by Cleo Coyle
Innkeeper, owner, and hostess Fiona Finch greeted us in the entryway. Though diminutive, she was easy to spot in an evening dress the color of blue finch feathers, accessorized by a scarlet brooch depicting two macaws on the wing—one of her favorites among the hundreds of bird pins she’d acquired, “because,” she said, “like Barney and me, macaws mate for life.”
“You should have let me know you were coming!” Fiona cried. “We’re busy, though I might be able to squeeze you in.”
“Actually, we’re meeting someone who’s already made reservations.”
Fiona’s eyes lit with interest when I dropped the name of Emma Hudson’s ex-husband, Philip.
She looked me up and down. “You’ve dressed to impress,” she said with an approving nod.
I confess I made an effort tonight. Given Emma Hudson’s posh wardrobe, I didn’t want Mr. Hudson looking down his nose at me, thinking I was a country bumpkin who couldn’t be trusted with a valuable consignment of first editions. I had to look the part of a successful business owner, and I did.
Digging through my old Manhattan wardrobe, I found a chic black cashmere sweater. I paired it with a pearl necklace and earrings, ebony tights, and a tailored skirt that I was amazed I could still squeeze into.
Fiona’s interest in my appearance was a puzzle, however, until she led us to the restored oak and brass bar that once graced a luxury Pullman car, and introduced me to our host.
Flashing an easy smile, Philip Gordon Hudson set a gin and tonic aside and slipped off the barstool to greet us. My eyes widened in mild shock at the sight of him.
Who’s the Alvin? Jack cracked.
It came as no surprise that a man with Newport ties would be impeccably dressed—and getting a head start with cocktails. What surprised me was that the tall, tanned, athletic man with the thick swath of blond hair appeared to be in his mid-forties. Emma Hudson had been at least twenty years older than her spouse.
“Good evening, Mr. Hudson,” I managed to squeak out. “Nice to meet you . . .”
Hudson was the kind of golden-haired guy you’d expect to see in preppy clothes, lounging on a yacht with a martini. That said, he wasn’t aloof or condescending. His manner was warm and welcoming, and his blue eyes sparkled in the candlelight as he pushed his sun-burnished bangs back with a strong hand.
Emma Hudson must have had something to land a pretty, blond daisy like this one, Jack said.
Well, she was certainly an attractive older woman—
Clear your ears, Penny. I said Emma Hudson must have had something. Like stacks and stacks of dough-re-mi.
You’re saying he’s a gold digger? That’s crazy, Jack. The Hudson family is old money. Everyone in Newport knows the name. I’m sure Philip Gordon Hudson never wanted for cash. And believe it or not, there are May-December relationships that don’t involve money, so you might consider the possibility that they really did fall in love.
I might, for the blink of a fly’s eye.
Well, he’s charming enough. I can see why Emma was seduced.
Seduced? Interesting choice of word . . .
“Delighted to meet you at last,” Philip Hudson said, taking my hand in his. “Believe it or not, Mrs. McClure, my family’s ties with yours go back a long way.”
“Really?”
“The McClures and the Hudsons were among the first to settle this region. As a young man, I was a guest at Windswept many times, and I attended boarding school with Percy McClure, one of your cousins—”
“By marriage.”
“Of course. I asked around and was told about the unfortunate circumstances of your husband’s passing. You have my condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“At the same time, I heard many very impressive things about you, personally.”
“Really?” Sadie interjected. “Curious me! Tell us what they’re saying about our Penelope!”
“For one thing, I learned that while I was living a life of leisure in California, Mrs. McClure was cheerleading a successful revitalization of this town’s business community. From what I’ve seen of the new Quindicott, I must say—I’m quite impressed. We could use Mrs. McClure’s energy and vision in Millstone.
“And . . .” He locked his blue gaze on my green eyes. “I’m surprised no one mentioned that Mrs. McClure was so very . . . attractive.”
I was flattered—I couldn’t deny it.
Jack could.
