“Then you know Rusty’s childhood. It’s right out of Dickens. He’s basically a decent guy who screwed up, and the cops have it in for him, maybe because he was such a big star.” Cal’s amused expression fueled the flames. “While we’re on the subject, let me remind you that you’re not perfect. Remember senior year, the night before final exams? Who cut the fan belts on the school buses?”
His smug expression changed to alarm. “Don’t mention that again.”
“Relax, the statute of limitations has run out on that crime.”
“So I was a punk, so sue me.”
“As I recall, you were a hero for that act—no school and finals postponed.”
Now his smile was genuine. “This time of year always reminds me of Senior Week. Remember that day we skipped school and went to Settlers Dunes, just the two of us?”
I nodded. “We wore bathing suits under our clothes to fool our mothers.”
“We were the only people at the beach. The sea was wild with lots of whitecaps. Fortunately, I had an old blanket in my trunk.”
“So thoughtful of you.”
He continued. “I spread it out in the dunes, out of the wind. I’ll always remember taking my shoes off, how warm the sand felt. I was afraid to take my pants off because my legs were white and hairy. You wore a yellow bikini, the same color as the buttercups sprouting in the sand.”
I nodded, blushing in spite of myself. Cal’s vivid description took me back twenty years. I felt I was again lying on his scratchy wool blanket that smelled of motor oil under a brilliant May sun. When we got the courage to go in the water, we held hands running to the surf. Cal’s grip was strong. The soles of our feet stung from running on the hard sand. Then after taking a plunge in the water, we raced back, shivering, and wrapped ourselves in the sun-warmed blanket. I don’t think we spoke five words the rest of the day.
“My mother knew something was up when she saw my sunburned nose,” I said.
“At that point I don’t think we cared.” He looked at me. “Know what? That was the best day of my life.”
I looked away. “I know what you mean.”
We were silent for a long time. When I looked up, he was watching me. I didn’t look away. As we smiled at each other, the years slipped away. I don’t know what would have happened if Chester hadn’t gotten to his feet and stumbled to the door, whining to be let out.
I resignedly stood and went to the door. When I returned to the table, Cal was on his feet, zipping his jacket. “At least promise me you’ll stay out of Harbor Heights, Rusty’s neighborhood. It’s not a safe place for a lady.”
“For your information, I’m no lady. But I’ve no need to return there. I’ve already interviewed Rusty.”
“Just between us, he’s become a person of interest to the department. Not only that, Chief Alfano’s being pressured by Mayor Froggett, who’s taking heat from the Chamber of Commerce.”
“Why’s the Chamber involved?” I asked.
“Tourist season starts soon. They want closure on the murder.”
“Right,” I said. “Murder’s bad for business.”
That night I dreamed I was being chased by wild pigs down a lonely stretch of beach. Too tired to maintain my pace, I slowed. Soon I felt sharp bristles poking my bare legs. I tried running faster, my heart ready to burst, but it was no use. Eventually the pigs closed in, their hot breath searing my skin…
I woke with a yelp and discovered Chester’s prickly snout in my face. The clock read eight-fifteen. Chester may not be the greatest watchdog, but he’s a damn good alarm clock.
Upon reaching the office, I called the insurance agent to report the broken car window. He gave me the name of a glass company that would visit the office and install the replacement while I worked.
Overhearing my conversation, Yvonne said, “I worry about you all alone in that big house with a madman on the loose.”
“My landlord’s coming back next month,” I told her.
“A lot can happen in a month,” she said. “You’re welcome to stay with me in the meantime.”
Her generosity was touching. “That’s very nice of you, Yvonne. I’m not afraid. Cal promised to increase the police patrol in my neighborhood.”
“The police can only do so much. If you ever feel unsafe, don’t hesitate to call. You’d be no trouble, and it would be a treat for Mother. You two could do fun things. She’s always looking for Scrabble partners.”
“She’s pretty good, is she?”
“Oh, yes. She’s number two Scrabble player at the senior center.”
