“Mom, his folks have money, but he pays for his own college expenses. All I have to cover is the cost of my flight. He’ll take care of the rest.”
There was a nasty tone to her chuckle. “Right. That’s what he says.”
I was accustomed to her making fun of me, so I doubled-down and used every spare penny to buy fabric. With any luck, I hoped that the new wardrobe of skirts and tops I created on our old Singer treadle sewing machine would make a good impression on his parents.
Boy, was I ever wrong about that!
The Jepsens greeted me coolly when Peter brought me home from the airport. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” said Elsa Jepsen as she stood ramrod stiff in the foyer of their honking big, three-story house. The set of her mouth added, “None of it’s been good.”
Mrs. Jepsen showed me upstairs to a guest bedroom with an adjoining bath. I noticed how isolated this room was. Peter’s was at the opposite end of the hall. With a pinched face, she said, “We won’t be eating until seven. I trust you had something on the plane.”
No, I hadn’t, and her words made it clear she wasn’t offering to feed me now, either. Seven was four long hours away.
“Thank you,” I said with a nod.
“We have reservations at the Hingham Yacht Club. Please dress appropriately.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I figured the A-line dress I’d sewn in a turquoise fabric might work.
She paused in the doorway. “Just so you know, Peter is not rich. He can’t afford to take care of you. He needs to graduate from school and get a job. You do understand that, don’t you? Just because we have money doesn’t mean that we’ll fork it all over to our son. Especially if he plans to spend it on a…friend.”
If I could have sunk through the floor, I would have. Instead, I simply turned beet-red and waited until she slammed the door behind her, to sink down on the bed and wonder, “What have I gotten myself into?”
Chapter 4
The Hingham Yacht Club building itself was simple; it was the view that took your breath away. Even from the parking lot, you could see the beauty of the white sailboats and the sparkling blue water. The older Jepsens led the way as we walked between late model Jaguars, Mercedes Benzes, BMWs and even a couple of Rolls Royces. Bert Jepsen wore a navy blue jacket with nautical gold buttons, khaki slacks, and an open white shirt. Elsa had on a sleeveless coral lace dress with a matching lining, and a thin black patent leather belt. Her shoes matched the belt. The boys both wore khaki slacks and white shirts. They carried jackets over their arms.
From a distance, I probably looked all right in my A-line dress. But up close, you could tell that my stitches were crooked and the fabric was not expensive. I had hoped to look both “appropriate” and classy, but instead my dress proclaimed loudly, “I’m trying too hard.” It had only taken one look for me to realize I could never dress like the local girls. As we entered the yacht club, the Jepsens greeted their friends but never introduced me. I was clearly a tag-along, and an embarrassing one at that. Peter seemed to have forgotten my existence. He and his brother clapped their friends on the shoulders and kissed a bevy of lovely young women. No one extended a hand to greet me.
But they definitely looked me over.
They wore their tattered Ralph Laurens, Talbots (with its headquarters here) and Polos with the sort of disregard that comes from being rich. Clothes didn’t matter to them. When Peter did pause to speak to me, he’d whisper, “Her dad owns a Fortune 500 company. His parents founded the largest real estate firm in Boston. Her mother started a cosmetic company and sold it for big bucks.”
Soon I realized why they could all dress so shabbily. They knew each other’s net worth. They didn’t have to dress to impress.
In retrospect, only the Jepsens were dressed to the nines. Old money doesn’t need to show off; the Jepsens were nouveau riche and showy. But I didn’t know that then.
There was no way out of the situation, so I held my head high and smiled. My Nana once told me that a smile is the best fashion accessory anyone ever invented. She must have been right, because after a while, a couple of people did nod and smile back at me.
While we waited for our table, we looked out past the awning to the beautiful blue waters beyond. “That’s our Boston Whaler.” Peter pointed to a row of boats. I had no idea which was what, so I simply nodded. White sails dotted the horizon, their colorful stripes making bright counterpoints to their dark wooden hulls. A tattered menu tacked to a wall announced that Wednesdays were “Spag and Mt Ball” nights.
