Scandal in Fair Haven

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Scandal in Fair Haven Page 8

by Carolyn G. Hart


  The red mes­sa­ge light blin­ked se­ven ti­mes in ra­pid suc­ces­si­on, pa­used, blin­ked aga­in.

  I re­ac­hed for the pur­se first. I lif­ted out a cre­am le­at­her bil­lfold. In­si­de, I fo­und Patty Kay's dri­ver's li­cen­se, an as­to­nis­hing ar­ray of cre­dit cards, and six­ty-th­ree dol­lars in cash. A le­mon la­ce han­d­ker­c­hi­ef, a crystal vi­al of Mon­di, Vi­si­ne eyed­rops, a sack of su­gar­less can­di­es, lo­ose co­ins, a used brid­ge tally, a co­lumn rag­gedly torn from a new­s­pa­per. I lo­oked at the pi­ece from the new­s­pa­per ca­re­ful­ly, but it was me­rely a re­vi­ew of a new bi­og­raphy of Edith Whar-ton. A por­ti­on of an ad for swim­su­its was on the ot­her si­de. Lip­s­tick, com­pact, ma­ke­up brush. An emery bo­ard. An ad­dress bo­ok. I flip­ped thro­ugh it. So many na­mes. Too many na­mes. But the last pa­ge, en­tit­led Use­ful Num­bers, was use­ful in­de­ed.

  I ope­ned my own pur­se and jot­ted down the­se na­mes and num­bers:

  laverne- 9 a.m. Wed­nes­days-555-HA­IR jewel-Tu­es­days, Fri­days-555-7769 gi­na-555-3781 Ten­nis 9 a.m. Thur­s­day bro­oke-555-4239 Ten­nis 9 a.m. Thur­s­day edith-555-1463 Ten­nis 9 a.m. Thur­s­day scho­ol-555-5656

  I re­tur­ned the ad­dress bo­ok, un­zip­ped a si­de poc­ket. A pho­to pac­ket. Pho­tos of Cra­ig, of Cra­ig and Patty Kay, of the two of them and a skinny te­ena­ge girl with sun­light glin­ting on her sil­ver bra­ces. Patty Kay's da­ug­h­ter Bri­git, no do­ubt. 1 tuc­ked the al­bum back in the poc­ket. My fin­gers to­uc­hed anot­her slick sur­fa­ce. I pul­led out a hol­der with a

  single pic­tu­re, a man in swim trunks sha­ding his eyes aga­inst the sun.

  Not Cra­ig.

  Definitely not Cra­ig.

  Six fe­et tall. Bu­ilt li­ke a bo­xer, strong chest, po­wer­ful legs, sturdy sho­ul­ders and arms. A crop of thick, curly brown ha­ir. An open, at­trac­ti­ve fa­ce with a de­vil-may-ca­re smi­le.

  I tur­ned the pho­to over. The in­s­c­rip­ti­on on the back re­ad simply: Hil­ton He­ad.

  I stu­di­ed the man's fa­ce and smi­le for a mo­ment mo­re. I wo­uldn't for­get this pic­tu­re.

  No wo­man wo­uld.

  I re­tur­ned it to the poc­ket, zip­ped it shut.

  I held the pur­se be­ne­ath the ro­se lamp, ope­ned it wi­de for a tho­ro­ugh check, then rep­la­ced all the be­lon­gings.

  All that one wo­uld ex­pect to find in a wo­man's pur­se- ex­cept for one thing.

  I lo­oked over the tab­le.

  No keys.

  Hmm. Had she drop­ped them in the poc­ket of what she was we­aring that af­ter­no­on?

  I'd ha­ve to find out.

  I put the pur­se down.

  The mes­sa­ge light on the re­cor­der con­ti­nu­ed to blink.

  I pun­c­hed the Play but­ton.

  "Cra­ig, this is Me­lis­sa Hig­gin­s­f­rom Patty Kay's gu­ild, cal­ling on Mon­day mor­ning at ni­ne. We'll plan on brin­ging fo­od for lun­c­he­on af­ter the ser­vi­ces Wed­nes­day, if that is ag­re­e­ab­le to you. My num­ber is 555-2094. We're so sorry. If the­re's an­y­t­hing el­se we can do, ple­ase call me."

  The se­cond call was in sharp, emo­ti­onal con­t­rast. "Cra­ig, I can't be­li­eve it! They can't ke­ep you in ja­il Oh, it's so

  awful.' Call me." The vo­ice was yo­ung. Qu­ite yo­ung. And ter­ribly up­set.

