He winked at me. “This is not for publication. You see, in order to join this club you need a member to sponsor you, to put your name up for membership. I didn’t know anyone.” He leaned toward me, lowering his voice and glancing around the room. “Bunch of stiffs, as you can see for yourself. What I did was, I looked at the list of members and found someone who was into the ponies big time.”
“The ponies?”
“The race track, honey. Anyway, he and I had a little talk. Following that, he put my name up for membership.”
“Is that ethical?”
“What do you think this place is, the Senate? Hell, stuff like that goes on all the time. Then my name went to the nominating committee. This is where things can get sticky. Some guy’s got a beef against you, like maybe he don’t like the way you part your hair, he can prevent you from getting in.”
“What did you do?” I asked, not exactly wanting to know.
He grinned. “That’s where it pays to have friends in high places. They can find out some interesting stuff.” His glance swept the room. “Looking at them, you wouldn’t believe the jams these old buzzards get into.”
“By friends in high places, do you mean your brother?” I asked.
He made a face. “He’s small potatoes. Besides, my brother wouldn’t tell me if my coat was on fire.”
Our drinks arrived. I raised my glass. “Here’s to a productive membership.”
A few minutes later, the waiter appeared to take our food order. “The tenderloin de boeuf looks very good, Mr. Alfano,” he said.
“Lemme have that,” Bunny said. “Rose, order anything you like. Get the twin lobsters. Get the triplets.”
I ordered filet of sole. When the waiter departed, I asked, “Do you come here with your wife for dinner?”
“When she’s around. We’ve got a place at the Jersey Shore, close to her relatives. My wife thinks Granite Cove’s boring.” He shrugged. “I suppose she’s right, but I grew up here. Roots, you know?”
Bunny’s defense of our town made me view him in a warmer light. If only I could bring the conversation around to Settlers Dunes, perhaps I could convince him.
I didn’t have long to wait. He suddenly put his drink down and nearly lunged across the table, his eyes bulging. “Will you check out the gams on her?”
“What gams?” I turned to see the object of his ogling. Seated on the opposite side of the room at a table for two were Martha Farley and Pamela Bingham. The latter’s short, tight skirt exposed her sleek, tanned legs. Her hair, worn in a twist, was as bright as her diamond encrusted Rolex.
I turned to Bunny. “Which one are you ogling, Martha or Pamela?”
He laughed and took a big gulp of his Manhattan. “Mrs. Bingham is one fine package. I’ll have to introduce myself.”
Although I was somewhat chastened, losing my date’s interest to another woman so early in the game, I quickly got over it. l slipped on my glasses, not to view the so-called gams, which I’d already seen at the Frost Funeral Parlor, but to check out the bottle of wine the white jacketed waiter was pouring into their glasses.
Not surprisingly, it was Dom Perignon Champagne. The stuff went for a hundred and fifty dollars at The Liquor Chest downtown. “Hmm,” I said, “I wonder why Mrs. Bingham is lunching with Martha.”
“Oh, I suppose ol’ Martha is pushing her fancy Settlers Dunes project.”
I almost sprayed my drink over the table. “Funny you should mention that, Bunny. I’ve been meaning to ask. You see, I’ve always assumed that Settlers Dunes was town land. Now it seems I’m wrong. In any event, Martha Farley certainly doesn’t own it.”
He signaled the waiter for another drink. “You’re right, it’s not town land. According to Ken Froggett, it’s tied up in a trust held by the Frost family. They’ve had it a helluva long time. The last surviving family member gets to decide what to do with the land, sell it or deed it to the town.”
“It all comes down to one surviving family member?”
“Uh huh, Dwayne Frost. Lives in the Bahamas, Bimini. He’s no ball of fire, but then Homer Frost wasn’t exactly a dynamo either. Homer, they claim, built the first house in Granite Cove, and I understand he didn’t build it, he just lived in it.
“You ever see his portrait at City Hall? Looks like he’s been sucking lemons. Ol’ Dwayne’s not one of them Puritans. He sure likes his booze. Not that I’m surprised. Any guy who’s lived in Bimini for twenty-five years has gotta be one crazy, partying bastard, and Dwayne Frost is that.”
