Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky

by Sharon Love Cook

  “Night of the Living Dead,” Kevin said, glancing around. He lifted two glasses of champagne from a passing tray and when a waiter approached with a platter of shrimp, he speared three with a toothpick. “How can I go back to Roach Motels after this?” he said, sighing.

  “You wouldn’t have bugs if you didn’t leave food around,” I said, still irritated by Mrs. Phipps’s fawning.

  “Hey, everybody’s gotta eat.”

  Before we could move into the room, our hostess descended upon us. “There you are! I’m going to steal Rose for a moment, Kevin. My friends want to meet our guest of honor.”

  I waved at him as she led me to a gaggle of older women seated in a corner of the room. After the introductions, I found myself entertaining them with newspaper stories, at the same time refraining from mentioning the murder. They seemed fascinated, most likely due to good breeding, and so I held court. After a while my throat became parched. It was time for a drink. Not only that, I’d spotted Spencer Farley standing near the terrace.

  I excused myself to the group, departed, and approached him. “You look very distinguished tonight, Spencer.”

  “And you are a rose among thorns, if you’ll forgive the pun,” he said, chuckling.

  “You’re too kind,” I said. “Where’s Martha?”

  “She’s out talking plans for that project of hers at the Dunes.”

  “As a matter of fact, I wanted to ask you about that project.”

  He leaned toward me and said, “Go right ahead.” I smelled his lime cologne and something stronger than champagne.

  “A lot of people assumed that Settlers Dunes is owned by the town until we found out it isn’t so. How many others beside Martha are interested?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’ll bet there will be more. Of course, no one wants to see the land sold. After all, Settlers Dunes has great historic value to all of us. Be that as it may, we don’t want it falling into the wrong hands, do we?”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Smart girl. The way I see it, the appropriate project done right could be super for this town. It could draw some high-end people, increase our tax base and breathe new life into the art scene. You must admit Granite Cove could use new blood.”

  So could vampires, I thought. “Will the town at least make an offer?”

  “Let’s hope so.” He wagged his finger at me. “You should be asking Mayor Froggett these questions. He’s in charge.”

  “I’d like to, but I can’t get through to him,” I said. “What do you think are the chances Dwayne Frost will donate the land to the town?”

  “Ah, that would be lovely, wouldn’t it? Unfortunately, I’m under the impression he’s got a cash flow problem.”

  I nodded. “I understand Mr. Frost was in town. I wish someone had tipped me off earlier. I’d have loved to interview the last family member of our town’s founder.”

  “He was only here a little while. The Chamber asked Martha and I to put him up. We were happy to do it. After all, you can’t expect a member of the founding family bunking at the YMCA, can you?”

  “No, I suppose you can’t,” I said, picturing Martha tucking her guest in at night.

  Perhaps sensing my disappointment, Spencer gave me a brief hug. “Just between the two of us, you didn’t miss much. Mr. Frost is a little rough around the edges. When I suggested a tour of the ancestral home, he couldn’t care less.”

  “You can’t blame him. The ancestral home is now a funeral parlor.”

  He ignored the remark. “Dwayne’s more interested in spending time at The Sacred Cod.” He rattled the ice in his empty glass. “Which reminds me, I’m ready for a refill. Can I get you one, Rose? Remember you’re a guest tonight, not a journalist. Put away the notebook and have fun.”

  “I’m going to look for Kevin,” I said. “Nice talking to you, Spencer.”

  I found him on the terrace. Together we gazed out at the moon. It cast a silvery path upon the ocean, where nearby the Phipps’s yacht Rhapsody rocked gently back and forth. “You know what this feels like—you, me and the moon?” Kevin asked.

  “What?”

  “Feels like we’re on our honeymoon.”

  I glanced at him. Kevin is rarely given to romantic sentiments, let alone intimations of marriage. Before I could respond, we were again interrupted by Myrna Phipps. “So this is where you lovebirds are hiding. Are you enjoying the party?”

  “Love it.” Noting the absence of her canine accessory, I asked, “Where’s Raul?”

