Two Down (2 page)

“I didn’t realize how much I needed to escape until Tom picked me up at the airport yesterday. I feel as if I’ve been granted a reprieve . . . And I’m so looking forward to leaving for Nantucket tomorrow . . . A week of total privacy . . . Promise me you’ll never mention Hollywood.”

“I promise.”

“Or Beverly Hills . . . or Wilshire Boulevard—or Catalina Island!”

“I swear!” Genie was beaming. “Scout’s honor.” Then she changed tack by focusing on the planned cruise. Her demeanor became all business. “Of course, I would have preferred to take my own boat, but it’s been stripped to the bones for racing . . . However, the yacht broker assured me the
Orion
is brand-new, besides being ‘extremely manageable for two gals’—his words.” Genie began imitating the broker’s condescending delivery. “ ‘No backstay, Mrs. Pepper . . . a walk-through transom . . . nice taffrail seats. You two gals should have a blast out there . . .’ However, I’m still concerned we’re—”

“Are you two yammering about spinnakers and tidal charts again?” Tom handed each woman a flute of champagne. “Cheers! Here’s to good friends.” He raised his glass, then draped a long arm over his wife’s shoulders. “Stop worrying, Genie. It’s the first of October. Don’t most
of the experienced sailors hereabouts continue to ply these waters until Thanksgiving?”

“Of course they do,” was Jamaica’s pleasant rejoinder. “Nantucket’s a piece of cake. Thirty miles from Hyannis . . . And an extra thirty or so from here—”

“I still feel we should practice on a day sail before attempting a longer cruise,” Genie continued. “Just to get a feel for the way the boat handles—”

“Genie . . . Genie . . . listen to your old pal . . . ‘piece of cake’ like the lady says.” His tone had become perceptibly less patient.

Genie’s body stiffened immediately. “Perhaps Jamaica’s a better sailor than I, Tom.”

“Maybe she’s just got bigger—”

“Hey, hey, you two! Break it up! I didn’t come east to witness marital feuds. Besides, you’d better not get on this lady’s bad side, Tom. Remember what the Bard said: a ‘tiger’s heart wrapped in a woman’s hide.’ ”

Pepper drained his glass. “That’s my little wife, all right. She’s quite a determined package—although you might not know it to look at her.” He bent down to kiss her, and for a moment they were so consumed with each other, their guest might not have existed. “Listen, darling,” Tom finally murmured, “if you get bored with your cruise, you can always head home. Or, hey, ditch the damn boat in Nantucket, and you and your buddy can hole up in that spa they have . . . I’ll hire someone to sail the
Orion
back to Newcastle. This is your holiday, remember.”

“Why don’t you join our little trip, Mistah Peppah, honey?” Jamaica’s voice had been transformed by an accent as soft and creamy as magnolia flowers. “Fo’get about the elk or moose or whatevah it is you gonna be shootin’ up theah in the no’thlands of Maine.”

Tom laughed heartily. “You know I wouldn’t set foot on
a boat if it was Noah’s Ark and I was the last man on the planet! I’ll spend my mini-vacation in a warm cabin on dry land rather that heaving my cookies on the high seas, thank you very much.”

“Come with us, Tom darling,” Genie added, continuing to nestle close to her husband.

She exuded such wedded bliss that Jamaica found herself sighing in envy. “You’re a fortunate woman, Genie. And you’re right. I have to find one of these for myself.” Then she shook her black mane and raised her glass in homage. “To Tom and Genie Pepper, who saved my life . . . Don’t laugh, you two; I mean that! . . . No more
Crescent Heights
 . . . no more Reggie Flack . . . no more pea-brained ingenues . . . Here’s to good friends, and the glories of life in Newcastle.”

R
osco Polycrates had not been placed in this world to wear dinner jackets, frilly white shirts, cummerbunds, mother-of-pearl cuff links and studs, patent-leather shoes, and do-it-yourself bow ties. But when Sara Crane Briephs, the reigning dowager empress of Newcastle’s social set, had asked him to attend the Commodores’ dinner dance at the city’s exclusive Patriot Yacht Club, the invitation had come with one simple request: “Please, Rosco, don’t be so
déclassé
as to wear a clip-on bow tie.”

