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  She marched toward him, took his arm, and they paraded to the front door with Belle dutifully trailing behind. When she eventually caught Rosco’s glance, she rolled her eyes in such an exaggerated fashion, he almost choked to keep from laughing aloud.

  3

  In honor of the dinner dance, the Patriot Yacht Club’s security guards had been outfitted in replicas of uniforms worn by Revolutionary War marines. Matching the Colonial-era theme, all exterior electric lighting had been reconfigured into oil lanterns and bayberry candles that illuminated only a few figures at a time while leaving the rest in darkness: women in silk evening dresses hurrying in and out of the light, their escorts half-hidden in timeless black, and the gaitered, brass-buttoned marines who stood at attention as if awaiting General Washington and his entourage.

  Approaching the long brick building along a cobblestoned drive, Belle took it all in. If it weren’t for the fact that she’d been crammed into the backseat of an antiquated, slightly rusted, red Jeep, and that the two cars arriving immediately prior to Rosco’s were glossy black Lincoln Town Cars, she would have sworn she’d slipped into an earlier era.

  Belle had remained quiet for the ride from Sara’s house, opting for a speak-when-spoken-to attitude that only compounded the absurd, little-girl sensation of being stuck in the back of Rosco’s car. It was like acting a part in a movie, she decided; tonight she was no longer Belle Graham, once married, now divorced, a woman who had a successful job, owned a house, voted, paid taxes, and was romantically involved with one Rosco Polycrates. Tonight she’d been thrust backward through the decades to a time when young women were “girls” and older women their superiors—and despotic chaperons.

  Sara had seemed content to spend the trip complimenting Rosco on everything from how exhilarating it was to “travel in such a manly vehicle” to his “choice of haberdashery.” Belle practiced smiling to herself, although sometimes the expression turned grim; it wasn’t easy to compete with a woman of eighty-plus—especially on that lady’s uneven playing field.

  As a uniformed valet opened the passenger-seat door, Sara suddenly seemed to remember Belle’s presence. “Rosco must be quite smitten with you, Miss Graham,” she murmured in a stage whisper. “He usually doesn’t wear socks, you know.”

  Belle forced a smile. “Call me Belle . . . please . . .” then added a determined: “I’m sure Rosco’s choice of footwear is your influence, Mrs. Briephs.”

  Sara laughed as she took Rosco’s arm. “We must have tea one of these afternoons, dear girl . . .” She paused for a moment to consider the invitation. Belle could see years of female machinations spinning across a seemingly serene face. “On second thought, I’m free Monday. Shall we say four o’clock?”

  Belle groaned inwardly, but a glance at Rosco revealed the importance he placed on her friendship with this fierce old woman. “That will be very nice, Mrs. Briephs.”

  “Good. Now, Rosco, let us brave the beasts . . . one of them being my brother, Hal.”

  “I didn’t know the senator would be here this evening,” Rosco answered while giving Belle a clandestine nod of gratitude and encouragement. “I’ll make it up to you,” he mouthed. “I promise.”

  “Oh, my dear! He wouldn’t miss this party on a dare! There are more votes in this building than you can shake a stick at—to say nothing of campaign funding in this all-important year. I may insist that my brother is a traitor to his class, but, liberal though he may be, he remains a Crane in a city where ancestry counts.”

  With that, Sara swept through the club’s entrance as two doormen snapped to attention. Naturally, Sara knew their names—and the names of their offspring. And, naturally, her brief queries on everyone’s health were treated like pearls of wisdom.

  “Quite a performance,” Belle whispered to Rosco.

  “She’s all right,” Rosco answered. “It just takes her a while to warm up.”

  “Are we talking geological ages? Or human years?”

  The club’s foyer was awash with people and noise. The multicolored marble floor inlaid with a polished brass compass rose did nothing to diminish the clamor; neither did the domed ceiling, which Belle decided resembled a smaller version of the Capitol’s rotunda in Washington. Men in full evening regalia and women with meticulously coiffed and lacquered hair were everywhere; all seemed to be talking at once. Those who weren’t already in animated conversation were busy greeting friends; the air was full of ancient, prep-school nicknames and kisses that brushed past powdered cheeks.

