The Perfect Summer (Hubbard's Point) (28 page)

27

Y
OU FOUND IT,
”
AUGUSTA RENWICK SAID BREATHILY,
clutching the silver chalice to her heart. “My Florizar cup!”

“Florizar cup?” Joe Holmes asked, frowning.

“Yes,” Augusta said. “That's the name of my favorite drink—shall I fix us one?”

“I'm on duty, Mrs. Renwick,” Joe said. “And I'll have to have that cup back, for evidence.”

“Well, I'm not on duty, and you'll get it back after we discuss a few things. Come out with me to the flower room, and tell me what the Federal Bureau of Investigation is doing with my Florizar cup.”

Firefly Hill, her home, was truly incredible, filled with Hugh Renwick's paintings, statues of the Buddha and Hindu deities carved from rare jade and exotic woods, a totem pole, a cabinet of what looked like Fabergé eggs, and about a million pictures of the Renwick sisters, their husbands, and their children. The flower room had a stainless steel sink and counter, and Augusta explained that, although it doubled as a bar now, it had traditionally been used all summer for arranging flowers.

“Firefly Hill used to have magnificent gardens and now, thanks to Bay McCabe, will again. How is that case coming, by the way? Have you retrieved any of my money?”

“No, but we retrieved your cup,” he said, watching her carefully as she stood on tiptoes, reaching for a bottle.

“What does that have to do with the case?” she asked, indicating that she would like him to get the bottle down.

“First, tell me what you know about the cup, Mrs. Renwick. Why did you call it ‘Florizar'?”

She laughed, clinking ice cubes into the silver cup and also into a tall glass. “A joke,” she said. “A private joke. You see, I used to tell myself that I always came in second . . . with my own husband. While he was out romancing the wives of other men, I was home with our beautiful girls. I was like the second-place finisher.”

Joe nodded, waiting. At eighty or so, the woman was still charming and beautiful. Cold air blew through the flower room's uninsulated walls, but as if untouched by the chill, she happily cut slices of lime and ginger.

“You see, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “Florizar ran second in the 1900 Kentucky Derby, after Lieutenant Gibson.” She filled the glass with Diet Coke, dropped in some lime and ginger, and handed it to him. “I prevailed, however. I married Hugh, and we loved each other until he died; in our own fashion, of course.”

“The man was very fortunate,” Joe said.

“Indeed. A true Florizar has some lovely Russian vodka in it—are you
sure
you wouldn't like some?”

“I'm on duty, ma'am,” he reminded her.

She peered at him, raising her glass to toast. “Someday, when you are not on duty, it would be a true pleasure to drink with you.”

“I agree,” he said, smiling.

“Now, dear, tell me,” Augusta said. “Where did you find the cup?”

“It was in a safety-deposit box rented by Sean McCabe.”

“I knew it!” she gasped. “I told Tara I thought he had taken it.”

“Mrs. Renwick,” Joe said, jolted by the mention of Tara's name, “what did you tell her? What made you
think
McCabe would have taken it?”

Mrs. Renwick opened her mouth to speak, but then a strange thing happened. She took a long, thoughtful drink from her Florizar, and her violet eyes sparkled.

“You know, dear,” she said, the faintest of Mona Lisa smiles playing on her lips, “I can't remember. Suddenly, I can't seem to remember at all. You'll have to ask Tara.”

THE NEXT MORNING, FROST COATED THE MARSH. IT
shimmered white in the early light, over the brown flats and grasses, right down to the edge of the tidal creek. Yesterday Tara had cut the last roses, and she gazed at them now, beautiful in a vase for a few more days. They would have died in today's frost.

Things change, everything passes, Tara thought, sipping her morning coffee. She heard a thump on the front porch. Thinking it must be the morning paper, she yanked open the door and came face-to-face with Joe Holmes.

“Agent Holmes!” she said, jumping back with her hand on her heart. “You scared me!”

“I'm sorry. Good morning, Tara,” he said, seeming all business, yet also a little embarrassed. He was already bureaued to the max: dark suit, white shirt, blue tie, shined shoes. She noticed him staring at her intently, and she cursed herself for not having answered the door in a peignoir, with her hair done. She wore the bottoms of some blue-and-white star flannel pajamas, a Black Hall Elementary T-shirt, and Billy's Black Watch tartan bathrobe that had somehow wound up in her laundry.