“We call them spag and mountain balls,” said Peter, before he ducked away to go hug a stunning brunette with a wandering eye. I’d later learn she was an heiress to a fortune.
I leaned against the railing and stared out at the midnight blue waters. One couple walked along the pier, but stopped when they got alongside a boat where another couple waited.
“Permission to come aboard?” The man on the wooden decking asked his friend.
“Granted,” was the answer.
I was so absorbed in what I was seeing that I didn’t notice I’d been joined at the railing. “You new here?” a masculine voice asked.
I turned to face a guy about my age. His jet black hair was cut shorter than most and his eyes were soft with kindness.
“You can tell?” I smiled.
He laughed. “Me, too. Sam Rosenbaum.”
I shook his hand. “Kiki Collins.”
“You’re with Peter, right? What do you think of all this?”
“I’m not a sailor,” I said, staring out at the boats. “But this is beautiful, isn’t it? And the people are…okay. They seem to be sticklers for tradition!”
“Like raising and lowering the national colors at eight every morning and night?”
“Yes, like that, I guess.”
“Did they tell you their claim to fame? Rumor has it the Hingham Yacht Club denied the Kennedys membership.”
“You’re kidding! Why?”
“The Kennedys are Catholic. Only Anglicans need apply here. Rich, white Episcopalians.”
I thought about that for a second, and then blushed with embarrassment. My mother prided herself on our Anglican upbringing. But we were far from rich.
“Yeah,” said Sam. “A Jew like me is about as welcome as ringworm on a bald man’s scalp. Furthermore, I don’t sail. In fact, I hate the water. Absolutely detest it.”
“What brings you here?”
“I don’t like the water, except to look at, but I do like mermaids. Especially that one.”
He pointed his Heineken bottle toward a vibrant redhead in a nearly see-through blouse and tight white pants who was standing too close to Hank. “Her name is Veronica Everton. Of Everton Financial Services.”
Veronica’s top exposed one shoulder and a fantastic tan. She flicked her sun-streaked hair over her shoulders so that her diamond stud earrings twinkled in the sun. While Sam and I watched, Hank and Veronica kissed hungrily. They weren’t secretive about their lust, so I glanced around for “The Parents.” Elsa Jepsen was elbowing her husband and directing him to watch their son canoodling with Veronica. The elder Jepsens seemed pleased at the younger couple’s obvious affection.
Sam’s grip tightened on his beer.
“You know her?”
“I’m Veronica’s houseguest. We’ve been together for a while.”
Wow. I wanted to say, “Really? She’s obviously hot for Hank, so what gives?” but I kept my mouth shut. He might have read my mind because he laughed, uncomfortably. “It’s just harmless flirting. Hank’s an old flame.”
After a few minutes of awkward silence, Sam asked, “Where do you live? I take it you aren’t from here.”
We talked about his major (architecture), and his home (Skokie) in a suburb of Chicago, much nearer to the Windy City than my home in Griffith, Indiana. He gave me his address and phone number. “In case you make it into town. I’ll show you the sights.”
I studied his hand
writing. “The letters look unfinished.”
“Architectural lettering.”
I’ve always been a very visual person. I liked the look of Sam’s writing and told him so. I tucked my new friend’s details into a pocket of my purse just as Peter came to collect me because our table was ready.
Dinner was about as comfortable as an itchy wool sweater. The older Jepsens seemed bound and determined to ignore my presence. They did not direct a single comment or question my way. At least my table manners were impeccable. My mother had seen to that. Elsa Jepsen kept watching me, waiting for me to make a mistake, but I didn’t.
That gave me something to smile about on the long, quiet ride back to their house.
Chapter 5
After breakfast the next morning, the Jepsen boys were sent to the grocery store with a list their mother had written. They didn’t offer to take me along, and I decided not to impose. I didn’t like Hank. He made me nervous. There was something predatory and mean about him.