“You met him? When?” Our second drinks arrived. I moved mine aside; Bunny took a big gulp of his.
“Not long ago. Spencer Farley invited him up for a round of golf. Turns out the guy doesn’t play golf. He didn’t want to go sightseeing, either, or visit his ancestor’s house or see the Homer Frost statue in the park. You know the one with him on horseback, the one that all the kids like to spray paint? All Dwayne wanted to do was hang out at The Sacred Cod. He was at the bar every night.”
“What is the point of his visit to Granite Cove?” I asked.
He paused before speaking. “A bunch of people thought it would be a good idea to meet the last member of the Frost family. Take him around, show him the town.”
“Would these people be trying to influence him on what to do with his land?”
He touched my wrist. “Nothing illegal about that, darlin’.”
I was halfway through the filet of sole, when Pamela Bingham got up from her table and headed for the exit. I had a good idea where she was going. “Bunny, I’m going to powder my nose,” I said.
He pointed to the exit. “Little girls’ room is right across the hall.”
Fortunately, we were alone in the floral pink ladies’ room. I had to act fast. Before ducking into a stall, I glanced at Pamela. She leaned over the sink, staring into the mirror. When I came out, I moved to the adjacent sink. Turning on the faucet, I said in my best Hemlock Point accent, “That’s a marvelous (mawvlous) tan, Pamela. Where did you get it?”
She didn’t seem surprised that I knew her name. A local celebrity, she was no doubt accustomed to being recognized. “Anguilla. It’s gorgeous there.”
“It is. This time of year, my husband and I head to Antigua for Race Week. He adores sailing.” I squirted liquid soap into my hands. “I see you’re lunching with Martha Farley. Old friend, is she?”
Drunk on her image and what smelled like gin, she didn’t take her eyes from the mirror. “Just met her,” she said and removed a slim gold cylinder from her purse. Stepping back, she unbuttoned her suit jacket, revealing the fact that she wore nothing underneath. She depressed the cylinder and sprayed perfume on her breasts.
The scent was an intoxicating blend of citrus and spice with earthy undertones. Had I not been impersonating an aristocrat, I’d have asked for a spritz myself. Instead, I lowered my gaze and scrubbed my hands in an effort to avoid staring at her breasts. It was like trying to ignore the Hood blimp on a cloudless day.
“I suppose Martha’s trying to interest you in one of her villas?”
This time she looked at me. Her green eyes were rimmed in pink. “She showed me the drawings. They’re fabulous.” Having spritzed herself thoroughly, she now took a pack of Marlboro Lights from her bag. Ignoring the sign on the wall that implored us kindly to refrain from smoking, she lit a cigarette.
“As a matter of fact, I had my heart set on one of the villas,” I said.
“So what happened?” Eyes closed, she leaned against the sink.
I sighed. “I’m too much the worry wart. I know what can happen in August.”
She blew a stream of smoke over my head. “What happens in August?”
“You know, the Black Tide?”
“What Black Tide?”
“I forget. You’re not from around here, are you? Black Tide is what the locals call it. There’s a scientific name for that particular algae. In any case, no one knows exactly what causes it or why it’s been appearing off
Settlers Dunes for the past three summers.” I dried my hands on one of the thick paper towels stacked on a side table. “Personally, I blame George Bush for it.”
She stared, her focus unsteady as her mind slowly absorbed my words. “Wait, wait. You’re saying there’s some kinda algae in the water? Whass so bad about it?”
“It’s probably not harmful, though you wouldn’t dare swim in it. The Black Tide is known for its pungent odor.”
“Pungent?” she asked, blinking.
“And it only lasts a month or so. If you stay inside with the windows closed, it’s probably not such a problem.” I gave my hair a final pat. “I don’t know why it’s chosen Settlers Dunes, but like I said, maybe it won’t return.” I sighed. “Still, I can’t believe Martha didn’t mention it.”
“Shit!” She stabbed her cigarette in the sink and charged for the door, her heels clacking on the tiles.
