Shortly before eight o’clock, Graham began moving among the guests announcing that dinner would be served in the French Dining Room. Lady Turnbull took Michael by the hand and led him down the corridor while I sort of shuffled along behind them trapped in a conversation about juvenile delinquency with the tedious Danish criminologist. She took her place at the head of the elongated banquet table sparkling in the reflected surroundings of gilded walls and ceiling, dangling chandeliers of all sizes, and countless table-top candelabra.
As I slipped past Jennifer to search for the place cards bearing my name and Mike’s, she pointed at the seat next to her and beckoned to him. “Since this is the French Dining Room, I’m taking the liberty of keeping Hercule Poirot right here beside me. With all the talk of crime at this meeting, I can’t think of anybody to keep me safer.”
“Poirot’s a Belgian, Mikey. He wasn’t French and neither are you. Remind her your roots are in Bay Ridge and maybe she’ll give you back to me,” I whispered, dreading the thought of sitting between the Australian penal expert and the Teutonic ethnologist.
“Don’t be rude to my duchess, Blondie. Room service might be the answer if you’re in one of your moods again.” He winked at me and pinched my arm as I walked behind him.
I was two-thirds of the way down the table before I saw my name, placed between Lord Windlethorne-that must have been Mike’s doing-and Ambassador Richard Fairbanks, the American delegate to the Pacific Economic Conference. A waiter pulled out the chair to help me into my seat.
Windlethorne joined me almost immediately and I was treated to a lecture on British libel law as interpreted through the most recent court cases, which outlasted the service and consumption of the starter, a Cornish crab with lime pimentos. Midway through the second course of salad smothered in truffles, Windlethorne was diverted by the woman to his left-whom I wanted to kiss in gratitude-and I introduced myself to Fairbanks, whom I had not met earlier.
The Ambassador was charming, attractive, and funny and I managed to stay engaged in conversation with him throughout the next three courses, as I lost count of the varieties of white and red wine that accompanied each dish.
When all of the desserts and champagne had been finished and the ormolu clock had chimed midnight, Bernhard invited the heartier participants to follow him along for cigars and port. The Europeans with the earliest airport departures began to peel off and say goodnight, as did a number of the spouses who complained about the odor of all that smoke.
I would have been happy to call it a night, too, except for my fascination with Jennifer’s interaction with Mike. She was all over him again as they headed out of the dining room, so I reminded myself how much I loved the smell of my father’s cigars and made my way after them into the library with its wood-paneled walls and immense fireplace. I positioned myself next to Ambassador Fairbanks and his wife, Shannon, and eventually Jennifer and Mike worked themselves around the room to us. Chapman was carrying an extra glass of port for me. “This could be the smoothest thing I’ve ever tasted. You gotta try it.”
Graham came over to the sofas where we had seated ourselves near the crisp fire. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, leaning in to speak to Chapman. “Your mother returned your call during dinner, but asked me not to disturb you. She said she was just calling back with the information you wanted and to tell you when I saw you and that you’d understand. Mrs. Chapman said that last night’s category was Geography and that I was to tell you the answer.”
“Hold it, Graham.” With a cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth and half a load on, Mike liked the way Jennifer was playing and flirting with him and delighted in her reaction to Graham’s cryptic message.
He started to explain to her what Jeopardy! is and she squealed back at him, grabbing him by the wrist, “I know exactly what it is. I always watch it when we’re in the States.”
“Ten bucks, duchess. You in it for Geography?”
“Fifty bucks, detective. How about you?” She had turned to me asking if I was still in the party.
Knowing my chances were slightly better than with the Bible or Physics, I told her I was in for fifty with her.
“Carry on, Graham.”
“Madam said to tell you that the question was-” He paused as he looked down at the sentence he had written out on the back of a Cliveden postcard. “ ‘Formerly called Mount McKinley, this highest peak in North America is known now by its Native American name meaning Great One.’ ”
Jennifer pounded the arm of the sofa shouting “Got it!” at the very same moment Graham was asking Mike whether he had understood the message. “D’you know it, too?” she asked me.