I remembered having noticed a library down the hall off the living room, so after helping Elsa clean the kitchen, I went there. Books have always been a safe haven for me—an escape route. Scanning the shelves, I searched for a title I loved. Finding Jane Eyre, I took it down, slipped off my shoes, and curled up in a tapestry covered chair.
“She has no prospects.” I overheard Elsa Jepsen talking to her husband as they stood outside in the hall. “Did you see her clothes, obviously homemade, honestly, Bert. She’s not our kind.”
“I wasn’t worth a penny when you married me,” said Bert Jepsen.
“But you’ve worked your way up. And there’s no reason for our sons to marry beneath them. She’s just a poor little nobody from nowhere,” said Elsa.
Bert sighed. “If we’re lucky, she’ll just go away.”
I agreed. After looking forward to this visit all summer, all I wanted was to go home. The irony was that my home life was horrid, too. But at least there I knew what I was up against. Here, it was like when you wade in the ocean and you feel the undertow pulling at you but you can’t see it. Oh, Peter claimed that his parents liked me. “How do you know?” I asked.
“Um,” he hesitated. “I can tell.”
Right. Yet another lie.
The boys took a long time at the store. When they returned, Peter didn’t come looking for me. I read all morning and returned to the library after lunch. After finishing Jane Eyre, I started on A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.
“You aren’t really reading those, are you?” asked Elsa, sticking her head in the door.
I guess she thought they were props. “Yes,” I said. “Re-reading them, actually.”
“Only five more days,” she told her husband as they passed in the hall.
I was keeping track, too. When they announced they were leaving town for the weekend, I felt relieved. But now as more and more partygoers came in through the front door, that relief turned to panic. What were the Jepsens going to say when they came home?
I sneaked upstairs to my bedroom only to find it was already occupied.
Gross.
I decided to decamp to the kitchen. I knew it would be empty. There I found a box of brownies, mixed them, turned on the oven, and slipped the pan into the oven. After setting the timer, I sat at the table and immersed myself in the world of The Three Musketeers as created by Alexandre Dumas. I came out of the 17th century long enough to take the brownies out of the oven and set them on a rack to cool.
As I smoothed icing onto the cooled brownies, two people stumbled through the kitchen’s Dutch doors. They were locked in a passionate embrace, their tongues snaking in and out of each other’s mouths. She was unbuttoning her blouse. He was struggling with the zipper on her jeans. It took me a minute to realize it was Sam and Veronica.
“Want a brownie?” I said to announce my presence.
“Who are you?” she said, tossing her long, shimmering red hair.
“That’s Kiki,” said Sam. “She’s with Peter.”
Not for long.
“Were you spying on me?” Veronica clasped the front of her blouse, holding it closed.
All this dope-induced paranoia was boring. Really it was. I held out my hand and introduced myself to her. “Does it look like I’m spying? Hello? Note the high-tech equipment: a spatula and a pan of brownies.”
“Come on, Veronica,” said Sam, kissing her. “I think the master bedroom is empty now.”
Veronica pushed him away and wagged a finger at him. “You’re playing with fire.”
“Right. You’re making me hot, babe,” said Sam in a husky voice. “Where were we?”
They giggled and raced away.
Eventually, I fell asleep with my head on the kitchen table. When I woke up, the sun was coming through the windows. The brownies were gone. I yawned, stretched and stood up.
Might as well inspect the damage.
The place was blessedly quiet, but dirty cups, bottles, ashtrays, napkins, and plates littered every surface in the house. The master bedroom door was ajar, and as I suspected, the sheets were rumpled. The room smelled of sex.
Maybe if I cleaned up really well, Mr. and Mrs. Jepsen would never know.
Maybe, but doubtful.
Chapter 6
I spent all day Sunday cleaning. That included washing all the sheets in all the guest bedrooms as well as those from the master. Peter and his brother claimed they had headaches. They sat in front of the television and sipped cold Cokes while I worked.
