by Nancy Bush
I trudged to my bathroom like a prisoner to the proverbial firing squad while Violet dragged in one of my kitchen chairs. She plopped me down, plugged in my hot curler and started digging through her extensive makeup kit. I viewed the hot curler with a jaundiced eye. Not so long ago the damn thing had left a mark on my neck that caused me no end of grief. Operator error. I’d touched the wand to my skin and in that brief moment cooked myself but good, leaving a burn that everyone seemed to think was a hickey. Like, oh, sure. My life’s that interesting.
Binkster sat in the doorway, watching us, wondering if there was food involved somehow. I stayed quiet, letting Violet work on me, and she remarked on how surprised she was by my passivity. “I thought you’d fight and bellow and generally raise a ruckus,” she said, wrapping a tress of my brown hair around the hot curler. I tensed up as the thing got close to my skin, but Violet was deft with all things cosmetic.
“Yeah…well…”
“I’m so glad to be doing something positive,” she said. “Roland’s only been gone a few weeks, barely over a month, and it feels like forever. I’ve had this weight hanging over me, and it’s been no fun. I didn’t kill him. I think, well, it seems anyway, that the police know that?”
“I’m not sure what they think.” Violet seemed happy enough at the moment, and I’d already decided not to give her specifics unless she absolutely forced me to bring her up to date. Curiously, she seemed to like to keep her head in the sand.
“Anyway, it’s past time I got out and did something.”
“So, back to the escort and/or dating service arena.”
“Try it. You’ll like it.”
“You, Roland and Melinda seem to live by it,” I remarked. “And Renee.”
“You know what I predict? I predict you meet a really great wealthy guy tonight who’ll make you fish or cut bait with Dwayne.”
“How many times do I have to say it? Dwayne and I are merely business part—Ouch!” I reached up to where she’d pulled on my hair, practically yanking it from my scalp.
“Sorry,” Violet said with a smile.
Violet was given the address to the night’s floating party by e-mail. The super, secret way they worked made it seem like we were meeting for a sex party, but as the evening progressed it became clear this was merely someone’s idea of how to make it all more fun! and exciting!
Tonight’s destination was a home on the east side, one of those large, rambling houses that seems to push right to the edge of its lot. Maple trees flanked the walkway and modern outdoor lighting left little pools of illumination marching toward the porch. We’d driven ourselves in Violet’s Mercedes, but there were limos sliding along and waiting nearby.
I called Dwayne as we walked toward the front door. When he answered, I said in a low voice, “Operative Kellogg about to enter hostile environment.”
“Be careful,” he said.
Was it my imagination or had Dwayne started worrying about me a little more? I wasn’t certain whether this was a positive development business-wise, but it made my romantic heart skip a proverbial beat.
“You missed some action with Tab A and Slot B last night,” he informed me. “They bought a new saltwater fish tank. Lots of backlighting.”
“Sorry I missed that.” I took the plunge and asked, “Anything new at Do Not Enter?”
“All quiet last night. Our friend’s probably waiting for your call.”
“He’s going to have to wait.”
“Good.”
There was a lot left unsaid. I sensed he would have liked to forbid me from going back to Do Not Enter, but there was no way to do that without redefining our relationship.
“Operative Kellogg would like to know if you have any particular advice on this mission,” I said lightly, into the loaded moment.
“Get in. Get out. Come back alive.”
“Roger.”
“And don’t take unnecessary risks,” he added quickly, as if he couldn’t help himself.
“Keep this up, and I might think you actually care about me.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“What’s Do Not Enter?” Violet asked curiously as I hung up. “And wipe that smile off your face. Can’t be thinking about one man when you’re meeting another.”
“I’m not smiling.”
She snorted.
The house had oriel windows bowing out on either side of a massive front door. As we entered I looked out one of them, toward the front yard. I could see the glow from the mushroom-shaped ground lights lining the walk. Inside, the place had been redone in tones of tan, brown and gold with touches of bright orange in the scattered silk pillows, candles and lampshades. A huge fireplace, flames licking and fluttering around a large chunk of oak, was the gathering point.
The interior was grander than I’d first thought, with a full floor above that hid the bedrooms. I was amazed at how crowded it was. Lots of people attended these parties apparently. The women were all lavishly dressed and draped in jewelry. The amethyst gown and pushup bra I’d strapped myself into helped me look like I belonged. I watched Violet get handed a discreet guest book from a serious-faced young man in a tuxedo. Most of the male members wore tuxes as well. It was not an event for “casual chic.”
Violet signed us in and we squeezed through the throng, past a rather sweeping staircase with a carved mahogany rail to a larger room that ran along the back of the house. Who were the people who owned houses like this one? It had been opulent when it was built, it was restored to even greater opulence now. I examined the light fixtures and determined they were either the originals brought back to former luster, or amazing replicas. Probably originals.
