by Cate Price
She was wearing a gold lamé wrap shirt, harem-style pants in a Japanese black and gold design, and high heels. The shirt gapped dangerously over her impressive curves and I hoped the little snap fastener at her cleavage was up to the challenge, ready to give his all for God and Country. Her bright red hair was twisted up into a thick knot, showing long shimmering earrings. If need be, the photographer could always use her as another light reflector.
“How did you ever talk these guys into this anyway?” Joe asked her. “I mean, I know I was a pushover, but it can’t have been that easy with everyone.”
“Well, some were easier than others,” she said with an arch look at Cyril.
Cyril was the cantankerous owner of the local salvage business. He was originally from Yorkshire, England, and until recently, a bit of an outcast whose wardrobe left a lot to be desired. The village was still intrigued as to how he and Martha, a wealthy widow, had embarked on their strange and precarious new romance.
He glared at her. “I still don’t know how I feel about taking my kit off in front of a bunch o’ gawping women.”
“Come on, man, be a sport,” Joe said. “We’ve all sacrificed our pride for a good cause.”
Cyril took his tweed cap off and ran it through his thick gray hair before jamming the cap back on his head. “I know, and that awd bugger what owns the place has already scarpered to the bloody Outer Banks. So I hope a lot of people buy this damn calendar and right quick.”
Cyril was correct that the current owner of the historic property had no real emotional attachment to Millbury anymore. The only thing he cared about was getting a nice fat check to fund his retirement. He’d simply sell to the highest bidder.
Joe clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, Cyril, after tonight you’re the last one, and then the ladies can get it into production.”
At that moment, the photographer, Alex Roos, strolled past our group, one hand on a slim hip. “People, people, how’s it going?” he said, showing capped teeth that were startlingly bright against his tanned skin. He wore black jeans, a long shirt with billowing sleeves that made him look a bit like a pirate, and pointed emerald green snakeskin boots.
Ruth Bornstein, the owner of this estate, who had more connections than a crocheted shawl, had talked him into doing the shoot for a cut-rate price. She was also providing his room and board for free, which was her contribution to the cause. Even without knowing he was from California, it was clear to see he was an exotic bird amongst a flock of country fowl.
His hair was cut in a Mohawk style, about an inch long, like the bristles on a silver-backed antique brush, and so blond it was almost white. The way some fair-skinned children get after a summer spent playing outside. And like a soft brush, it seemed to invite the touch of your fingers.
Roos had caused quite a stir himself around these parts during the week he’d been shooting. It was rumored he’d had almost as many liaisons as there were months in the calendar, including a dalliance with one of the married women. There was more than one jealous significant other who would be glad to see the back of him when he left town.
He winked at the local librarian who was doing a last minute polish of the carved pumpkins near us. In spite of his affectations, I had to acknowledge that he did have some charm. But give me Joe’s wholesome good looks or Serrano’s brooding, debonair appearance any day.
“Today’s cock, tomorrow’s feather duster,” Cyril muttered. He looked as if he would have spit on the ground if he was back in his junkyard and not in this garage that was nicer than a lot of people’s living rooms. “And I don’t know about being alone with that fancy pants bloke, neither.” He nodded toward Roos, who was busy setting up his camera. “Think I dassent turn my back to ’im.”
Joe cleared his throat. “So, Daisy, where’s Serrano?”
“Mr. July should be here any minute,” I said confidently, not even bothering to check my watch. Serrano always showed up on time for his rendezvous.
The librarian inhaled as if she could already catch a hint of his intoxicating aftershave in the air. “Ah. The hot detective. Every woman’s fantasy.”
Martha shook her head. “No. Trust me, dear. At our age, it’s a fantasy to have someone cook for you every night. Like Joe does for Daisy.”