A third-generation Greek American and former Newcastle police detective turned private investigator, Rosco’s time on earth had made him more than savvy enough to know that a situation involving “self-tie bow ties” required a good deal of advanced planning—even though the salesman at Best Man Tuxedo Rentals had assured him that tying a formal necktie was no more difficult than lacing one’s shoes. “Once you get the hang of it,” the man had said.

Rosco had opted to allocate a full hour to accomplish the complicated task. It was an activity that made him regret his lack of a fancy Ivy League education. U. Mass. grads just couldn’t compete with Harvard alums when it came to this kind of elaborate getup. Those rarefied types could probably tie bow ties in their sleep—and they’d probably inherited the neckties from their fathers’ fathers. On the other hand, Rosco’s dad had been a commercial fisherman; he’d passed away when Rosco was a kid. Patent-leather shoes and puckery shirts requiring little gold buttons hadn’t been among his possessions. Neither had self-tie bow ties.

“Okay, just like shoes,” Rosco muttered as he stood before his bathroom mirror, fiddling with a few fractious inches of glossy black satin. As he struggled, his mind skimmed over the events that had garnered this coveted invitation and resultant necktie battle. Two and a half months earlier, Mrs. Briephs’ son, the much-lauded crossword editor at the
Newcastle Herald,
had been murdered. It had been a complex case, involving more than a few prime suspects and a series of bizarre crossword puzzles.

Rosco had finally apprehended the culprit; in doing so, he’d endeared himself to the elderly Mrs. Briephs. All spit and polish, with a personality that defied her eighty-some years, she’d found Rosco’s youthful vitality, casual demeanor, and rugged good looks welcomely refreshing in her otherwise constrained world.

“Dang it.” Rosco tugged at the ends of the tie and started from the beginning. “Okay . . . just like shoes . . . but backward.”

For all the ugliness of the Briephs’ case, there had been three very positive outcomes. One, Rosco had formed a lasting friendship with the redoubtable Sara. Two, the killer had been brought to justice. Three—and possibly the
most important—Rosco had met Annabella Graham, the young crossword editor of Newcastle’s other daily newspaper, the
Evening Crier
.

With an expertise in cryptics and a stubborn streak that had
insisted
the puzzles were connected to the crime, Belle had not only identified Briephs’ killer, she’d also snared Rosco’s respect, admiration, and deep affection. Fighting their mutual attraction had proven difficult from the beginning. Now most of Newcastle was of the opinion that Rosco and Belle had become “an item.”

“Aghhh.” He yanked the tie loose once more and pressed the ends flat to his chest. “All right, bucko, concentrate. It’s the same as tying . . .” He looked down at his shoes as if to gain inspiration from their knotted laces, but realized he’d already slipped into a pair of rented patent-leather dancing pumps with tidy grosgrain bows. His feet looked as if they’d been clad in an oversized version of a little girl’s party shoes. He sighed again and continued to grapple with the tie, thinking of Belle as a sappy smile spread across his face.

The Yacht Club dinner dance would be the first opportunity for Sara and Belle to meet. And although Rosco didn’t particularly relish the idea of spending an evening dressed like a gigantic penguin, he was eager to ensure that the women’s relationship developed well. Belle was more than capable of holding her own, but Sara could intimidate a striking cobra if she put her mind to it. If the
grande dame
took it upon herself to be
displeased
with a person, it could take that individual a lifetime to elicit even the frostiest smile. Rosco’s fondness for both ladies made him acutely aware of the pressure he was facing. He had to make this dinner dance a success.