  The next two calls we­re al­so from the girl. She didn't iden­tify her­self.

  The fifth call was a wo­man's vo­ice, he­si­tant and gu­ar­ded. "Cra­ig, this is Ste­vie. Call me if you can."

  Melissa Hig­gins cal­led a se­cond ti­me. Her vo­ice was jer­kily ner­vo­us. "Uh, Cra­ig, the gu­ild- uh, one of our mem­bers tal­ked to Pa­me­la and we'll be ser­ving the fo­od at her ho­use af­ter the fu­ne­ral. Thank you very much." The dis­con­nec­ti­on was ab­rupt. Me­lis­sa ob­vi­o­usly had le­ar­ned of Cra­ig's ar­rest.

  The se­venth call was the yo­ung vo­ice, still fra­ught with un­hap­pi­ness. "Cra­ig, I'll do ever­y­t­hing I can, I pro­mi­se. I won't let this hap­pen!"

  I pun­c­hed the Sa­ve but­ton.

  Hmm. Cu­ri­o­user and cu­ri­o­user. I wan­ted to know who the yo­ung cal­ler was. And I in­ten­ded to find out abo­ut Ste­vie. Her to­ne was so ca­re­ful­ly unin­f­lec­ted.

  But for now 1 still had much to ex­p­lo­re. 1 ope­ned the do­or on the left si­de of the hall. It was anot­her en­t­ran­ce to the kit­c­hen. To the right, an ar­c­h­way ope­ned in­to a ga­me ro­om. 1 lo­oked in­si­de. Six ca­ro­usel hor­ses pro­vi­ded much of the se­ating.

  I pul­led myself up to sit si­de­sad­dle on a wo­oden ro­an with its he­ad tos­sing and ma­ne ruf­fled. My we­ight ap­pa­rently trig­ge­red a ta­pe of tinny ca­ro­usel mu­sic so fa­int that it se­emed mo­re a me­mory than a so­und. If the car­ved mo­unts had be­gun to mo­ve, I wo­uldn't ha­ve be­en sur­p­ri­sed. As the re­edy tu­ne tin­k­led, 1 sur­ve­yed the ex­pen­si­ve as­sor­t­ment of en­ter­ta­in­ment de­vi­ces, a hu­ge te­le­vi­si­on scre­en, VCR, po­ol tab­le, Ping-Pong tab­le, ga­me tab­les. An un­fi­nis­hed ga­me of chec­kers re­ma­ined atop a tab­le in front of the li­mes­to­ne fi­rep­la­ce. A box of mar­s­h­mal­lows sat on the fi­rep­la­ce led­ge.

  When I dis­mo­un­ted, the mu­sic cut off in­s­tantly. I

  checked out the ca­bi­nets. They con­ta­ined an as­to­nis­hing ar­ray of bo­ard ga­mes, re­ams of pho­tog­raph al­bums, and flam­bo­yantly tit­led ho­me mo­vie cas­set­tes. All we­re da­ted. Among the most re­cent we­re Our Mad­cap Stay in Rio, Bri­git's Swe­et 16, To-and-Fro Abo­ard the World's Most Bo­ring Yacht, Chris­t­mas with the Mud­vil­le Clan, Let's Ha­ve Anot­her Ro­und, and Fa­ir Ha­ven Fi­ves at the Ten­nis Spa.

  I pic­ked up the last one, da­ted only the month be­fo­re. I tur­ned on the te­le­vi­si­on and VCR and slip­ped in the cas­set­te.

  In li­ving co­lor with so­und to match.

  Scene: a se­mit­ro­pi­cal ten­nis ret­re­at.

  I wat­c­hed and was im­p­res­sed with the ten­nis pro­wess of the fo­ur wo­men. I un­der­s­to­od the ta­pe's tit­le. They ob­vi­o­usly we­re all ran­ked 5.0 or bet­ter.

  It didn't ta­ke me long to peg the pla­yers' na­mes. Patty Kay, of co­ur­se, I re­cog­ni­zed from the new­s­pa­per pho­to and the pho­tos in her pur­se. The red­he­aded pro at the ten­nis spa, Evan, was a flirty, sexy Aus­t­ra­li­an who al­ways cal­led his pu­pils by na­me, Gi­na, Edith, Bro­oke, Patty Kay.