“Rat's nest city,” she said apologetically, touching her mad-looking black mane.

“You look lovely,” he said sternly, in an FBI tone of voice.

“What brings you here at the crack of dawn?” she asked.

“Looking for you, actually,” he said.

Tara's eyes widened. He might just as well have swept her off her feet. She touched the doorjamb, cold to her fingertips, just to make sure she was actually awake. “Really? Your detective work is stunning. Come on in. Want some coffee?” She had seen him haunting the Roasters, emerging with super-grandes. In the kitchen, she pulled down a mug for him. “How do you take it?”

“Black,” he said.

“Same here,” she said, beaming at him. “So, how may I help you?”

“In a couple of ways,” he said, as she led him into the living room to sit by the now roaring fire. She remembered the blueberry muffins she had baking and ran to take them out of the oven, returning with several on a plate.

“You bake blueberry muffins at dawn?” he asked.

“Why not?” she said, smiling, omitting the part about removing them from the package in their ready-to-bake pan. “Go ahead, have one.”

“Thanks. So. I saw Mrs. Renwick yesterday, and she mentioned something that I need to ask you about.”

“Okay,” Tara said.

“The silver cup,” he said.

“The one you told me you had in your office?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “It belongs to Mrs. Renwick. She told me that she had told you she thought Sean McCabe might have taken it.”

“She
did
say that!” Tara said, smacking her own head. “Augusta has a tendency to misplace things. And she does use the goblet to drink Florizars. After a few of those, she could misplace anything.”

“She couldn't quite remember the connection and told me to ask you what she said, what she might have thought in terms of McCabe taking it.”

Tara closed her eyes, trying to remember. “I think she said that the last time she'd seen it, or recalled seeing it, Sean had been there with papers to sign. It didn't occur to her at the time, but only in retrospect, that he might have taken it. But—”

Joe was listening intently; she saw his blue eyes drinking her in, and if the whole matter weren't so dire and criminal, she'd have leaned into his strong arms and given him the kiss of his life.

“But why?” she asked. “That's what we couldn't figure out. Why would Sean risk getting caught taking a silver cup? When he was obviously after so much more, in terms of money and assets?”

“I don't know. Anyway, Tara, I need to ask you a favor.”

“Of course, Joe.”

“It's about this event, the Pumpkin Ball.”

“Yes, I know about it,” Tara said.

“It's a fund-raiser, as I understand it . . .”

“It is. Sponsored by a few Black Hall companies. They always say it's to ‘give thanks for the harvest,' but really it's to raise money for local charities. After-school programs, the visiting nurse . . .”

“Shoreline Bank is one of the lead organizers,” he said.

“Yes. Traditionally, they have been. Bay and Sean hosted it one year. This year it's Mark Boland.”

“The point is this. I need to get inside. I've questioned everyone at Shoreline—every single bank employee. They're reasonably confident that we're about to close the case, so I don't want to tip anyone . . .”

“So, you need an invitation?” Tara asked. “You can buy tickets at any branch office. You just pay your own way, and go.”

“That's not what I mean. I understand that. But I need to go with someone who knows everyone, who can make my presence there seem a little . . . smoother.”

Tara's heart kicked over. “You mean
me
?”

“Yes. Would you come with me? To the Pumpkin Ball?”

“Is this, um . . . am I being deputized?” she asked.

“Not officially,” he said. “But yes. In the spirit of law enforcement, I'd like you to accompany me.”

“Wow. Sure. I'll be your cover,” she said. “Anything, especially if it helps solve the case. It would help Bay, I think—give her closure.”

“Let's see, the ball starts at eight. How about I pick you up at seven-thirty?”

“Excellent. I'll be dressed and ready. By the way, the theme is witches. So don't be shocked when you see me in my black hat.”

“That won't shock me, Tara,” he said gravely.

“Bet it takes a lot to shock the FBI,” she said tenderly.

28

J
ACK-O
'
-LANTERNS GRINNED AND LEERED FROM THE
porch of the large Victorian house, smoke wafting from their pumpkin heads, blue wispy smoke . . . candles lit and burning inside, the old way, the traditional way, because this was New England, and a witches' ball needed fire. The house, painted pale gray with darker gray gingerbread, gleaming black shutters and doors, old leaded windows, and a spooky and majestic cupola on the mansard roof, looked just the part.

