“Wow. I never realized—I guess I never thought—how investigations actually work. I do hope you can clear the two old dears. They sound innocent as lambs to me.”
“I hope so, too. I’m getting quite fond of them, which may be a mistake. And don’t make them pearly white. They do provide pretty, compliant houseboys for their inn guests.”
She shrugged. “Better than their bringing in unknowns off the street, isn’t it? Boys will be boys.”
And then I did it. I reached for my wineglass and knocked it over, liquid spreading across the tablecloth at amazing speed. We both grabbed our napkins. The waiter came running. It only took seconds to get everything under control, but I was mortified. I had ruined everything. Cindy started to make a jocose comment, saw my face and backtracked. “Alex! Are you all right? Are you ill?”
“No.” I sighed and explained my saga of the witch’s curse and its following slips and falls, spills and breaks. “I’m at the point of looking over my shoulder to see if she’s behind me,” I finished.
She reached across and took my hand. “You poor dear. I know sort of how you feel. When I was a little kid, I decided our house was haunted and became terrified to go upstairs. One day I turned and ran back down the stairs so fast, I fell and got a really nasty bump on my forehead.” I took a cautious sip of coffee as she continued.
“The next day the lady who helped Mom take care of the house came, and I told her of my accident. She said, ‘Honey, now we know there’s no such thing as ghosts. So they can’t hurt you, but they can sure make you hurt yourself. So you got to not give ’em that power.’”
I looked at her quizzically, and she patted my hand and laughed. “I know—there’s a dichotomy in there someplace, but it’s also true. An old lady curses you, and afterwards a couple of odd things happen. You start looking for odd things, and you get tense and apprehensive, so you make them happen. There . . . your curse is gone! And we’d better do the same, it’s getting late.”
“Thanks for being understanding,” I said as we left the restaurant. “Between you and my mother, I really do feel better.” I told her of mom’s “exorcism” and she laughed.
“I think I’d like your mom.”
“Me, too.” As we drove back to Aunt Mae’s for Cindy’s car, I thought again of Cassie’s lecture to me about being more assertive with women. That I should just go for it instead of waiting for the lady to make it crystal clear that she wanted me to go for it.
When we pulled in the drive, I cut the lights and put my arm across the back of her seat. “Look, Cindy, Providence is a long drive, and you’ve had a couple of glasses of wine. We could go back to my place and—”
She put two fingers across my mouth. “Shush. I am cold sober—with miles to go before I sleep. I’m fine. It was all lovely. We don’t need to push it. Anyway”—she grinned—“I never date on the first kiss.” She gave me a warm, soft kiss on the mouth— more than friendship, less than passion. She got out of the car. I sat there, feeling completely bewitched in the loveliest of ways.
Aunt Mae’s porch light went on and Fargo came running across the yard. Cindy held the door open for him and he jumped into the front seat. She reached in and kissed his head. “Take care of her, Fargo. The world needs its wine experts.”
I started the car, beeped a general goodnight and pulled out of the drive. “The hell with Cassie, Fargo, we’re doing okay as we are. We got a goodnight kiss, didn’t we?”
He gave me a toothy grin and slurped my hand on the wheel. Now I had two kisses. Hard to beat.
Chapter 17
For some reason I felt quite energized after our outing, and in entirely too good a mood to go home and attack the mail again, or to flop in front of the tube and hope the History Channel wasn’t once more exploring the pyramids. I bribed Fargo with the promise of a hamburger for him and stopped in the Wharf Rat, which some snide acquaintances have dubbed my “other office.” The Rat was busy this Friday evening, with the regulars, including Harmon of course, at their front table. He gave me a dirty look as I came in and I made a mental note to make my peace with him before the evening was out.
At that moment, I heard a “Yoohoo, Alex!” float musically across the room. It was Peter Mellon. He and Wolf were having dinner. I walked over and thanked them for the tape. They asked if anything was new, but I wasn’t really in the mood right that minute to get involved with my nursery rhyme tale of dancing table legs that seemed to be multiplying like rabbits.
“I’ve managed to look at a few things. All rather in your favor, but I’m tired and you’re in the middle of dinner. How about around ten tomorrow?”