My husband had blossomed into quite the gourmet cook, seeing as the tiny village of Millbury didn’t have a restaurant, only a diner that closed at 3 p.m. He’d convinced me to take early retirement two years ago from teaching high school and we’d moved into our former vacation home, a Greek Revival on Main Street. Joe had settled comfortably into country life, but it had been harder for me, and when I bid on a steamer trunk full of sewing notions at the local auction, it had been the inspiration to open my store. And my salvation.
So not only was I a resident, but as a store owner in Millbury, I was doubly interested in what happened to our little village.
Mr. October headed for the changing area that we’d set up with a wooden screen in the back of the garage. No one else would be allowed to stay for the actual shooting, except for the designated photographer’s assistants—Martha, Eleanor, and me.
“There have to be some perks of sitting through the insufferably dull Historical Society meetings,” Martha had declared when she’d made the arrangements.
Everyone else left, our model came out with a towel wrapped around his waist, and shooting began.
To protect his modesty as much as possible, we kept our backs turned until he was posed with his strategically placed pumpkin, and only came forward when requested to reposition an item on the set, or to hand Roos a roll of film.
After the photographer was satisfied with the shots, and the mailman was dressed once more, we opened the garage doors. Joe loaded the bales of hay back into Cyril’s truck. I swept the garage and the others removed the pumpkins.
“I’m going to catch a ride back to Millbury with Cyril, so I can let the puppy out,” Joe said, as he kissed me good-bye and handed me the keys to our old Subaru station wagon. “See you later.”
As I watched Joe and Cyril pull away in the truck, I blew out a breath against the guilty flutter in my chest for the imminent arrival of our next model.
Eleanor had borrowed a fake brick wall from the local theatre and the plan was to back the detective’s Dodge Challenger on an angle into the garage and create the illusion of a grimy alleyway with a couple of garbage cans and some moody lighting. Serrano would stand partway behind the open driver’s door, pointing his gun at an imaginary assailant.
“Now, aren’t you glad we talked you into joining the Historical Society?” Eleanor said, as we maneuvered the wall into place.
“Yes,” I answered dutifully, grunting as I pushed.
“Well, it was about time you joined, seeing as you were a history teacher after all,” Martha said, peering at us over her clipboard.
Okay, Tom Sawyer.
“You know, it’s been quite a week so far,” Martha continued. “Starting with the cute little barber. Even though he was the first to take his clothes off, you didn’t have to ask him twice.”
“The man’s an exhibitionist,” Eleanor sniffed.
The Millbury barber had had a crush on Eleanor for years, but she’d never taken his pursuit seriously.
“I must say I’d never realized how well built he was,” Martha said. “I mean, he’s short and everything, but very nice-looking. Especially with his clothes off.”
“I suppose.” Suddenly Eleanor brightened. “Hey, remember when Angus mooned us?”
“Ew, yes!” I said. Our irrepressible auctioneer had loved every second of his fifteen minutes of fame.
The powerful sound of a muscle car rumbled up the driveway and we quickly opened up the first garage door. We stepped out of the way as Serrano executed a swift three-point turn and slid the gleaming black vehicle into position in one smooth move. He go
t out, and with a respectful nod in our direction, headed over to talk to Roos, exuding authority with every movement. I could see there would be none of the usual banter like when he stopped by my store in the mornings for coffee and baked goodies.
Tonight was a necessary evil he obviously wanted to get over and done with as quickly and efficiently as possible.
He was wearing a dark gray suit which complemented his closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair. He had the perfect muscular-yet-lean physique to wear a suit, and wear it well.
Eleanor narrowed her gaze in Serrano’s direction. “God, I can’t wait to see that man with his shirt off.”
Neither, apparently, could the crowd of women waiting outside, who had rushed into the garage now and were leaning against the car, trailing their fingers over the warm hood, cooing over it, huddled together and giggling in feverish anticipation.
Serrano’s ice blue eyes surveyed the scene, taking in everything, missing nothing.