If this guy shovels on any more manure, I’m sending him to the garden to fertilize the flowers.
My aunt had the opposite reaction. While Jack continued complaining in my head, Sadie beamed like an honor student’s mother.
“We’re all very proud of our Penelope!”
The grin on her face and elbow to Bud’s ribs also told me that my aunt’s previously dormant proclivities for matchmaking me to “promising” bachelors were suddenly reigniting. Fortunately, before she could say anything else, Fiona informed us our table was ready.
To Sadie’s unbridled delight, Philip Hudson gallantly offered me his arm. With a polite nod, I took it, and he escorted me through the dining room.
The glass-walled restaurant glowed with a golden warmth. Candles cast flickering light on the perfectly set tables. Logs crackled in the stone fireplace, but the dominant sounds were talking and laughter, punctuated by the pleasant popping of newly tapped champagne. Aromas of roasted garlic, herbes de Provence, and savory wine sauces tickled my nose as Fiona’s staff scurried about with trays of tantalizing dishes.
I hadn’t eaten since my morning oatmeal, and I was ravenous.
Your dining partner looks hungry, too, Jack warned. But his appetite has got nothing to do with grub.
Don’t be silly, I scolded.
CHAPTER 22
Hot Pants, Cold Lap
Your job isn’t to guard me—it’s to see that there’s plenty of excitement.
—Paul Cain, “Gundown,” 1933
“WAITER! ANOTHER ROUND for everyone. And make mine a double.”
The newly bereaved forty-something ex-husband with the golden tan, charming smile, and oh-so-perfect pearly whites stretched his long legs under the dinner table. When they brushed mine, he caught my eye and smiled—a gesture instantly followed by Sadie’s jab to Bud’s ribs for the second time that night.
Bud rubbed his side, cast Sadie a long-suffering look, and offered me a resigned shrug. The older couple had noticed what I already knew. The late Emma Hudson’s ex was making a play for me; and given the man’s inheritance of a small fortune in first editions, my matchmaking aunt appeared to be more than okay with it.
You better mind your Ps and Qs, doll, Jack warned me again. Blondie has been eyeing your gams all night.
Just then, I felt Philip Hudson’s lower leg stroke my stockinged calf.
All right, Jack, I admit it. You were right about Hudson’s intentions. As for my “gams,” he’s doing more than eyeing them!
A sudden blast of frigid air set the candle flames dancing and knocked over Philip Hudson’s drink, right into his lap.
That ought to cool off Mr. Hot Pants!
Hudson leaped out of his chair, cursing the restaurant’s “drafty” dining room. His easy, warm manner instantly iced over as he arrogantly bullied the waitstaff, who came to his aid with napkins and apologies, even though it wasn’t their fault. The arrival of the second round—on the house—calmed the man’s temper and warmed him back up.
I took a breath and warned Jack to back off. Please let me handle him.
You expect me to do nothing while this cluck handles you?!
Yes, if need be! Your personal feelings are clouding your professional judgment. This man’s ex-wife is dead, and we both suspect she was murdered. Do you really want to frighten Hudson away before we get some answers? Besides, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of m
yself!
That’s debatable.
I swear, if you don’t behave, I’m leaving your Buffalo nickel as a tip for the waiter!
I don’t buy your bluff, sweetheart, and I’m not backing off. If Mr. Hot Pants turns into Mr. Hot Hands, nickel or not, he’s getting a knuckle sandwich.
* * *
* * *
BY TEN P.M., Hudson had regaled us with tales of surfing at Big Sur, bungee jumping in New Zealand, and white-water rafting in Chile. At the moment, he was wrapping up an adventure he’d shared with an American coffee hunter he met in Bolivia.
“I was mountain biking with a group when I met Matteo in a La Paz watering hole, and I ended up joining him for a drive along the notorious North Yungas Road—El Camino de la Muerte. We passed more fatal accidents than New Jersey has tolls, and we had to watch out for road pirates.”