“Come on,” Violet said, squeezing my arm. She threaded her way to a group of older gentlemen who seemed more interested in talking with each other than actually meeting any eligible women.
But Violet was in her element. She caught the eye of one of the men who looked to be somewhere in his sixties. I marveled silently as they were drawn to each other like magnets.
“Who is she?” a guy closer to my age asked at my elbow. “George never stops talking about the stock market.”
“George…?”
“Tertian. The club’s president. Hi, I’m Martin,” he said, sticking out his hand. He was a geek’s geek, his tie askew, his Adam’s apple jumping up and down.
“Veronica Kellogg.”
“Could I get you a drink, Ms. Kellogg?”
“That would be great. A glass of Chardonnay?”
“I’ll be right back,” he said eagerly, hurrying off to do my bidding.
Martin, at least, seemed harmless enough. I wondered how he’d made his million, or if he’d lied like Emmett. I had a belated moment of worry when I thought about how Keegan Lendenhal had doctored the beers, so I followed after Martin into another room where a bartending staff was mixing up drinks. One bartender opened a bottle of white wine in my sight and poured a glass for Martin, who turned back my way. I scooted around to where we’d been standing, scolding myself for being paranoid. This was no teen party presided over by an egomaniac demigod.
Martin brought me my drink and I learned he was twenty-nine and into computers. I flat out asked him if that was how he’d made his million. “Millions,” he corrected, flushing. “No, actually, I inherited from my father and grandfather.”
“Ah, the old fashioned way.”
“You’re funny,” he said admiringly.
“Yeah…”
We had next to nothing to talk about, so I pretended a fascination with computers and let him ramble on for a while. I hated to be one of “those people”, the ones who talk to you but keep their eyes on the door, but I confess that’s exactly what I was doing. Martin didn’t seem to mind.
I broke in once to ask him how long he’d been a member and he shocked me by answering, “Four years.”
“Did you ever meet Roland Hatchmere?” I asked curiously.
“You know Roland?”
&
nbsp; “I know his daughter Gigi and I know Emmett.”
“Emmett Miller,” he said, nodding. “That was sure a story about Roland, though, wasn’t it? The murder. On his daughter’s wedding day.”
He didn’t seem to know that Emmett was the groom and I didn’t confuse the issue with facts. “It sure was,” I agreed. “I heard someone called Roland from the club’s business office right before he was killed. How’s that for weird?”
Martin frowned. “Who?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know. I just heard about it.”
“Well, maybe,” Martin said skeptically. “But he’d just started coming to some parties again. He quit after he got married. Nobody saw him till last summer. He came once or twice. I think he was at the pool party. Maybe not.”
“Last summer…was he with anybody?” I asked casually.
“How come you want to know so much about Roland?”
He sounded more curious than suspicious, so I said, “I know his wife, Melinda. She thinks he was killed by one of his ex-wives. I was just wondering if maybe he brought her here.”
“The only woman I saw him with was Tamara.”
“Who?”
Martin glanced around. “She’s here somewhere. She was working on Roland pretty hard, but I think he wasn’t over his wife. You can tell Melinda that. It might make her feel better.”
“You know Melinda?”
“Only from Roland’s conversation.”
The conversation stalled after that. I mentioned Dante’s name and Martin’s face filled with consternation. Clearly he didn’t think much of the man, either, though he was too polite to say so.
Martin moved in closer to me, taking up more personal space than I cared to give. I sensed if I didn’t ditch him soon he would be stuck to me like a burr for the rest of the evening. Glancing around, I saw Violet and George Tertian yucking it up. He was laughing and laughing, his face bright red. I hoped he wasn’t going to have a coronary.
Martin said, “Maybe I’m reading more into this than I should, but just so you know…” He hesitated, glancing toward the stairs, uncomfortable but hopeful. I hated to shoot him down but it looked like that’s where this was heading. “We could move to a private room? I could order champagne, or more Chardonnay?”
“Well, you know, that sounds…interesting. But right now I need the ladies’ room.”
“We don’t have to,” he said quickly, sensing he was losing me.
I extricated myself with an effort, heading up the stairs. The nearest bathroom had been temporarily designated: Women. I opened the door and was met with an attractive blonde in a shimmery gold dress who was applying lipstick in front of the mirror. I went into the stall and when I exited, she was still involved in application, rimming her lips in a frosty pink color, over and over. I watched her in the mirror as I washed my hands, wondering what the hell she was on.
Two women rushed in, talking and laughing, waiting for each other outside the stall. Then Violet stuck her head inside the door and waved at me to come her way. “Jane. Come here!”
I followed her back into the hall. “It’s Ronnie, remember?”