“All modesty aside, I’m not bad myself,” I confided. “Maybe I’ll come over some night.”
“Excellent. Once you feel comfortable, you could help with Mother’s ADLs.”
“What’s ADLs?”
“It means activities of daily living and involves food preparation, bathing, toileting. No heavy lifting, in other words.”
“I see. Well, I’ll give it some thought.”
“Speaking of food preparation,” she said, rummaging through a wire basket on her desk, “there’s a new advertiser I’d like you to interview.”
I got up and took a brightly colored flyer, obviously the work of an amateur, from her. “Marilyn’s Pie Palace, Pies to Die for,” I read and noted the unfamiliar address. “Where’s Reservoir Road?”
“It’s on Route 128. You might be familiar with the former business, a tourist place called Our Native Arts.”
“I know the place,” I said. “They sold stuff made out of fishing nets like place mats, hanging plant holders, string bikinis. Before that, it was a bait and tackle shop my dad used to frequent.”
“It’s not the best location, that stretch of road. That’s why Marilyn is hoping people will hear about her homemade pies through word of mouth. She’s staying open all night through the summer.”
Putting the flyer in my To Do file, I promised to visit Marilyn’s Pie Palace, interview the proprietor, and perhaps sample the wares.
At noon, I watched Yvonne stand up and wrap a long silk scarf around her neck, tossing one fringed end over her shoulder. “Going out to lunch?” I asked.
“Indeed. I’m meeting with the program coordinator at the Senior Center. She wants me to direct their next play, a production of Guys and Dolls. The pay’s not much to speak of, but it might be fun.”
My enthusiastic response was not entirely related to Yvonne’s new undertaking. It was the fact she’d be out of the office, allowing me to leave for my appointment with Veronica Klinger. I wouldn’t have to tell a lie, which I hate almost as much as community theater musicals.
Boston’s Back Bay stretches roughly from the State House atop Beacon Hill along to Kenmore Square. The area is what tourists mean when they speak of the city’s Old World charm. Not surprisingly, it is the most prestigious address in the city proper. However, not far outside the city limits, Chestnut Hill is equally as chichi.
I approached via the busy, narrow Jamaica Way. Cars bombarded me, passing on both sides. No matter how often I visit the city, the impatience and aggressiveness of Boston drivers scares me to death. If uncertain, I dare not hesitate before making a turn. The resulting blast from the horn behind me can stop my heart.
As a result, I’ve developed the townie’s aversion to crossing the bridge, both metaphorically and physically. As much as I enjoy the city and its arts, particularly when it involves slapstick, I prefer the cry of seagulls to the screech of tires.
Newton, the city in which Chestnut Hill is located, recently won the distinction of being rated the safest town in the U.S., as reported in The Boston Globe. Judging by the impressive houses set far apart and away from the road, it’s obviously one of the wealthiest, as well.
Too soon I came to number 1141, the Klinger manse. I slowed, as the narrow, two-way street running in front of the house discouraged parking. This left me no choice but to pull into their big circular driveway where I parked as far away as possible from the entrance. A
lthough the Jetta’s duct-taped window was temporary, it was hardly a reassuring sight.
I sat back and took in the imposing red brick house. As Rusty had claimed, it was like something out of Gone with the Wind. I understood his intimidation. I, too, was reluctant to enter. Finally, I got out, marched across the driveway, and knocked on the black, lacquered door.
A somber, slight woman in a maid’s uniform appeared. I gave her my name, and she beckoned me to follow. We passed a long expanse of stark, white wall interrupted by large abstract paintings in muted, muddy colors. My footsteps echoed on the bare hardwood floors. I was reminded of my visit to Mrs. Phipps, where I also trailed behind the maid. Nonetheless, the two homes were vastly different. The Phipps’s Hemlock Point estate was elaborately overdone with marble busts at every turn. The Klinger’s was austere, the furnishings minimal.
