Fair Game

by Doreen Owens Malek

  It was only a matter of time, she thought now. She couldn’t hold him off forever, and the prospect of engaging in more debates on the subject made her want to jump overboard.

  What was the right thing to do? She was truly fond of Jim and didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but surely it was wrong to let him continue planning for something that she was increasingly convinced would never be.

  There was a sound from below decks, and she closed her eyes.

  “Ashley?” Dillon called.

  “Up here.”

  He clambered up the steps, wearing only a faded pair of running shorts. She noted with detachment his finely tuned body, his charmingly tousled hair.

  “What are you doing out here by yourself?” he asked.

  “Just getting a breath of air.”

  “I thought you were sleeping.”

  “I thought you were.”

  “I must have heard you walking past my cabin and it woke me up.” He came up behind her and put his arms around her waist. “Feeling better?”

  “Um-hm.”

  “Want to go below and sleep with me this time?” he whispered, kissing her neck.

  Ashley stiffened, and he released her.

  “Ash, what is it? You’ve been acting weird all day, since I picked you up this morning.”

  “I’m just tired, Jim. I’ve been keeping a pretty hectic schedule. You can understand that.”

  “Do you think you should take some time off from the campaign, drop out for a while and rest?”

  “Oh, no, it’s not that bad. I’ll get over it. I just think I should go back to bed. Alone.”

  “All right,” he said, sighing. “Let’s do it.” They went below, and Dillon went back into the master cabin, while Ashley slipped into the guest-room bunk.

  In seconds the boat was silent again, leaving Ashley to her troubled thoughts.

  * * * *

  On Sunday night, the Fair Play was lit up like the Lincoln Memorial when Martin and Capo approached it. A huge striped circus like tent was set up on the dock where it was moored, and workers were proceeding in and out of the tent with pieces of furniture wrapped in padding and canvases wrapped in brown paper and cushioned with Styrofoam.

  “Gee, do you think I’ll get to feed the elephants?” Capo said to Martin as they paused in the opening created by the lifted flaps. Inside, rows of folding chairs faced a makeshift stage with a podium and a canvas backdrop.

  “You think these people would just rent an auditorium,” Capo said disgustedly. “What are we doing down here on the docks?”

  “You’re not a bored millionaire,” Martin replied. “They’re always trying to outdo each other in originality. This is original.”

  “I’ll grant you that. Ringling Brothers wouldn’t have had this thing; it’s too small, and the stripes are blue instead of red.”

  “A circus purist, Tony?”

  Capo shot him a look and said, “We’d better get on the boat. They must be about ready.”

  They were met at the end of the dock by a uniformed crewman who checked their badges and then revealed himself to be a member of the harbor police.

  “Welcome aboard,” he said, stepping aside.

  “Welcome aboard?” Capo muttered to Martin. “What is this, McHale’s Navy?”

  The yacht was fitted with amber teakwood and gleaming brass. Ashley and her father were waiting in the main salon, which had an oversized gray and black rug with a geometrical border design spread on the floor and frosted-glass art deco lamps on the walls. Martin realized that the room had undoubtedly been done by a high-priced decorator, but to him the place had a cold, stylized feel, not Ashley at all.

  But it did look like the Senator’s wife.

  Ashley was wearing a strapless blue cocktail dress with a fitted bodice and bell-shaped skirt. Martin had not seen it before; it made her look sophisticated, older than she was. Even though she was beautiful, he realized that seeing her this way disturbed him. It made her seem part of the world her relatives inhabited, and more remote from him.

  Ashley turned, and her face lit up when she saw him. She left her father and came to the two cops, saying, “Tim.”

  He looked down at her, not smiling, but his gaze was intimate all the same.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “How was your time off?” she asked, never taking her eyes from his face.

  “Dull,” he replied.

  “Not relaxing?”

  “I guess dull qualifies for relaxing,” he answered. “Did you clear up the problem with your father’s record?”

