I smiled. “Surely you’re mistaken.”
Rusty had the passenger door open. Inside the car he sipped a beer and smoked a cigarette. “Smoke bother you? I can put it out.”
“It’s fine. Just roll down the window.” I settled my bottle on the floor in the back.
“What did you buy?” he asked.
“Scotch.”
“Uh huh. What kind?”
“Johnny Walker.”
He shook his head. “You always were a classy broad.”
I started the car. “I’m afraid it’s champagne taste on a beer pocketbook. You know my background. Mom was a schoolteacher, Dad sold fish.”
He adjusted his seat, pushing it back to make room for his legs. “I wasn’t talking about money.”
I swung onto Harbor Road, passing deserted lots where the rusted skeletons of old boats lay partially hidden by tall weeds. A surrounding chain link fence was pitted with debris, including plastic shopping bags and shards of Styrofoam coffee cups.
The future of this dormant section of wharf was forever being debated. Politicians, environmentalists and developers all had differing opinions of what it should become. The old-timers wanted to hold out in the event the fishing industry regained its health. Meanwhile, the developers, citing the success of the Harbour Building, pushed for restaurants, shops and condominiums. Environmentalists called for more testing. Not surprisingly, the issue was deadlocked. At the same time the interest rates, like the weeds covering the lot, grew higher.
Rusty took a last swallow of beer and crushed the can. “I’m serious about what I said. Even in high school you had class. You wouldn’t go out with someone like me.”
Rusty obviously had had a few beers to make such a statement. In high school I was flat-chested, flat-haired and flat-footed. It wasn’t until I reached my twenties that I started receiving male attention. Cal Devine, however, had been smitten since fifth grade.
“Modesty doesn’t suit you, Rusty. Weren’t you voted best looking and best athlete in your class?”
“You forgot class flirt,” he said, flipping the empty into the back seat.
I glanced at him. Up close, the cheeks that appeared so ruddy were in fact a crosshatching of broken blood vessels. The copper-colored hair was streaked with silver. His smile, nonetheless, revealed teeth as white as an anchorman’s.
He leaned his head against the seat and closed his eyes. “This is nice of you.”
“I’m going in the same direction.”
“I’ll be putting my truck on the road soon’s I get my license back.”
“How’d you lose it?”
“DUI,” he said, reaching into the back seat and grabbing another beer. “Some ass wipe from Hemlock Point had parked his Jaguar on Main Street. When he opened the door, he didn’t even look around, just swung it wide open. You know how narrow Main Street is with cars parked on both sides. Big deal. I clipped his door, and he called the cops. I got outta there fast.”
“What happened?”
“I wasn’t fast enough. They got me for DUI, causing property damage and leaving the scene of an accident. They tried to get me for resisting arrest and lewd behavior, but my lawyer got them to drop it.”
I had to ask. “Lewd behavior?”
He nodded. “What happened was, I’d pulled over to take a whizz when the cops came up behind me. I carry one of those plastic urinals in my truck because of my leg. I can’t just hop out anytime I gotta take a leak.
“Anyway, the cops were yelling at me to get out of the truck, and I was still peeing. What was I supposed to do, climb out with my pants around my knees? They called it resisting arrest. Peeing in my truck was lewd behavior. Some disabilities lawyer from Boston talked them out of that one.”
“Who represented you?”
“Mister Granite Cove, Spencer Farley.”
“He’s a good lawyer.”
He shrugged. “He told the judge a sob story, said my family’s as poor as a one-armed clam shucker. He talked about my football scholarship, my injuries, all that crap. The judge looked at me like I was Tiny Tim. I thought he was gonna start bawling.”
“Sounds like Spencer did a good job.”
“He got the court to reduce it to second offense DUI even though it was my third. I didn’t do time, but the Registry pulled my license for a year. Bastards.”
“I doubt that Spencer or anyone can influence the Registry of Motor Vehicles.”
“That’s what Farley said, yet before we went to court, he promised I wouldn’t lose my license. How’d I know he was blowing smoke up my wazoo? I got even, though,” he said, laughing.
“What did you do?” I asked, somewhat reluctantly.