Soon we came to a room the size of a bus terminal. Tall palladian windows looked out on an expanse of evergreens. The ceilings were high and the furniture sparse. The only color came from brightly woven area rugs. All in all, the room resembled an upscale lounge in an outré Back Bay hotel.
Mrs. Klinger, sitting at a desk near a window, stood and approached. Dressed in black silk pajamas, she resembled a licorice stick. Her hair was worn in a long, silver braid that hung down her back. “Good afternoon. Did you have any trouble finding the house?” she asked. Although her eyes were on my face, I got the impression she was taking in every detail.
I shook her cool hand. “None at all, thanks.”
“Janitza, you can bring the tea in now,” she said, addressing the maid who stood silent at the door. My hostess then gestured to a sofa near the far windows. “Shall we sit over there?” I noted that, unfortunately, the sofa was white and made a quick decision not to eat anything, lest I spill. For that same reason I wore a navy skirt and paisley blouse.
I sank into the surprisingly soft cushions and glanced around me. On an end table was a silver-framed photo of a smiling, young and tanned Vivian Klinger. “That’s a wonderful picture,” I said. “When was it taken?”
“I believe that was taken when Vivian was at Dana Hall, my alma mater as well. She thrived there as she did everywhere.” Resting a hand on my arm, she said, “Tell me again the name of your magazine. It slipped my mind.”
When I told her, she said, “Yes, I think I saw that at the doctor’s office.” I countered with my pitch, how Bay State Living tackles important political issues and champions women’s causes. She gazed at me. “Yes, I see.”
Quickly I rummaged in my bag for my notebook. “I’d like you to know how much I appreciate your seeing me at a time like this.”
She dismissed my words with a wave. “I’ve always found comfort and strength in literature. Are you familiar with Samuel Beckett?”
“I was an English major in college.”
“Then you must know these lines.” She closed her eyes, resting her head against the sofa. Although the window’s harsh light emphasized the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, her cheekbones were sharp enough to break open a clam. In a husky voice she recited, “You must go on, I can’t go on, you must go on, I’ll go on.”
Before I could utter a response, Janitza entered carrying a tray.
“Ah, our tea has arrived,” Mrs. Klinger said, her face brightening.
We waited as the maid placed the tray on the coffee table and deftly removed the contents: a silver ice bucket, a pitcher filled with what looked like tomato juice, a bottle of Finlandia vodka, two china cups and saucers, two tall glasses, a teapot and a small bowl of lime wedges.
“Do you take horseradish with your Bloody Mary, Ms. McNichols?” she asked, digging into the ice bucket with silver tongs.
“If you don’t mind, I might try a little tea first. And please call me Rose.”
“Rose, how evocative.” She poured tea and handed me a cup. Although I didn’t see any sugar or cream on the tray, it was just as well, as there were no teaspoons.
I sipped from the dainty cup and tried not to watch Mrs. Klinger liberally pour vodka into her glass and as an afterthought add a splash of tomato juice. She squeezed a lime wedge, dropping it into the glass. “I learned to appreciate afternoon tea when we lived in London.” She took a long swallow. “A most civilized pastime.” Then she leaned back against the cushions. “Don’t wait for an opening, Ms. McNichols. Fire away with your questions.”
I glanced at my notes. “I’ll start by asking if Dr. Klinger ever mentioned having difficulties with anyone, a nemesis, if you will.”
“You sound more like a policeman than a reporter,” she said. “Of course there were those who resented Vivian. She had a driving ambition, much like Hillary Clinton, another Wellesley grad, by the way. Women like that attract critics.”
“Did she mention anyone in particular?” I hesitated and added, “Please understand this isn’t for the story.”
“Then why ask?”
I looked down into my cup. “I ask because I grew up in Granite Cove. I know the town, and I know its people. Every day I wonder how Dr. Klinger, a young and vibrant woman, could be cut down in the prime of her life. How is this possible in Granite Cove?” I felt my face grow warm under her critical gaze. “I can’t explain it adequately. All I know is I can’t let go.”