Cars were arriving in a constant stream, parked up and down Lovecraft Road. Tara wished life were different, that Bay could be here with Danny. But Bay was so closed off now, upset by her last visit with him, by the inescapable truth of what Sean had done. Glancing over at Joe, Tara felt her heart beating like the wings of a flying swan.

“Yeats wrote this great poem,” she said, feeling her own mad heartbeat, “about ‘clamorous wings.' It's called ‘The Wild Swans at Coole.' ”

“Yeats?” Joe asked, cruising up the narrow street, taking note of all the cars.

“The greatest poet ever to write in the English language. Irish, of course.”

“Hmm,” Joe said, slowing down and focusing on a black minivan.

“Don't you like poetry?”

“Poetry?” he asked, typing what seemed to be a license number into what looked like a tiny computer.

“Yes. You know . . . words, sometimes rhyming, sometimes not? The language of the soul?”

Joe glanced over at her from across the seat. “I don't get to read too much of that.”

Tara smiled. Any man who didn't delve into poetry on occasion needed help; and she was ready and willing to offer it. She sank back into the seat, leaning against his car door. She made a rather sexy witch, and she knew it. She had dressed herself like a
House of the Seven Gables
version of a James Bond girl, in a short black cocktail dress, a French demibra that emphasized her plunging neckline, and a beaded silk scarf given to her by Bay last St. Patrick's Day, in a hundred iridescent and mysterious shades of green; the highest heels she owned, a pair of Manolo Blahnik slingbacks, and a black cashmere beret to pull low over one heavily kohled-and-lined eye.

“Agent Holmes,” she said, smiling a bit wider. “If you're living life without poetry . . . something is wrong.”

“My job doesn't leave much room for reading,” he said. “Except for law enforcement publications.”

“As interesting as I know those must be, and I'd like to read a few myself,” she said, “you really need some Yeats in your life.”

“Hmm,” he said again. He checked out another minivan, this one dark green, and a maroon pickup truck, and he pulled into a parking spot almost a quarter mile past the house.

“‘The Wild Swans at Coole,' you said? What's it about?” he asked.

“It's about growing old,” Tara said.

Joe turned off the engine, and walked around to open Tara's door. “Do swans grow old alone?” he asked, his words billowing white clouds into the frozen November air.

Tara had been smiling, enjoying her Mata Hari role, her costume as a seductive spy-witch—but suddenly her temptress smile dissolved.

“No,” Tara said gently, not feeling like a spy-witch at all in that moment, gazing straight into Joe's eyes. “They mate for life.”

Joe, the real spy, couldn't seem to find words to respond to that. He just nodded, his eyes thoughtful instead of stern. And, taking Tara's arm—as part of the brilliant cover he'd planned for this night's operation—in the frosty air he walked her along the line of expensive cars, all of their owners potential suspects, and into the Bolands' house.

“What are we supposed to be looking for?” Tara whispered, once they were inside.

“Anyone who seems particularly nervous to see me,” he whispered back.

They walked through the crowd, a compendium of witches from the annals of art—“The Incantation,” by Goya; “Witch with Demonic Spirits,” by Ryckaert; “The Love Potion,” by Evelyn de Morgan; “Circe Offering the Cup to Ulysses,” by John Waterhouse; “The Three Witches,” by John Henry Fuseli.

Slinky, slithery, voluptuous, elegant, and mysterious: the witches came in all sorts of packages. Some men wore black tie, others black jeans. Augusta stood with several bank executives, swathed in her Venetian blue; she gave a knowing nod as Tara and Joe passed by.

“That Mrs. Renwick,” Joe chuckled.

“I'm sure she's doing her best detective work,” Tara said.

“Can I tell you, I hope you're kidding?” Joe asked.

“You don't know Augusta,” Tara said. “If she senses injustice—especially when it's been directed at her or her family—she's all over it.”

“Great,” he said wryly. “I just hope she doesn't get herself in trouble. Here come our hosts. Hold my hand and pretend I've just asked you to dance.”

Tara felt excited, as if he actually
had
. The band was playing “Cat Samba,” but the dance would have to wait, because Mark and Alise Boland edged their way through the crowd to greet Tara and Joe.

