Tigers in Red Weather

by Liza Klaussmann

  “All righty, then.”

  Hughes made a motion, as if he would go, and then stopped. He knew he shouldn’t say any more, but he couldn’t help himself. “And I suppose, her friends or family, the maid, I mean. Elena Nunes. They had nothing to say. About any of this.”

  “No. We didn’t get anything out of them, no.”

  “Tight-lipped community, I suppose.”

  “Tight-lipped community.” This time the sheriff laughed out loud. A dry noise. “Which one?”

  Hughes fled into the hot afternoon air. His nerves felt jangly. He should have gone to the sheriff with the information about Frank when the maid first turned up dead. He saw that now. But he’d been distracted. Anyway, it seemed Frank had an alibi. That’s what the sheriff had said. Still, Hughes wasn’t sure he believed it. Sheriff Mello sure as hell didn’t.

  He thought about the sheriff. He’d known him since he was a boy, when Rick Mello was still bagging orders at the local market. Yet the man had made him feel guilty. It wasn’t his fault the sheriff’s office hadn’t done a damn thing about Frank Wilcox. Even if he had seen them go off to the shelter together, it didn’t prove anything. And if Etta was willing to vouch for her husband, then … And Ed. He’d made it out like they’d been traipsing all over the countryside together. Could he have sincerely been trying to help and just exaggerated? But no, Hughes knew in his bones the boy was off. Way off. Even the sheriff seemed to have his doubts about him. Hughes thought about that mouse with the toothpick in its head. He needed a drink.

  Hughes downed a couple of quick gin and tonics at the Reading Room, and then made his way home. The sun hadn’t quite started its full descent. It was making hot pink streaks across the sky, like a child’s finger paintings.

  As he approached the house, he saw Nick on the front porch, still in her bathing suit and shorts, leaning over a boy and whispering something into his ear. The kid’s hair was almost comical, sticking straight up like it had been stiffened with cornstarch. Some friend of Daisy’s, he guessed. Hughes smiled at the adoring expression on his upturned face. He knew how the kid felt.

  Not yet ready for the question-and-answer session that he knew awaited him, Hughes went around to the back door and headed upstairs. After a shower and a shave, he steeled himself and went to find Nick and Helena, who were having cocktails.

  “Hello, darling,” Nick said. “How did it go with Sheriff Mello?”

  Helena looked up too, her soft eyes expectant. And worried, he noticed.

  “It went just fine,” Hughes said, walking over to the bar.

  “Well?” Nick said. “Don’t be so coy. What did he say?”

  “Nothing,” Hughes said, dropping three ice cubes into a lowball.

  “What do you mean, nothing? You’ve been gone for almost two hours.”

  “I mean Ed didn’t see anything and doesn’t know anything,” Hughes said. “The sheriff was just humoring him. Letting him play detective, or something.”

  Helena leaned her head back against the wing chair, with something like relief.

  “So, it’s all right, then,” Nick said.

  “Yes,” Hughes said. “Everything’s just fine.”

  1959: AUGUST

  As the party drew near, Nick seemed to get lost in the minutiae of Japanese lanterns and silver polish and white hydrangea. Hughes would find his wife awake in the middle of the night, her little reading lamp on, revising the menu for the one hundredth time.

  His role was to stay calm and batten down the hatches. But the night before the party, he needed a little relief from the storm.

  Nick was in the dining room, repolishing the silver setting for the early supper. She had just finished scolding Daisy about the state of her room and Hughes took the opportunity to raid the kitchen and bar before heading down to the boathouse to get drunk on whiskey sours. When he got there, he found Helena, also hiding out.

  “What have you got there?” she whispered, gesturing to the bottle of whiskey and bowl of sugar he was carrying.

  Hughes laughed. “You don’t have to whisper, Helena. She can’t hear us down here.”

  “I love Nick, but I can’t stand all this … scurrying,” Helena said. “Anyway, what is that?”

  “Whiskey sours.”

  “I love whiskey sours,” Helena said, almost wistfully.