“The man I’m with is George Tertian. He’s the club president. He’s practically offered me a hostess job, right here at the club!” Her eyes sparkled. “My God. I guess you can’t fight fate. This is what I’m good at.”
“Well, that’s great. What does the hostess job entail?”
“Who cares. I can’t tell you how freeing this is. George knew Roland well, so I had to come clean about who I am. It’s okay, though.”
“Are you sure?” I asked dubiously.
“Absolutely.”
Violet tore back to George and I returned to the bathroom, digging through my beaded bag for my own tube of lipstick. The blonde woman was still at the mirror, but the other two were drying their hands and chatting. As soon as they were gone, my blonde friend stopped rimming her mouth but she seemed frozen and dull.
I couldn’t find my lipstick. I cursed my failure at all things girl, met the eyes of the blonde in the mirror, had to settle for touching at my eye makeup with the end of my pinkie, examining the nonexistent results. “You okay?” I asked her.
“Yes…”
“You don’t seem okay. You want me to let someone know you’re in here?”
“No,” she said abruptly, glancing past me to the door.
Her sudden panic made me look over my shoulder. “All right,” I said, wondering what the hell was up with her.
She focused on me, as if for the first time. “Your name’s Jane? You’re new here.”
Thank you, Violet . I could hardly pretend to be Veronica now. “This is my first time.”
“Have you met anyone interesting?”
She was about as full of life as a bag of bricks, but she seemed keyed in on whatever my response would be. “Martin brought me a glass of wine.”
“Oh…good.” She seemed to relax. After a moment, she said, “I’m Tamara.”
I tried not to react. “Doesn’t sound like this is your first time,” I said lightly.
“No.”
I was in no hurry to join the festivities downstairs again, and apparently neither was she. I asked her how long she’d been coming to these parties and she smiled fleetingly. “Not that long,” she said. “But way too long, too. It’s not quite what it seems, is it?”
“Meaning?”
“Oh, you know…” She desultorily waved a hand. “I was that small-town girl hoping to meet the guy who had it all, looks, wealth, a nice car…”
“Where are you from?”
“Down I-5. Ever hear of Brewster Hill?”
I shook my head.
“It’s not really a town. It’s just a—place. My parents have an honest-to-goodness farm there. Beaumont Farms. The best produce around. I mean it.”
I was trying to figure out how to ask her about Roland. Should I just pop out with questions, kind of like I’d done with Martin?
“I thought I was dying there,” Tamara said, turning back to her own reflection, as if she were practicing a monolog. “So, I went out to the big wide world. Then, I went home. Then I went out, and then I went home again.”
She sounded totally disheartened and jaded. I started to think her apathy was due more to depression than drugs. “Maybe you just haven’t found him yet,” I said, since she made this sound like it stemmed from romantic disillusionment.
“Found him?” She flashed me a look, one of her only moments of animation. “The devil’s always around, isn’t he?”
I wasn’t sure if she meant The Devil, as in Mr. Supreme Darkness, or if she were speaking off the cuff. Like the devil’s in the details. Or idle hands are the devil’s playground.
She went back to applying the lipstick as if she were going to be graded on staying in the lines.
“Are you still living in Brewster Hill?”
“As little as possible.” She capped the lipstick with a tiny snap and headed toward the door. “Be careful what you wish for, Jane.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I followed her out of the restroom. I hadn’t found how to ask her about Roland yet, but she was my best bet for information. Maybe she’d been the one to call him from the club, or maybe she could lead me to who had.
She headed downstairs, her gold dress swirling around her knees. A dark-haired gentleman in his mid-to late-thirties stood at the bottom, but she brushed past him as if she didn’t know him. He gave her a casual look, then turned his face toward me.
I had a very real feeling that this was Dante, the man whom women liked but men treated with caution, so I came down the stairs a bit self-consciously. I hoped to hell I didn’t stumble in my shoes. This whole thing about looking good and walking with surety and grace requires way too much energy and skill.
Our eyes met. I had the tingling sensation he was viewing me with X-ray vision, sizing me up. Maybe I was making too much of it, but Dwayne had told me to trust my instincts and every instinct
I possessed was sending warning signals down my nerves.
I lost Tamara to a good-looking middle-aged man. Her face was turned to his in a coquettish slant. Either she’d managed to throw off her depression or she was doing a whole lot of acting.
I spent another hour mingling. I could feel Martin’s eyes on me, but I kept out of his range. I managed to insert Roland’s name into a couple of conversations, but I didn’t learn anything further, and mention of Dante’s name earned me the cold shoulder.
I tried hanging by some of the women, but they seemed to collectively view me as a competitor and studiously ignored me. I was thinking about seeing if I could squeeze a few more drops of information from Martin when a male body came up behind me and grabbed each of my elbows with his hands.
