“Skylar, you naughty, naughty girl.” The voice was distinctive, the tone rich with Brahmin inflection. Behind the purple mask was J. Forbes Winthrop III; he and Sky shared the same great-great-great-grandfather. Forbes grew up in a townhouse on the flat side of Beacon Hill, not far from Izzy’s place.
“You mustn’t stay away so long, cousin.” Forbes squeezed Sky in a theatrical hug. “You are the family’s social conscience, you know.”
“Hardly.” Sky returned his embrace and readjusted her bodice. “Isn’t noblesse oblige the Winthrop curse?”
“I’m talking money-where-your-mouth-is, nose-to-the-grindstone social conscience!” Forbes tapped a finger against the giant purple nose. “Not many of the Vanity Fair crowd work for homicide, now do they? You are a rare and dangerous creature, Skylar.” He rocked his tall body back and forth, heel to toe, as he spoke. “And you look positively ravishing. Skin like a Dresden doll. And those Garbo eyes.”
“Four hours of prep time at the hairdresser,” Sky confided.
“A year at the hairdresser wouldn’t be enough for this crowd. Believe me, the masks are an improvement. You’re so clever not to wear one.” Forbes crossed his arms and leaned in toward Sky. “Did you see the hotel heiress? Skank City. I hear the old man cut her out of the will. She’s being paid to schmooze but I saw her slink into the can half an hour ago. Most likely to enjoy a little blow.”
A troop of witches with wart-ridden gray faces pushed a wheel cart with a high thatched roof through the crowd. As it passed, Sky stepped forward and peeked into the cart. She recoiled at the sight of an empty coffin.
“Time to die,” a man’s voice came from the nearest witch mask. He grabbed Sky by the wrist and yanked her toward the coffin. Sky struck hard at the costumed figure with her free hand, her fist making contact with soft tissue through the black cloth. The witch grunted and doubled up, freeing Sky’s wrist. She darted away and stood next to Forbes.
“Well done, old girl!” Forbes put his arm around Sky’s shoulder. “Quite the bitch slap. But I do believe you’ve made an enemy.”
The witch straightened. “Later,” the voice promised with an ugly laugh. The masked head gestured to the others and the coven resumed their search for a fresh victim.
“Are all Diamond Balls this weird?” Sky rubbed her wrist and watched the witches wheel the roofed cart away.
“Good heavens, no. In fact, I find it hard to believe Tuffy Pickman cooked up such a fantastical extravaganza. Her affairs are usually so tedious.” Forbes gestured toward a monk with a shaved pate and narrow ring of hair who strolled through the crowd juggling knives. “This is all so convincing. Many of these costumes are quite accurate. And quite old, I suspect. Puts me in mind of Faching parades I’ve attended in the Black Forest, wild partying before the deprivations of Lent.” Forbes brushed back long bangs, an old childhood habit. “These festivals were virtually universal in Christendom prior to the Protestant Reformation. They date to pagan times, actually. A sort of driving out of the evil spirits.”
Sky tended to trust her cousin’s observations when it came to arcane bits of knowledge. Forbes was a Princeton man by way of Exeter prep. He had a Harvard law degree and a stint as U.S. attorney under his belt, but he was also something of a scholar. Aside from managing his portfolio, Forbes’ most recent employment consisted of directing his Tall Ship Foundation, a concern devoted to bringing Eastern European art to Boston’s shores.
Two characters in lion masks marched past them with the purposeful stride of storm troopers, faces jutted forward in an expression of attack. Both lions boasted powerful shoulders and manes that reached far down their backs, like capes. Black feline eyes narrowed in suspicion, their snouts pulled back in a snarling grimace to reveal jagged canines. The lion masks were frightening, eerily fierce, clearly designed to intimidate. Each red uniform was sewn with a medieval coat of arms.
“Scary,” Sky observed.
“In-house security.” Forbes watched the lions disappear through a curtained exit. “During carnivals of the Middle Ages the poor mingled freely with the upper class. Dressing up as kings – or militant lions – was a way of blowing off steam. Sticking it to power.”
“The way Halloween revelers wear Nixon or Bush masks?” Sky suggested.
“Yes!” Forbes gestured toward the room at large. “Or perhaps the way lesser mortals might mingle with the Brahmin elite.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh.
“This is for charity,” Sky scolded.