He glanced at his watch: six-thirty. The hour he’d set aside for tie tying had somehow managed to evaporate.
He’d told Belle he’d pick her up at six forty-five, then Sara at seven, and deliver everyone to the Yacht Club by seven-thirty for cocktails and chitchat and whatever else they did in the halls of power, prestige, and nautical lore. He looked back into the mirror one last time and decided that although not
perfect,
the bow tie was
acceptable
. He grabbed his keys, ducked out of his apartment, and trotted over to his waiting chariot: a canvas-topped, four-wheel-drive red Jeep that predated the Sahara and Laredo models designed to attract the urban cowboys.

October 1 in Massachusetts was often heralded by the crisp signs of a New England autumn: scarlet-hued leaves, the cold blue of the bay, and scudding whitecaps that looked as clean and frothy as fresh snow. But this evening was unseasonably mild, and the sinking sun had left a mellow pink-orange streak in the sky. The bigwigs at the Patriot Yacht Club party couldn’t have asked for a better night.

Rosco seriously considered removing the Jeep’s canvas top for one final summery ride, but decided against it. Instead, he slipped a cassette of an early Ella Fitzgerald recording into his antiquated tape player and eased into traffic. He arrived at Belle’s front door fifteen minutes later.

Annabella Graham lived on Captain’s Walk in the oldest section of Newcastle north of the original piers along the river that bore the city’s name. The tiny houses were first built and owned by seafarers in the early eighteenth century. Two centuries of Massachusetts’ snow and ice, and an increasing exodus of city dwellers had left the places vacant and in gross disrepair, but a dozen years prior, a number of adventurous souls had purchased the derelict properties and returned them to their original charm. Belle’s former husband, Garet Burke, had been part of this
vanguard group. Garet was an Egyptologist who’d discovered he had more interest in tombs and mummies than he had in his wife—a concept Rosco found hard to fathom.

Rosco, the semitough ex-cop, had fallen for the erudite (and often quixotic) Belle hook, line, and sinker. He considered her the best thing that had ever happened to him—a thought that had lodged in his mind at the exact moment she opened the door in greeting.

“Rosco, look at you!” Her beaming smile indicated she was as stuck on him as he on her. “You’re absolutely gorgeous!”

“Me . . . ? What about . . . you?”

Tall and slim with vibrant, dark gray eyes, and hair as pale and fine as corn silk, Belle looked as if she’d just stepped out of a 1920s Pierce-Arrow advertisement. Her floor-length gown was midnight-blue satin, exposing her shoulders and slender arms, while the narrow skirt seemed molded to her hips. When the fabric met the floor, it flared out as though her feet were dancing. Again, Rosco was reminded of a picture from another era.

“John Singer Sargent,” she said as if in answer to an unspoken question. “What do you think?” She spun around in an excited circle.
“Madame X.”

Rosco grinned; he’d grown accustomed to Belle’s rarefied references, and a brain in perpetual motion. “I take it that’s not the name of the designer—or the dress style.”

“What a guy.” Belle laughed indulgently; her eyes flickered with delight. “Sargent’s portrait of one of his patronesses is entitled
Madame X
 . . . I couldn’t resist buying this dress; it’s almost identical to the one in the painting. It makes me feel like the queen of the world.”

“I’ll bet the lady in the picture didn’t look as nifty as you.”

“In Sargent’s interpretation she did . . . but then most of
his women subjects look downright lascivious . . . I think John Singer did a good deal more than simply
paint
his ladies—or if he didn’t, he wanted to . . .” Belle suddenly furrowed her brow with a quizzical expression Rosco had learned to recognize as a sign that reality had entered her lofty realm. “What happened to your necktie?”

“What do you mean?” He patted the black satin with nervous fingertips. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s a little . . . off. Gives you a kind of raffish, Wile E. Coyote look.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Belle laughed. “You shouldn’t . . . Here, let me fix it.”

She stepped up to Rosco, and loosened the tie. As she worked, he placed his hands on her waist and attempted to kiss her.

“Ah, ah, ah . . . I just put on my lipstick. Besides, we have to leave. I don’t want to be late for my first meeting with Sara. Not after the grim stories you’ve prepped me with.”

