by Greg Herren
“You think Carlo would have killed him?” I asked hesitantly.
“Carlo would have thrown his ass out. No, it doesn’t make any sense.” She shook her head. “Mind you, I never much cared for Timothy Burke. There was something about him—it was like chewing tinfoil.”
I shuddered involuntarily.
She went on, “Oh, he had excellent manners and he was charming and witty and handsome as all get-out, but there was something about him that seemed off to me. He was very clever—not smart clever. He’d used his looks all his life to get what he wanted—a successful career, a wealthy husband, his own business—but he wouldn’t risk that. He wasn’t that stupid. If Carlo threw him out, he’d have nothing.” She started ticking things off on her fingers. “No money. No company—Carlo put up the money for that underwear business of his. No big house in the Hamptons. No penthouse on Central Park West. Nothing. But then—” She paused. “There are none so blind as those who will not see. It’s possible Carlo turned a blind eye to all of it because he didn’t want to know.”
“I know that he slept with his trainer.”
“That would be Brad Collins?” She flashed a smile at me. “I heard it was that friend of his, that gigolo Taylor Hudson, or the tennis pro. But no one—not one person out there—whispered that his death was anything other than an accident.”
I exhaled. “Thank you for talking to me, Maureen. I don’t know why this was bothering me so much, but it was.”
She stood up. “Was it Nell Chamberlain who told you?”
Startled, I nodded.
“Don’t look so surprised, dear. It was a pretty educated guess—she lives next door to you.” She walked me to the door. “Nell hated him, you know. Something to do with one of those damned spaniels.” She shook her head. “She’s quite unreasonable when it comes to those dogs—they’re like her children.” She opened the front door for me. “I’ll listen, though, and ask some discreet questions, if you’d like. It would make for a good story.” The door shut behind me.
I stood there, staring at the door in horror. The last thing in the world I wanted was for her to write a story about Timothy.
I gave up on a cab after two zoomed past me, and took the subway uptown. Once the horror died, I began to think such a piece on Street Talk might not be such a bad thing.
It felt strange being in the penthouse without Carlo. I mixed myself a martini the way Joyce had showed me, and relaxed on the deck, listening to the city sounds as the day came to a close.
Then again, I finally decided, if Timothy hadn’t been murdered—which now seemed more and more likely to be the case—there was no story.
And on that note, I went inside to get ready for the theater.
The musical was terrible. I left during the intermission and hailed a cab.
I was an hour and a half or so early for my dinner reservations, but the host managed to squeeze me into a small table in the crowded restaurant, which I appreciated. I ordered, and was nursing a very dry martini when I heard someone say my name.
I knew that voice.
“Valerie,” I said, getting out of my chair and forcing a smile onto my face. “What a coincidence to run into you here.” I knew damned well it wasn’t a coincidence—Maureen had ratted me out. She’d gotten here early so she could ambush me—but leaving the show early had ruined that for her. “Please, have a seat and join me for a drink. We need to catch up.”
I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do less than have a drink with Valerie, but there was no way around it that I could see—and maybe I could do something to defuse whatever she was thinking.
A busboy brought a chair over and she sat down across the table from me. “Oh, I’m waiting for my own table, but bring me a Manhattan,” she said, waving off the menu the waiter tried to hand her. He bowed and hurried off. She smiled at me—what I always thought of as her piranha smile. “I had an interesting conversation with Maureen Drury this afternoon,” she said, carefully smoothing out her skirt. “I have to say, it caught me a little off guard.”
Mentally I made a note to tell Joyce to cross Maureen and her cousin off the guest list for the Independence Ball. I smiled back across the table at Valerie and hoped my face didn’t betray how fast my heart was beating. “Did it?” I said, surprised at how smooth my voice sounded. “I don’t see how it concerns you, though.”
“You don’t?” She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head slightly to one side. I knew that look. It was a tactic I’d seen her use any number of times on people she wanted something from, when she thought she had the upper hand, was sitting in the catbird seat. But unfortunately for Valerie Franklin, I was quite familiar with all of her tricks. “I should think an investigative journalist like Maureen Drury looking into Timothy’s strange death would be the last thing in the world the Romaniello family would want.”
“We have nothing to hide.” She flinched at my emphasis on the word “we,” which made me smile a little. “Maureen is seeing things where there’s nothing to see. My neighbor, Nell Chamberlain, mentioned to me the other day that she didn’t believe Timothy’s death was an accident, and I was curious if there was any other gossip—and who better to ask than the biggest gossip in the city?”