  “We’ll head for the club room,” Sara commanded in a stentorian tone. “It’s a mostly male enclave, and Hal will be working the crowd. I want him to meet you, Rosco . . . at long last.” She smiled glowingly, although the expression was not intended for her brother.

  As the three pushed their way through the jostling throng, a voice with a curiously mannered British accent assailed them: “Mrs. Briephs! Such an inestimable pleasure! An event such as this would never be complete without your gilded presence!” The speaker was a diminutive man with a nearly bald head across which a few wispy strands of parchment-colored hair drifted in the breeze. Everything about him was small, almost preposterously frail, but the most outstanding feature of his appearance was a pair of horn-rim glasses so large and prominent they made his eyes look like those of a mutant insect. Six weeks prior, amid great hoopla—and a lucrative new contract—Bartholomew Kerr had been lured from his position as society-page editor of the Newcastle Herald to create a gossip column at the Evening Crier: a column known as Biz-y Buzz that was already the rage of the city’s socialites.

  A notepad seemed permanently affixed to Kerr’s tiny left hand while a pencil paused doggedly in his right and a battered camera drooped from a strap around his neck. “You know who’s rumored to be coming tonight, don’t you?” Bartholomew’s bug eyes glinted upward. He nodded briefly but magnanimously to fellow Crier employee Belle, while nearly ignoring Rosco—all the while affixing a rapturous expression on Sara. Kerr was a man who knew where his bread was buttered. “A photo, dear lady, if I may be so bold?”

  Her picture was snapped before the grande dame had time to protest. “I have not been apprised of the guest list, Bartholomew,” she said. “But I imagine it comprises the usual suspects.” Sara extended icy fingers and moved on before Bartholomew had further opportunity to speak. “Dreadful snoop,” she whispered to Rosco. “When he worked at the Herald, my son had the most terrible things to say about him.” Then memory stopped her. “But, of course, you know that—”

  A communal gush of “It’s Jamaica Nevisson!” interrupted Sara as the actress made a dazzlingly theatrical entrance. She paused mid-stride as if overwhelmed by the throng before her, then cast down bashful eyes that finally rose in hopeful exultation. In the space of a nanosecond she transformed herself from lowly walk-on to glamorous diva; every inch of her sculpted body reverberated with pride in her well-honed powers of persuasion.

  With Jamaica, of course, were the Peppers. Genie shrank back with a gentle murmur of “Good evening all,” but Tom quickly captured a sizable piece of the limelight. A crowd of pedigreed, Ivy-Leagued, moneyed, and socially superior citizens surged slavishly toward the trio, calling out an excited round of “Tom! Good to see you, old man!” “Genie! Looking marvelous as ever!” “And this must be your intriguing houseguest . . . ?”

  “Well.” Sara sniffed. “So, it’s come to this! Actresses and arrivistes ruling the Patriot Yacht Club! And look at that scandalous frock! What is this city coming to?”

  “Here’s to the suspension of reality,” Rosco whispered to Belle.

  “The last of the great Greek philosophers, I see.” She smiled in return, then looked at Jamaica again. Envy and curiosity filled her brain. While those thoughts careened around her head, Bartholomew Kerr snapped a photo.

  “Very nice, Annabella,” he purred. “Stage Struck?, I think I’ll call it.”

  “I’d say you were definitely a fish out of water.” The husky fem
ale voice was closer to Rosco’s ear than the crowd lining the dance floor seemed to warrant. He took his eyes from Belle and a rather cumbrous and sweaty partner to find Jamaica Nevisson beside him.

  “Watch out, boy, this lady’s big trouble for single guys.”

  Tom materialized at her back. Close up, they looked larger than life. Rosco had a sense of something like electrical energy emanating from their bodies; his reaction was to inch forward as if these two people had created their own magnetic field.

  “Let me guess,” Pepper’s voice boomed out. “Navigational aids?”

  “What?” Rosco’s mind was blank.

  “No, no, wait . . . You look like a guy who sees more action than someone who owns a manufacturing company . . . Yacht Club . . . Yacht Club . . . Don’t give me any hints; I’m good at this . . . Wait, I’ve got it! . . . You’re a member of the America’s Cup team, right?”

