“Don’t worry, Sloan,” Claire said. “I will abide by my confidentiality agreement.”
“Stanley wants the book Tuppy was writing,” Sloan said. “We know Tuppy gave it to you.”
“I don’t have it,” Claire said. “He said he left it here for me but I can’t find it.”
“I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you,” Sloan said. “Stanley is very impatient to have this taken care of.”
“If I had it I would gladly hand it over to you or your flying monkey.”
“Your life with me wasn’t so bad,” Sloan said. “We had some good times.”
“Your idea of a good time usually led to my idea of a bad time,” Claire said.
“When we lived in Brentwood you had your own guest house and a pool.”
“Paid for by a porn producer with an expensive drug habit; the dealers and porn stars were always fighting outside my bedroom window at three a.m.”
“There’s no drama like hopped-up hooker drama, that’s true.”
“Consider what went on in that pool,” Claire said. “I never swam in it.”
“I helped you get that condo in Malibu.”
“You forged my name on a mortgage so your boyfriend would get the commission. Then I caught you having sex with my husband in our bedroom.”
“Dear old Pip, the delicious dimwit. He owes me quite a bit of money, you know. Whatever happened to him?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care.”
Sloan wandered around the salon, picking up things, pretending to examine them, and then setting them back down. It was a piece of business she’d learned while acting in a Broadway play. It had upstaged and enraged the lead actor, but she got away with it because she was sleeping with the producer.
“What about the two months we spent in Paris?” Sloan asked.
“You tormented the director until he had a nervous breakdown,” Claire said.
“Jean Marc,” Sloan said. “A rank amateur, thinking he could tell me how to play Collette.”
“It was horrible to watch the way you tortured him.”
“But the city, you have to admit, was fabulous.”
“You stayed at the George V; I shared one bathroom of a moldy rental with nine alcoholic crew members who didn’t value personal hygiene.”
“What about the time we spent in Vancouver shooting Tweetheart?”
“You used the makeup and hair trailer to have an affair with your married costar while I stood outside and kept everyone out.”
“Mmm, Clifford,” she said. “He has such wonderful hands.”
“And a jealous wife; there are still fundraisers you aren’t invited to because of that affair.”
“She gets all the muscle disease kids and I’m stuck with the bald ones; they’re not nearly as cute in commercials.”
“It could be worse; they could find a cure and then you’d have no sick kids to pimp for P.R.”
“I’m overlooking your sarcasm but I can still recognize it.”
“I can say anything I like; I don’t work for you anymore,” Claire said. “I tried to leave on good terms but obviously that’s impossible.”
“I know you enjoyed Scotland.”
“Until you stole my boyfriend.”
“You made out all right,” Sloan said. “There isn’t another personal assistant or hair stylist in the business that has made more money than you.”
“I’m thankful for all the money,” Claire said. “But silly me, I thought when I quit working for you I could start a new life without you in it.”
“Here?”
“Yes, here,” Claire said. “My family is here and they need me.”
“You’re too spoiled. You’ll miss our life.”
“I want a simpler life.”
“There is no simple life,” Sloan said. “That’s just a gimmick they use to sell lifestyle magazines and overpriced shacks in the Hamptons. Take a month off, get this delusion out of your system, and then come back to work for me.”
“Your world is the fake one,” Claire said. “I have roots here; I belong here.”
“No, you don’t. You’re like me now,” Sloan said. “Don’t you know you can never go back? People like us don’t belong anywhere but on the road or on the stage. We weren’t meant to settle down; if we stop dancing we’ll die.”
“I helped you learn that dialogue,” Claire said. “I seem to remember one theater critic said you chewed the scenery like a cow in clover.”
“Every show was sold out for the entire run on Broadway,” Sloan said, “and that critic is fat and bald.”
“Other people can perform the same service I do,” Claire said. “Just hire someone, already. I’ll train them if you want.”
“I need you, Claire. Look at me; I’m a wreck. I have two editorial shoots and three covers coming up. I may have to do re-shoots on Mary next month.”
“I’ll do it for you here if you want, but I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“I can’t do it here. It’s not safe.”
“It will be fine,” Claire said. “Come back after six and I’ll close the curtains, lock the door, and we’ll take care of business.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“It’s on the house,” Claire said.
“What’s the catch?”
“You have to let me go afterward,” Claire said.
Sloan considered Claire for several seconds.
“I’ll be back,” she said.
Claire felt like she’d been holding her breath the whole time Sloan was in the salon. She watched her walk to the curb and get into the back seat of Stanley’s long, dark car. The driver was someone Claire hadn’t seen before. He was big with that menacing look Stanley seemed to favor. Claire wondered if he had killed Tuppy.
Scott had followed Maggie out of The Bee Hive and ran to catch up.
“Maggie,” he said. “Talk to me.”
Maggie stopped in her tracks, turned around, and walked back toward him with such menace that he started to back up, with his hands outstretched.
“Now, wait a minute,” he said. “You and I were not boyfriend and girlfriend in high school.”