  “Me too,” Hughes said, and pulled two lemons out of his back pocket. “Damn,” he said, looking around, “I forgot the ice.”

  “And a shaker.” Helena held her palms up, eyebrows lifted, the picture of disaster.

  “No,” Hughes said, winking at her. “I keep one here, behind the old anchor, for emergencies. But the ice is a problem.”

  “I could go on a mission.” Helena smiled at him.

  “Should we risk it?”

  “You wait here.” She rose and made a production of tiptoeing off, her patterned dress swirling behind her.

  Hughes blew on the inside of the shaker to remove the dust and then put the sugar, whiskey and lemon in and waited.

  Helena finally returned with the small silver ice bucket that Nick had planned to use for the supper. Hughes had seen her polishing it earlier.

  “I know, I know,” she said. “But I had to; the other one was too big.”

  Hughes dropped a few ice cubes into the shaker and then joggled it briskly. He poured the sours off into the two plastic picnic cups.

  “Madame,” he said, handing one to Helena.

  Helena took a sip. “Hughes, you really are a marvel with a shaker.”

  They sat quietly for a minute, enjoying the peace and the sharp cocktails.

  “So, Helena,” he said finally, “how’s life?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. Everything. Nothing.”

  “Everything and nothing,” she repeated. “I suppose I’m happy everything turned out all right with the maid. With Ed, I mean. I know it didn’t really turn out all right for her.”

  “I know what you meant.”

  “I worry about him sometimes.” Helena drained her glass and Hughes refilled the shaker. “Well, I’m sure the Scouts will do him some good.” Hughes wanted to get away from this subject. “Straighten him out a little bit.”

  Helena looked up sharply. “I don’t think he needs straightening out.”

  “No, well.”

  “He might not be like everyone else his age, but why should that matter? He’s free.”

  “Free from what?” Jesus, she could be a kook sometimes.

  “Free from … I don’t know, what other people want him to be. Avery says …” But she tapered off. “Never mind.” She held out her empty glass. “Anyway, that’s not the real problem.”

  “Oh,” Hughes said, studiously squeezing more lemon juice.

  “Hughes.” Helena’s voice softened. “We really need money. Do you think you could talk to Nick for me?”

  “I’ll talk to her,” Hughes said, patting her hand, an idea forming in his head. “Now, give me that empty glass.”

  The next morning was painful. Nick was up early, ordering the children out of bed, and Hughes went downstairs to help with breakfast. He had wanted to talk to her about his idea, but when she came into the kitchen, he realized she was in no mood.

  Instead, he drove to Vineyard Haven to pick up the musicians. They were a ragtime band Dolly had recommended, the Top Liners or something. He waited at the curb and watched the Islander pull into dock, the dockhands rushing to the ferry slip to crank down the apron.

  He watched several cars disembark, and then the foot passengers. Hughes could easily pick out the musicians from the small crowd: they were wearing dungarees and lugging their instruments in beat-up old cases. They looked as hungover as he was. Hughes walked over.

  “Hello, boys.”

  They squinted at him, almost in unison. “You Mr. Derringer?” This from the one carrying the banjo case.

  “That’s right. The car’s over here.”

  They put thei
r instruments in the trunk and piled in, three in the back, two in the front with him, and he started the engine.

  “Man …” One of the boys in the back let the word slide into one long breath.

  “Hot, hot, hot.” The banjo player banged out a little rhythm on his knee.

  They were all pretty young. Midtwenties, Hughes guessed. One of the boys next to him looked like he was asleep, his scruffy head laid all the way back against the seat. The other one, all dark hair and brooding eyes, ran his hand across the door upholstery.

  “Where are you all from?” Hughes eyed the boys in the back through the rearview mirror.

  “Around,” the dark one said, still running his hand over the fabric on the door.

  “Yeah,” said the banjo player. “Here and there, and everywhere.” Another tap, tap, tap on the knee.

  The whole band laughed. Hughes kept his eyes on the road. Jesus, Nick was going to kill him if they turned up like this.