  She smiled cynically. “Yes. My father’s staff found something just as bad on the opposition side, and we traded dirt. So the final word is nobody’s saying anything in either camp.”

  “Remember me?” Capo asked dryly at Martin’s side.

  Ashley laughed. “And the irrepressible Sergeant Capo. How was your family?”

  “Still there.”

  “I’m sure they were very glad to see you.”

  “Seemed like it,” he said, and grinned.

  “Ashley,” her father called from across the room, “somebody is here to see you.”

  She turned, and they all saw a slim, dark, elegantly handsome man in a well-cut suit smiling at her.

  “Carlo,” she said, and went to take his hands. She kissed him on the cheek.

  “Carlo?” Capo said in a low tone to Martin. “Are you telling me she has another boyfriend? The competition’s getting stiffer, Timmo.”

  “Shut up,” Martin muttered savagely.

  Ashley chattered away to her friend, and they were soon joined by Meg and the Senator’s wife. Drinks were served by a uniformed maid, and the two policemen faded into the background. It was some time before Ashley walked past with Carlo, and then stopped abruptly, taking him by the hand to the corner where Martin stood.

  “Tim, I’d like you to meet Giancarlo Deslourdes, my favorite designer. He saw you from across the room and requested an introduction. He whipped up the dress I’m wearing just for me.”

  Martin shook hands with the couturier, who assessed him with worldly dark eyes.

  “Darling, he’s prettier than the dress,” Carlo drawled to Ashley.

  Martin stiffened.

  “Oh, look, he’s getting nervous,” Carlo said. “Ash, I’m so grateful; you’ve made my night. Now I’m going over to the tent, where I will try to recover from this sensational experience. I’ll see you there. And let me know what you think of the scent.”

  “I will,” she said.

  He winked at Martin. “Take care, handsome.”

  He left, and Martin fixed Ashley with a narrow, gimlet stare. “Thanks a lot.”

  She giggled wickedly. “He wanted to meet you.”

  “Why didn’t you ask me if I wanted to meet him?”

  “Oh, he’s all right. An opportunist in the business sense, but generally harmless.”

  “Not to twelve-year-old boys, I’ll bet.”

  She shook her head. “You’re such a cop. Every minute, all the time. I don’t judge anyone else’s personal life. Besides, Carlo confines his pursuits to those beyond the age of consent.”

  “That’s what they all say,” Martin observed darkly. “Until you find them with a stable full of kidnapped fourth-graders posing for porno films.”

  Her mouth tightened. “Mr. Straight Arrow,” she said flatly.

  “You got it. And what was the ‘scent’ he was talking about?”

  “He created a new perfume for me.” She held up her wrist for him to sniff the sample.

  He bent his head. “I like your old one better,” he said quietly, straightening, his senses reeling from the almost contact with her skin.

  She held his gaze. “Thank you.”

  “How do you create a perfume?” he asked dryly to dispel the mood; there were too many observers. “In the same way God created the heaven and the earth in seven days?”

  “That isn’t very funny. It’s quite an honor to have
exclusive use of it during the trial period.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “Tristesse.”

  Martin’s expression changed, and he looked down at her seriously. “Sadness?” he said, translating. “He named a perfume for you and he called it ‘sadness’?”

  “I don’t think he named it for me,” she said uncomfortably, aware of what he was thinking. “That was the name he had in mind before he asked me to wear it. He says it best expresses the scent’s haunting, evocative quality. And ‘tristesse’ doesn’t mean sadness, exactly.”

  “I took high school French,” Martin said flatly. “That’s just what it means.”

  She shook her head. “It’s more a sense of loneliness, a longing for fulfillment.” She stopped suddenly, realizing that she was making things worse.

  He was watching her closely.

  “Excuse me,” she blurted. “I just saw Jim.” She fled, leaving Martin to stare after her in consternation.