“When I got Farley’s bill, I wrapped my check in fish guts and sent it to him.” This time he laughed so hard, he pounded the dashboard with his fist.
I chuckled, imagining Rusty’s smelly check arriving at Spencer’s elegant law office. “Did you hear from him?”
“Nah. Next time I saw him was at the park years later. I go there to get mellow. They got a kiddy pond stocked with big orange fish, carp. Farley was outside his office, getting into his big-ass Mercedes. I yelled something. I was maybe a little wasted. He threatened to report me for vagrancy, like he owns the park. He’s a phony.”
As we got closer to his house, Rusty directed me through the narrow streets that wound around the wharf. “Pull into that parking lot,” he said, pointing.
It was full of potholes and broken asphalt. I parked in a space overlooking the harbor. “Home sweet home,” Rusty said, indicating a ramshackle house perched near the wharf. The old Victorian had seen better days. The windows were a hodgepodge of Plexiglas and plywood. On the front porch, a sagging sofa kept company with a pair of aluminum beach chairs whose plastic webbing flapped in the breeze.
“Come in for a drink?” he asked, his hand on the door.
“Thanks, but it’s late, and I have to walk my dog.”
“That’s okay. If I was a girl, I wouldn’t go in that shit hole either.”
“That’s not it—” My words were cut off when he clamped a hand over my mouth. In the light from the lone street lamp, Rusty’s eyes were dark, unreadable. “Don’t pretend, Rose. Don’t lie to me. The house is a shit hole. You know it, I know it.”
He took his hand away; I let out my breath. “Have it your way. It’s a shit hole. Are you planning on staying?”
“For now, yes. A girlfriend gets after me to move. She wants me to go to the disabilities office and sign up for housing, get a nice clean place. No roaches, no drunks passed out in the halls.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I’d have some social worker on my ass all the time. Here I’m my own man. I come and go as I please. No one calls the cops if you party too loud, and if you run out of booze, you can knock on any door. Someone will help you out.”
He drank from the can, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “That’s not to say that during the next hurricane the house won’t fall in the water. C’est la vie,” he said, tossing the empty out the window. The resulting ping echoed across the water.
“When you mentioned that girlfriend, you weren’t by any chance referring to Brandi Slocum?” I asked.
“You know Brandi?”
“Sure. She works at Stella’s.”
“Stella’s a hard ass, but she’s good to Brandi.”
“How do you know Brandi?”
“After I moved back here, I was broke. I lived at the shelter until my disability checks got transferred from California. In the meantime, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts didn’t give a rat’s ass.”
“That’s where you met Brandi? In the shelter?”
He nodded “I didn’t put the moves on her because she’s just a kid.”
“I understand Brandi’s trying to reform you.”
“Yeah. She quit drinking, drugs. Now she’s a missionary wanting to convert me.” He laughed. “She even dragged me to a couple AA meetings. I onl
y went to keep the scumbags from hitting on her.” He flicked his cigarette out the window. “I gotta go,” he muttered, reaching for the door.
“Rusty, wait. I want to talk to you about Vivian Klinger.”
But he was already half out the door, his lower body performing a complicated maneuver. His right leg lifted his left. At the same time, he pivoted and in one fluid motion was standing outside, looking at me through the window.
“Thanks, Rose.”
“Wait.” I reached behind the seat and grabbed the bottle of scotch. Setting it on my lap, I slowly slid the bag away. Light glinted on the bottle’s thick, dark glass. The cap made a crackling sound when I twisted it open. Soon the acrid, slightly smoky aroma of fine scotch filled the car. “Care for a drink?”
He got in and closed the door.
The night of the Phipps’s party was mild with a gentle breeze off the ocean. When I arrived at Kevin’s house, he was outside socializing with his neighbors. The foursome sat on lawn chairs and drank from paper cups. Kevin got up when I pulled into the driveway. “Try some of Walter’s dandelion wine,” he called.
He looked handsome in a dark suit, although the yellow bow tie was a bit too much. Kevin is definitely not the bow tie type. “Don’t you have a tie?” I said, getting out of the car.