  “He’s resting upstairs. Meeting everyone has worn the little darling out. By the way, did you get a chance to see his bed? It’s a miniature replica of Marie Antoinette’s.” With that, she clamped a jeweled hand on Kevin’s arm. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to borrow your young man for a moment. A light in the pantry has burned out, and he’s the tallest person here tonight.”

  “I’m sure Kevin would love to assist,” I said.

  “At your service,” he said, bowing.

  “Come with me, my dear,” Mrs. Phipps said, slipping her arm through his. “My husband makes an excellent martini, but he cannot change a light bulb.”

  Watching her lead Kevin away, I recalled Yvonne’s fear that he wouldn’t fit in. Au contraire.

  On my own, I wandered to the end of the terrace where the buffet was being set up on linen-covered tables. Waiters rushed back and forth from the kitchen bearing silver platters and large chafing dishes My attention was drawn to a young staff person. Her pale hair was worn in a single braid. There was something familiar about the slim build and straight-backed posture. When she turned, I gasped. “Brandi!”

  “Rose! I didn’t know you were here tonight.”

  “Because I’m too poor for this crowd?” I said, teasing.

  “No,” she said, lowering her voice, “because you’re too nice.”

  “How long have you worked for Cassandra’s Catering?” Even in the simple uniform of black skirt, white blouse and tie, Brandi looked classy.

  “A couple of months. It’s just a few nights a week.”

  “And you’re at Stella’s every day? That’s a tough schedule.”

  “I’m saving for a car.” She cast a quick glance behind her. “Let’s move to the hors d’oeuvres table. I’ve got something to tell you.” When we approached the table, she picked up a tray laden with treats. “Seafood puff pastries,” she said. “Help yourself, and take your time. I want the manager to think I’m working.”

  “You are,” I said, studying the array and popping a miniature tart into my mouth. I hoped it wasn’t eel or something raw, but it was delicious, a creamy lobster filling inside a flaky, buttery crust.

  “Take another,” she said. “Keep eating.”

  I hadn’t had dinner, so stuffing my face with seafood savories was no hardship. “Go ahead,” I mumbled, spraying crumbs. “Tell me.”

  “Rusty told me something that might be important. The night Dr. Klinger was killed, he saw someone sleeping in a car in the Harbour Building parking lot, someone who shouldn’t have been there at that hour.”

  “Someone he knows?”

  She nodded. “He’s reluctant to talk about it, though he told me. I’m one of the few he trusts.”

  “Who did he see?” I said, eyeing a fat pink shrimp perched atop a toast point.

  She glanced over my shoulder. “I have to go. My boss is looking this way.”

  She was right. A stately woman in a flowered smock eyed us like a Brinks guard. I grabbed a toothpick, saying loudly, “Just one more, miss,” and stabbed a tiny salmon mousse turnover, which I crammed into my mouth. “Who did Rusty see?” I mumbled.

  “Spencer Farley,” she said, brushing pastry crumbs from her hair.

  I gasped, and at the same time, inhaled a bit of crust. This resulted in a coughing fit. When I didn’t stop, Brandi got alarmed. “I’ll get water,” she said, shoving the tray at me and rushing off to the bar. Seconds later she returned with a glass, saying, “Drink it s
lowly.”

  I did as I was told. “I thought you’d have to do the Heimlich,” I said, blotting my mouth with a napkin.

  “Are you okay?”

  I nodded. “Why was Spencer Farley sleeping in his car, and what time was it?”

  “It was getting dark, probably around eight-thirty. Rusty doesn’t pay attention to time. He rapped on the window, thinking maybe the guy was dead. He was snoring, like he was passed out, and he didn’t wake up. When Rusty checked the parking lot an hour later, Spencer’s Mercedes was gone.” She touched my arm. “Don’t mention this to anyone. Rusty doesn’t want any trouble.”

  “You know I won’t.” Even if I did, few would give credence to claims made by Rusty Favazza.

  As if reading my thoughts, Brandi said, “Rusty’s not crazy, you know. I got to know him when I stayed at the shelter. He’s a decent person. He looked out for me, made me feel safe. Other guys were just looking to use me.”