  “You boys want to stop for some Cokes?”

  “Some Cokes?” The dark one laughed. “No, thanks.”

  When he pulled into the back drive at Tiger House, Hughes saw Nick standing at the screen door, as if she had been waiting for them.

  The banjo player whistled. “Nice house.”

  “Hello,” Nick said, crossing the lawn to greet them as they staggered out of the car.

  The musicians stared at her, bug-eyed. Hughes covered his face with his hand.

  “I’m Nick Derringer. Which one of you is Tom?”

  “That’s me,” the banjo player said, not moving.

  “Hello,” the dark one said, rocking back on his heels, his trumpet case swaying in his hand.

  Nick looked at them and then back at Hughes. “You all stay here,” she ordered. “Darling, can I speak with you for a minute?”

  When they got inside the house, she turned on him and put her hands on her hips. “They’re stoned,” she said hotly, as if he was the one responsible.

  “I wish I was stoned,” Hughes said. “You didn’t have to suffer through that car ride.”

  “Goddamn it, it’s not funny.”

  “I’m not laughing,” he said, trying to repress a smile.

  “Well, go find yourself a gin bottle and get to it, if it’ll keep you out of the way,” Nick said tartly.

  “Are those the musicians?” Daisy’s little head appeared in the hallway.

  “Daisy Derringer, go sweep the front walk, like I asked you to,” Nick said. She walked into the kitchen, where the Portuguese girls were preparing the food. “Can you girls make sure the boys out there get some iced tea? And some sandwiches, I suppose. But not the tea sandwiches, there’s some deviled ham in the pantry. They can have that. And for god’s sakes, don’t let them in the house.”

  Hughes stood in the hallway, pressing his fingers to his temples. His head was still pounding. “What can I do to help?” he asked, hoping it would include an ice pack and a dark room.

  Nick turned in the kitchen doorway. “You could help the men with the bandstand. Make sure they don’t put it in all crooked, like last year.”

  Hughes nodded. He found an ice chest of beer on the front porch; the delivery boy must have just left it there without bothering to alert anyone. He pushed his hand inside, lifted a bottle and popped the cap with his Swiss Army knife. Then he sat down on the porch and started mulling over his plan for Ed. Something Helena had said the night before about being free had started him thinking.

  Ed needed to go to boarding school and Hughes needed to pay for it, that was all there was to it. It was the only way he could gain some modicum of control over the boy. If Ed had anything to do with the murder of that girl, had been involved in any way, things couldn’t go on as they’d been going. It was too dangerous. But with Ed at school, Hughes could get reports and keep an eye on him. If the kid was just a snot-nosed jerk, he wouldn’t get away with it for very long there. And if it was worse than that, if it was something more than just bad behavior, the truth would come out. The plan made him feel good. Life was always better when you had a plan.

  He saw Daisy lollygagging along the fence. The fact that she obviously wasn’t sweeping the walk made him smile.

  “Hello there, sweetheart,” he called out from the porch. “Where’s your cousin?”

  “I don’t know,” Daisy said, peering up at him. “He’s disappeared. He said he was going to check the mousetraps.”

  Hughes blotted the image out of his head. Enough was enough: He would teach the boy a lesson about freedom. He hid his empty beer bottle in the rosebush and made his way down to check on the bandstand.

  When the afternoon drew to a close, and the house had gone from hustle and bustle to total silence, Hughes headed upstairs to bathe and change for dinner. He was in the bedroom combing his damp hair when Nick returned from her own bath.

  “Wait until you see my dress,” she said shimmying into her slip. “It’s divine.”

  “Can you help me with these?” Hughes brought his cuff links over and dropped them into her hand.

  She pulled his shirtsleeve straight, bringing the edges of his cuffs together.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Hughes said. “About Ed. About how you said he probably needed more structure.”

  “Did I? I think I meant he needed a father, a real one.”

  “Well, there’s not much we can do about that. But I was thinking: Ed could go to boarding school. It would get him out of that house, away from Avery.”