“Hey, tonight’ll be easy as pie compared to a Polycrates ‘Third Tuesday’ family shoot-out. Which, I’ll remind you, is a gauntlet you have yet to run.”

“Personally, I think your big sisters sound like fun.”

“That’s because you don’t have any . . . And don’t forget the Polycrates dinners come with two overbearing brothers-in-law, a handful of clamorous nieces and nephews, assorted aging and opinionated cousins—some of whom still speak Greek exclusively—one younger brother with a revolving assortment of jobs and lady friends, and one sister’s
ex
-husband, who’s always invited because Mom likes him much better than her present mate, ‘The Troll.’ ”

“Uh-oh.” Belle chuckled. “Does that mean I have to compete with the ghosts of your past?”

“Only with one . . . and my mother didn’t like her.”

Belle cocked an amused eyebrow. “Thus your quick two-year stint into married life?”

“I make my own decisions about domestic relationships,” he answered a little stiffly.

She smiled again. “I wouldn’t be so boastful, if I were you. It sounds as if you get a lot of help.”

“Greek women are pros when it comes to dispensing advice.”

Belle finished looping Rosco’s tie into a perfect bow. “You’re right, an evening with Sara Crane Briephs is beginning to sound like child’s play. At least she speaks a language I can understand.”

“That’s what you think.”

“And on your next ‘Third Tuesday,’ I vow to positively resist all temptation to say, ‘It’s Greek to me.’ ”

“Smart choice.”

They strolled toward the Jeep hand in hand. But when Rosco opened the door for Belle, she suddenly balked. “I don’t know, Rosco . . . Do you think you should have rented a car for this evening?”

“This is a car.”

She sighed. “Well, yes, if you want to get picky about definitions, it is . . . What I meant was . . . would it have been advisable to consider renting something a bit more . . . more—”

“Upscale? I asked Sara that very question. She knows about the Jeep, but insisted it’s
nouveau
to
rent
limousines.” Rosco attempted a Sara Crane Briephs voice: “If you don’t own one, my dear boy, you have no business riding
around
in one.”

Belle laughed, then turned serious. “I hope I pass muster. She sounds dreadfully overbearing.”

“You’ll do fine, Belle. She’s very ‘fond’ of me. She’ll be just as crazy about you.”

Belle groaned. “Is that the type of specious reasoning they spout at the police academy? That women who share affection for the same man are the best of friends? I would imagine the idea would raise the hackles of any criminal investigator.”

“I’m talking about Sara. Not an ax murderer.”

“What’s that line about a jealous woman from Shakespeare’s
The Comedy of Errors
? ‘Poison more deadly than a mad dog’s tooth . . . ’?”

Pride spread across Rosco’s face. “I’ll never understand how you
know
all this peculiar stuff. You’re basically a walking encyclopedia, aren’t you?”

In the rosy darkness, Belle’s bare neck and shoulders blushed a shining crimson while her lips formed a small, self-deprecating smile. “I told you, I had an eccentric childhood . . . Just don’t ask me to quote Nancy Drew.”

“How about the Hardy Boys?”

“Don’t tell me you read the Hardy Boys?”

Rosco chortled. “Hey, just because I have relatives who don’t speak English doesn’t mean I didn’t have a normal American childhood.”

They pulled into White Caps’ sweeping circular gravel drive at five minutes before seven. The Briephs estate sat high on Liberty Hill, overlooking Newcastle and the harbor beyond. Sara’s brother, Hal Crane, a United States senator, owned the adjacent property. Both pieces of land had been in the Crane family for over three hundred years and were a dominant feature on the city’s landscape. The exterior of the homes, their manicured gardens, and brick outbuildings had been only slightly altered since they’d been
built in the mid-1700s, creating the impression that the Federal era in a prosperous Massachusetts whaling city was still at hand.

Emma, Sara’s faithful maid, opened the door for Rosco and Belle, then led them toward the parlor where the great lady was waiting. Over the years, Emma had assumed many of her mistress’s mannerisms, making her a shorter, squarer, slightly younger version of the home’s
doyenne
.