I smiled lamely and offered, “What is Mount Rainier?”
Her feet were drawn up under her gown now, and Jennifer shook her head at me to tell me that I was wrong. Then she looked over at Mike on the sofa next to her.
“Clueless, m’lady,” he said, beaming that great white grin back at her.
“What is Denali? That’s the name of it now. Bernie financed an expedition to the peak of it last summer. For an environmental group or something. Isn’t that amazing?”
Truly amazing. Even more astounding was the fact that Mike was digging in his pocket for the payoff, which he’d never done so quickly with me in all the years we’d been playing together. Mostly what I got were IOUs. This dame needed his fifty like I needed another drink.
“Excuse me, Graham. Could I please have another drink-a bit more port?”
He had just returned with my glass when Bernhard made his way across the room to reclaim his gorgeous treasure and take her upstairs to bed. Mike got to his feet to accept kisses on each cheek from his duchess and promises to both of us that she’d see us in New York before very long. We thanked Mr. Karl for his generosity and resumed our places on the sofas in front of the fire as the conferees continued to trickle out of the room.
Someone had turned on the CD player that was sitting on a table in the corner. Bette Midler’s voice came at me asking if I wanted to dance under the moonlight. I walked to the double doors that led onto the terrace. A few people had strolled outside to enjoy the bracing night air, escape the cigar fumes, or distance themselves from the heat of the fire.
I moved to the edge of the balcony and rested my crystal wine glass on the solid stone slab that overlooked the starlit gardens, breathing in to clear my head and my mind.
Mike joined me. “Sleepy?”
“I was an hour ago but I’m really wired now.”
“Anything in particular?”
“The case, I guess. Odd to be in the middle of all this elegance, all this irrelevant excess from another age, while somebody else is working our murder case. I don’t mind that they are, I just wonder what they’re up to. You think it’s DuPre?”
“You know me. I think it’s everybody until we prove it’s somebody.”
Now it was a man’s voice singing to me from inside the great house. In between Mike’s comments I could make out phrases. “When the day-” Then Chapman spoke to me over the sound of the singer. “-and night has come-” And, in fact, the moon was the only thing I could see.
“Dance with me?” I asked. I was gliding to the music by myself across the uneven foundation of the ancient structure, imagining that all sorts of titled men and women had waltzed over the same terrace for centuries.
I was singing along with Ben E. King now, hoping my partner would stand by me. Chapman was staring at me, cigar in hand and unable to repress his grin at the sight of my intoxicated, finger-snapping dance steps.
I said it again, a bit less tentatively this time. “Dance with me, please.” He still seemed to hesitate. “I’m only asking you to dance, I’m not-”
“All right, all right.”
He put down his cigar, placed his glass next to mine, and picked up the beat as we swayed to King’s tender voice.
“So who am I dancing with tonight, a Wili or a duchess?”
I didn’t get it. “What?”
<
br /> “Are you planning to dance me to death, like the Queen of the Wilis, or does ‘blue collar’ just look more appealing to you this evening because Lady Turnbull got such a kick out of it?”
“That’s not fair. I-”
“Shhhh.” He let go with his left hand and put it up to his lips. “No talking. I’m trying to figure out a way to get one of those tiaras for you. If her boyfriend had left her with me for just another hour, I could have talked that one off her head and given it to you. You know how good you’d look in front of a jury trying a case with a tiara on? You couldn’t lose.”
The disc had switched once more and Smokey had speeded up the pace by telling us that he was going to a go-go. Mike danced himself over to the edge of the balcony and picked up his cigar. I was swaying alone and watching my skirt twirl, backing up the Miracles with some harmony, and trailing after Chapman to find my glass of port and refill it.
“I’m pulling the plug, Blondie. Bar’s closed.”