“It’s Walter’s.” He patted the tie. “Makes me look debonair, like Hugh Grant, don’t you think?”
I stepped back and gave him the once over. Not wanting to appear a nag in front of his neighbors, I said, “It’ll do. Besides, the Phippses know you’re a musician. They expect you to be a little… outré.”
“Then I won’t shock them when I relieve myself in their sink.”
“Just remember that everything you do reflects upon the newspaper.”
The two gray-haired sisters laughed at this exchange. Clara said, “Kevin will be the best looking man at the party. If I were thirty years younger, I’d be after him myself.”
“You mean forty years,” Ruth said, draining her glass.
Walter got to his feet. “Rose, let me pour you a glass of my wine. We had the best dandelion crop in ‘99.”
I told Walter we were running late. “The invitation says seven o’clock.”
“Society arrives late. People expect it,” Kevin said, handing Walter his empty glass.
“This is an older crowd,” I said. “It’ll probably be an early evening.” I refrained from adding, “I hope.”
“You young people enjoy yourselves,” Walter said, turning to Kevin. “Keep your eye on this lovely gal. You’re bound to have competition.”
“I won’t let anyone steal her heart,” Kevin said.
As we walked to the car, Ruth called, “You make a handsome couple.”
Kevin turned and made a sweeping bow. “If Rose plays her cards right, tonight could be her lucky night.”
“Oh, whoopee for me,” I said, climbing behind the wheel.
Once again I found myself on scenic Shore Road. As we approached Settlers Dunes, I slowed down and said, “Check out the new sign.” Ahead was a dusty Mercedes station wagon blocking the Dunes’ entrance road. As I slowly passed, Martha Farley suddenly emerged from behind the car, her sweaty brow creased with irritation.
In response, I automatically stepped on the gas, causing the Jetta’s tires to squeal and fishtail in the sandy road. I gripped the steering wheel while Kevin lowered his window and yelled, “Maaaartha!”
“Cut it out!” I glanced in the rear mirror. Martha stood in the road, glaring at us.
“Relax, I’m just having a little fun,” Kevin said.
“You call that fun? I’ll have you know Martha Farley is the newspaper’s biggest account. Yvonne would not be happy to discover we’re harassing her.”
“We weren’t harassing her, babe, I was. By the way, what’s that sign, Cormorant Cove, all about? I’ve been to Settlers Dunes thousands of times and never once saw a cormorant.”
“Of course you haven’t. The name’s a fake, just like the woman who thought it up. Martha wants to build high-end condos—excuse me, villas—on land that’s not hers and is not for sale.”
“That’s a Donald Trump maneuver,” Kevin said. “Before he got so rich, he had nothing, but he was clever. He rented a bunch of heavy equipment and showed potential buyers the site for a proposed luxury condo building. At the time he couldn’t afford a wheelbarrow. The buyers didn’t know that. They looked around, saw the heavy equipment, liked his pitch, his swagger, and bought his plan. Before long, the plan became a reality.”
“Donald Trump has charisma,” I said. “Martha is just obnoxious.” I fretted anew. “I hope she didn’t recognize me and pull her ads. I’ll be out of a job.”
“If you get fired, don’t worry. You can join my act.”
“And sing? My dog has a better voice.”
“You won’t have to sing, babe. Just wear a bikini and shake a tambourine. You’ll be sensational.”
“Kevin, can we not talk about it right now?”
We stopped at the Hemlock Point gate house where a security guard, after scanning a list of names, waved us through. Kevin whistled. “I feel like a celebrity. What did you do to deserve this treatment?”
I told him how I’d applied Betty Ann’s quit-smoking conditioning program to Raul’s situation. “But instead of stressing the positive, I suggested they enforce the negative. By repeating the trauma, the negative conditioner, it would eventually become commonplace.”
“I don’t get it,” Kevin said.
“When Mr. Phipps first put on the cowboy hat, the sight traumatized Raul. I suggested he repeat this by wearing the hat all the time, and that’s what he did. Predictably, Raul nearly had a seizure seeing that hat again. But on the third day, according to Mrs. Phipps, a miracle happened. The dog rolled over and fell asleep under their bed.”
