“I think that one,” Daisy said, pointing to a dress spread out on the bed. Navy blue, with lobsters printed on its full skirt. “To go with the Lobster Bisque.”
“I agree,” Aunt Helena said, suddenly sounding cheerful and definite. “I was thinking that would be just the ticket.”
“Do you need help getting into it?” Daisy ran her hand over the skirt of the dress, still thinking of her mother.
“No, sweetest lamb, I’ll be all right.”
She waited while her aunt struggled into the girdle, her fleshy bottom pushing upward, like a wave cresting, before finally disappearing under the tight garment. The dress provided less resistance, and Daisy helped fasten the hook into the eye at the top of the zipper.
I have often walked down this street before, but the pavement always stayed beneath my feet before.
Her aunt turned to face her and, laughing, twirled, lobsters flying among the caged bluebirds.
Daisy laughed, too, and thought how she had never really noticed how pretty Aunt Helena was, like a blond Olivia de Havilland, with her plummy cheeks.
People stop and stare; they don’t bother me, for there’s nowhere else on earth that I would rather be.
The music suddenly stopped and the sad, sultry tones of Julie London took up where Vic Damone left off. Julie was crying a river again, something she did often whenever Daisy’s mother was in the mood.
Daisy heard her step on the stair, her tap-tap with its precise, small rhythm, marred only by some faint hesitation before each foot landed. Her mother rapped lightly on the door before turning the handle. Daisy saw that Aunt Helena hadn’t heard her approach, and she turned quickly at the sound, her cheeks still flushed.
Now you say you’re lonely …
When the door opened, Daisy’s mother stood in a frothy gown of periwinkle-blue muslin embroidered with gold tigers. Her dark hair was brushed back, revealing pale, round sapphires clipped onto her ears. Daisy noticed with wonder how the sapphires were almost the exact same color as her silk underskirt.
“Mummy,” Daisy said. “You’re beautiful.”
Her mother laughed, her red, red mouth widening in pleasure. “Helena, do you remember this?” She spread her skirt out and twirled, like Aunt Helena had done only moments before. “I had it made out of that bolt of cloth Grandfather brought back from India. I thought it’d be a laugh.”
Her aunt stared. “I thought you were going to make cushions out of that. For Tiger House, you said. You said there wasn’t enough to make two dresses out of it.”
“Well, yes,” Daisy’s mother said, fiddling with the muslin overlay. “Cushions are boring. Anyway, it’s a dress now.” She winked at Daisy. “And look at you, don’t you look charming.”
Watching her mother’s lips spread over her white teeth, her arm move in a perfect arc to adjust the strap of her dress, Daisy felt like she was looking at a panther or some other beast that had just finished its dinner and was licking its chops in satisfaction. Maybe, Daisy thought, that was the it her mother had been talking about. Something wild and beautiful and hideous all at the same time.
She couldn’t bear to look at her aunt, with her wrinkled dress and her Lobster Bisque lips.
“Doesn’t Aunt Helena look absolutely lovely, darling?”
“Yes,” Daisy said. She felt angry with her mother. “I’m going to get dressed,” she mumbled, fleeing the room.
Upstairs she took her bathrobe off and looked at herself in the mirror. She wondered what her breasts would look like when they finally arrived. Now they were just suggestions of a breast, like the unfinished sketches her mother had taken her to see in a museum once. She thought about the Wilcoxes’ maid and her bitten breasts. She looked away. Rummaging in her closet, she pulled out her dress for the party. It was a white linen pinafore with large stiff ruffles rising from thick straps, and a red silk sash. Her mother had relented and let out the hem, so the full skirt now fell two inches below her knee, and it made her feel more grown-up. As she brought the dress over to her bed to lay it out, Daisy saw a piece of her mother’s stiff stationery lying near her pillow, a small, round pin encircled with pearls sitting on top.
For my darling Daisy,
I know you’ll be the prettiest girl at the party. Pin it to your sash.
Love,
Mummy
Daisy felt a rush of love for her mother, and the angry feeling in her stomach, and the image of her mother’s red lips drawn over her teeth, faded.