“Welcome to the Pumpkin Ball,” Mark said. “Tara, so glad to see you. And Joe—nice to see you off duty for a change.” He laughed. “At least I
hope
it's off duty . . .”

“You bet,” Joe said. “I finally got Miss O'Toole to say yes to a date with me.”

“Well, after all those nasty questions I've heard you've been asking all over town, I think it's the least you can do,” said Alise. “Right, Tara?”

“Right,” Tara said. “Looks like you have a full house, Alise.”

“Well, it's a good cause, and we want everyone to have a good time.”

“Everything looks spectacular,” Tara said. “The Pumpkin Ball is flourishing in the hands of a professional decorator.”

“Thank you,” Alise said. “We didn't want to be as kitschy as Halloween, but somehow do more pagan, about the harvest—that's what all the pumpkins are supposed to mean.”

“I'll bet a lot of people came because they wanted to see inside this house,” Tara said. “It's such a landmark. The other biggest house in town, along with Firefly Hill.”

“It is a great place,” Joe said, looking around at the architectural details: the cornices and crown moldings, the handsome walnut bookcases, and a single shelf that ran the length of one wall, about eighteen inches down from the high ceiling. Tara could see that the shelf was filled with trophies.

“Back from Mark's college days,” Alise said, following their gaze. “He was the captain of
everything.
I couldn't resist him.”

Mark laughed, hugging his wife. “Excuse us, will you? I see some new arrivals. Make yourselves at home—there's food in the next room.”

“Thanks,” Joe said, glancing back over his shoulder at something. Tara watched the Bolands walk away. Mark continued straight, on to the door, to greet people. But Alise swerved a bit and paused subtly, by Frank Allingham. Although they seemed not to speak at all, Tara was sure they'd exchanged a few words.

Tara opened her mouth to say something, but she saw that Joe had been watching the same thing. This was probably child's play to him: observing suspects, noting behavior. But to Tara it was brand-new, and exciting. She was following in her grandfather's law enforcement footsteps.

“Want to dance?” Joe whispered into her ear, sliding his arm around her.

“Sure,” she said, thrilled. “But I thought we were working.”

“We are,” he said, leading her onto the dance floor. He clasped one hand, slid his arm around her waist, and began to glide her around. His step was sure and confident, and his arms felt so powerful, as if she were being held by tensile steel. After a lifetime of sensitive artist-types, Tara nearly swooned. “We've got to make our cover look good,” he continued, with a slight smile.

“Do you think we're succeeding?”

“Maybe just a little closer,” he said. His arm was around her, and she felt the electricity in her own body, as they danced together.

“Like that?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Very good. You're a natural, Tara.”

“I want my grandfather to be proud of me,” she said into his neck. “He and my granny were swans, you know.”

“They were together a long time?”

“Yes,” she said. “For life.”

“My parents, too,” Joe said. They kept dancing, and Tara didn't think she had ever, in her entire life, felt so happy. “I wonder if they read Yeats.”

“They must have,” Tara said, looking over his shoulder. “Oops—watch out. Mark and Alise are dancing past.”

She and Joe fell silent as he wheeled her around the dance floor, away from the Bolands. Tara watched them in each other's arms, and thought of Bay and Sean. She shook her head.

“I can feel you disapproving of something,” Joe said, mouth against her hair.

“Sean was so jealous of Mark when he took over as bank president,” Tara said. “But they really have so much in common.”

“What do you mean?”

Tara glanced up at the shelf of sports plaques and statues: basketball, football, baseball, golf. “They're both jocks. They played against each other in high school.”

Joe followed her gaze.

“Only it's too bad . . .” she said.

“In what way?”

“Well, that Mark learned sportsmanship, and Sean learned how to cheat. All he cared about was winning; he should have known it was supposed to be about how he played the game.”

Joe stopped her, right there in the middle of the dance floor. With all the other witches dancing around them, she looked up in his eyes and saw him grinning.

“Tara O'Toole,” he said. “The captain
would
be proud of you.”

“The captain?”

“Seamus O'Toole, your grandfather.”

“Why?” she asked, as he wrapped his arms around her, brought his face down to hers.

“Because you just solved my case,” he whispered, just as he kissed her lips.