“No,” Maggie said. “It’s not that you swam naked with my cousin Claire back when we were teenagers. It’s not that I’ve been hearing all week about how cozy the two of you have become since she came back. It’s that I’m still finding out things that you’ve kept a secret from me. I don’t know why I’m still surprised and disappointed, but I am.”
“I’m sorry,” Scott said. “For the millionth time and for everything I ever did wrong; I apologize.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Maggie said, and turned to go.
“Except it does, doesn’t it?” Scott said to her retreating back. “It still matters because you still care. You’re jealous because deep down, you know I should be with you.”
Maggie just kept walking away, and Scott was immediately aware of all the people on the street who had stopped whatever they were doing to watch their fight. A couple of college students walked by and one of the young men said, “Bitches be buggin’,” as if in sympathy.
“Watch your language,” Scott said to the boy, but his heart wasn’t in it.
Scott wasn’t looking forward to his next assignment. He walked up Pine Mountain Road, also known as County Route 2, to the Rose Hill Bed and Breakfast.
The B&B was a large, ornate Victorian with white gingerbread trim and a round turret that rose past three floors at one corner. Inside the vestibule Scott could smell something delicious baking in the kitchen. No one was sitting at the front desk, which was an elegant table in the front parlor, so he walked back past the stairs through a narrow corridor to the kitchen. He took a deep breath and steeled himself before he saw Ava.
Ava Fitzpatrick had won the genetic lottery when it came to beauty and grace. In a small town full of ordinary people she stood out like a movie star, even though she played down her looks with plain clothes and little makeup. He
r dark hair and dark eyes were set off by a knee-weakening bright smile, and her figure reminded Scott of a dancer’s. She seemed fragile, but in fact Ava was one of the most resilient people he had ever met.
Ava’s late husband Brian was Maggie’s oldest brother. He abandoned Ava when their children were small, disappearing around the same time as Maggie’s boyfriend Gabe. It turned out that they went on a drug run together, and when their car crashed Brian escaped but Gabe ended up in prison. Brian returned, years later, after he heard that Ava had received a generous bequest from Theo Eldridge.
Brian created havoc in Ava’s life by bringing her into contact with a ruthless drug lord. He got arrested, escaped, and then died all in the space of a couple months. He also left behind a child from a bigamous marriage to a woman he murdered for her money.
Scott had offered his support and a shoulder to lean on during this time in Ava’s life, and a crush from which he had suffered since his teenage years had blossomed into an infatuation. Encouraged by Ava to think his feelings might be returned, he had allowed himself to be drawn into her life after Brian died and Maggie rejected him.
Ava was glad enough to let Scott be of service to her and the children, and to do all he could to protect her reputation, which had been damaged by her husband’s many crimes. He quickly realized, however, that Ava’s affection, although warm and seemingly sincere, was more a method of self-preservation than a genuine interest in any kind of relationship. Ava had built a fortress around her family, and Scott learned that while any man might be allowed to serve the queen, he should never kid himself that he belonged in the palace alongside her.
Ava was sitting at the kitchen island, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. The bakery smell was most intense in here, and Scott could see a cooling rack full of muffins on the kitchen counter. When Ava looked up there was a moment’s wariness in her eyes before she warmly welcomed him.
“It’s so good to see you,” she said, and invited him to sit with her and have a muffin and a cup of coffee.
Scott was strong but he wasn’t made of steel. He accepted both but sat on the opposite side of the island from her.
“How are the kids?” he asked her.
“Charlotte’s enjoying the consolidated school, which surprised me,” she said. “She was always such a bookworm but when she turned fifteen suddenly it was all about boys and makeup.”
“She’s a beautiful girl,” Scott said, but didn’t add, “just like her mother.”
Charlotte was the spitting image of Ava when she was a teenager, with the same dark hair and eyes. Scott thought she probably had boys following her around much like Ava had, fighting over who got to carry her books.
“She’s glued to her phone,” Ava said. “I told her as long as her grades stay up she can keep it; but the minute they drop, it’s gone.”
“How’s Timmy?”
“He’ll be nine this month,” she said. “You know Hatch, who works at the service station? He’s raising his sister’s son Joshua; Joshie and Timmy have become inseparable. You never see one without the other.”
Scott knew the town gossip was that Joshua had been fathered by Ava’s late husband as well; he and Timmy looked like red-headed, freckled twins.
“Little Fitz is almost four,” Ava said. “He goes to daycare at Sacred Heart. He’s my little sweetheart; just loves to be cuddled.”
Little Fitz was the baby Ava’s husband had abandoned when he came back after all those years. Ava had adopted him, and treated him just like one of her own. He also had red hair and freckles.
“How are you doing?” Scott asked, even though he really didn’t want to be taken into her confidence anymore. It wasn’t safe there; he didn’t trust himself not to become intoxicated and lose his way.
“I’m fine,” she said, and to his relief he could tell she wasn’t going to be any more forthcoming.
“Did Patrick tell you I would be coming to talk to you?” he asked.
“He did,” she said. “He came here right after the Thorn closed and he stayed until five in the morning.”
“Alright, then,” he said. “That’s all I needed to know.”