“Holy cats!” Bud said, impressed. “Did you run into any?”
“We did, and a motley bunch they were. Most were armed with machetes, though one gentleman had a rusty old rifle that looked more like a movie prop than a gun. Matteo bribed them off with a case of Jim Beam.”
Philip Hudson laughed. “I really should pay Matt Allegro a visit, but I haven’t been to New York City in ages.”
Jack, did you hear that? According to Eddie, Hudson claimed he was in New York at the time of Emma’s death!
Good work, doll. Hudson’s been drinkin’, so he’s not thinkin’—and he just blew his alibi sky-high.
Well, you did teach me the value of gossip. Now what?
Tomorrow, you tell your friend with the badge what you found out tonight.
You think there’s more?
Where there’s smoke, there’s a stogie burnin’. Let the man keep bumping gums, and who knows—you might hear a confession to murder.
Philip paused for a satisfying sip of his fifth Tanqueray with Meyer lemon and Stirrings tonic.
On the other hand, Jack warned. This guy has a hollow leg—and he might be pulling yours.
He can’t be lying to both me and Eddie. One of his stories is false.
True, Jack said. And, you have to admit, he’s been floatin’ more air tonight than the Hindenburg. Maybe that whole coffee pal pirate yarn is hooey.
I exhaled in frustration.
Listen, baby, gossip is golden. But all that glitters ain’t the truth. No matter what he tells you, you’ll still need hard evidence to back it, and you won’t find it sittin’ in this fussy food aquarium.
But I can keep him talking, right?
Sure, why not. In gin veritas, and this cluck’s been suckin’ down hooch all night.
He was also talking all night, and I had to admit, his stories were riveting. Bud was entertained, and Sadie was completely charmed. She was so charmed, in fact, that she leaned over to whisper in my ear.
“Bud and I are going to leave early, so you and Philip can get better acquainted.”
I objected. Strenuously. To my surprise, the ghost didn’t.
Alone with you, and a couple more injections of juniper berries, and he’s likely to get maudlin. That’s when you jump in with the whole “I’m sorry for your pain” routine, followed by “I’ve been in your shoes.” He’s already got the hots for you. Lend a sympathetic ear, and he’ll spill like a broken vase.
When Philip Hudson called for a sixth round of cocktails, I got the chance to test Jack’s theory.
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid Bud and I will have to go,” Sadie said. “Bud has an early job, and I’m opening the store first thing in the morning.”
“But we haven’t talked about the book collection,” Philip pointed out. “I’m sure we can agree on a fair price.”
Sadie shot me a wink. “I have an idea. Why don’t the two of you talk business, and Pen can brief me tomorrow.”
“Or, perhaps we should call it a night,” I said. “We can pick this conversation up again by conference call in the morning. After all, Mr. Hudson has a long drive back to Millstone.”
Philip shook his head. “Not to worry, Mrs. McClure. I’ve taken a room at the bed-and-breakfast.”
“Then it’s settled, Pen,” Sadie asserted. “Ask Fiona or Barney to call a cab to take you home when you’re ready. I’ll leave the light on for you.”
As Bud and Sadie departed, Philip slid his chair closer to mine. His formerly bleary eyes were suddenly twinkling.
“I propose we talk business late into the night, and share breakfast in the morning.”
Jack grunted. He’s not coy, is he?
What do I do?
Play him. String him along and stall. With all the booze he’s tippled, he’s sure to pass out soon. Grill him before he’s too pickled to do more than blubber.
“Well,” I said to Philip, “if we’re staying, let’s take another look at that dessert menu, shall we?”
I ordered an apple tart with pastry cream, and French-pressed coffee. Philip opted for a sixth gin and tonic. While I savored the fruity-creamy pastry, Philip downed half his drink without tasting it.
Looks like Mr. Hot Pants is on the brink. You better crank up the questioning before he’s completely embalmed.
I set my fork aside and took a deep breath. Then I reached over and touched my host’s hand.