  Brandi didn’t have to convince me. Before the booze and drugs had taken their toll, Rusty had a natural charisma. He was someone who, in the words of my dad, could charm a dog off a meat wagon. Thus, it was no surprise that a young Vivian Klinger had fallen for him. And, judging by Rusty’s recent reminiscings in my car, the attraction was mutual:

  Gripping the soggy Dunkin’ Donuts cup filled with scotch, Rusty said, “Vivian had balls, you know? That chick was afraid of nothing.”

  I took a tiny sip from my cup. “Were you in love with her?”

  He stretched his legs, wincing. “At the time I was nuts about her. I never knew anyone like Vivian. Her old man was a multi-millionaire. They were into culture big time—Museum of Fine Arts, Huntington Theatre, lectures. All that shit. You knew she had class just listening to her. She talked like that actress in that weepy movie, Love Story. Come to think of it, Vivian looked like her, too.

  “Me? I was a typical college jock, going to bars, frat parties, getting wasted and passing out. Waking up God knows where. Sometimes I’d make morning class, sometimes not. At the rate I was going, I wouldn’t be at BC long. Truthfully, I didn’t really care. I wasn’t cut out for college. I just wanted to party and play football.”

  He grinned. “Then I met Vivian. It was at a party at Wellesley College. Normally I wouldn’t go there—bunch of tight-asses. But my roommate was dating a Wellesley girl and invited me. Hell, I’d go anywhere for free booze. Anyway, at this party they only served beer and wine, so I went outside to have a pull from my flask.

  “I was standing there drinking Jack and listening to the bullfrogs when I heard this voice behind me go, ‘Do you always bring your own alcohol to parties?’ I nearly pissed my pants. I thought I was alone. I turned and said, ‘Yeah, want some?’ I was thinking it was some smart ass bitch, but she surprised me by taking a couple swigs.” He laughed. “That got my attention. I got a look at her. She was pretty, kinda skinny but like a model. Classy. We stayed outside and finished the pint.”

  He stopped to gaze out at the wharf where the hulk of an old steel trawler clanked and shuddered with each roll of the sea. “Vivian was always trying to improve me. I loved Chuck Norris movies, but there I was in Cambridge, watching French films with subtitles.” He shook his head in wonder. “Going out to dinner was a goddamn etiquette lesson. ‘Don’t use the salad fork with your dessert,’” she’d instruct me.

  “Did you mind?” I asked.

  “Nah. I gotta admit those lessons stuck with me. For instance, the other night I was at The Sacred Cod, passing through the restaurant section to the bar. I saw some guy eating a steak and holding his knife like a friggin’ spear. I stopped and said, ‘Were you raised by pit bulls?’” Then I showed him how it’s done. He wasn’t too happy, but I’ll bet he remembers.”

  “What caused the eventual break-up?”

  “It was the parents, mostly the old man. She insisted on me meeting them. I was dead against it. We’d been going out a couple months when she asked me to dinner at her house. That’s probably the reason for the etiquette lessons, preparation for meeting the parents. At the time, Vivian made it sound casual, like it would be hot dogs and beans on TV trays. Was that ever wrong.”

  I unscrewed the cap and poured more scotch into his cup. “What was it like, meeting the Klingers?”

  “What was it like?” He took a sip and sighed. “In the first place, their house was a mansion straight out of Gone with the Wind. Red brick with big white columns, an acre of lawn in front. Seeing it for the first time, I was scared shitless. It didn’t help that a maid answered the door. If I hadn’t had a couple drinks in the car on the way over, I would have turned and run away.” He wiped his mouth. “Maybe I should have.”

  “What happened?”

  “The maid took me to this big room with a fireplace where Vivian and her parents were sitting, all three on a little sofa. Right away I figured the old man was trouble. He was a little guy, and he looked at me like I had fish scales stuck in my hair. That whole friggin’ night he watched me like I was gonna steal the silverware.”

  I laughed at his description of Lawrence Klinger. “What about Mrs. Klinger?”

  He whistled. “She was quietly wasted. All through dinner everyone pretended not to notice she was sliding out of her chair. Vivian and her father were at one end of the table arguing about politics, while the old lady sat across from me playing footsie under the table.”

  “No! Mrs. Klinger?”

  “The same. Three nights later she called my dorm, wanted to meet me at the Colonnade Hotel for a drink.”

  “Did you go?”