“Indeed. They pony up for a party. But how many of these folks will you find volunteering at the local soup kitchen tomorrow? Not a one, I’ll wager.”
“Martha Peabody volunteers at the Cottage for Little Wanderers every week,” Sky said. “And Mercy Adams virtually lives at the North Shore food pantry.”
“Well, that’s two. All due respect to Martha and Mercy, the history of charitable giving in this burg has a most checkered past. There was a time when organized charity fiercely opposed organized labor, did you know that?” Forbes’ voice took on a stentorian tone. “Our not-so-distant relatives blamed the labor problem on the un-American habits of immigrants!”
“This event raises millions, Forbes. It will keep some poor souls alive.”
“Certainly. But you have to agree, Americans tend to view poverty as moral failure. Why else would we be the only advanced Western democracy without national health insurance?” He paused. “Of course, the climate is changing. Thank God we’re rid of that last ship of fools.” His voice carried a streak of anger. “Wall Street’s engine of doom, the whole house of cards collapsing around us, those triple B tranches.” Forbes shook his head. “The unemployment stats are a harbinger, Skylar. Not to mention the fact that your average working stiff’s 401K is pretty much down the crapper. So much for the safety of diversification.”
“Maybe you should run for office.” Sky was joking, but Forbes didn’t laugh.
“I’m mulling it,” he admited. “Talking to money people. Collecting focus group data, thinking about my issue portfolio, that sort of thing. There’s real change happening, cousin. The Globe’s days are numbered. The Museum of Fine Arts is laying off staff. The MFA, for god’s sake. Imagine what the real victims are facing. I can help. I’m tired of sitting on the sidelines.”
“Senator?”
“Governor,” Forbes corrected her. He read the look on Sky’s face. “It is a family tradition, Miss Smarty Pants. I don’t know why I even bother.”
“By all means, follow in our illustrious patriarch’s footsteps. How many times was he re-elected governor?”
“Twelve,” Forbes said. “But who’s counting?” He chuckled. “Although, technically speaking, it was Massachusetts Bay Colony at the time. But he was the first, don’t forget that, Skylar. That is something you clearly take little pride in.”
“Why should I take pride in an accident of genetics?” Sky watched a woman in a Madame Pompadour wig run after the witch wagon and pitch herself headfirst into the coffin. “John Winthrop. Let’s look at the data. Four wives. Lied to Charles the First. Suckered rich friends into footing the bill for the New World voyage. Stole land from the natives when he hit shore. Rationalized said theft with some bogus speech about the natives not subduing the land properly. Really, Forbes, the man was a nightmare.” Sky reconsidered. “Okay, I don’t really care if he lied to Charles the First. But I stand by the rest.”
“Your interpretation of family history is rather gloomy, cousin.”
“He was a thief for sure, maybe even a murderer. He hung adulterers but he had a native mistress. And let’s not forget the heresy trials he conducted against women. For holding Bible study meetings.” Sky frowned at Forbes. “You know all this. You’re the one who told me.”
Forbes shrugged. “Can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.”
Sky decided that an omelet was as apt a metaphor as any for the Winthrop family fortune. Was a hundred years of charitable giving sufficient penance for Joh
n Winthrop’s sins? Probably not. But Forbes was no John Winthrop. Her cousin was genuinely kindhearted, a dyed-in-the-wool humanitarian. Forbes reminded Sky of Whip.
“You’ll make a good governor,” she said.
“Thank you.” Forbes voice carried a heartfelt sincerity. “I’ll need you, Skylar. To be my conscience. You’d be surprised how many so-called friends tell me only what they think I want to hear. You’ll always tell me the truth.” He cocked his purple-masked head. “I’ll be requesting a donation. For my war chest.”
Forbes was her favorite cousin but Sky wasn’t much of a political animal. She scanned the room for Kyle’s gold David mask and changed the subject. “Izzy had a Carnivale theme for the Diamond fifty years ago, Tuffy found it in the club archives. Brought in a Romanian company from Montreal.”
“Mystery solved,” Forbes said. “This event is far more Izzy than Tuffy. Romanians, eh? That explains the atmosphere. Do give your grandmother my best, won’t you?”
“I don’t plan on seeing Izzy any time soon.” Sky looked around the room. Nearly everyone was wearing a mask, it made her feel naked. “I’ve been on Nantucket, I just got back a few days ago.”