“Mr. Hudson . . . Philip . . . If I didn’t say it before, I want to tell you that I’m sorry for your loss. I know you and your wife were divorced, but—”
I blathered platitudes until he wrapped my hand in both of his. Then, just as Jack predicted, he finally opened the floodgates, and the strange story of Philip and his late ex-wife poured out.
CHAPTER 23
California Dreaming
Sleeping with a man half your age can be exhausting, but if it’s too much for him you can always find a younger man.
—Barbara Taylor Bradford, Playing the Game
“EMMA AND I met ten years ago, at a specialty food store on Sunset Boulevard. I was shopping for homesick foods, and this place had a great selection—crab cakes and chowder from Newport, New England lobster in season, and two brands of coffee syrup. That’s what Emma was buying.”
“Your wife was from Rhode Island, too?”
Philip laughed. “Emma Royce was a California girl, through and through. She was raised by a wealthy family in Pacific Heights, and only left San Francisco to start her own New Age spiritual center in Venice Beach. When we met, she was buying coffee syrup for a couple from Providence staying at her ashram.”
Did he just mention an ashtray?
Ashram, Jack. It’s like a school for spiritual thought and deep contemplation.
Deep contemplation? You mean like playing the ponies? Because I contemplated those racing forms every single day.
Quiet, Jack, I don’t want to miss this story!
I gently detached my hand from Philip’s. “How fascinating that Emma was so—otherworldly. Was she psychic? Did she have visions?”
Or was she just straitjacket crazy?
“Oh, she was nothing like that. Emma was very practical, for someone who grew up in the Age of Aquarius.”
“What did she teach at her ashram?”
“Meditation. Relaxation techniques. Yoga. The Kama Sutra. Tantric sex—”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“You’re not prudish, are you, Penelope?” Philip asked with a smirk. “Tantric sex is an ancient Hindu practice, a transcendent experience that’s been around for at least five thousand years. Emma had the equivalent of a black belt in it.” He gulped the rest of his cocktail. “I was almost thirty when we met, and I’d been around the block a few times. But Emma showed me a thing or two, I’ll tell you.”
File that under things I didn’t need to know, I told Jack with a shudder.
Just keep him yammering.
Philip signaled the waiter for drink numb
er seven—but who’s counting? He certainly wasn’t.
“So why wasn’t Emma in Venice Beach, teaching at her ashram? What was she doing here, in an apartment full of rare books?”
“Things went south after a few years,” Philip admitted. “People stopped coming to Emma’s retreat. Some of them gave up all that loony tunes stuff entirely. The rest moved on to the next New Age trend. She tried, but poor Emma couldn’t keep up.”
“Your ‘loony tunes’ reference tells me you must have thought of the ashram thing as silly.”
“I didn’t practice any of it, except for the tantric sex. But the people who stayed there were nice enough, I suppose, if naive.”
“Still, it’s an odd choice of professions. Did you ever see Emma behave strangely, or irrationally? Was she ever depressed? Do you think she was capable of suicide?”
“Absolutely not. I told Deputy Franzetti as much. What happened to her was an accident—one waiting to happen. There were structural issues with that old house. I even read it in your local paper. I’ve already hired a storage company to empty the apartment, first thing tomorrow morning, before the whole place collapses.”
“Are you going to take the parrot as well as the dog?”
“Her pets were her business. They’ll have to go to shelters.”
“What kind of dog did she have?”
“A Yorkie, I believe.”
“And you don’t have her dog?”
“Me? Heavens, no! Frankly, I never saw a reason to take on the trouble and expense of an animal, unless you’re some kind of breeder or a farmer who’s going to earn something from it. One of the many things we fought about when we were married—she got those pets after we separated.”
“Why did you separate?”
“Why does anyone? We made each other miserable. Emma was smart as a whip and twice as cutting, and she wasn’t satisfied with the divorce settlement, either, even after I turned my late father’s book collection over to her.”
“She wasn’t a book person, then?”