  He gave me a withering look. “I might be crazy, but I’m not stupid.”

  “Did Vivian know about her mother calling you?”

  “I never told her. The way I see it, the mother was jealous. Vivian was daddy’s girl. Vivian was brilliant, going to take over Klinger Pharmaceuticals, the family business. The old lady felt neglected.”

  I remembered Mrs. Klinger’s empty eyes and felt a renewed pity. “Why do you think Vivian moved to Granite Cove?”

  “She loved it the minute she saw it. One day we borrowed the old man’s boat. He kept it moored in Weymouth. When we sailed into Granite Cove harbor, Vivian said, ‘This is where I’m going to live someday.’”

  “How did it end between you?”

  Instead of answering, he turned his empty cup upside down. I poured more scotch. The bottle was a third empty. Rusty closed his eyes and continued. “What happened was, the old man went on a campaign to get rid of me. He wanted his darling to marry someone from Harvard or his alma mater MIT, not some loser from the wharves of Granite Cove.

  “He threatened to cut off her tuition payments unless she saw a shrink. I guess he figured she must be crazy or on drugs, going out with me. To keep the old man happy, Vivian saw a shrink.”

  I sat up straight. “Do you remember the doctor’s name?”

  He shrugged. “Some guy with an office on Newbury Street. According to the old man, the shrink was smarter than Freud himself.”

  “Was it Dr. Bingham? Chandler Bingham?”

  “Yeah, that sounds right. He was a friend of the family. I heard him once on her answering machine. He talked like bloody Prince Charles. Anyway, to get daddy off her ass, Vivian made an appointment to see the shrink.” Rusty laughed out loud and slapped his knee.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Just thought of something. Gee, this stuff sure improves my memory.”

  I got the hint and poured more. “What do you remember?”

  “One day I met Vivian after her appointment with Dr. Bing Bing, or whatever he’s called. We met at a little French restaurant near his office on Newbury Street. Vivian was upset and wouldn’t tell me what was wrong at first. After a couple glasses of wine, she talked.

  “She said that during therapy she always sat in a leather recliner while Bing Bing sat to the side, taking notes. On that day he was awfully quiet, so she turned around and caught him napping with his hand down his pants.
<
br />   “That was it. She got out of the chair and marched out the door. At the same time she asked herself what in hell was she doing talking to some creep just to please her father. She wasn’t gonna pay the price anymore. She didn’t need the old man’s money, and she didn’t want to run the family business. She wanted to help women learn to kick butt.”

  “Did her father cut her off?”

  He nodded. “Vivian applied for scholarships and got a research job. She did it all herself.” He sighed. “It’s funny how things work out. The old man sent her to therapy to straighten out her head, which she did, but not in the way he expected.”

  Now, while Brandi and I talked, I watched her boss approach, a pained smile upon her face. “Brandi, the shrimp bowls need more ice,” she announced. Before the woman could whisk the hors d’oeuvres tray from Brandi’s hands, I made a seagull dive for the remaining pastries.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Brandi said, giving me a wink.

  I grabbed her wrist before she headed to the kitchen. “Call me if you learn anything, and keep that information to yourself.” She nodded and followed her boss into the kitchen. I watched her go. Brandi was an odd combination of street smarts and childlike idealism. Although she was convinced of Rusty’s innate goodness, I remained skeptical. His tale about Spencer Farley asleep in the Harbour Building parking lot sounded far-fetched. Moreover, if Rusty had been at the park that night, he was drinking. What kind of witness is that?

  Clutching a glass of champagne, I wandered through the rooms downstairs, searching for Kevin. Many of the guests had moved to the buffet. I longed to join them but didn’t want to get in line alone. I decided to check upstairs and at the same time take a peek at Raul’s famous bed.

  I crept up the narrow back stairs to the second floor. A long corridor ran the length of the house with four bedrooms on either side. It was so quiet you could have heard a tick fall. I tiptoed down the dim hallway, passing over-decorated bedrooms. The wallpaper and curtains were covered with billowy roses and peonies.

  At the end of the hall I stopped at what appeared to be the master bedroom. A king-size bed with a canopy looked sumptuous. In a corner of the room was a pink satin lounge chair straight out of Sunset Boulevard.