  Rosco almost turned around to see if Pepper was addressing a person other than himself, but Tom’s powerful gaze held him—as did the hearty smile, the perfect white teeth, the knot in the formal tie that Rosco couldn’t have replicated in a hundred years. No doubt about it, Tom Pepper was a charismatic guy. “I’m not a sailor, sir—and never will be. My name’s Rosco Polycrates . . . I’m a private investigator.”

  Tom’s infectious laughter pealed forth again. “A private eye! What do you know! . . . And with a name like Rosco! I like it . . . Strong product recognition . . . That’s good . . . That’s good . . . Marketing is everything these days . . . a private eye . . .”

  Then he turned quietly earnest. “Forget the ‘sir’ business, Rosco. I’m Tom, and this is my wife’s longtime friend Jamaica Nevisson. The two gals were actresses together, if you can believe it . . . That’s before I snagged my little Genie away from the boards.” Tom looked at Jamaica with an expression Rosco could only interpret as that of a benevolent relative ignoring a youthful indiscretion.

  “I saw your photo in The Globe,” Rosco stammered, and immediately regretted the remark. When Tom’s face clouded in anger, Rosco felt decidedly worse.

  “Ahhh, then you’ve seen quite a bit of me.” Jamaica drew out the words; although her expression had turned stony, her tone was disturbingly flirtatious.

  “Well, it was in the supermarket . . . I only saw the cover. I didn’t open up the magazine.”

  “You must be the only man in America who didn’t.” A tight smile played across Jamaica’s wide lips.

  “It was an outrageous invasion of privacy,” Tom fumed. His healthy pink skin had turned a mottled red. “Jamaica’s been hounded by that lunatic photographer for years. Coming out here was the only way she could lose him.”

  Jamaica kept her sultry gaze on Rosco. “Maybe I should get myself a private dick . . . What do you think, Tom? Get rid of that damned Flack once and for all?”

  But Pepper ignored the question, giving Rosco the impression that the investor already had a plan for dealing with Jamaica’s pesky paparazzo—a plan, Rosco imagined, involving a phalanx of highly paid lawyers. “So, Rosco, I take it you and I are the only men here who aren’t mad for water sports?”

  “I’m happier on dry land.” Rosco started to insert another deferential “sir,” but stopped himself in time.

  “Put ’er there, pardner! I can’t put my feet on anything that rocks or rolls or pitches or tosses, without worrying I’ll lose my lunch . . . I leave nautical pursuits to the distaff side.”

  “I still wish you’d agree to come to Nantucket with Genie and me tomorrow, Tom,” Jamaica cooed, although her green eyes remained fastened to Rosco. “It would be such fun!”

  “Not for me, it wouldn’t! . . . So, Rosco, how does a landlubber like you find yourself at a shindig like this? Or are you here on business?”

  Tom’s broad wink made Rosco relax, and he began to explain his connection to Sara—and then to Belle—while Pepper nodded enthusiastic approval, concluding with a noisy “I like this guy!” that seemed loud enough for half the room to hear.

  But before conversation could continue, Pepper and Jamaica were lured away with enthusiastic cries of “Tom! The mayor needs to talk with you about . . .” and “Miss Nevisson, may I introduce . . . ?” In parting, Jamaica gave Rosco’s arm a gentle but provocative squeeze. “Come for supper with your little lady sometime. Genie and I are off on a weeklong cruise tomorrow . . . but after that . . . I plan to be around Newcastle for a while . . . a long while . . .” The way Jamaica said “a long while” made Rosco blush all the way down to his patent-leather shoes.

  “I saw that.” Belle had stepped off the dance floor, deserting her sweating partner with a polite but unencouraging smile.

  “Who was Mr. Twinkle Toes?” was Rosco’s hurried rejoinder.

  “Don’t try to change the subject . . . an associate of Garet’s. I don’t remember meeting the man, but he insisted we were introduced five years ago at some museum function . . . Well, what’s up with La Nevisson? Quite a dress, isn’t it?”

  But Rosco wasn’t about to be hoodwinked into discussing the actress’s attire—or lack thereof. “She was inviting us for supper.”