  Gina's short dark ha­ir fit her li­ke a sle­ek fur cap. She dan­ced aro­und the co­urt and had an as­to­nis­hingly strong ser­ve for her si­ze. She tal­ked in­ces­santly. "Go­od shot. Go­od shot." "Oh, damn!" "I've got it, I've got it." "Did you drill that right in my fa­ce, Edith?" "Short, Bro­oke, short!" This must be Gi­na Ab­bott, whom the law­yer des­c­ri­bed as Patty Kay's best fri­end.

  Edith's plump fa­ce was cla­ret red by mid-match. She huf­fed and puf­fed, but she had a wic­ked bac­k­hand and a cor­k­s­c­rew ser­ve that dro­ve the ot­hers mad. She chat­te­red brightly, but when she had a chan­ce to drill an op­po­nent, her eyes glit­te­red with un­dis­gu­ised sa­tis­fac­ti­on.

  Brooke- Brooke For­rest, the trus­tee?-was the clas­sic be­a­uty of the bunch. She had an ele­gant, pat­ri­ci­an fa­ce,

  luxuriant jet-black ha­ir, aqu­ama­ri­ne eyes, ca­mel­lia-smo­oth skin. So­me­how Bro­oke ne­ver lo­oked hur­ri­ed or hot or fran­tic. Her ti­ming was su­perb, and her stro­kes smo­oth as spun glass.

  Patty Kay was in char­ge. With gre­at go­od hu­mor, of co­ur­se, but the­re was no mis­ta­king the le­ader. And she was the cham­pi­on of the do­ub­les pla­yers, a bo­oming ser­ve, a slas­hing re­turn of ser­ve, put-away vol­leys. She was al­ways mo­ving.

  In li­fe, Patty Kay Pren­tiss Pi­er�
�ce Mat­thews had a mis­c­hi­evo­us grin, spar­k­ling gre­en eyes, and a husky, al­most bre­athy vo­ice. Her la­ugh ran­ged from an in­fec­ti­o­us pe­al to an earthy who­op. She la­ug­hed a lot. She wasn't con­ven­ti­onal­ly pretty. Her fa­ce was too an­gu­lar, her mo­uth too wi­de. But she was com­pel­ling, fas­ci­na­ting, a wo­man who wo­uld al­ways be no­ti­ced.

  The la­ug­h­ter stop­ped when the ten­nis star­ted. Patty Kay's eyes bla­zed with fi­er­ce de­ter­mi­na­ti­on and to­tal con­cen­t­ra­ti­on. She was the kind of pla­yer who wo­uld rat­her die than lo­se. But they all pla­yed hard, Gi­na ma­king lit­tle cri­es of vic­tory or des­pa­ir, Edith's mo­uth a thin, stra­ight li­ne, Bro­oke's body ar­c­hing gra­ce­ful­ly for an over­he­ad.

  Patty Kay's iron will wasn't as ap­pa­rent off the co­urt. At nig­ht-the fo­ur wo­men lo­un­ging in bri­ef, ex­pen­si­ve silk gowns as they pla­yed brid­ge and gos­si­ped-Pat­ty Kay was the li­fe of the party. Her earthy la­ug­h­ter so­un­ded aga­in and aga­in. She co­uld out­la­ugh them all: Gi­na, thin and ner­vo­us, tal­king a mi­le a mi­nu­te; Edith, smi­ling and ag­re­e­ab­le on the sur­fa­ce, but eager to cut down her com­pa­ni­ons in a su­per­fi­ci­al­ly ni­ce way; Bro­oke, tall, dark-ha­ired, se­ri­o­us, her be­a­uty al­most bre­at­h­ta­king.

  Perhaps the fo­ur wo­men to­ok too long a ho­li­day. It was to­ward the end of the ta­pe, aga­in du­ring one of the nightly

  bridge ga­mes, that Bro­oke-Bro­oke For­rest?-and Patty Kay clas­hed.

  "I won­der what Da­vid will think abo­ut you and Evan?"

  Brooke was ar­ran­ging her cards. Her be­a­uti­ful eyes stu­di­ed Patty Kay for a mo­ment be­fo­re she sa­id, "What are you tal­king abo­ut?"

  "Our ten­nis pro from he­aven, my swe­et. You can't tell me," Patty Kay sa­id slyly, "that you aren't lus­ting for his body. I saw the way you le­aned aga­inst him this af­ter­no­on. Mmm-mmm."

  "Who wo­uldn't le­an on him?" Gi­na ga­ve a ra­uco­us whis­t­le.