“If you were older, my age for instance, I’d say you were facing your own mortality.” She sighed. “But you’re too young for that.” She took another long swallow. “Frankly, if it’s an in-depth story you’re planning to write, you’re wasting your time talking to me. Vivian and I weren’t close in the way mothers and daughters often are. She didn’t share intimate details of her life. Vivian and her father, on the other hand, were cut from the same cloth.” She leaned forward to pour more vodka into her glass. “Unfortunately, you’ll never interview him.”
“Why is that?”
“Because he’s never at home. Right now he’s in Japan visiting the company’s new laboratory. Since Vivian’s death he’s always gone, as if thousands of miles could distance him from his pain.”
“I’m sorry. Did the two have their differences?”
“Differences? From the time Vivian was old enough to talk, they argued.” She stared into her glass. “Yet he adored her. She was the light of his life, his shining star. Like King Midas, whatever she touched turned to gold. Her father assumed she’d join him in the family business, eventually taking over when he retired.”
When she lapsed into a brooding silence, I asked, “And she had other plans, is that right?”
She closed her eyes and handed me her glass. “Do they teach you to make decent Bloody Marys at that newspaper of yours?”
“No,” I said. “I learned that in journalism school.”
When I handed her a fresh drink, she said, “What was it you asked me?”
“I asked how father and daughter became estranged.”
“It was at Wellesley that Vivian began asserting her independence. Her father is old school. In his family, the parents’ wishes are sacrosanct. Therefore, he expected her to follow his rules.” She turned to me. “You don’t happen to have a cigarette, do you?”
When I shook my head, she said, “It’s just as well. Chandler wants me to quit. Now I’ve lost my train of thought. Oh, yes, it was at Wellesley where Vivian rebelled, changing her major from chemistry to psychology. It absolutely crushed her father, though he’d be the last to admit it. My husband is one of those proud individuals who will take their regrets to the grave.”
“What brought about the rebellion?”
“I think she realized there was more to life than earning a Phi Beta Kappa key, which she did, of course. It was in her junior year that she began to resent her father’s control. Of course any act of resistance resulted in heavier demands. The final blow was when she changed her major. That was the ultimate break as far as he was concerned.”
“What did he do?”
“He cut her off financially. He’d warned her, but Vivian could be just a
s stubborn as he. I’ll give her credit for going it alone. She applied for scholarships, got a research position. For the first time in her life she was independent and determined not to crawl back to her father.”
“All this because she changed her major?”
“There were other provocations,” she said. “Academics had always come first with her. She’d gone to girls’ schools all her life. Boys hadn’t entered the picture until college. Now that she was exposed to the wider world, she began meeting inappropriate types.
“I chalked it up to the fact she’d led a sheltered life of country clubs, skiing, sailing and tennis. Although Wellesley’s environment is outstanding, it can’t always protect its students from the city’s undesirables. And Vivian has always been a champion of the underdog, you know. Consequently, she became acquainted with an unsuitable young man, obviously a gold digger.” She laughed, her voice hoarse. “In fact, he came here to dinner. Afterward, the maid reported some missing silver. I wasn’t surprised.”
I leaned toward her. “Mrs. Klinger, the young man you’re referring to, was his name Rusty?”
She closed her eyes. “Please, it was so long ago. I don’t remember.”
Eleven
In the middle of the night, in the middle of the dream, my phone rang. My heart lurched, pounding with an adrenaline rush. I fumbled in the dark. “Hello?”
“Mother of God, you’re there.”
I glanced at the clock. “Where else would I be at two-fifteen in the morning, Betty Ann? This better be good.”
“I’m sorry I woke you. I wanted to say goodbye before I left.”
“What? Where are you going?”
“Home Suite Homes on Route 1.”
“Betty Ann, you can’t do that. Not at this hour.”
“I can’t take the stress anymore. I’m saving my life.”
I kicked off the covers and dragged myself to a sitting position. “What are you doing right now?”
“I just put a turkey tetrazzini casserole in the freezer with instructions to heat it up. I’m standing in the kitchen ready to leave.”
Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky Page 16
