by Alice Orr
“Well, there’s your darling brother, of course,” Sonia said finally, touching the corners of her perfectly made-up mouth with the hem of her snow-white napkin. “He has been known to be less than discreet in his acquaintance from time to time.”
“Have you heard that he’s had a girlfriend from downtown? Recently, I mean?”
Sonia let her lovely head fall backward in a precisely choreographed laugh. “My dear, your brother, however totally charming he may be, never lights in one spot long enough to have what you would call a girlfriend, whatever part of town she might hail from.”
That rang entirely true for Bennett. Much as it made her feel disloyal to admit so, even to herself, Forth was simply too much of a lightweight to be mixed up in anything as involved as the kind of scheme that most likely led to Pearlanne Fellows’s death. Bennett was coming to suspect a crafty and meticulous mind at work here. Much as she adored her brother, she would never realistically credit him with either of those qualities of thought.
“What about Royce?” she asked, suddenly remembering the gun in his hand last night and his obvious willingness to use it.
“Royce Boudreaux?” Sonia pursed her lips in a rather mocking expression that, nonetheless, allowed her dimples to show to their best advantage. “That rascal has friends all over town. Some of them are women. Some are not, if you know what I mean.”
“I see” it was now Bennett’s turn to say.
She did know what Sonia meant, but that didn’t make it any less of a surprise. Had all that flirting Royce had done with her over the years been nothing but an act? She was beginning to wonder if she was really aware of the truth about any of the people she had thought she knew so well for so long. Could it be that many of them were wearing disguises as convincing as the one she’d put on last night?
“There is one more person in your particular acquaintance whom I have heard spoken of lately.” Sonia had taken ever so tiny a bite of a crustless triangle filled with a thin layer of smoked salmon. Her napkin touched her lips daintily once more. “I do hesitate to mention him however.”
“Please, tell me.” Bennett could hear her own eagerness, so out of place in her nonchalant circle. She didn’t care about that now. It occurred to her that she might not ever care about that again. “I need to know.”
“I can see that,” Sonia said, the green gleam of curiosity shining brighter than ever in her unrelenting gaze. “Still, I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”
A spark of insight came to Bennett in a flash. “Are you referring to Quint?” she asked.
“Actually, I was,” Sonia said, more quietly than was usual for someone who enjoyed attracting attention as much as she did.
In contradiction with her usual haughtiness, there was what looked like sincere compassion in her eyes. Bennett was grateful for that. She did feel a pang of something very close to the sharpness of betrayal in anticipation of what she was about to hear. However, it was more the sadness of learning that a friend had lied than the devastation of discovering the infidelity of a true and cherished lover. Bennett had long known, in her heart of hearts, that Quint could never be more than the former to her.
“Tell me what you know,” she said, so decisively she knew that Sonia would have to comply. She did.
“It has been rumored for some time now that Quint has been seeing someone, other than yourself, of course. No one seems to know who she is, so we can assume she is from outside our crowd. She could be a downtown type at that. Frankly, I hadn’t considered that possibility, Quint being so, shall we say, precise about things as he is. But then, who knows what is percolating beneath even the most reserved surface, especially these days, especially with men.”
“Yes. Who knows?” Bennett echoed. Her mind was running in so many directions she couldn’t help but sound distracted.
Sonia reached across the table and placed her expertly manicured fingers over Bennett’s hand. “I truly dislike being the one to tell you this,” she said.
Something in Sonia’s voice focused Bennett’s scattered attention on those remarkable green eyes. “Yes, I believe you do.”
There was more to Sonia than Bennett had previously realized. Suddenly she knew she wouldn’t mind giving Sonia the entree to one of the prestigious social affair committees she craved to be associated with. Maybe she could even take Bennett’s place, now that she suspected she might be giving her interest to other things, though she wasn’t at all certain what those other things might be.
Still there was some shock in learning that Quint had very possibly been deceiving her. A lifetime of St. Simon upbringing prompted Bennett to look away for a moment while that shock might be too visible in her eyes. That was when her attention was suddenly captured by a glimpse of red hair through the palm fronds. Nick, the tough guy who had accosted her and Memphis last night and been after them ever since, was just now walking past the Palm Court at a rapid clip. Bennett thought she might have seen his sidekick in tow, but she had to look away before she could make certain of that.
Most fortuitously, the waiter had chosen that moment to stop by their table and inquire if there was anything further he could do for them. In a move so uncharacteristic that Bennett could hardly believe she was doing it herself, she grabbed the waiter’s sleeve and literally pulled him in front of her so that he was blocking the view of her from the promenade. Sonia’s eyebrows shot up so high they looked as if they might become permanently implanted at her hairline.
“Is something wrong, Ms. St. Simon?” the waiter asked, looking and sounding totally bewildered, a state almost unheard of in any of the Plaza’s deliberately unflappable staff.
Bennett peeked around his white-jacketed arm. The streak of red hair was nowhere to be seen, but she maintained her grip on the waiter’s sleeve a few seconds longer to be sure. When she let go, he backed away a step, probably to prevent being latched onto again. Sonia’s lovely mouth remained open in undisguised astonishment. Bennett understood that an explanation was in order, but there was no time for that now.