“Fine,” Peter said. “Come for breakfast.” I agreed.
On the way back to the bar, I stopped by Harmon’s table. “Harmon, I think you’re a little peeved with me, and I don’t much blame you. I shouldn’t have teased you about anything so serious as murder. I’m sorry.”
He gave me a skewed grin, and when he spoke the fumes were thick enough to make smoking dangerous. “Oh, thass okay, Alex. I know you was jus’ fooling. I sure had Mitch goin’ though. He couldn’t seem to figure what I was talking about. Went round and round we did.” He laughed in a happy alcoholic memory. “I ain’t mad, Alex. You’n Sonny, you’re okay. Shay, where is Shonny . . . Sonny? I ain’t seen him.”
“He’s on vacation.”
“No time fer that. We got bad things happening here. Bad things.”
“He’ll be home soon. I’ll let you get back to your friends, Harmon.”
At the bar, I almost ordered a beer, thought of a bourbon and finally asked for a stinger. I felt like something special. Joe presented me with one that was surprisingly smooth and oh, so innocent in its taste. I was just savoring it, when a voice behind me said, “Drinking a love potion? Waiting for a lovely lady? Or just being uptown?”
It was Cassie, smelling lightly of shrimp scampi. “Not waiting,” I answered. “I already spent the afternoon with the lovely lady. And, no, you don’t know her. And, no, I am not going to explain. It would be premature,” I said regally. “Uptown? Why not? This place could use a little class. Between your breath and Harmon’s I may need oxygen. How are you?”
“Fine. Gotta go pick up Lainey. She had to work late and her car’s in the shop. Sorry to run.”
“You’re forgiven. By the way, let’s have no more about my being more assertive with women. Those of us with a little savoir faire don’t need to come on like Jackie Chan at a drug bust to impress a lady. A well-mannered, smooth approach does the trick with the more sophisticated type female.” I went to take an elegant little finger-crooked sip of my drink and poured a bit down my sweater, but I think I still carried it off.
Cassie rolled her eyes and said, “Sure, Agent Oh-Oh-Seven, whatever gets you through the night. Bye.”
I turned back to the bar, grinning, and lit a cigarette. Number six for the day, so I scolded myself roundly. It was the perfect partner to the stinger, especially as another glass took that moment to arrive in front of me. “Compliments of Peter and the Wolf,” Joe said. I turned to thank them, but they were just going out the door. Facing that way, I noticed Jared Mather at the end of the bar in his regular place. As usual, he elected not to see me, and I felt no need to greet him. I turned back to my drink and began happily to relive the afternoon.
I heard a familiar loud, nasal voice call out, “Well, now, if it isn’t Jared Mather!” It was my old nemesis, Ben Fratos, but at least I wasn’t eating, and at least he was about to sit down beside Mather, not me. Still, my happy reverie dissipated.
Mather gave a curt nod and stared at Fratos with a look that would have frozen lava. Fratos muttered something about seeing him later and veered off to join Harmon and the others at Provincetown’s answer to the Round Table, so I finished my drink in peace. I felt guilty ordering a third and figured I would shortly be right up there with Harmon. But I was enjoying myself. I had the feeling that Cindy might well turn out to be more than my aunt’s ten
ant. I found myself hoping so, more than I would have thought.
Yet I was leery of any involvement anytime, and now was no different, in spite of Cindy’s obvious appeal. My track record was hardly reassuring, and while I longed for togetherness, I lived in terror of suffocation. As my relationships went on, breathing room disappeared. I retreated into an emotional vacuum rather than ask for a window to be opened. And the chill eventually permeated the bed . . . and there you were. In avoiding what might have been a simple, reasonable conversation, I landed in the midst of a heartrending or rip-roaring breakup every damn time.
I was not entirely sure why. A friend who was a therapist had once mentioned to me that many people who lose a parent at an early age fear abandonment later. Maybe I was afraid any confrontation would result in that. But, of course, avoiding the confrontation had the same result. Apparently when I got around to cherchez la femme, I turned into one of those dismal creatures who do the same thing over and over, blissfully hoping for a different result.