“I just want to fin-”
“C’mon upstairs. Tomorrow’s a long day and we got a lot to catch up on when we get back.” He had me by the elbow and was steering me through the library doors and across the Great Hall.
“You didn’t cut Jennifer off last night, did you?”
“She holds it a lot better than you do, kid. Stairs or elevator?”
I looked up at the three-tiered flight of stairs when we reached its bottom and the steps appeared to be rolling like an escalator. “The lift will do just fine, thank you.”
It lurched its way to our floor and Mike again reminded me to lower my voice as we passed the row of suites that led to ours. He turned the knob and opened the door and I followed him inside. He gave me the shirt he had worn earlier in the day and grabbed the robe that I had left on the end of my bed. “Go into the bathroom, brush your teeth, take a couple of aspirin, and get yourself ready to go to sleep.”
When I came out five minutes later, he handed me a slip of paper with my name on it that had been folded and pushed under the door of the suite while we were at dinner.
I opened the note, glanced at it, then looked up at Mike to see if I could tell from his expression whether or not he had read it. “Mr. Renaud phoned. Please call him at whatever hour you get in tonight.” Joan must have egged him on and explained my relationship with Mike.
“Want me to leave the room?”
I shook my head. “It’ll wait ‘til I get home.” I was crashing rapidly.
“Go on, Blondie. Get into bed.”
The housekeeper had turned down the blankets. I unwrapped the little chocolate mint on my pillow, put it in my mouth, and slid down between the covers. I reached up to turn out the light as Mike came over and kissed the crown of my head.
“You’re a lousy drunk, Coop. Harmless but lousy.”
I must have fallen asleep immediately because I didn’t remember anything else until the front desk rang for our eight o’clock wake-up call. I could hear a noise coming from the floor at the foot of Mike’s bed. I sat up and looked, but the only thing there was the pair of pants to his suit, wriggling and buzzing as if a giant bumblebee was trapped in its pocket and trying to escape. “Good morning. At the risk of being told it’s none of my business, may I ask you what you’ve got in your pants?”
“Whaddya mean?” He didn’t look much better than I felt as he rolled over to face me.
“Something’s jumping around in your trousers.” I pointed at the moving pile on the floor.
“That’s my Skypager,” he laughed. “I had it in my pocket last night. But it’s set on the vibrating mode so it wouldn’t beep in the middle of dinner and make any noise. That’s why it’s so frisky.”
Mike got out of bed, picked up the writhing pants, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the little machine. “It’s John Creavey’s number.” He called the desk and asked them to dial it for him.
A short conversation with the commander and then he turned back to me. “Mercer called Creavey ‘cause the Skypager doesn’t work this far away and the reception desk here wouldn’t put his call through during the night.
“John DuPre is on the run. Skipped town some time within the last twenty-four hours. Mercer seized some stuff from his office and they’ve got his house staked out, too. But the wife is hysterical. Claims she’s left there on her own with two kids and no idea where her husband is. Let’s get packing. Mercer’ll tell us the rest of the story when he picks us up at the airport.”
“Well, is the guy a neurologist or not?”
“Are you kidding? Mercer doesn’t even know his real name. He’s not John DuPre, he’s not a doctor, and it seems he never went to medical school. He’s a con artist and a scammer. And when they figure outwho he is, maybe we’ll figure out how to find him.”
26
IT WAS ALMOST FIVE O’CLOCK WHEN THE announcement came that our flight was ready to depart after hours of delay caused by a mechanical problem. We were both bored and squirming as we were marched onto the plane with three hundred other disgruntled travelers and found our way to our seats two-thirds of the way to the back of the coach section. Our upgrade didn’t work on this side of the pond.
Once airborne, the trip was unremarkable. We ate and read and watched Mel Gibson shoot up half the population of Los Angeles in the fifth sequel to whatever action series was on the screen. I finally came to life about twenty minutes east of JFK as we descended to twelve thousand feet and I could point out to Chapman a crystal clear view of Martha’s Vineyard off the right wingtip of the plane. We were flying just to the south of the island and from the air the bareness of the trees in the early spring made it possible to pick out the distinct towns and bodies of water as well as some of the actual farms and houses that I knew so well.