  The salon was filling fast, and at eight o’clock a crew member stepped into the room and struck a triangular chime to indicate that it was time to adjourn to the tent. The group filed out, moving along the dock to the scene of the auction.

  Quite a bit of the audience was already in place, and there was light applause when the Senator entered with his entourage. When they were seated, the auctioneer ascended the stage and took his place at the podium. There was a rustling of programs as people consulted the listing of antiques and art works to be sold, all donated by friends of the Senator. The proceeds would be split between the Save the Children Foundation, one of his favorite charities, and his campaign fund, with the former taking the lion’s share.

  Martin moved up close to the stage, behind the woman preparing to take phone bids at a small side table. Ashley was only a few feet away, sitting with Dillon on the aisle.

  The auctioneer made the standard introductions, and then cleared his throat to say, “Our first item up for bid is a Wyeth from the Helga series, which you all know caused a sensation in the art world when it was discovered. This was donated by the artist himself, and it goes without mention that...”

  Martin tuned out, glancing around at the crowd, who all seemed absorbed in what the auctioneer was saying.

  Capo sidled up next to him and said, “Some show, huh?”

  Martin nodded. They watched the audience react to the auctioneer’s prodding, lifting discreet fingers or signaling with their programs to indicate a bid.

  “A subdued group,” Capo observed. “The auctions my wife goes to, you can’t hear the bids for the screaming. Of course, they’re usually auctioning off stuff like ceramic flamingos for the front lawn, so I guess it’s understandable.”

  Capo seemed to find the auction interesting for a while, but as it became repetitive, proceeding through the art to the furniture, his restlessness increased.

  “What’s a Queen Anne lowboy?” Capo asked Martin as the item was announced.

  “That,” Martin replied, indicating the waist-high chest with gracefully curved legs that appeared on the stage.

  “Would you pay that for it?” Capo asked as the auctioneer set the opening bid.

  “I wouldn’t pay that for the house it sat in,” Martin answered dryly.

  Capo shook his head. “I’m going to take a walk around the perimeter,” he announced. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Martin nodded.

  The show went on, through the Louis Quinze chairs and the Regency toilette tables, the rustic American Colonial pines and maples, catalogued by period and country of origin, until Martin’s attention was drifting in a fog of boredom. He was standing with his back against the tent wall, his gaze straight ahead and his arms folded, when a loud report sounded in the room, like the sharp crack of a gunshot.

  Ashley leaped to her feet, and Martin was at her side in an instant, his gun drawn, forgetting that his primary responsibility was the Senator. She turned to him, and his arm came around her waist.

  “Are you all right?” he said to her.

  She nodded shakily, and her head rested on his shoulder for a second before he released her, reassured.

  Dillon watched the scene with a fixed, grim expression.

  Capo materialized next to the Senator, who was also unharmed. The two cops then ran to the front of the tent, trying to determine what was going on as the crowd panicked around them.

  “You handle them. I’m going backstage,” Martin barked to Capo.

  The sergeant leaped to the podium, grabbing the mike from the stunned auctioneer, and said into it, “Calm down, folks. Everybody’s all right, nobody’s hurt. We’re investigating the disturbance, and we would appreciate your cooperation. Please return to your seats and remain there until we can determine the source of the problem.”

  Martin threw back the canvas flaps that concealed the backstage area and almost stumbled over the pile of paintings at his feet. Someone had lined them up next to one another, and when one fell they all did, like dominoes, causing the last one to hit the floor with a bang and create the noise they’d heard. Tremendously relieved, he exhaled heavily, then went out front to take the mike from Capo.

  “It’s all right, folks. There was an accident backstage that accounts for the noise,” he announced. “There’s nothing wrong. Let’s all settle down and get on with the show.”

  They obeyed him, but the rest of the evening had an air of anticlimax, and the auctioneer wrapped things up in a hurry. Ashley avoided Martin’s eyes as she went back to the yacht with Dillon, and he followed with Capo, taking up their watch at the entrance to the boat. The family was staying aboard for the night, and then the campaign was moving on to Carbondale and the coal district in the morning.