“Ah, Pamela…” Too late to warn her she was still unbuttoned. Given her frame of mind, she wouldn’t have listened anyway. Flinging open the ladies’ room door, she disappeared outside while I scurried to the door and peeked out. It was a sight that would most likely be remembered. Pamela Bingham, her suit jacket flapping, marched bare-breasted through the dining room, heading straight for Martha Farley. In her wake she left a sea of startled faces.
Adding to the general calamity, the smoke detector in the ladies’ room went off. Its loud, pulsating alarm created pandemonium. Silver-haired diners, in an effort to rise, clutched at tablecloths, causing dishes and glassware to crash to the floor. Amid the shrieks, a flustered Mrs. Proctor raced from one table to another, vainly attempting to restore order. Before long, the whine of approaching fire trucks added to the din.
I zigzagged around the tables until I reached Bunny. “Did you see her?” he shouted. “That was worth the initiation fee.” He appeared unperturbed by the ruckus until a police car sounded outside. “Let’s get outta here,” he said.
I followed him out another exit and through the kitchen’s swinging doors. No one was inside as we made our way past enormous stainless steel refrigerators to a rear door that opened onto a back porch. Wooden steps led to a cement walkway. A sign at the bottom pointed to the Pro Shop, a tin-roofed building where a row of shiny golf carts were lined up. The area appeared to be deserted. Most likely everyone had raced to the dining room upon hearing the commotion.
Beyond the pro shop we approached a woodsy setting. Bunny stopped. “How about taking my picture here?”
I glanced around. The light was good, not too harsh. “Why don’t you stand under that tree?” While I got my camera ready, Bunny ran a comb through his slicked-back hair. Then he leaned against the tree, his gold chain flashing in a tangle of chest hair. I hesitated, asking, “Want to button your shirt up a little?”
“I’m not the formal type,” he said. “Besides, the gals love this look.”
“Whatever you say.” I adjusted the lens and snapped away.
It was late afternoon when I returned to the office. I had a headache from the brouhaha at the Club. I was also late and wary of Yvonne’s disapproval. I needn’t have worried. Instead of a scowl, I was treated to a big smile when I walked in.
“I just got through speaking to Mrs. Phipps,” she said. “She was so excited.”
I sat down and kicked off my pumps. “Why is that?”
“Why? Because you’ve saved the day at the Phipps household.”
“I have?”
“Don’t be so modest. That advice you gave her about Raul’s problem is pure genius. She told me how listless and depressed he’d been, how they were afraid he wouldn’t survive.”
“So my advice really worked, did it?”
“It’s turned the situation around completely. How did you ever think of that?”
I shrugged. “It made sense to repeat the trauma, the negative conditioner, i.e., the cowboy hat, until it became commonplace. I advised him to wear the hat all the time. In other words repeat the negative conditioner.”
“They were taking quite a risk,” Yvonne said. “At first poor little Raul nearly had a seizure. Mrs. Phipps said he hid under the sofa and wouldn’t come out. Yet Mr. Phipps refused to take the hat off. The next morning, he wore the cowboy hat at breakfast and again at night when he came home.
“On the third day a miracle happened. Little Raul timidly entered their bedroom where Mr. Phipps was reading the newspapers. Raul stared at him for the longest time. When they checked, they discovered he’d fallen asleep under their bed.” Yvonne reached for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. “When Mrs. Phipps told me that story I almost cried buckets.”
“I’m glad everything’s back to normal,” I said.
“It is, except for one teeny problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Apparently Mr. Phipps must wear the hat all the time. When he tried taking it off, Raul became hysterical. So, for now he keeps it on. They feel it’s a small price to pay to have Raul healthy again.” She gazed at me, misty eyed. “You’ve made such a difference in that couple’s life, Rose.”
“Glad to help,” I said, feeling so proud I thought my buttons would burst. The sight, however, would be nothing compared to Pamela Bingham’s show stopper.
“Dearie me,” she said, “I forgot to mention the exciting part. Mrs. Phipps is so pleased with how everything turned out, she’s throwing a party.”
“Are you saying I’m invited?” I asked.
“Silly girl, you’re the guest of honor! It’s Friday at seven. Cocktails and buffet on the verandah. Doesn’t that sound enchanting?”
“Are you going?” I asked.