  Belle cocked her head and gave Rosco a quizzical stare. “Us? As in you and I?”

  The term “your little lady” bombarded Rosco’s brain, but he managed a seemingly nonchalant, “Sure, why not?”

  “Watch out for her, Rosco. She spells trouble with a capital T.”

  “Funny, that’s just what Pepper said.”

  “Well, maybe you should heed his warning.”

  The “powder room” was rose pink and dove gray, and festooned with so many orchids in baskets and cachepots that Belle almost wondered whether she’d wandered into a florist’s shop. The two rooms were also chockablock with seriously primping party goers. She watched a rainbow of lipsticks, lip pencils, lip glosses, eye shadows, blush, foundation, and powder flash from jeweled, beaded, and embroidered evening bags. Perfume spritzes clouded the air, while frothy conversation and a good deal of purposeful gossip continued amid a patter of “Fabulous color!” “I don’t know what he did with my hair, this time” “Do you really like it?” “I thought I’d resurrect it for the night” and a bevy of “Great party!” “Isn’t it a gorgeous party?” “Glorious evening.” In typical fashion, the women glanced only at the faces reflected in the mirror. No dialogue, either serious or otherwise, was conducted face-to-face.

  Belle smiled at the frivolity of the atmosphere and flicked a comb quickly through her hair as Genie and Jamaica suddenly joined the throng. No one turned to look at the newcomers, although every pair of eyes swiveled toward their mirror images. Belle sensed that Jamaica was keenly aware of the reaction, but also recognized that the actress was feigning indifference. Her voice became louder than necessary.

  “Darling, it’s simply too divine,” she said to Genie. “Something out of a play by A. R. Gurney. All these marvelous WASPs buzzing around their natural habitat. An endangered species, I’d say . . .”

  Genie appeared slightly unnerved by her friend’s remarks, but she also seemed to be feeling the effects of champagne and a full orchestra. There was something giddy and reckless in her demeanor. She grinned mischievously into the mirror, catching curious glances from the other women gathered at the long dressing table while Jamaica continued her languid speech.

  “. . . It almost makes me regret my decision to become an entertainer. I should have followed your example, Genevieve, and snagged a domesticated male . . .”

  The powder room had hushed to near silence.

  “. . . According to my dear mama, however, a career on the stage was an excellent first step in capturing a wealthy man. She was from the Marion Davies School.”

  Teasing her hair, Genie answered her friend in a stagy tone. “But surely there are wealthy men in Los Angeles, Jamaica.”

  “Too many secrets out there, darling. One never knows for certain whether a partner is gay or straight or in between—even after marriage . . .”

 
A gasp from an elderly matron seemed to pass Jamaica unnoticed.

  “. . . And that goes for the young men as well as the old. Ah, me, what’s a working girl to do?” Then the actress suddenly noticed Belle standing there. “Your husband’s quite a dish,” she said without taking her eyes off her own reflection.

  At first Belle was unaware she was being addressed, then she stammered, “He’s not my husband.” The words sounded hideously loud in her ears. She realized she’d become an additional focal point for the women primping at the mirror.

  “No? I assumed everyone in this charming little ville was respectably wed.”

  Belle found herself growing irritated at Jamaica’s patronizing assumptions. “Not all of us, no.” The terse reply was intended to denote not only an autonomous state but also Belle’s career, education, and proud self-reliance. The actress batted aside the response as if it were a mere ball of fluff.

  “You’re a pretty girl. I can’t imagine you’ve been lacking in marriage proposals.”

  Whether it was the term “girl” or the actress’s snooty tone, Belle flushed angrily. “I was married,” she answered.

  “Ah . . .” Jamaica calmly replied. “So, you tested the waters and found them tepid . . . or possibly too hot?”

  In answer, Belle jammed her comb into her purse and snapped it shut. She was not about to discuss romance with a woman for whom the word had no meaning. Jamaica, however, had other ideas.

  “And now you’re on the rebound with a private dick—”

  “That’s not how I would categorize our relationship,” Belle interrupted hotly, but Jamaica hadn’t finished her performance.

  “And this ex-husband you are so loath to discuss . . . I assume he’s the spitting image of your parents?”