  “Oh, Hughes, they can’t afford it.” Nick fixed the second cuff link in.

  “No, but we can.” He took her hand in his and Nick looked at him. “It would be something we could do for Helena, to make her life easier, without having to give Avery any money.”

  “Can we really afford it?”

  “We can manage.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “I’m not sure how Helena would feel about it.”

  “She said herself that she’s been worrying about him.” Hughes let go of her hand and began adjusting his bow tie.

  “She has been, that’s true.”

  “She’s family, Nicky. It’s the least we can do. And with Ed gone, it might bring the situation with Avery into, I don’t know, starker relief?”

  “Do you think so?”

  “It’s possible.” Hughes watched her.

  “It’s very generous of you, darling. And very dear.”

  “I know how much you love her.”

  “Yes,” Nick said. “Yes, I do. Oh, Hughes, imagine if she had a real chance at being happy.”

  “First things first.”

  “Yes. You’re right, it really is a very good plan. You’re very clever sometimes.”

  “I try.” He grinned at her.

  “I’ll talk to her this evening. Before the supper.”

  Hughes went to find the musicians and tell them they could change into their clothes in the boathouse. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find them running around the back lawn in their skivvies. They would be leaving by the last ferry and he had arranged for a man in town to take them.

  “When you’re done you can bring your things back up here and he’ll load them,” Hughes instructed.

  “Sure thing, Mr. Derringer,” the dark one said, not looking up from his trumpet.

  Hughes would have liked to give the kid a good backhand, but he set his expression to neutral and waited until they’d cleared out. Then he picked up the scattered beer bottles and cigarette ends and brought them into the kitchen to dispose of them.

  One of the Portuguese girls watched him, shaking her head.

  “I agree,” Hughes said. “Not a good bunch.”

  The girl just smiled at him.

  They had a few minutes before their dinner guests would start arriving and Hughes made his way toward the blue sitting room to fix himself a drink.

  “Hello.” He strode over to where his wife and her cousin were seated, bending down to kiss their cheeks. �
�Don’t you both look lovely.”

  Nick was wearing a dress the color of the evening sky, with gold stitching running through it. She glowed.

  “Hello, darling.”

  “You were right,” Hughes said, “that dress is something.”

  Helena got up and went over to the bar.

  “I’ll do that,” Hughes said, but she waved him away, so he seated himself next to Nick, who smiled at him.

  “You look …,” he whispered into her ear.

  “What?” she whispered back.

  “I don’t know … Heartbreaking.”

  She tilted her head back slightly and her red lips parted. He wanted Helena to go away and the party to go away and to just sit there with her and breathe in her sweetness until the clocks stopped.

  When the Pritchards showed up, and then the Smith-Thompsons, Hughes could barely concentrate on the conversation. But after a while, he found his happiness wasn’t exclusive; it began to expand to include Helena, and his friends and the hot summer evening and the anticipation of the party. Nick had put on Count Basie and the ebb and flow of the jazz filled the sitting room, along with the cheerful sound of ice cubes hitting glass.

  He watched his wife move among their guests, her hand resting here on Dolly’s arm, and there at Caro’s waist, bending her head in to listen intently to something Arthur Smith-Thompson said and then laugh at Rory spilling his drink on the Oriental rug. Everything felt good and right. Like it would last forever.

  It lasted only until dinner, when the conversation turned to Frank Wilcox and the damn murder. Dolly had brought it up, and Caro had said something silly about the girl wanting to catch herself a big fish and Nick had gone off to some dark place, practically accusing their guests of being complicit in the crime.

  Hughes had tried to set the tone right, pouring more wine and joking around, but he could tell they’d lost Nick for the evening. It made him angry. Caro was a nice woman, but she was a ninny and there was no reason for Nick to go spoiling everything over some foolish, offhand comment.

  When they had finished eating, and their guests had moved out to the lawn to join the gathering crowd and listen to the first tune from the band, Hughes cornered Nick on the porch.