“So everything’s back to normal?”
“Yes, though there’s one tiny problem. Apparently, Mr. Phipps has to wear the hat all the time. In any event, they consider it a small price to have Raul his old self again.”
“You’re a smart lady,” Kevin said, kissing my cheek and placing a hand on my knee.
“Maybe I’ve got a second career as a dog analyst.”
I slowed down as the road became bumpier. Hidden behind the hemlock and scrub pine were turn-of-the-century estates set far apart. Before long we came upon the Phipps’s property, Marbella. I followed the winding driveway now lined with flowering dogwood. At the end, a uniformed guard motioned us to a clearing where a dozen vehicles were parked.
I pulled into a space flanked by a Jaguar on one side and a cream-colored Rolls Royce on the other. The latter’s occupants, a silver-haired couple in evening dress, cast a quick glance as they exited their car. The woman’s tiara glittered in the waning light.
“We scare them,” Kevin whispered. “Look, he’s hiding his wallet.”
“Keep your voice down,” I said. “Remember, this isn’t The Sacred Cod.”
“Right you are. I don’t see many tiaras at the Cod.”
The regal pair swept past us to the walkway, the man holding his companion’s elbow. We couldn’t take our eyes off them. “I’ll bet he didn’t rent that tux,” Kevin whispered.
“Probably not,” I said and adjusted the car mirror to check my makeup. The plum eye shadow nicely matched my dress, I thought, and turned to Kevin. “Well, here goes. You ready?”
We stepped out of the car. Kevin extended his arm. “Madame?” Together we followed a flagstone path that led across a wide lawn to the big stucco house. Faint notes from a piano drifted out into the night. As we neared the entrance, Kevin asked, “Is that them?”
I looked up to see Mr. and Mrs. Phipps standing in the lighted doorway. Myrna Phipps wore a floor-length aqua dress with a long front panel that hung over her shoulder, giving her the appearance of a Roman general. Her powdered bosom was stuffed into a low neckline; the effect was like two loaves of fresh baked bread. In one hand she held a c
hampagne glass, in the other, Raul. Squashed between the billowy breasts, the dog gave us a piteous look.
“Holy shit,” Kevin whispered. “That’s the dog?”
“That’s the one.”
Spotting us, Mrs. Phipps cried, “Rose, how divine to see you!” She turned to the man standing next to her. “Lester, this is Rose McNichols, the girl who saved our darling’s life.”
Mr. Phipps, incongruous in a white Stetson and tuxedo, lifted me off my feet in a hug even though he was four inches shorter. When I introduced Kevin, the man pumped his hand and slapped his back. “This party’s a tribute to your young lady,” he said.
Myrna Phipps chimed in. “Rose, we’ve made a donation to the animal shelter in the newspaper’s name.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said, “But really—”
Lester Phipps waved away my protests. “You two kids run along and get some champagne. Have fun.”
It was an excellent suggestion. “We’ll do that,” I said, but when I yanked on Kevin’s arm, he didn’t budge. Myrna Phipps, standing before him on tiptoe, was gazing up into his face.
“Rose never mentioned she was bringing such a devilishly handsome man,” she gushed, straightening Kevin’s tie.
“I guess I forgot,” I said. “Kevin, let’s go. Our hosts have guests to greet.” With a final pat on his cheek, she released him, allowing me to drag him away.
Inside the house we headed down a long, arched hallway, a thick Persian runner muffling our steps. Stopping before a heavy gold mirror, Kevin smoothed his hair, staring at his reflection. “Devilishly handsome, huh? I think she likes me.”
“Because you’re the only man here under seventy-five,” I snapped. Catching sight of my down-turned mouth in the mirror, I told myself to let it go. The fact that women of all ages come on to Kevin is not his fault. There’s something about him that causes normally proper ladies to become brazen. Maybe his boyish looks make them feel safe. Whatever the reason, it’s damned annoying.
We reached a large, high-ceilinged room where white-haired guests in evening clothes stood in clusters, chatting and drinking champagne served by uniformed waiters. Out on the terrace, a pianist played show tunes from an earlier era.
Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky Page 12