After struggling to get her dress on, she examined herself in the mirror again and sighed. She still looked like a baby. Locating the Silver City Pink lipstick in her hiding place, she returned and applied the frosty, shell-pink color. She was puckering and smacking her lips when she saw Ed come up behind her.
“Your mother won’t like it,” Ed said.
“Who cares?” Daisy said, but she wiped the lipstick off on the back of her hand. “How many times do I have to tell you, Ed Lewis, not to sneak up on me?”
“I didn’t sneak up on you. You could see me in the mirror,” he said. “You look attractive.”
“Hell’s bells, who says ‘attractive’?”
“Who says ‘hell’s bells’?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions. What time is it?”
“Six-thirty,” Ed said, looking at his Swiss Army watch, a present from Aunt Helena after she’d seen the care he took with his knife. “Tyler’s coming at eight.”
Daisy rolled her eyes. “I know that. Did I ask?”
“No, but that’s what you were thinking,” Ed said.
“Why do you always think you know what I’m thinking? You’re such a know-it-all.”
He was silent and it made Daisy want to slap him in the face. Because that was the thing about Ed: He did know what she was thinking.
“And,” she continued, “it’s creepy. That’s why you don’t have a girlfriend. So what if I like Tyler? At least I have someone to like.”
“Yes,” Ed said, thoughtfully.
Daisy turned back to the mirror and fiddled with the pin on her sash.
The prettiest girl at the party.
She saw Ed looking at her, in that way of his, like she was a butterfly pinned on velvet. “Why do you like him?”
“What do you mean, why do I like him?” Daisy said. “All the girls like him. Even Mummy thinks he’s handsome.”
“Because he’s handsome,” Ed said, more to himself. “That’s why you like him.”
“Not just that, he’s a really good tennis player.” Daisy stopped. She felt stupid. “I don’t know. Why are you being so weird?”
“So, because he’s handsome and he’s a good tennis player.”
“Look, Ed, you just wouldn’t understand. When you like a girl, you’ll know what I’m talking about.” There, Daisy thought, that’ll fix him. She felt very grown-up.
“How will I know unless you tell me?”
Daisy could see his mouth working in concentration and was reminded again of her mother’s carnivorous smile.
“It’s just a feeling,” Daisy said, wanting the conversation to be over now. “Like why you like ham sandwiches better than peanut butter, only more.”
“Like sandwiches.”
“Oh, crikey, not like sandwiches, but kind of.” Daisy was beginning to feel sorry for him, he was acting so dumb and he did seem so interested, even if she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was making fun of her, or something. “When I see him, it’s like when I’m playing tennis. I get that same shivery feeling and everything else kind of disappears.”
“Oh,” Ed said. For once, he looked away first. He put his hand over his heart, like he was feeling it beating.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. I’m just thinking.”
“Well, I’m bored,” Daisy said. She flopped down on her bed, pulling out the skirt of her dress. “What should we do?”
“We could check the mousetraps,” Ed said. “I found a dead one this morning
. Its mouth was open like it was screaming.”
“That’s disgusting. That makes me sick to my stomach, Ed Lewis.”
“We could go spy on the adults. They’re probably all seated for supper now.”
“They’re boring.” Daisy swung her legs, hitting her heels against the brass side rail of her bed. “Oh, all right,” she said finally. “I guess there’s nothing better to do.” Daisy started down the stairs before him, but Ed put his hand on her shoulder and gently stopped her. He put his fingers to his lips.
“You have to walk on the balls of your feet,” he whispered. “That’s how the Indians snuck up on the animals they were hunting.”
He pushed himself in front of her and tiptoed noiselessly down the staircase to the second-floor landing.
Daisy copied him the rest of the way until they came to the double doors that connected the dining room to the blue sitting room. They stood, listening to the sound of clinking glass and silverware against china that seemed almost indistinguishable from the conversation.
The proximity to the dinner party made Daisy afraid to breathe, in case she gave them away. She looked at Ed. He was leaning casually against the wall behind one of the doors.
“… looks lovely. Where on earth did you get those sweet little flags?” Daisy heard Mrs. Smith-Thompson’s high-pitched voice.
“Oh, we’ve had them for years,” her mother said.
“… you know Nick,” her father’s mellow tones broke in.
“I surely do,” Mr. Pritchard said, and laughed.