She clearly didn’t believe me. She made an odd little noise, and her smile widened. “If that’s how you want to play it—”
“I’m not playing.” I replied evenly. “If Maureen misunderstood our conversation, I can’t help that.” My waiter was hovering with my dinner. “And if you’ll excuse me, my dinner’s here.”
She narrowed her eyes, but she got up and headed to the bar. I hurried through my dinner, paid the check, and escaped.
The next morning, Roberts drove me back to Spindrift.
Chapter Eleven
Maureen e-mailed me an apology the next morning.
I read it on my phone in the car on my way back to Spindrift. I got up early, wanting to get back as early as possible—I missed Minette, and decided the next time I came into the city I was bringing her with me.
Her e-mail was succinct and to the point.
Darling,
I only just now discovered that some careless words I uttered to Valerie yesterday regarding the information you and I discussed at my home were, unfortunately, taken as gospel truth by the woman. She informed me this morning that she spoke to you last evening about it. I most humbly ask your forgiveness. I had no idea she was planning on tracking you down and harassing you, and I certainly made it quite clear, just now on the telephone, that there is nothing factual to suggest that Timothy’s death was anything other than an unfortunate accident, and she certainly couldn’t risk publishing anything quite so slanderous.
I am so terribly sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking in mentioning any of this to her. I certainly had no idea she would behave so atrociously, or I wouldn’t have mentioned anything.
Please accept my apology, and if there is anything, anything at ALL, that I can do to make up for this egregious abuse of your trust, do let me know.
Sincerely,
Maureen
I couldn’t help but smile to myself as I put my phone back away. Maureen was clearly afraid she might not be on the guest list for the Independence Ball.
By the time we arrived at the house, I was feeling very confident and sure of myself, more so than I had at any time since I first moved in. Carson was waiting for me in the entryway when I walked in the front door, with some minor issues he needed me to go over and some checks to sign. We went into my office and shut the door behind us while I went over the receipts and signed the checks he’d already filled out for me. He bowed his head politely, gathered up everything, and was almost to the door when I stopped him.
“Carson, I’ve been meaning to ask you.” I leaned back in the chair and watched him carefully. “There’s a locked door on the second floor of the west wing. Do you know anything about that?”
His mouth tightened a little, and a muscle started jumpin
g in his right cheek. “Yes, sir. Mr. Carlo has asked that the door be kept locked.”
I had already figured out the answer to my next question, but wanted confirmation. “And why is that, Carson?”
“I cannot tell you the reason, as I do not know, and anything I might say would only be speculation,” he replied, closing his eyes carefully and lowering his head a bit. “But those were Mr. Timothy’s rooms, sir.” He said nothing else, but I could see the sly gleam in his eyes.
“I’d like to see them,” I replied.
“Of course, sir.” He nodded again. “Let me put these things away, and I shall meet you up there.” He backed out of the room.
I took a deep breath and stood up. I walked over to the windows and watched the waves in the distance, coming ashore. A rush of nervousness came over me, but I tamped it down quickly. As master of Spindrift, I had every right to go in there and take a look around. Even if Carlo was still in love with Timothy, I was married to him now, and this was my home. If I wanted the room stripped and fumigated, so be it.
And as I climbed the grand staircase I thought, And maybe what this entire house needs is an exorcism. Facing the ghosts in the west wing is surely a good start.
Yet as I reached the top of the stairs and entered the west wing, I could feel my heart beginning to pound loudly and my nerve start to desert me. It took all of my willpower to keep walking forward—especially after I noticed that the door to his rooms was open. I took a deep breath, lifted my chin, and walked in.
The entire room was done in shades of red. The bed was a four-poster, just like mine, but it was enormous—five people could sleep comfortably in it, I estimated. The carpet was thick and plush, also a deep shade of red, a cross between crimson and maroon. The curtains hanging around the bed were a rich red velvet—and there were matching curtains on the windows. A rolltop desk similar to the one in my room sat in the exact same place—but directly over it was a framed black-and-white print of the most famous photo of Timothy when he was a model. I couldn’t help myself, I walked over to it and stared up at it.
He was leaning back against a brick wall, and the photographer had taken the picture in front and from an angle just slightly below, shooting the picture up. The end result was that all the shadows from the lighting made the deep cuts in Timothy’s abdomen stand out like they were carved from solid rock—and of course, the bulge in the front of the tight white briefs looked enormous. There was no real expression on his face, other than the raised eyebrow and the slight tilt of the head that made the pose provocative, as though he were inviting a caress from anyone viewing him, daring the viewer to touch him. I had seen this picture any number of times in ads in magazines, but at this enormous size, without the ad copy or the brand name written across the bottom, it was different. Rather than selling underwear, it was an extraordinarily artistic shot; one that could be hung as a piece of art or sold in a gallery.