“It’s a good thing it’s cold enough to wear gloves tonight, or he’d have a heart attack at the fingerprints on that paintwork,” I murmured.
To say that Serrano was slightly anal was like saying Philly sports fans were somewhat enthusiastic about their favorite teams.
We shooed everyone out again with some difficulty and I closed the doors to a chorus of groans. While Serrano took his jacket off and laid it carefully on the backseat of the car, Alex Roos adjusted the lighting. Martha dusted the car with a sheepskin cloth and Eleanor and I pulled the garbage cans into place.
We stood back to admire our tableau.
Suddenly I spotted faces through the row of windows at the top of the garage doors. The groupies must be giving each other piggy backs to try to peek inside.
I got up on a stepladder and Martha handed me pieces of black paper that I taped carefully over the small square panes so that not a crack of light shone through.
The stage was finally set.
“Okay, ladies.” Roos clapped his hands. “I think I can handle it from here. Good night. Thanks for your help.”
Eleanor sucked in a breath, but we couldn’t really object, not with Serrano standing right behind him. The photographer had obviously been given strict instructions to clear the scene.
One by one we trailed glumly into the house.
“Damn that Roos. Now we can’t see anything either,” Eleanor grumbled as I pulled the door to the kitchen closed behind us. “What a spoilsport. And why the hell did you have to be so efficient and cover up all the windows, Daisy?”
The tastefully remodeled carriage house had the same heavy ceiling beams as the garage, but the whitewashed walls and exposed stonework were softened with paintings of rustic subjects like a folk art pig, and there were top quality Persian area rugs covering most of the stone floors. It was a simple layout. A huge sleeping loft and a sitting room above, and a good-sized living room, dining room, and kitchen with walk-in fireplace downstairs.
Ruth was at the maple wood kitchen counter making a fresh pot of coffee and she grinned at our downcast expressions. “Don’t despair, my friends. All is not lost.”
She made a beckoning motion and we followed her to an alcove off the kitchen that was set up as an office. It also housed a closed-captioned TV system. Ruth poked the power button on the computer monitor and it flickered into life, showing a quadrant of pictures of the front of the house, the back door, the main gate, and the interior of the garage.
There was quite a bit of pushing and shoving so we could all get into a good viewing position before the show started.
We didn’t have long to wait.
Serrano didn’t bother going back to the changing area to don a robe or a towel like the other guys. He simply pulled off his tie right where he stood and stripped off his shirt while we held our collective breath.
Even in a grainy black and white image, the hard-muscled body was awe-inspiring.
“Good God,” Martha said.
The nighttime gray hues accented the rippled stomach and strong biceps that flexed as he moved, like a prowling mountain cat that wastes no energy, but is a focused, tightly coiled killing machine.
I swallowed, but there was no moisture left in my throat.
As Serrano slowly reached for his belt buckle, he glanced in the direction of the security camera, and it seemed as though his eyes met mine.
Roos tested his light meter near Serrano’s face and the resultant flash made my heart bounce.
With shaking fingers I turned the monitor off. “We shouldn’t be spying on the man like this. We’re just a bunch of sick old women getting our jollies.”
“And you’re jolly annoying.” Eleanor pouted and slumped back in a chair, crossing her arms over her narrow chest.
“Daisy, why don’t you come up to the house with me and visit with Stanley while the shoot is going on,” Ruth urged.
“Okay.” My heart was still racing.
“We’ll clean up here when it’s all over, dear,” Martha said to Ruth. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”
As we left the room, I thought I could hear the whir of the monitor starting up again.
I grabbed my coat from the kitchen and Ruth and I walked the short distance up the curving driveway toward the magnificent main house.
The original section was from the eighteenth century with random width floors and fireplaces in most of the rooms. It had been added onto over the years and the newer wings had the same sage green siding as the carriage house. The carefully tended rose gardens, tennis court, and pool were situated behind the house, and open verdant acres rolled away in every direction with breathtaking views of the countryside.