“One of the Portuguese girls that worked for Mother made them,” Daisy’s mother continued.
“Speaking of Portuguese girls.” This was Mrs. Pritchard. “What on earth do you make of the situation with the Wilcoxes’ maid?”
“Oh, Dolly,” Mrs. Smith-Thompson scolded. “Really … not dinner conversation …”
“I don’t care a whit if it’s dinner conversation,” Mrs. Pritchard said. “I’ve been absolutely dying to talk with Nick about it and I’ve held my tongue as long as humanly possible.”
“And we all know that’s saying something,” Daisy’s father said.
Laughter erupted from the table and for a minute conversation was drowned out.
“Awful,” Daisy heard her aunt saying.
“… the poor children …”
“Now, seriously, though.” Mrs. Pritchard’s voice rose above the din. “Ten to one, Frank had his hands up that girl’s skirt.”
“Dolly,” Mrs. Smith-Thompson snapped.
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Caro, don’t be such a ninny. We all know he had a taste for the staff.”
“It’s true,” Mr. Pritchard said. “Dolly’s right. Frank was never really discreet about it.”
“I’ll give you that,” Mr. Smith-Thompson said. “And he’s got an awfully bad temper. I thought he was going to punch me in the nose when I beat him at the rummy tournament at the Reading Room last summer.”
“I’ll punch you in the nose right now, if you feel you’ve missed out.” Daisy’s father laughed.
“I think you’re all being unfair,” Mrs. Smith-Thompson said. “Frank’s never been anything but a gentleman to me.”
Mrs. Pritchard snorted.
“What do you think, Hughes?” Mr. Pritchard asked.
Her father didn’t answer right away. Then he said quietly, but firmly, “I think he and the girl were definitely up to something.”
“Aha,” Mrs. Pritchard exclaimed. “I knew it.”
“How can you be so sure?” This from Daisy’s mother.
“Remember when I came down in June, to prepare the boat?”
“Yes …”
“Well, I went for a drink at the Reading Room afterward …”
“Thirsty work.” Mr. Pritchard laughed.
“Let him talk, Rory,” Mrs. Pritchard said.
“I was walking home, it must have been around ten or so, and I passed the Hideaway.”
“Don’t tell me you frequent the Hideaway, Hughes,” Mrs. Smith-Thompson broke in.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Caro,” Mr. Smith-Thompson reprimanded. “No one we know frequents the Hideaway.”
“You can set your mind at ease, Caro, I have never even stepped inside the place,” Daisy’s father said. “I was just on my way home, coming down Simpson’s Lane, and I saw Frank and that girl coming out ahead of me. I didn’t want Frank to know I’d seen him, so I just slowed down and stayed as far behind them as I could.”
Daisy felt the hair on her arms stand up as she listened to her father. She thought of Ed’s Hideaway matches. And then the stained tartan blanket, the woman, that purple, jellied mass leaking out of her head, flashed before her, and she had to put her hand over her mouth to try to quiet her breathing. She looked at Ed, but he was standing pale-faced, fixated on the door.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this.” Daisy’s mother sounded shocked.
“Heavens to Betsy,” Mrs. Smith-Thompson said. “We are never having that man over to dinner again.”
“You can bet your bottom dollar we certainly aren’t,” Mr. Smith-Thompson responded.
“Still,” Mrs. Smith-Thompson said, “I’m sure Frank wasn’t the only one. You know how those girls are. She was trying to catch herself a big fish. But more likely than not, there was a score of minnows as well.”
“I think that’s a horrible thing to say.” Daisy’s mother sounded angry. “The poor, stupid girl probably loved him.”
There was a silence.
“Anyway, this isn’t about Frank Wilcox at all, is it?” Her mother’s voice had a brittle quality to it.
“Nick’s right,” Mrs. Pritchard said. “After all, there’s a murderer in our midst.”
“Chills. It just gives me chills,” Mrs. Smith-Thompson said. “But …”
“I grew up on this island,” Daisy’s mother interrupted. “Helena, too. It’s where I married you, Hughes. It’s where all the good things … It’s not how it was supposed to be.” Her mother stopped. “What’s happening to us?”
“Oh, Nick, my dear,” Mrs. Pritchard said. “I’m sure they’ll find whoever did it.”