Patrick had fallen into the same trap Scott had, but much longer ago, right after his brother Brian left Ava. They broke up after Theo was killed because Patrick was a suspect and Ava didn’t want their relationship to be seen as a possible motive. Scott hadn’t realized they were seeing each other again until Patrick admitted it when questioned about the night Tuppy was killed. Patrick’s mother had doted on her oldest son Brian so their love affair had to be kept hidden.
Scott pushed back his chair.
“Stay and finish your coffee,” Ava said.
The back door opened and a man came in, smiling at Ava. He was older than Scott, who guessed him to be in his early fifties, with floppy hair, a pronounced, beak-like nose and close-set eyes. He was dressed in a rumpled suit and tie, and carried a battered briefcase.
“Hallo, Ava,” he said, with a pronounced English accent.
Ava introduced him as Professor Richmond, and as each man heard the other’s name they both took a moment to size each other up. Professor Richmond did so with an amused air and one raised eyebrow. Scott could feel a little steam build between his ears and reminded himself to be professional.
“We have someone in common,” Professor Richmond said. “The formidable Mary Margaret Fitzpatrick.”
“Is that right?” Scott said, and rose to leave.
“Stay and have tea with us, do,” Professor Richmond said, making Scott realize that he had interrupted Ava preparing tea for this man. “I’ve heard so much about you, all terribly flattering, of course, and I would be delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“We’ll have to do that some time,” Scott said, and thanked Ava for her time before he left.
Gail Godwin was coming in the front door as he went out, and she followed him outside to try to get the gossip on Knox and Meredith.
“You probably know more than I do,” Scott said.
“I heard she cracked up and Knox stuck her in a loony bin,” Gail said. “I never liked her but she never seemed crazy to me.”
“I think she must have been under a great strain,” Scott said.
“Being married to Knox Rodefeffer would drive any woman crazy,” Gail said. “I clean the bank, you know. I’ve seen what goes on there late at night …”
“Anything the police should know?” he said.
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” she backtracked, reminded that this wasn’t just little Scotty Gordon she was talking to, this was the chief of police. “Just nonsense with that secretary of his; they aren’t fooling anyone.”
“You hear anything about that accident on Friday night?” Scott asked.
“I heard a couple things,” Gail said. “Nothing I’d swear on the Bible about.”
“Tell me anyway,” Scott said. “I won’t hold you to it.”
“Well,” Gail said. “I heard Phyllis Davis had a wild party at her place that night and there were some underage college kids there. I guess everybody got stinking drunk and there may have been drugs involved; you know Phyllis. Seems two of the boys got in a fight over something and decided to settle the argument by drag racing up Peony Street.”
“This was Friday night?” Scott asked. “Why didn’t anyone call me?’
“It was after midnight,” she said. “Ed Harrison lives on one side of her, but he was out of town, and on the other side are Ian and Delia, but Delia didn’t remember hearing it. I don’t dare bother Ian with anything like that nowadays, poor man.”
“Delia said she didn’t hear anything?”
“Delia Fitzpatrick once slept through a thunderstorm that tore off our carport and dropped it in their front yard,” Gail said. “So I wasn’t surprised.”
“You live right behind Phyllis on Marigold, and you didn’t hear it?”
“I clean the bank until 11:00 and then I do the IGA,” Gail said. “I don’t
get home until 3:00 am, and it was quiet then.”
Scott reflected that Tuppy was lying in the middle of Peony Street at 3:00 am. If Gail had walked that way home she would have seen him, but that was way out of her way.
“You have any names for me?” he said. “Of the college kids?”
“No,” she said as she shook her head. “And you know Phyllis probably didn’t even bother to ask.”
“You said you’d heard a couple things,” Scott said. “What else?”
“That movie star staying up at the Inn showed up on Monday,” she said, “but that man who’s staying with her was driving around town a few days before. No one else in town has a car like that with a New York license plate.”
“On Friday night?”
“I have it on good authority that he was.”
“Did you see him?”
“I said a good authority,” Gail said, “but not one stupid enough to get involved.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Godwin,” Scott said. “I better not make you late for work.”
“Ava’s not a stickler about that,” Gail said. “Besides, she’ll be having her tea with the professor about now, and I don’t like to interrupt.”
“What do you think of him?” Scott asked her.
“He’s a stuck up snob and I can’t understand him half the time,” Gail said, “but nothing for you to worry about when it comes to Maggie.”
Scott didn’t even bother to pretend not to understand; it was a small town.
“Really?” he said. “Why’s that?”
“Let’s just say he prefers grad students,” she said, “of the male variety.”
Scott considered that the best news he’d heard all day.
Claire had a very deaf older woman in her chair, and was trying to coax her wiry gray hair into some semblance of a Doris Day style from her Rock Hudson period. When the door opened she thought it was her next appointment but it was Stanley. He nodded to Claire and took a seat in the waiting area. Claire leaned back so she could see his driver standing outside the door, blocking the entrance.
“She’s completely deaf,” Claire said. “Go ahead and say whatever it is you came to say.”
Stanley stood up and walked over to sit in the second hydraulic chair. He smiled at the older woman, who clicked her dentures but didn’t respond.
Peony Street Page 22
