The Drowning Tree

by Carol Goodman

  I turn to Falco to put him out of his misery but he holds a finger up to his lips and signals for me to be quiet. He hasn’t, after all, spent the last few minutes pondering over mythological references. He’s listening to the conversation occurring behind the screens in Gavin’s office.

  “AND I TOLD YOU, THE BILL WILL BE PAID BY THE END OF THE WEEK. I HAVE A SMALL liquidity problem at the moment due to a fund transfer from the family estate. If you don’t wish to wait I can always suggest that the college look elsewhere for its landscaping needs next year …”

  There’s a pause during which I raise my eyebrows at Falco and he, in turn, mouths the words small liquidity problem with such mock gravity that I nearly burst out laughing. He’s managed, without uttering a sound, to mimic Gavin Penrose’s upper-class inflections to a tee.

  “Yes, I realize the flowers for the party aren’t a college expense and I certainly never meant to imply that they were—”

  I look down at the narrow canal of water that feeds into the fountain in the central courtyard. It’s clogged with fragrant white gardenias. The marble urns that line the hallway are filled with the same assortment of white lilies, lilacs, and roses as the urns in the courtyard. The air is thick with the sweet smell of so many flowers, some of which, like the white lilacs and lilies, must cost a fortune because they’re out of season.

  “No, I never told your girl that they should go on the college account. This is a private party—which I should be attending to at this very moment so if you’d please …”

  I miss the last few words because Falco waves with one hand to guide me back down the hall to the courtyard while keeping one finger to his lips. I take one step and he cringes at the slap of my sandals on the tile floor so I slip out of them and walk the rest of the way barefoot and silent like some penitent nun. What I’m thinking of is Gavin’s phrase your girl. The landscape company that has the contract for the college grounds is Minelli and Sons. Dominic Minelli is Annemarie’s husband’s uncle. Uncle Dom. A sweet potbellied man who always gave Bea a daisy or a miniature potted cactus (Bea’s favorite) when we’d go into the nursery to buy flats of geraniums and impatiens for my father’s flower boxes. The girl Gavin is referring to could only be Dom’s unmarried daughter, Angela, who graduated top in her class at Hunter College and gave up a job at one of the top eight accounting firms to help in the family business when her mother died five years ago. She does my taxes every year and she’s one of the smartest people I know. If Angela was under the impression that Gavin was charging the flowers for this party to the college it could only be because that’s what he told her.

  When we get to the courtyard I start to explain all this to Daniel Falco, but he shushes me again and hurries me through the dining room and out onto the terrace. A light rain has chased most of the guests inside, but still he guides me under a pergola at the far end of the terrace, which gives some protection from the rain and makes us nearly invisible from the house. Falco leans back against the balustrade, nearly knocking over one of the frosted glass luminaria (shaped like a gardenia, I notice) that have been set up all along the length of the terrace and along the garden paths—and I rest my arms on the cool marble and look out at the formal rose garden below us—its perfectly manicured hedges and flourishing roses a testament to the care of Minelli and Sons. I know the rose garden is Dominic Minelli’s favorite part of the grounds because of its Italianate formality—a leftover from the previous estate that had been on this property before the Penroses came. The rest of the grounds are landscaped in a more naturalistic manner that harmonizes with the Arts & Crafts style of the buildings.

  “I know Dom and Angela Minelli,” Falco tells me when I begin my defense of Angela, “and I couldn’t agree more. Angela would never make a mistake like that.”

  “So Gavin must have tried to get the college to pay for the flowers, and when he got called on it he didn’t have the money to pay for them himself. I’ve always thought he was so wealthy—he’s always driven expensive cars, traveled in Europe, and he’s got an apartment in the city and a house in the Hamptons.” And this beautiful house to live in rent free, I think, gazing at the manicured box hedge maze and the marble statues glowing dimly in the greenery, some of which, I notice when a piece of marble drapery seems to move in the breeze, have been draped in the same tulle as the picture frames in the dining room.