“Put this on the family account,” she said to the waiter, indicating the barely sampled food and drink on the table. “I apologize for having to dash off like this,” she said to Sonia. “I will be in touch with you very soon. And thank you for everything.”
Bennett didn’t stay long enough to hear either response. She was already headed out of the Palm Court in the opposite direction from that Nick had taken. If her mind had not been set so firmly on other things, she might have heard the gears of the gossip mill grinding into fast forward behind her.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Fiddlehead was a ninety-foot motor yacht with a crew of five. Ten passengers could fit comfortably on board in the four staterooms, twelve if you put a couple in the saloon. This was traveling first-class with all of what a sales brochure might call the amenities. Memphis called them toys. The Fiddlehead had navigated the seas from the Caribbean to the Mediterranean, but she still wasn’t his idea of seafaring. He preferred the power of the sail, filling with wind, streaking along with a sleek vessel in tow. He loved the feel of it, the taste of it, the silence and freedom of it. But the Fiddlehead paid well and let him keep five good men in a job.
Unfortunately, she had brought him to a port of call that turned out to be a port of trouble. He couldn’t wait to leave, and not just because the cops were after him. The song might say, “I left my heart in San Francisco,” but when he finally blew out of this bad-luck town, he’d be leaving his heart in New York City. He knew that if he could just quit thinking about Bennett, he’d be okay. He also knew it was going to take some time and a lot of distance to make that happen. He’d been thinking about leaving the sea life behind, but today all he cared about was getting back to it quickly with no stops in between, especially no stops in jail.
The boat life was a world a guy could escape into and get lost in. Maybe a berth on a ride as classy as the Fiddlehead wouldn’t be possible for a man with forged papers, but there w
ere captains not so choosy who’d be happy to have a man on crew who understood the water like Memphis did. Greece was always a way to go. They didn’t ask so many questions there. Sea bums had found their perfect refuge in Greece as far back as the classical days. Too bad that when Memphis thought about sailing the bright blue waters of the Aegean, the image always had Bennett at his side, on deck with the breeze in her hair and the sun warming her fair skin to a golden glow.
He could hardly believe how, in the next second after that fantasy made him feel so good, the loss of it made him feel so bad. There never was going to be any shipboard romance with this woman. There never was going to be anything with this woman. When push came to shove, she’d stuck up for her own kind. He’d been a fool not to know that would happen. Maybe he did know it and took the chance anyway, even if all he got out of it was a one-night stand and a couple of memories. Why worry about the afterward? How could he have guessed he was sticking his feelings into a meat grinder so they could be mangled and tossed out the other end. He never would have thought that could happen in a matter of a few hours, but it had. He was going to need many times that long to get back to normal, if he could ever get back there again.
Right now, though, what he had to do was keep an eye on the Fiddlehead. She was docked at Twenty-third Street Marina, just like he’d heard she would be when he was listening in on the phone. He’d come here to the marina straight from the hotel. He wasn’t quite sure what to do next, but this was the only place he could make a connection. He knew the crew. His stuff was in his quarters on board. Besides, he was curious about this smuggling thing. A search of the boat might turn up something of interest. He wasn’t sure where to start looking on such a big vessel, but he felt like giving it a try anyway. He didn’t let himself think too much about the possibility that what he was really doing was looking for ways to get his mind off Bennett and just spinning his wheels in the bargain.
He’d been hanging around under the FDR Drive while he watched the Fiddlehead. Nobody paid much attention to guys just hanging around in this town, especially in the areas along the edges of the city like this one was. People driving by would figure he was homeless or out of work or a loiterer, if they took notice of him at all. This was a good place to be invisible, and that was what he had to be right now. He was thinking about moving in closer to the marina. He’d guess that the crew would be off checking out the city. They had spent more than enough time on shipboard already. When the chance came to go ashore, they took it. One person might have stayed behind to check on things, but Memphis doubted it. They wouldn’t think twice about him being gone, either. They’d figure he got lucky with one of the shoreside girls. Memphis didn’t even think to put Bennett in that category.
In the meantime, the harbormaster for the marina would keep track of the vessel. That meant Memphis couldn’t get on board from the land side without going through the proper channels. Memphis had ID that showed he was heading up the Fiddlehead crew, but he didn’t know if he dared use it. If the cops were after him, they would have been here to check him out already, unless they didn’t know who he was yet. He should have grabbed the local newspapers on his way over here to find out what they had to say about last night. He would have done that if he had his head on straight this morning. Thanks to Bennett, he didn’t. Anyway, he was taking a big risk to try an up-front approach here.