“Dolly’s right,” Mrs. Smith-Thompson said. “In the meantime, I don’t think we should talk about it. Not on such a lovely evening,”
“No, we shouldn’t talk about it.” Daisy’s mother was speaking a little too loudly now. “Because then we’d actually have to think about it. Think about who we live with …”
“Who needs more wine?” He father’s tone sounded jovial. “Caro, your glass looks a bit on the dry side? Rory?”
Daisy heard a small creak and turned to see Ed stalking out of the room. She tried to follow him, but the necessity of doing it quietly slowed her down. When she got into the entrance hall, she didn’t see him. She wanted to ask him about those matches he had. She was frightened. She looked for him upstairs, and then outside, but he had disappeared.
Daisy was eating an oyster when Anita showed up. She had waited on the front porch awhile, before her parents and their guests moved out to the lawn. Then she planted herself by the raw bar and made the man with the visor shuck her one Wellfleet after another, ignoring the group of people waiting patiently for their turn.
“Hey, lovely,” Anita said. “Got one for me?”
Daisy turned and her eyes nearly fell out of her head when she saw Anita was wearing black. Daisy’s mother would rather kill her than let her wear black, and she felt a pang of envy.
“Where did you get your dress?”
“Oh, my mother bought it for me in New York, on her tour. I like yours, too. Black and white. ‘Dark needs no candles now, for dark is light.’ ” This last Anita said with a flourish of her right hand, holding the pose for a moment. Then she turned to Daisy. “We’re a pair.”
“Oh,” Daisy said, feeling a little sorry for Anita. “Anyway, I’ve been looking for Ed, but he’s disappeared.”
“Really? Do you think he’s been kidnapped?” Anita r
eached for one of Daisy’s oysters.
“No, he hasn’t been kidnapped.”
Anita slurped at the juice pooled in the shell. She looked around. “Neat party.”
The Top Liners were in full swing and the music seemed to make the low-hanging moon even brighter against the darkening sky. White dinner jackets swam in a sea of dresses, dusty shades of pink and lavender, beige silk and powder-blue linen. Blond heads leaned in pleasure toward their darker-haired companions. The sound of ice skimming off lowballs, and the occasional foghorn in the harbor, cut through the music. A firefly glanced the air near Daisy’s arm. The light from the Japanese lanterns, swaying on invisible metal wires, made everything beyond them disappear into the night.
“Do you think we could sneak a glass of champagne?”
“No way,” Daisy said. “My mother would kill both of us.”
“Too bad.”
“Hello, girls.” Daisy’s father came up behind them. “Having a good time?”
“Hi, Daddy.” Daisy thought her father looked like William Holden in his dinner jacket. “This is Anita.”
“A pleasure,” her father said, stooping to shake Anita’s hand. “So, what do you think of the party?”
“Absolutely smashing, Mr. Derringer. A real ringer.”
“Good.” Daisy’s father chuckled. “Now, what are you girls drinking? I’m sure the bartender could whip you ladies up some Shirley Temples.”
“That’s simply charming,” Anita said.
“OK,” Daisy said, sighing.
They followed her father to the bar. “On second thought.” He turned to them. “How about just a tiny drop of wine in some water? Wouldn’t that be a little more fun?”
“Yes, please.” Anita sounded practically winded by this suggestion.
Daisy’s father raised his hand. “Two drops of wine in two glasses of water for these young ladies.” Daisy saw him wink at the bartender. “Now, just this one, all right? Why don’t you go on down and listen to the band.”
Daisy and Anita, carefully holding their glasses, made their way down to the bandstand. They stood off to one side watching the musicians, while couples danced on the wooden platform. One woman had taken her heels off and was dancing on the soft grass with her husband, who, still wearing his shoes, was slipping in the evening dew. They were laughing and clasping each other’s shoulders tightly to keep balanced. Seeing them made Daisy laugh, too, forgetting everything that had happened in the house. She noticed that the banjo player was staring straight at her. She stared back and then he smiled and a thrill shot through her. For a second, Daisy thought she would swell up to the size of that yellow moon and burst. Then she heard her mother’s voice calling her back to earth.
Tigers in Red Weather Page 12