By the time Sunday night rolled around, I was exhausted. My biceps ached from carrying the heavy vacuum up and down the flights of stairs. I had bruises from moving furniture so I could clean underneath. I found a lot of nasty surprises. Peter and Hank watched me, saying little, except, “Is there anything to eat?”
I fixed them both sandwiches, cleaned for a couple more hours, then showered and went to bed.
Monday morning I awakened to a pounding on my door.
“Open up!”
“Coming.” I pulled on a sweatshirt, plucked my jeans from the floor and hopped into them, fast.
I opened the door to Mrs. Jepsen. Her face was contorted with rage.
“How dare you!”
“Ma’am?”
“Peter told me what you did! You brought dope into our house. You expressly went against our wishes and demanded that the boys have a party! Kiki, I won’t stand for this! When is your flight back? Wednesday?”
I did what?
Elsa Jepsen pushed past me and pawed through my things. Since I didn’t have much, she seized upon my ticket in short order. “You aren’t going anywhere without this, young lady. You are confined to this bedroom. I should turn you into the authorities! Thank your lucky stars that I don’t need that sort of embarrassment!”
She stormed out of the guest bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
Minutes later, Peter tiptoed in, his shoulders heaving with laughter. “That was too much.”
“You told her that I bought the dope? That I demanded you have a party?”
He rolled facedown so the bedclothes would smother his guffaws. “Uh-huh. And she believed it.”
“How could you do that to me?”
I covered my face with my hands. I wanted to find Mrs. Jepsen and proclaim my innocence, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good.
Peter sat up. “She’ll get over it. What else could I do? Hank’s already been involved in one bust. He’s on probation. I got caught with a brick of Maui Wowie back at school.”
“You what?”
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry. It happened back in April.”
I was beyond crying. There was nothing I could do. No one I could call. I’d just have to stick it out until my flight left.
“Get out of my room, Peter.”
But he wouldn’t leave. Instead, he made himself comfortable on my bed.
“I don’t know why you invited me,” I said as I started folding my clothes and stuffing the
m into my suitcase. “I don’t belong here, do I? Was the goal to show me how cool you are? How stinking rich your pals are? Well, I got it, Peter. Thanks for nothing. Now your mom thinks I’m a druggie and a sneak, and my mom will never let me hear the end of this.”
He sprawled across my bed. The sunlight through the window highlighted his freckles. For a minute, I remembered what attracted me to him.
But I shook my head and landed hard on reality. No matter what he said or what he did, we were through.
“Mom will get over it. She always does. She’s got bigger fish to fry. My brother has good news. That’ll soften her up.”
“Oh, joy.” I was too angry to ask what the news might be. “I can’t believe I cleaned all day and didn’t get everything. What did I miss?”
“Hank and I smoked a couple jays up on the roof.”
“The one place I didn’t check.”
“Don’t blame me, sweetheart. You could have joined in. Instead, you played Betty Crocker and missed all the action.”
“I definitely did not miss all the action. I saw plenty. Sam and Veronica gave me an eyeful.”
“Sam and Veronica doing what?” Peter sat bolt upright.
“Pawing each other in the kitchen, on their way to your parents’ bedroom. That’s why I washed all those sheets.”
“You are kidding me.” His face turned pale.
“You’re the liar, pal, not me.” I blinked back tears.
“I’ve got to go.” Peter raced out of my room.
Chapter 7
I really didn’t mind being confined to my room as long as I had a book to read. The Jepsen’s library included Undaunted Courage, the story of Lewis and Clark, a current bestseller. The stiff spine suggested it had never been opened before. That was a shame; all books deserve to be read by someone. Since I needed all the courage I could muster, I dove right in, and the hours flew by.
Around one o’clock, Mrs. Jepsen brought me a lunch tray. The bologna sandwich had been made with the ends of the loaf of bread. “Thanks! I love the ends,” I said as I watched her glower. “They’re my favorites.”
Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 98