Ruth’s husband had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a few years ago. Before his illness, Joe and I used to join the Bornsteins occasionally for dinner during the summers when we vacationed in Millbury. Stanley Bornstein had been a successful chemist for one of the large pharmaceutical corporations based in Montgomery County. He’d made a fortune for the company, and for himself, and had retired about seven years ago in his early fifties.
I’d always thought of him as a highly intelligent, fascinating man. Brilliant, in fact.
And now he barely knew his own name.
Ruth took a deep breath before we headed upstairs. “Daisy, you haven’t seen Stanley in a while. I don’t want you to be upset, but he—well, he’s gotten much worse lately. He probably won’t recognize you.”
“That’s okay,” I said, and smiled up at her in reassurance. I’d never seen the tall, elegant Ruth not perfectly coiffed, and tonight was no exception. She wore an ecru flowing sweater coat over a silk top and dress pants, together with a necklace of intertwined gold rings. Her bobbed hair was dyed a rich chocolate brown and her dark eyes were enhanced with eyeliner of the same shade.
She’d always looked years younger than her husband, even before he got sick, but in the light cast by the chandelier in the foyer there were fine lines of exhaustion drawn around her eyes and mouth that even the most expensive night creams couldn’t erase.
We passed a guest bedroom on our way, and I caught a glimpse of some of Ruth’s things. When we walked into the master bedroom, I could see why. The imposing cherry four poster bed was gone. It must have been dismantled and stored somewhere else and was now replaced by a metal hospital bed.
I’d steeled myself to be prepared, but I had to press my lips together to hide my shock at Stanley’s wasted appearance. He’d always been a slim guy, but now he was incredibly thin, his cheeks sunken and gray hair standing up in wisps on top of his head.
His hands looked like little bird claws resting on the starched white sheets.
“Stanley, Daisy’s here to see you,” Ruth said.
He didn’t turn his head.
It must have been six months since I’d last seen him. At that time he seemed to know who I was, although
he couldn’t quite follow the thread of the conversation. He kept asking Ruth about someone named Charlie. Turns out that Charlie was the cocker spaniel he’d had as a kid.
There were sheets covering the mirrors on the dressing table and also draped over the closet doors. Ruth followed my gaze. “Sometimes we see imposters in the room,” she said softly.
I bit my lip and nodded.
An array of medicines stood on the bedside table, and a nurse was sitting in an armchair next to the bed, knitting a pink and orange scarf. She got to her feet with a grunt.
“He wouldn’t let me change him, Miz Bornstein,” she said, pursing her full lips together.
“I’ll do it, Jo Ellen,” Ruth said gently. “You were right not to push matters. Evenings are always the worst time.”
Stanley coughed, a painful dry wheeze.
“His cold is getting real bad again, too,” the nurse said, shaking her head. “Doctor was here earlier to do his blood work and said he’s probably gonna need another course of antibiotics.”
“I’ll pick up the prescription tomorrow.” Ruth walked over to the table and trailed a graceful hand over the bottles. “Did you give him his meds?”
“Yes, Miz Bornstein.”
“And did you sign off on the chart?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The nurse glanced at me. She stopped short of rolling her eyes, but she may as well have. I gathered they’d been through this routine many times before.
Ruth touched a hand to my shoulder. “Daisy, I’ll be right back. I’m just going to see Jo Ellen out.”
They walked out of the room and I sat in the chair next to the bed. Even though I didn’t know much about how to deal with a person afflicted with Alzheimer’s, I knew I should talk to Stanley as normally as I could. If there was a part of him that could still comprehend, I wanted to respect his dignity.
I tried to ignore the faint odor hanging in the air that reminded me of teaching school in the early days, when some of the little kids didn’t always make it to the bathroom on time. I wondered how long he’d been lying here like that. Surely Ruth paid the nurse well enough that she could have handled the task, unappealing as it admittedly was.