What to do now? Not having another stinger seemed a good idea. When I collected Fargo, I noticed that Mather and Fratos had left before me and were standing at the top of the alley near the street. I guessed Mather hadn’t wanted his cocktail hour to be interrupted by Fratos, but then found himself cornered on the way out. I wondered what gossip the slimy Fratos could have that would interest the upright Mather. But mainly, I just wondered how soon I could get home. P.I. Peres was finally ready to pack it in.
Fargo and I completed our individual pre-bed routines quickly. He wolfed down his hamburger and we retired. I was so beat I didn’t even turn on CNN for my nightly update. I was just reaching that marvelous space between sleeping and waking, when I realized with surprise—but maybe not all that much surprise—that Cindy had eased quietly into my bed.
I put my arm around her and realized she was in the nude, and I stroked her smooth, lithe body with drowsy sensuality increased by the sweet butterfly kisses she placed on my ear. My hand moved to her breast, rubbing the nipple, feeling it become rigid, feeling her turn, pressing harder against my hand. I moved my head so I could kiss her mouth and found her tongue already poised for the meeting. My drowsiness disappeared in a flood of hot excitement. My hand traveled downward, stopping here and there for an exploratory caress, but inexorably bound for that soft, warm enclosure I knew my fingers would find.
“Excuse me,” the voice came from behind me, beside the bed.
I flipped onto my back, propping on an elbow. “Who the hell . . . oh, I know you!”
It was that damned blonde from Kudlow’s!
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to ask Cindy about the Wexford account.”
“How dare you sneak into my bedroom in the middle of the night!” I roared. “Screw the Whoozits account! Get a life. Bugger off, slug!”
“Right on!” Cindy barked.
Cindy barked?
I managed to get my eyes open and found I was sitting up looking at a very worried Fargo at the foot of the bed. I glanced to my left—no chubby blonde stood there. I looked to my right—the sheets were smooth, the pillow undented. I rubbed my eyes and groaned. Fargo had apparently decided that either I had gone crazy or we had been invaded by things he could not see. He barked again.
“Oh, shut up. Everything is all right.” He looked hurt and slithered off the bed, headed for the kitchen. I sat there for a minute— confused, highly frustrated and actually embarrassed. I sighed, got up and pulled a sweatshirt over my pajamas, slipped into a pair of mocs and followed him.
I let him out and noticed the coffeemaker held some liquid— probably brewed during the War of the Roses. I poured it into a mug and shoved it in the micro. By the time he whimpered to come in I’d had a sip of it and it wasn’t too bad. At least it settled me slightly. I gave him a hug and was forgiven. Why can’t women be like Fargo?
He put his head on my thigh. I stroked him gently and explained, “It’s like this, angel dog. In the past week I have met three very attractive women. The first one I figured I had a very good shot of separating from Lainey and Cassie’s party and bringing here for a lively romp. But that ended in the shoelace caper. The second was Dean . . . was Mimi Trinler. I was in the midst of a fabulous fantasy, which she interrupted by presenting me with a computer printout and, I think, reading my mind. The third, as you know, was a wonderfully realistic Cindy-dream turned into something by Monty Python. Put it this way—I can’t get laid when I’m awake, I can’t get laid in my imagination, I can’t get laid in my dreams. I am doomed.” He gave my hand a cursory lick, lay down in his bed and was asleep in ten seconds. Neutering does have certain advantages.
Saturday morning, between the stingers, the esoteric dream and the midnight caffeine, I felt exactly like you’d figure I did. But Fargo cajoled me into a beach run out at Race Point, and we worked up a nice appetite for breakfast. It was definitely fall—the sun still held a tentative warmth, but a chill was sneaking in around the edges. The ocean was that almost royal blue and the sky a pale reflection . . . autumn. I began to recuperate. I made a mental note to watch the booze. I didn’t want too much of my father’s black humor, and I certainly didn’t need his hangovers.
When we arrived later at Green Mansions, Peter met us at the door. Pewter took one look at Fargo, yawned and retired to the kitchen. Wolf called hello from there and said he’d be out in a minute. Peter and I sat and batted the weather around until Wolf stuck his head out. “You said the news was good. Orange juice or champagne cocktail?”