  “So, a little excitement at last,” Capo said to Martin as they lounged against the railing up top, smoking.

  “I’m glad it turned out to be a false alarm,” Martin replied.

  “I saw what happened with the girl.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “It didn’t look like nothing. Maybe there’s hope for you.”

  Martin was silent, and Capo changed the subject. “Where are we bunking tonight?” he asked.

  “There’s a guest cabin below,” Martin answered.

  “With Ashley and loverboy right down the hall?” Capo inquired. “That will be a little tough on you, won’t it?”

  “He won’t stay aboard the yacht when her father is here,” Martin replied shortly.

  Capo received that in silence, then said, “You’ve made quite a study of her behavior.”

  “I haven’t had much else to do,” Martin replied.

  “I’ve been around too, and I can’t predict her every move. But then, I’m not obsessed with her, and you are.”

  “Be quiet, will you?” Martin murmured, nodding toward the harbor policeman, who was still lingering on the dock.

  Capo subsided, and they both fell to smoking silently, lost in their own thoughts. Neither had any idea of the conversation about to take place below decks, in Ashley’s cabin.

  James Dillon, of Dillon and Hunley, was not happy. He was pacing, waiting for Ashley to come out of the adjoining lavatory. He was thinking about that moment of intimacy between Ashley and the cop when the artwork fell. It was frozen in his mind like a tableau. Martin had rushed to her side as if she were the most important thing in the world to him and her safety mattered above all else. And she had turned into his arms as if to a haven, all pretense of polite distance gone.

  What the hell was going on? As far as he knew, Ashley had done little more than exchange pleasantries with the guy, but there was no mistaking the tone of that encounter. Dillon had the gut instinct of a seasoned but unsuccessful campaigner, and he sensed that the tall, pale-eyed cop was touching Ashley where he never had, and never could.

  Ashley entered the room wearing her Chinese robe and carrying her dress over her arm.

  “Jim, are you still here?” she greeted him. “I thought you’d gone
home.” She hung up her dress and began to brush her hair.

  “Ashley, I want to talk to you.”

  “Jim, can’t it wait? I’m tired, and I’d like to get to bed.”

  “It can’t wait.”

  “All right, I’m listening.” She was examining her hair length in the mirror.

  “Look at me.”

  She turned and faced him, surprised at his imperious tone. “What is it?” she asked.

  “I want to know what’s going on between you and that cop.”

  “Which cop?”

  “Don’t play dumb, Ashley, it’s out of character. How many cops do you have hanging around all the time?”

  “You mean Lieutenant Martin or Sergeant Capo, I take it.”

  “Martin, the quiet one. What are you up to with him?”

  Her expression changed. “Up to?”

  “I saw you with him when the paintings fell backstage.”

  Her gaze shifted away from his. “So?”

  “That’s all you have to say about it? ‘So’?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I want you to tell me about the relationship you have obviously been developing with him behind my back. When that noise sounded, he went for you like a greyhound at the gate. I thought he was supposed to be protecting your father”.

  “The policemen are for both of us,” she replied coolly. “You know that.”

  “He seemed to be solely interested in you.”

  “He was just doing his job, Jim.”

  “He’s been doing a lot more than his job. You’ve been spending time alone with him, haven’t you?”

  “Jim, I don’t want to be interrogated about this right now,” she said. “I would like to get some sleep, and I suggest you go home and do the same.”

  “I deserve an explanation, Ashley,” he said quietly.

  Ashley hesitated. Perhaps he did.

  “The night you canceled to go to the opera, he rode in the car with me,” she said wearily, “and I... talked to him. And once we went out for a sandwich. That’s all. Basically.”

  “You went out for a sandwich? When? I don’t remember that.”

  “It was late. You had gone home. I was hungry and I couldn’t sleep and...”

  “Couldn’t sleep? You’re having midnight snacks with this guy?”