?” Harry pursued. “Even though there were all those riots that year? I think I read where five or six hundred people were killed before Suharto was forced out of office. But I guess you just ignored all that and did your research on humidity.”
“Sir, you have no idea what a problem humidity is for the Navy.” Jack moved around the table and stood in front of a display case of antique arrowheads. There was silence for a moment, and I let my breath out slowly. Then Jack turned to face Harry and said one word.
“Rust.”
Harry sipped his bourbon. “Rust?” He seemed to be considering several things. “Rust a big problem on a ship?”
“Huge.” Jack nodded. “Enormous. And then there’s mildew.” He looked over at me. “It was fascinating research.”
“Uh huh.” I didn’t like what I saw in Harry’s eyes. “Harry, why don’t you show—”
“And I suppose you were doing research in Bahrain in ’96? When that conspiracy to overthrow the government was put down? How many terrorists were arrested?”
Clearly, someone had been giving Harry some serious foreign policy lectures lately. I would have laid odds that my uncle wouldn’t know how to spell Bahrain, much less be conversant in its political history. Not to mention his newfound knowledge about Jakarta.
“Sir,” Jack said, “someday you’re going to have to tell me how you found out so much about me.” He picked up a small flintlock pistol and sighted it out the window. “And so quickly.”
Harry ignored the question. “A lot of humidity in the Persian Gulf, is there? Rust a big problem?”
“Oddly enough it is quite humid near the shore, but that’s not why I was there.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“No, just the opposite.” Jack put the gun down. “Dust.”
“Dust.”
Jack grinned. “Dust. Or rather—”
“Speaking of which,” I cut him off. “The place looks great, Harry.” I ran my finger along the nearest piece of furniture and held it up to show them how clean it was. “New cleaning service?”
Jack gave me a look that seemed equal parts amusement
and affection. “Dust storms,” he continued, addressing Harry while regarding me. Damned if he wasn’t enjoying himself. “Wind,” he elaborated. “It’s been a problem for every engagement we’ve had in the desert. Dust storms come out of nowhere. There’s no way to predict them.”
“Let me guess,” Harry drawled. “You found a way.”
“Me? No. Made no headway whatsoever.” Jack shrugged. “Hell if I know where the next dust-up is coming from.” He met Harry’s eyes with an expressionless gaze.
Harry was motionless for a moment, returning Jack’s bland stare. When he finally spoke, it was softly. “Well, I guess we’ll have plenty of time to talk about your career later.” He gestured out the doors to the patio and the golf course beyond. “But right now it’s too nice a day to stay inside talking about the weather.”
I couldn’t believe it. Harry was withdrawing from the field. I’d never seen him back down before. I wanted to run over to Jack and throw my arms around him. Something stopped me, though. Probably the knowledge that this was only the first skirmish.
“Jack, I don’t suppose you play golf.” Harry shifted back into host mode and flung open the patio doors.
“Only when I’m asked, sir.”
“Please, I’m Harry. And I’m asking. You come by any time and we’ll play.” He turned to me. “Pity you gave up the game, Charley.”
Jack, for once, seemed genuinely surprised. “You golf?”
I shot Harry a death glance which he, of course, ignored. “I used to.”
“You never played after college, did you?” Harry asked. “And that was a shame,” he went on, addressing Jack, “because that was right about the time I started playing.”
I looked at Jack significantly and he laughed once, then turned it into a cough.
“I never did understand that.” Harry was still talking. “You were so good. Why did you give up the game?”
“It was either that or beat you to death with a nine iron,” I said, smiling sweetly and taking his bourbon from him. I knocked it back in one long swallow.
Harry looked over at Jack. “What do you make of that?”
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