  “So what he’s got,” Falco says, “is an expensive lifestyle on a college president’s salary—which would probably be plenty for you or me but might fall short of the image he likes to present.”

  “I guess I just assumed he was wealthy because he’s a Penrose, but actually, Augustus Penrose gave most of his money and all of his property on this side of the river, except for the glass factory, to the college—”

  “—and the glass factory went bankrupt in the sixties,” Falco adds.

  “There’s still all that land on the west side of the river where Astolat used to be.”

  Falco shakes his head. “It can’t be developed. Augustus Penrose stipulated that in his will. The Land Conservancy has been trying to gain control of it, but I’ve heard that it can’t even be sold until a specified number of years after Augustus’s death—I forget how many.”

  “So Gavin might actually have very little other than his salary to live on.” I think of the figure the young Gavin Penrose had cut all those years ago when he’d pull up in front of our dorm—the smart, preppy clothes, the out-of-season tan. It would never have occurred to me that he didn’t have all the money he could possibly need—but then I suppose that someone who grew up in the shadow of a once-wealthy family might have needs more extensive than anything I could imagine. For instance, I can’t imagine needing that apartment in the city and a vacation home when he lives here. It’s like Arcadia, I think, gazing at a grouping of statues of three girls with their arms clasped around each other’s waists. The Three Graces, I suppose, although I can’t remember them being there.

  “I guess his financial situation will change when he marries Joan Shelley,” I say, “but I bet you she has no idea that he has any money problems.”

  “No, I’m sure Mr. Penrose has been careful to create the impression that he’s at least comfortably well-off. I imagine a woman like Joan Shelley—”

  “Shh,” I touch his arm and shake my head. “I think that’s Joan down in the garden. Look …”

  The statues I’d been admiring at the far end of the garden have for some time looked oddly lifelike—an effect I’d attributed to the flickering candlelight from the luminaria, their tulle wraps, and the two mojitos I had drunk. But now two of the three graces—a tall one and a short one—have undeniably detached themselves from the grouping and are wending their way through the box hedge maze, giggling as they trip over their wispy drapery. The third grace stands frozen and lonely and I remember now that she’s not a grace; she’s a statue of my namesake, Juno.

  Before the two women in white reach us, they’re joined by a third figure who appears out of the shrubbery just below the pergola.

  “Did you get it, Fay?” the tall grace, whom I recognize now as Regula Howell, asks.

  “Did we look like statues?” the short grace, Joan Shelley, chimes in. “Do you think it will come out? Do you have the right film for night pictures—” and then seeing Falco and me standing above them on the terrace, calls out, “Reg and I have been playing statues. We did it all the time in college and Fay offered to take our pictures. Did you get it, Fay?” Joan asks, repeating Regula’s initial question.

  Fay is looking down at the settings on her camera—a large 35 millimeter Nikon. She looks up, not at Joan and Regula, but at me and Daniel Falco. “Yes,” she says, “I got everything. I was in the perfect location.”

  JOAN AND REGULA COME UP THE STEPS TO THE TERRACE HOLDING UP THEIR DAMP skirts. Fay trails behind like the forgotten third grace.

  “I didn’t know you were a photographer,” I say to Fay, hoping that when she’s forced to look at me I
’ll be able to guess if she overheard our conversation about Gavin.

  She does look annoyed when she looks at me, but then she looks down again and mutters something about the film being stuck. “It’s just a hobby,” she says. “I started taking pictures at college functions for the alumnae magazine and Mr. Penrose liked them so much he asked me to take the pictures for his engagement party.”

  “That’s just like Gavin,” Joan says, “always bringing out people’s hidden talents.” I glance down at Joan, who’s leaning against the balustrade, balanced on one foot while she puts her sandals back on—a pose that reminds me of a classical statue at the Met. She looks younger and more girlish than I remember her from four weeks ago at Christine’s lecture—she looks like a woman in love. If she suspects that Gavin might have another reason for getting Fay to act as unpaid photographer she certainly doesn’t show it.