Mike leaned across me and looked down through the window. “Can you see the Bite? I’m ready for a second portion of those incredible fried clams.”
I tried to point out where Menemsha was, orienting him by the large red-and-black roof of the Coast Guard building.
“Have you been back to your house since last-?”
I interrupted his question before he could complete it. “Not yet.”
“You know you’ve really gotta go-”
I didn’t want to snap at him again, and I knew I had been avoiding a difficult situation for too long, but I hadn’t been able to face a weekend alone in my lovely old farmhouse since I had returned there with Mike during the investigation of Isabella Lascar’s murder last fall. “The caretaker closed it up for me for the winter. It’ll just be easier to deal with the whole thing in a few weeks when it’s springtime. The inside is being painted now and I’ll wait ‘til Ann or Louise are going up to their places. I have been avoiding it but I’m about ready to go back.”
The flight attendant was directing us to fasten our seat belts for our initial approach to the airport. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky as we circled out over the ocean and I tried to urge Mike to relax his grip on the arms of his seat before he broke them in half.
Mercer was standing on the ramp of the gateway as we deplaned through the front door. A sergeant from the Port Authority Police had taken him past security to meet us, and we were able to clear Customs and Immigration before the luggage even landed on the carousel.
We picked up our bags and went out to his car, which was parked directly in front of the terminal. The highway was jammed with the Saturday night bridge-and-tunnel crowd on their way into the city for dinner or theater or sports events. We crawled along with them, Mercer saving his stories until we could sit quietly at dinner and catch up on his news.
When we reached the Triboro Bridge, I used his car phone to call Giuliano at Primola. It was almost seven and I told him we could be at the restaurant in twenty minutes. “Got a corner table of Adolfo’s that you can give three of us?”
We ordered quickly so we could get down to business. For me, stracciatelli soup and a small bowl of pasta that could just slide down my throat with barely any
effort on my part. Mike and Mercer both went for veal chops. Adolfo brought over the first round of drinks as Mercer started to talk.
“Here’s what we know so far. Our fugitive started life in a parish outside of New Orleans. Name was Jean DuPuy-Cajun, I guess. Graduated high school, then got a bachelor’s degree in pharmacology. That’s the closest his formal training ever came to medicine.
“But he’s been impersonating doctors for almost ten years. Somehow he found out about the real DuPre, who’s a bit of a hermit at this point. Ninety-four years old. Most folks just assume he’s dead.
“You know part of his scam. Writes to Tulane and claims his diploma was destroyed in a fire. Sends ‘em ten bucks for a new one along with his name and a post office box address. They’re happy to give one of their favorite sons whatever he asks for. Next, our impostor starts with that one priceless piece of paper-Xeroxed a few times-and some phony letterhead, which he uses to mail off to medical societies and journals. And before you can say Jefferson Davis, he’s got an entire portfolio establishing his credentials as Dr. John DuPre.”
“D’you talk to anyone who knew him before he got to New York?”
“Just this afternoon. Once he had his papers, he applied for jobs in clinics in the South, working his way up-with experience, of course-to better positions at medical centers.”
“What did they say about him?”
“Two of the neurologists he worked with said he acted like a real pro. They’re among the many who gave him glowing references when DuPre started to make plans to move to New York. All the patients raved about his bedside manner.”
Just ask Maureen about that, I thought to myself. At least, that’s what she said the first few days.
“Looks like he started doing this when he lost his pharmacist’s license for a Medicaid fraud. The prosecutor from the Louisiana Attorney General’s Office said when they investigated him for that offense in the early eighties, all the local physicians were shocked. They used to call him Doc ‘cause he seemed so knowledgeable about the profession. A real charmer. That’s when he moved to Georgia and started life all over again-as DuPre.”
Likely To Die Page 31