“Yes, I’m so sorry about …” Forbes paused to pat Sky’s arm before continuing. “I’m just home myself, actually. Been on a rather extended expedition across Eastern Europe, chasing down textiles. I planned to put in an appearance tonight to appease Mother, and leave. But I may last the whole night. Interesting things tend to happen when you’re around, Skylar. What on earth prompted you to attend the Diamond? I thought you were allergic to this sort of thing.”
“I’m looking for someone. A guy named Porter Manville.”
“The Wellbiogen CEO?” Forbes pulled the purple mask from his face to reveal a wide forehead and penetrating brown eyes. “What’s your interest in Porter?”
Sky gave a noncommittal shrug.
“You just missed him. He came out of the psychic’s wagon a few minutes ago.” Forbes looked toward the caravan. “He’s wearing a bauta.”
“Bauta?” Sky didn’t know the term.
“It ‘s a type of mask. Long chin, no mouth.” Forbes pointed to a bone-colored mask fitting the description. “Thirteenth century Venetian. Allows the wearer to eat and drink without ever taking it off.” Forbes brushed his bangs back. “Porter’s bauta is silver, a bit unconventional. Did you know his company is underwriting the Diamond this year?”
Sky scanned the crowd for the silver bauta but her height put her at a disadvantage. She tried to keep a casual tone to her voice.
“How well do you know Manville?”
“Not well. Met him at Teddy’s birthday party in Hyannisport a few years ago. There was a wicked snowstorm that night but the mariachi band was fabulous. Teddy sang in Spanish. Life of the party, as usual. My god, I miss that man.”
"Manville was in Hyannisport?"
"Yes, quite a personable fellow. Parlayed an undergraduate chemistry degree into founder, chairman, and chief executive of Wellbiogen.” Forbes shrugged. “A small company, true. But it’s his company. He’s sharp as a whip. One of Boston’s movers and shakers.” Forbes shook two invisible rattles for emphasis. “Porter attends quite a few of these events. Finger in a lot of pots.” He lowered his voice. “Actually, he’s one of my money men. Promised a nice chunk. I have Teddy to thank for that. Persuasive devil.”
“Is Manville married?”
“No.” Forbes’s brown eyes narrowed. “Are you interested? Last we spoke, you seemed quite hooked on some detective. What was his name?”
Sky ignored the question and continued scanning the crowd.
“I see. The detective is yet another victim in your wake.” Forbes shrugged philosophically. “I really should warn Porter about the women in this family. Poor sod.”
“Tuffy might know where Manville is. Have you seen her?”
“Yes, I had that misfortune. She was over by the bonfire, roosting in a giant bird cage.” Forbes offered a dimpled grin. “Perfect place for her.” He replaced his mask and said, “I’ll find Porter for you, but let’s do grab a drink first.”
Forbes escorted Sky around a knot of party girls in low cut, sequined gowns doing a group shimmy for men in feathered musketeer hats. The men shouted encouragements and slipped folded bills into the jiggling cleavage.
“Long live charity!” Forbes bellowed.
They were nearly to the bar when Forbes nudged Sky. “Heads up. Here comes Tuffy.”
A woman waddled up and threw her arms around Sky, enveloping her in a cloud of cloying perfume. “Oh my God, it’s been such a long time!”
Tuffy Pickman was nearly as wide as she was tall, and the black velvet gown she wore only accentuated her resemblance to a bowling ball. Her perfectly round, plain face was framed by drab brown hair.
Conquering her distaste, Sky returned Tuffy's hug with an enthusiastic embrace.
“I feel so privileged, Skylar! You’ve decided to grace us with your presence.” Tuffy delivered her sarcasm with flair, turning to a female companion – Tuffy always had some timid soul in tow – “Aren’t we the lucky ones? Skylar is so very busy. Skylar, tell her about the time you killed that guy.”
Forbes ignored Tuffy, but Sky didn’t have that luxury.
“What an extraordinary gala, Tuffy.” Sky adopted her socialite’s cadence. “You’re so clever. Do tell me how you managed.”
“It wasn’t easy, we’ve lost so many board members. The bling is donated by vendors, thank God. But the service is so crappy – everything is negotiated down to the smallest margin ever. But you wouldn’t know that would you, because you’ve never helped out.” Tuffy glared at Sky. “And that Madoff thing? The kiss of death.” Tuffy's features collapsed into a nasty grimace. “No sense of civic responsibility. Well, what can you expect? New money.”