  Regula is also ready to sing Gavin’s praises. “I haven’t seen so many gardenias since I went to Joan’s cotillion in Charleston! And look at this,” she says, lifting Joan’s hand and angling it so we can all see the chunky diamond on her left ring finger—six carats at least, I estimate, recalling a gemology class I took a few years back when I started incorporating cut crystals into my glass designs.

  Joan pulls her hand free and swats her friend on the arm playfully—all with her wrist flexed so that the diamond catches the candlelight from the luminaria and shines to its best advantage. “Reg! As if I cared about how big a ring I got! What I love is how thoughtful Gav is. He chose gardenias for the party’s theme because I’m from the South.” She picks up one of the votive candleholders to show to Detective Falco as an example of her fiance’s thoughtfulness. “Isn’t it darling? And wait till you see the cake—it’s shaped like a giant gardenia. He had it done up by this sweet little Italian bakery called Gal’s that he’s been going to since he was a little boy.”

  “Cafe Galatea,” I say, “my mother’s cousin runs it. In fact, I think I’ll go back to the kitchen to see if her daughter’s helping with the catering—” I notice that Falco is glaring at me as I back away from the group, no doubt because he’s dreading being left alone to hear Regula and Joan’s tales of cotillions and gardenia blossoms, but I wink at him and mouth the word bill as I turn to flee. From the confused look on his face I gather he thinks I’m talking about someone named Bill. But he’s a detective, I think, threading myself through the partyers in the dining room, he’ll figure out that I mean to find out if Gavin has paid up for all these cannolis and biscotti.

  I cut through the central courtyard and into the butler’s pantry and kitchen on the north side of the house. I’m familiar with the layout because I helped cater a few parties myself back when I went here—and for a couple of years after as well—whenever Annemarie needed the help or she guessed I needed the extra money. She always made sure I worked in the kitchen doing setup and cleanup instead of serving so I could be spared the awkwardness of handing out canapés to my rich classmates. I’m not surprised that she’s got Portia working back here or that she’s put Portia’s friend—the industrious Latin scholar, Scott Heeley—to work washing dishes. Unfortunately, neither of them had anticipated my appearance; I find them kissing over a tray of half-filled cannolis.

  “Zia Juno! What are you doing here?” Portia pushes away from Scott, who turns and plunges his hands into the huge sink full of soapy water (from the color of his face I’d wager he’d like to dive in headfirst and swim away), takes up a pastry tube, and hurriedly resumes stuffing cheese filling into the cannolis. I notice that both of them are liberally sprinkled with the confectioner’s sugar meant to dust the pastries. The whole scene reminds me of Francesca’s account in The Inferno of the courtship between herself and Paolo—how their book was interrupted by a kiss so “that day we read no further.” Without my sudden intrusion Portia and Scott might one day be saying, “that day we stuffed no cannolis further.”

  “I just wanted to see if you needed any help back here—but it looks like you have everything under control.” Scott’s ears and the back of his neck turn an even brighter pink. I turn away from him to look at the cake that Annemarie was working on when I came by earlier today. Sitting on a linen-covered serving cart strewn with real gardenia leaves, the flower-shaped cake gleams like polished ivory. Annemarie has outdone herself; it must have taken her all day to create this masterpiece. “Is your mother here?” I ask.

  “She had to run down to the cafe for more ricotta for the filling. I hope she’s back in time to serve the cake so she can get the credit for it. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “Multo bello. I hope this crowd appreciates it—and I hope your mother charged enough for it. She’s always underselling herself.”

  “Uh-uh. She told me no more—finito—she’s putting away every penny for my tuition to Penrose in the fall.” Portia raises her head and licks a dab of cheese filling off her finger and grins.

  “Penrose? You heard?”

  “Yep. I’m in—plus I’ve gotten a partial scholarship that pays half my tuition, but we’ll need the money from these catering jobs to pay for the rest—”

  I step around the counter and hug Portia. Her apron is damp and she smells like vanilla and lemon dishwashing soap. When I step back I realize I’ve gotten confectioner’s sugar all over my dress. “—so we’d better get back to work,” Portia continues, trying to repress the grin on her face. “Mom says she’s owed on two other jobs she did for Mr. Penrose and she wants to make sure we do a super job on this one so we can collect for all three this week.”