She sighed. “I could never leave Mother for an entire evening. In any case, the point is to introduce you to her friends. They also celebrate Raul’s recovery.”
Spending Friday night with a bunch of Hemlock Point fossils did not sound enchanting. Truthfully, I’d rather scrub toilets at Fenway Park. “That’s awfully nice of Mrs. Phipps, but really, I don’t—”
“She mentioned donating a substantial amount to the local animal shelter in our name.”
“Our name?”
“The newspaper’s name. Do you know what this means? Now the shelter can build that outdoor dog run they’ve always wanted. Rose, the Gazette can’t buy publicity like that.”
“Fine, but can I at least bring a date?”
She laughed. “You’re expected to bring a guest.”
“Good. Kevin will get a kick out of it.”
“Kevin?” Yvonne looked aghast, as if I’d mentioned Charlie Manson. “Mrs. Phipps distinctly said it would be black tie.”
“Don’t worry, Yvonne. Kevin will be presentable.”
She gave me a worried look. “It’s an open bar as well.”
I got the message. “Don’t worry, Yvonne. He won’t disgrace you.”
She turned away. “That’s the furthest thing from my mind.”
Auntie Pearl’s Helpful Housekeeping Hints:
Dear Auntie Pearl:
I’m caught in a dilemma that’s tearing my family apart. It all started during the annual Fourth of July celebration at my parents’ lakeside cottage. My sister and I and our children attended, along with my parents’ friends and neighbors.
After an afternoon of swimming and boating, it was time for the cookout. While I was getting my cucumber salad from the refrigerator, I heard strange noises coming from the bathroom downstairs. Thinking it was my grandmother in need of assistance, I opened the door. Auntie Pearl, I almost fainted when I saw my brother-in-law groping the neighbor’s eighteen-year-old daughter. Somehow, I managed to grab my bowl and rush outside.
Later that night when I told my husband what I’d witnessed, he advised me to forget the incident. Yet somehow I cannot get the image of that shirtless, sweaty man from my mind. Although I’d never deliberately hurt my sister, I think she should know the father of her children is a pervert. At the very least my parents should be informed.
Please advi
se, Auntie Pearl.
In a Quandary in Quincy
Dear Quandary:
While reading your letter, one thought came to mind: I’ll bet those cucumbers weren’t properly dried before you added the dressing. So many cookouts are ruined when the hostess serves wilted, soggy cucumber salad. Needless to say, Auntie Pearl has the solution to this problem.
First, peel and thinly slice the cucumbers. Lay them flat on paper towels, and sprinkle them with salt. After they’ve sweated, cover with another paper towel, replacing as necessary. When the cucumbers are suitably dry, toss with the dressing. It will now properly adhere. By the way, it is not sugar that wilts cucumber salad or cole slaw, it’s the vinegar. Thus, add the dressing at the last minute.
Follow these steps, and your cookout will be a smashing success. You might even put your brother-in-law in charge of salads. Give him something to do besides getting into mischief!
Auntie Pearl
Eight
On my way home I stopped at the Liquor Chest, deciding to reward myself for solving the mystery of the Hairless Peruvian. When I stepped inside, I couldn’t believe my luck. Rusty Favazza was heading for the check-out with a case of beer.
I grabbed a bottle of Johnny Walker from the back shelves and stood behind him. He pulled crumpled bills from his wallet one by one. When he hoisted the beer onto his shoulder, I tapped his arm. “Rusty, are you carrying that back?”
Bleary eyes came alive with recognition. “Rose McNichols, I’ll be damned. How ya doin’?”
“Good. Want a ride home?”
“I can walk. No problem.”
I wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass. Pointing to the parking lot visible through the screen door, I said, “You see that lime green Jetta? Climb in, the door’s unlocked. There are a couple things I’d like to ask you. You’d be doing me a favor.”
“I won’t argue with a lady,” Rusty said, winking. His bad leg thumped as he crossed the old wooden floor.
I handed the white-haired clerk my credit card, ignoring his stare. He rang up my order and handed the card back, saying, “I hope you know what you’re doing, miss. That one’s known to be a troublemaker.”
Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky Page 11