  Edith sim­pe­red. "Bro­oke, yo­ur sec­ret's out."

  Brooke's ex­qu­isi­te fa­ce might ha­ve be­en chi­se­led out of sto­ne. Her eyes flas­hed as she lo­oked from Edith to Patty Kay. "You're not funny, eit­her one of you. And don't you da­re say an­y­t­hing li­ke that to my hus­band."

  "Tell the truth and sha­me the de­vil," Patty Kay cro­wed.

  Brooke threw down her cards. "Patty Kay, stop it. You don't un­der­s­tand. Da­vid-" She sho­ok her he­ad and her lus­t­ro­us black ha­ir swir­led aro­und her nar­row, ele­gantly bo­ned fa­ce. "That wo­uld ma­ke Da­vid wild."

  "Oh, ho. That's an al­most ir­re­sis­tib­le tem­p­ta­ti­on. Are you sa­ying Da­vid For­rest, Mr. Per­fect, can be ro­used to pas­si­on?" Patty Kay's eyes glit­te­red with amu­se­ment. "Oh, de­ar. Now, that's anot­her de­ep qu­es­ti­on. But one per­haps we'd bet­ter not pur­sue."

  "Why not?" Edith as­ked, her la­ug­h­ter tril­ling.

  Gina frow­ned, sud­denly se­ri­o­us. Per­haps she had re­cog­ni­zed the cru­elty of the­ir ta­unts. "Knock it off, you two."

  Abruptly, Bro­oke sho­ved back her cha­ir. "I've had eno­ugh. So­me­ti­mes you go too far, Patty Kay." The do­or slam­med. The sharp crack al­most drow­ned out Patty Kay's mur­mu­red "She's ne­ver had eno­ugh."

  That was the end of the film. I pun­c­hed Re­wind. As the ta­pe whir­red, I kept he­aring Patty Kay's fi­nal vib­rant who­op of la­ug­h­ter.

  I re­tur­ned the cas­set­te to the ca­bi­net and chec­ked my watch. Just af­ter fo­ur. Plenty of ti­me. The lib­rary ca­me next. It ap­pe­ared to be the le­ast li­ved-in ro­om in the big ho­use. The bo­oks we­re so evenly alig­ned, I knew they'd not be­en mo­ved in a long ti­me ex­cept per­haps to be dus­ted and res­hel­ved. But it wasn't the bo­oks, tho­ugh many we­re be­a­uti­ful­ly bo­und, that at­trac­ted my in­te­rest.

  The fo­cal po­int of the ro­om was the por­t­ra­it of Patty Kay.

  Portrait pa­in­ters must des­pa­ir of the uno­ri­gi­nal po­ses so of­ten se­lec­ted by the­ir we­althy su­bj­ects. The most com­mon, I sup­po­se, are the de­mu­re hos­tess in a whi­te or­gandy dress se­ated on a gar­den bench or the jod­h­pur-clad hor­se­wo­man stan­ding next to an ele­gant Tho­ro­ug­h­b­red.

  Instead, Patty Kay was fo­re­ver cap­tu­red in swe­at-dam­pe­ned ten­nis whi­tes, her fo­re­hand cur­ving in­to an over­he­ad smash, her tan­ned fa­ce flus­hed, her gre­en eyes in­tent and ar­ro­gantly tri­um­p­hant, her curly dark ha­ir bun­c­hed be­ne­ath a worn he­ad­band, her lips par­ted in ef­fort, her ten­nis sho­es smud­ged with dust from red clay. The por­t­ra­it wasn't es­pe­ci­al­ly flat­te­ring. The ten­dons in her neck we­re dis­ten­ded, the mus­c­les in her arm we­re bun­c­hed, the bo­nes of her vi­vid fa­ce we­re pre­da­tory and im­p­la­cab­le. But the ar­tist wit­ho­ut do­ubt cap­tu­red her in­ten­sity, her vi­ta­lity, her to­tal and com­p­le­te de­ter­mi­na­ti­on.

  Here was a vic­tor, a cham­pi­on, fi­er­cely pro­ud of her strength, of her body, of her will.

  Here was a wo­man who wo­uld ne­ver gi­ve up.

  Or in.

  I felt as tho­ugh Patty Kay's ghost wal­ked with me

  through the rest of her ho­me. I ima­gi­ned her grin as I sur­ve­yed the mas­ter bath.