  SINCE ANNEMARIE ISN’T BACK YET, PORTIA ASKS ME TO HELP HER BRING THE CAKE out. I send Scott ahead to tell Gavin Penrose to assemble the guests in the dining room and to make sure we’ve got a clear path through the courtyard. As we push the serving trolley across the uneven tiled floor I keep my eyes on the cake, which trembles gently, like a real gardenia blossom on a wind-swept branch. I have to stop myself from reaching out with my hand to steady it and spoiling the glossy buttercream icing.

  I hear the little oohs and aahs from the assembled guests before looking up to see them gathered in a semicircle around the dining room table. Gavin Penrose and Joan Shelley are standing in the front on either side of the table. Green porcelain plates shaped like leaves—no paper plates for this occasion!—have been arranged across the table in a deceptively haphazard manner so that it looks as if they had been blown there by a summer storm. Real gardenia leaves and petals have been scattered on the white linen tablecloth.

  When Scott and another young man have finished filling champagne glasses Gavin lifts his glass and holds it aloft toward his fiancée.

  “To my southern belle, my sweet gardenia blossom, fairer than that bloom because you will never fade. She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, for ever wilt thou love and she be fair!”

  The guests raise their glasses and drink. I hand plates to Portia while she cleverly cuts the cake so that each slice looks like a petal. I hand the first plates to Gavin and Joan, who proceed to feed each other mouthfuls of cake.

  “You ready to go?” asks Falco, who’s sidled up to me, hands stuffed deep in his pockets.

  “Aren’t you going to have some cake?”

  “I’ve lost my appetite,” he says, looking toward Gavin and Joan, who have managed to get cake crumbs and icing all over their faces.

  “Yeah, feeding each other cake has always been right up there with ‘where’s the garter’ as my least favorite wedding tradition—and it’s not even their wedding!” I lower my voice but still I’m surprised at my own crankiness. Am I becoming a bitter divorcée carping at the happiness of others? Or is it the fact that Gavin chose the same poem—Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn”—to toast his new fiancée that he used to eulogize Christine a week ago that’s left me with a bitter taste in my mouth?

  WHEN HE PULLS UP IN FRONT OF THE FACTORY, DETECTIVE FALCO—I’M STILL having trouble thinking of him as Daniel—puts his car in park but doesn’t turn of
f the engine. Although I hadn’t exactly been thinking about asking him in, something about his assumption that I won’t irks me. Or maybe I’m just still in a bad mood from the sight of Gavin and Joan enjoying their engagement cake.

  “Are you sure Gavin Penrose’s alibi is airtight?” I ask.

  Falco turns to face me. “Airtight? I think you’ve been watching too much Law & Order …”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Well, he says he drove Joan Shelley home to Manhattan and then drove out to his house in the Hamptons. His E-ZPass account clocks him crossing the Triboro Bridge at 12:53 AM—”

  “Someone else could have been driving the car …”

  “—and we have a video record of an ATM withdrawal in Riverhead at 2:33 AM and a credit card purchase the following morning of some expensive garden knickknacks at a nursery in Sagaponack. So unless Mr. Penrose had an accomplice—and no, it can’t be Joan Shelley because she was at a co-op meeting at nine AM on the Upper East Side—with his taste in Mongolian sixth-century jardinieres, I’m afraid he’s not our man. Why do you want him to be so much?”

  I look past Falco at the dark factory that I call home. “I guess I was spinning a little romance between him and Christine when I saw them together after the lecture and it bothers me that he was actually already engaged to Joan Shelley. Maybe he really liked Christine, but he needed to marry Joan for her money … it just doesn’t seem fair to Christine.”

  “Look, I’m asking for blood samples from Penrose, Nathan Bell, and your ex, Neil Buchwald. If any one of them turns out to be the father of Christine’s child, I’ll let you know.”