“I don’t know if it’s that good, and I would love champagne, but I think orange juice is a safer way to begin the day.”
I told them of my last days’ activities while we drank. Conversation took a hiatus when Wolf brought out scrambled eggs with bleu cheese, Smithfield ham and popovers with black cherry preserves. Sometimes I really wish I could cook.
Finally, over coffee, Wolf asked what my conclusions were. “Well,” I summed up, “we have enough pine legs to put Robert Louis Stevenson and Herman Melville out of business. I’ll turn the list of names over to Mitch to finish checking out, but we have at least seven people in this area who had—or say they had—missing table legs. Any one of them could be lying. Of the ones I spoke with, a nasty character named Quinn and the Reverend Bartles seem only real bets. Quinn looks like he could go for rough trade, and Bartles lied to me . . . I just know it.”
“So what should we do?” Peter asked.
“Nothing. We haven’t proved a thing. We’ve just muddied the waters. But it does make it more plausible that you, too, had a missing leg—not that you used it for a weapon and then tossed it or burned it. And it makes it possible that one of those people got four perfectly good legs and used one to kill Lewis. And there is one other thing . . . identifying that SUV—or van—that Harmon saw.”
“I hear he’s been all over town saying he’s now sure I’m the killer.” Wolf sighed. “Because he’s sure it was our SUV he saw late that night.”
I reached and patted his knee. “Wolf, I’d hate like hell to be a lawyer knowing my case depended on Harmon’s testimony about anything, especially something he saw at four in the morning. I’m surprised he didn’t swear your vee-hicle was pink with big ears. Seriously, anybody might mistake a van for an SUV—or vice versa—in the middle of a rainy night, when it has just almost run you off the road at high speed. That doubles the possibilities right there.” I sipped my coffee and returned the cup very carefully to the table.
“Now, just from memory. Choate Ellis has a white one and Jared Mather has a cream one. Diane Miller has a light green van that could be mistaken for tan in a bad light. Bartles himself has a light-colored van. Also, the famous Mary Sloan has a tan Santa Fe.”
“Oh, delightful! Have her arrested on general principles.” Wolf grinned.
“There you go. If need be, I’ll ask Nacho to check registrations around the area. Five gets you ten she turns up at least a dozen.
And I’ll bet not m
ore than three of them could prove they weren’t on Race Point Road. Mitch doesn’t have a leg to stand on.”
As I completed that reassuring statement, Mitch rang the doorbell, standing firmly on both legs. He was accompanied by Jeanine and Pete, both in full uniform with all the accoutrements. Somehow I knew they were not collecting for the Police Athletic League.
“May we come in, Mr. Wolfman? Mr. Mellon?”
I don’t know who would have refused them. Wolf and Peter both nodded and retired to the couch. Mitch headed for the piano bench, I re-took my chair. Ominously Pete and Jeanine stopped behind the couch and stood there.
“Mr.Wolfman, Mr. Mellon, I need to ask some questions. Alex, this doesn’t concern you, if you’d like to leave.” Well, thank you, Mitch!
“We would like her to stay, detective. She is our advisor and friend. I think we need a friend here, don’t you?” Peter still had claws and they were out. I looked at Mitch and grinned. He ignored me.
“Very well. Gentlemen, where were you last night, from eight
p.m. till two a.m.?”
“Here we go again.” Wolf sighed. “About seven-thirty we went to the Wharf Rat for dinner—in view of at least a dozen people we know. We left around nine and came home. We watched most of a movie on TCM. I can tell you all about it if you wish.”
“Perhaps later, thank you,” Mitch continued quietly. “Did you encounter Mr. Benjamin Fratos at the Rat?”
They both thought a moment and then looked at each other, as if deciding who would answer. Peter said, “Not at the Rat. Walking home, we passed him walking toward the Rat. His car was parked across the street from our place.”
“Did you encounter Mr. Harmon Killingworth at the Rat?”
“Who? Oh, Harmon, yes, he was there, drunk as a lord.”
“Was he still there when you left?”
Turning the Tables: An Alex Peres Mystery Page 17