Sky couldn’t help but smile. Tuffy had just expressed a sentiment sometimes felt but rarely stated. For those who traced their roots to Boston’s early founders, the term ‘new money’ was anyone whose family had come onto the scene after 1860. As teenagers, Sky and Forbes had put the new money cutoff at 1640. That marked the end of the so-called great migration from England to New England. And who would argue? If pressed, Sky and her cousin could trace their lineage to 1066, the year of the Norman Conquest.
Sky always got a kick out of snobs.
“Face it, Tuffster. This ain’t our town no mo’.” Forbes adopted a rural patois when he was around Tuffy because he knew it drove her crazy. “They gives more to charity than we does, honey-chile. Embrace your New Money brethren!”
Tuffy frowned. “Please, Forbes. I’m supposed to be grateful to the blister pack?” Tuffy used a nasty term for social climbers who got blisters on their hands and feet ascending the social ladder.
Yes, Sky wanted to shout, be glad for any money from anybody. But she held her tongue. Tuffy’s shy companion laughed uncomfortably.
Forbes looked Tuffy up and down for a long moment. “You’re an embarrassment, old girl.” He turned to the shy friend. “Would you do me the honor of a dance, madame?”
The poor woman gave Forbes a grateful smile and they walked toward the dance floor.
“Forbes to the rescue,” Tuffy sneered. But Sky could see the flush of embarrassment spike across Tuffy’s round cheeks. Time for damage control.
“Forbes tells me that Porter Manville’s company is underwriting the Diamond this year.”
“Well, yes.” Tuffy whined. “But I had to hack my original budget nearly in half. There was barely enough for everything. The Romanians, the food, the band. It all costs so much.” She reached into her red patent leather tote bag and pulled out a black pearl bracelet. “Porter bought this for me.” She cupped the pearls in her pudgy hand. “At that jewelry stand.” She gestured toward a pushcart festooned with bright scarves and glittering ropes of jewelry. The merchant in charge wore a grotesque harlot mask with blackened eyes and swollen lips. “Porter’s wearing a silver mask. He was ther
e a minute ago.” Tuffy’s perfectly round face glowered with suspicion. “Why are you so interested in Porter?”
“I’d like to tell him what a great job you’ve both done,” Sky lied.
Tuffy's face relaxed at the compliment and she looked around the room. “That man can disappear so quickly.”
“Agnes told me you went into the club archives,” Sky said. “Do you know why Izzy’s Carnivale was such a disaster?”
“Fifty years ago some guy jumped out of an eighth story window during the Diamond. He was wearing a Don Juan costume.” Tuffy grinned. “Red cummerbund, white ruffled shirt, the whole bit. He was a houseguest of your grandmother’s, visiting from Madrid. Or was it Paris? Anyway, Izzy was in the hotel room when it happened, according to some old Globe articles. The police declared it a suicide. Your grandmother left the country right after the inquest, lots of drama. It was all over the gossip columns.” Tuffy paused. “God, I wish we still had gossip columns.”
Sky abruptly excused herself and headed for the bar.
As she worked her way through the crowded floor she tried to look at each man’s mask, searching for the mouthless silver bauta Forbes had described. Many men wore the mask, the style was popular, but she saw only white bauta, no silver.
Dozens of pre-poured wine flutes sat along rustic wooden side tables near the bar. Sky grabbed a full glass of pink champagne and guzzled it. Izzy implicated in someone’s death, twice in one day. That called for a drink, didn’t it? She scanned the room for Manville and worked on a second glass. She was distracted by a small woman in a red tights and a harlequin neck ruffle who was swallowing a sword.
“Careful with the champagne, darling. We have work to do.” Kyle appeared, sipping on some kind of green drink through a straw stuck into the mouth hole of the gold David mask. “Have you seen the eats? Pigeon on a stick? Fish pie? It’s like some kind of terrifying Anthony Bourdain nightmare.”
“Did you spot Manville?”
Kyle shook his head. “I talked to Jake. Zach Rosario’s roommate saw him in the apartment kitchen drinking out of a Tropicana juice carton around two o’clock Monday morning. Said Zach passed out on the living room sofa until the next afternoon. The roommate was up and down the whole night with the runs. Bad Chinese take-out. We can scratch Rosario off our list.”
The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series) Page 18