  It was Ita­li­an Re­na­is­san­ce-in­s­pi­red: a va­ul­ted ce­iling, pa­in­ted mir­rors fra­med by blond onyx, a de­ep, gol­den mar­b­le bath. The spa­ce was ge­ne­ro­us eno­ugh for a bevy of nymphs to ca­vort in. Patty Kay co­uld ha­ve prac­ti­ced her ser­ve in this sum­p­tu­o­us cham­ber-or wha­te­ver ot­her physi­cal ple­asu­res she enj­oyed.

  The mas­ter bed­ro­om, too, sug­ges­ted physi­cal de­light as well as res­pi­te. A silk spre­ad co­ve­red the king-si­ze bed. The walls, too, we­re of silk, and the win­dow han­gings all in sub­t­le sha­des of rich ap­ri­cot. At the fo­ur cor­ners of the mas­si­ve bed hung de­li­ca­te light gol­den mus­lin swaths that co­uld be pul­led shut. They and the spre­ad we­re ref­lec­ted in the mir­ro­red ce­iling.

  I had no dif­fi­culty de­ter­mi­ning Patty Kay's clo­set from Cra­ig's.

  Hers con­ta­ined rack af­ter rack of de­sig­ner dres­ses and su­its with every pos­sib­le mat­c­hing ac­ces­sory, all in vib­rant, eye-cat­c­hing pri­mary co­lors. Gold. Eme­rald. Scar­let. The­re we­re do­zens of equ­al­ly brightly hu­ed sho­es and pur­ses for every oc­ca­si­on and se­ason. The dra­wers held ele­gant sports ap­pa­rel for the se­as­ho­re, the mo­un­ta­ins, the co­urts, the ri­ding tra­ils.

  It was easy to ima­gi­ne her fresh from her bath, lit­he and eager, ruf­fling thro­ugh the sac­het-scen­ted dra­wers, hur­ri­edly pul­ling one dress from a han­ger, dis­car­ding it, pic­king anot­her.

  Craig's spar­sely fil­led clo­set and a mo­nog­ram­med sil­ver ha­ir­b­rush on the dres­ser we­re the only evi­den­ce he'd sha­red in the li­fe of this lu­xu­ri­o­us ro­om. A do­zen su­its for win­ter and sum­mer. Ten con­ser­va­ti­ve dress shirts. Mo­re sports clot­hes, mostly kha­ki slacks and pat­ter­ned sports shirts.

  Two pa­irs of black dress sho­es. Three pa­irs of lo­afers. At­h­le­tic clot­hes. Ten­nis sho­es. Of co­ur­se.

  I wo­uld ask Cra­ig. I felt con­fi­dent he was a go­od pla­yer. But pro­bably not qu­ite go­od eno­ugh to be­at Patty Kay.

  The hal­lway walls we­re co­ve­red with fra­med pho­tog­raphs. 1 scan­ned them qu­ickly. The te­ena­ge girl, the sa­me one in the al­bum in her pur­se, had to be Bri­git.

  Definitely not a ca­se of li­ke mot­her, li­ke da­ug­h­ter.

  The girl's thin fa­ce was al­most co­lor­less, her wispy blon­dish ha­ir mo­usy, her lips of­ten tightly pres­sed to­get­her. Bri­git se­emed ca­ught in a per­pe­tu­al po­ut. Ex­cept in a num­ber of pho­
tos in cos­tu­me. Class plays, mo­re than li­kely. The only pho­tos in which she was smi­ling we­re a half do­zen ta­ken with Cra­ig. The­se re­ve­aled a de­li­ca­te, faw­n­li­ke be­a­uty that her sul­len de­me­anor had ob­s­cu­red in the ot­her li­ke­nes­ses.

  There we­re many pho­tos of Patty Kay and a la­ug­hing, tan­ned, re­la­xed Cra­ig. Pla­ying ten­nis, as I'd ex­pec­ted. Whi­te-wa­ter raf­ting. Hi­king. In Euro­pe­an tra­in sta­ti­ons. Ski­ing. Hor­se­back ri­ding.

  I wal­ked on down the hall and lo­oked thro­ugh an open do­or.

  Into cha­os.

  7

  Captain Walsh bloc­ked the do­or­way to Patty Kay's of­fi­ce. He sur­ve­yed the dum­ped-out desk dra­wers, the shards of glass in the smas­hed bo­ok­ca­se fronts, the go­uged sur­fa­ce of the on­ce-ele­gant ma­ho­gany desk, the em­p­ti­ed fi­le ca­bi­nets, and the car­d­bo­ard fi­les in un­tidy he­aps.

 

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