The only other possibility was to come in from the water side. Memphis could do that if he had to. He’d need to scout out a place to stash his leather jacket and boots. Then he’d find a place to slip into the water and swim for it. The East River currents were strong and treacherous, but if he kept close to the shore along the dockside he could make it. He started walking south along the roadway parallel to the waterfront, looking for a place to get into the water without being too conspicuous about it. He’d have to swim in from below the marina, out of sight of the dock house on the pier, then keep close in to the bulls of the other boats till he got to the Fiddlehead and could ease himself up over the side. The harbor man would be paying most attention to the shoreside when it came to looking out for possible intruders. He wouldn’t be expecting anybody to swim in, and that would work to Memphis’s advantage.
Not to his advantage was the fact that, the farther he walked the more obvious it became that he would have to make a lot longer swim to get to the marina than he would have hoped. First of all, he had to get past this fancylooking place coming up. The two-story, long white building with lots of glass out front and pinlights in the trees looked like a restaurant, an upscale kind of place from what he could see of it. That most likely meant lots more glass on the river side of the building so the customers could get the best view. He would have to just about crawl along the shore wall to be low enough to keep out of sight. It was near lunchtime, too. The river side would probably be crowded with people, as were the outdoor tables on the deck atop the building. He’d have to do that stretch underwater for sure.
A chain along one end of the car lot had a sign in the middle of it that said Parking For Water Club Customers Only. So this was the Water Club. He’d heard of it from somebody or other on board the Fiddlehead. It was a restaurant, just as he’d thought, and definitely upscale. He was thinking about how he wouldn’t like to end up being the luncheon theater act for the high-tone patrons of this place when something drew his attention to the parking lot. There were lots of expensive rides in there, but only one of them caught his eye. About the middle of the second row he’d spotted a long, low sports car with a slight bend in the aerial off the back. He was almost certain this had to be the same Jaguar XKE he’d been roaring around town in last night. Before he could give himself time to think about whether or not this was a smart move to make, he was on a beeline for that parking lot and the XKE.
Memphis did have his wits enough about him to check out what was happening with the doorman-attendant at the front of the restaurant. He was helping a couple of very well dressed folks out of a Town Car at the moment. At least that was one small stroke of luck in Memphis’s favor on this otherwise downside-of-the-odds day. He moved quickly and got under the parking lot chain. He was at the XKE before the hairs on the back of the neck told him he’d been spotted.
“Hey, man,” the attendant called out. “What ya doin’ there?”
Memphis was pretty sure the guy figured he was trying to steal this car or at best rob whatever was inside it. They probably didn’t get too many dudes in leather and denim coming to this place to do lunch. There was a good chance the guy would go for the cops straight off. Still Memphis had to find out if what he suspected was true. He bent down to look through the Jaguar’s side window. This was the very car. He had a great memory for details. He could have picked this car out of a hundred other Jags if he had to.
“Listen up, buddy,” the attendant was saying. He was louder and closer now. “I asked you what you’re doing, and you’d better answer me.”
Memphis was wondering which approach he should take. He could try a bluff, some kind of cover story off the top of his head. Or he could take off at a dead run. Both of these possibilities had their pitfalls, some of them deep enough to fall into and never be seen again. He was wavering between the big lie and the fast getaway when he heard a voice that blew every thought he’d ever had clean out of his head.
“That’s all right, Max,” the voice crooned, smooth as syrup and twice as sweet. “Mr. Sinclair is with me.”
Memphis got the message right off that she’d called him that in case he needed a cover for his real name. Maybe she’d seen the papers, and he was splashed all over the front page so she had to be careful about giving him away. He should have cared about all of that more than he did. All he could care about was that she was here. He looked up to see the attendant already on his way back to the front door of the restaurant and Bennett St. Simon walking toward the Jaguar, looking like either an angel from heaven or the devil that wouldn’t quit haunting Memphis’s soul.
Ch
apter Twenty-Two
Bennett busied herself with bending down and looking into Royce’s car so she wouldn’t have to look Memphis in the face or see him glaring back at her. There could be no question now that he had heard her on the phone in their room at the Plaza. That was what had brought him to this part of town.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. Apparently he was not willing to let her avoid him for long.
“I came to see this car,” she said, preferring to give him only partial answers at the moment.
“Were you feeling nostalgic for our little tour of the city last night?”
So he was going to be like that—sarcastic and difficult. She was reminded of when they’d first met the evening before. She could feel the same tension between them now. He was the aggressor and she was the enemy, the annoying stranger who had to be kept in line.
“I’m not nostalgic about anything,” she said.
That was altogether untrue. She was already remembering last night at the hotel as from the distance of years of regret for its loss. She wanted to tell him that, and of how she didn’t want that loss to be inevitable. On the other hand, she didn’t want to get her heart broken, smashed apart right here on this too-public spot by the harsh words he might very well speak to her. She must have succeeded in silencing those possibly hurtful words because he did not answer. He made a harrumphing noise instead, obviously to show his disgust with her in general. She busied herself with pushing the side window vent. Luck was with her, at least in this. Royce had neglected to lock the vent, and it creaked open. She strained to reach inside far enough to grab the door handle.
“What are you doing?” he asked, sounding more annoyed than ever.
“I am breaking into Royce Boudreaux’s car.”