“He was quite beautiful,” Carson said, his tone quiet and winsome.
I hadn’t heard him come up behind me, and I hadn’t seen him when I walked into the room. “Yes,” I replied hollowly, “yes, he was.”
“After he died, Mr. Carlo asked me to lock the door to this room and keep it locked,” Carson said, walking past me and staring up at the print. He wiped some dust off a corner of the frame. “He wanted it left exactly as it was, and I was to be the only person allowed in here to keep it clean.”
I tore my eyes away from the print and walked over to the door that led to the closet. I opened it, and it was full of clothes—-from several tuxedos to slacks to shirts in an array of colors. Shoes were lined up neatly underneath the hanging clothes. I could feel my breakfast turning to acid in my stomach.
It looked ready for him, like he was going to walk in through the door at any moment.
I closed the closet door and took a few deep breaths. I felt more than nauseous. This entire room—it was a shrine to Timothy. And the night I’d heard a man crying in here? It had to be Carlo.
“Thank you, Carson,” I somehow managed to say, and carefully walked out of the room, my head still held high as my insecurities ran rampant through my mind. I don’t know how I managed to simply walk all the way back to my rooms in the east wing without running or having to hold on to the wall for support.
He’s still in love with Timothy. No matter what I do, I cannot compete with that. I’m not in the same league as him. Marrying me and bringing me here was a huge mistake, and if he hasn’t realized that already, he will soon, and will ask me to leave, and then what am I going to do?
Minette leaped on me the moment I opened my door, and I knelt down and hugged my precious, beautiful spaniel. And as she licked my face, her tail wagging madly, I managed to calm down.
I wouldn’t speak to Carlo about Timothy’s room. It could stay as it was, carefully locked against intruders. I would never bring it up, or anything about him. I was alive, after all; Timothy was dead—and it was my bed that Carlo came to at night. As I buried my hair in the neck of my wonderful dog, I made up my mind. I was going to be the best I could be. I wanted to be a writer, so damn it, I was going to write. I would take my tennis lessons seriously and would become a good player. I would do what my trainer told me, and I would tighten up my body and make it more beautiful than it was.
I would be the best husband Carlo could have ever asked for, and eventually, he would have to forget all about my predecessor.
I felt better, and stronger. I put Minette’s leash on her and took her out for a walk.
My life soon fell into a pattern, a routine I began to enjoy. Each morning I would take Minette for her walk, take a shower, and go downstairs for breakfast. Three days a week I worked out with Brad in the exercise room. The two days I didn’t work out with him, I took a tennis lesson from Chris. I used the tanning bed every day for ten minutes, and my skin began to darken. Between the weight training and the tennis, my body was beginning to change. I could see it in the mirror—veins were starting to appear in my arms, muscles were starting to poke their way through my skin, and my only wish was that my body would progress faster somehow.
I also spent several hours every afternoon writing on my laptop. Sometimes I took it out to my balcony and wrote with the sea breeze in my face and the sound of the gulls in my ears. I wrote short stories—I had no ideas for a novel, but plenty of ideas for short stories. None of them were any good, of course, but I kept trying. I would always spend an hour or so after dinner revising and editing stories I’d already written. I wasn’t ready to submit anything anywhere yet, or to even show them to anyone, but I could see a steady improvement in them as the weeks passed—just as there was in my body.
Every morning Joyce came by to go over preparations for the ball and for my input on the decorations, the music, the food, the invitations, the guest list—everything. I helped her as much as I possibly could—she wanted my opinion on everything, which I really appreciated, but I knew she could have done the entire thing without any input or assistance from me. She clearly enjoyed the planning and preparations, and I said as much to her one morning after we’d decided on the invitations and what kind of hors d’oeuvres to serve.
“Don’t FOOL yourself for a MINUTE, darling,” she replied with a wink. “Next year, YOU’LL be doing this on YOUR own, with ME to help out as NEEDED. And the year after? ON YOUR OWN.”
Carlo, of course, was in and out—board meetings and problems kept him traveling. Much as I didn’t like him going off and leaving me alone, I kept my mouth shut and didn’t say a word. The last thing I wanted for the time we had together was for me to whine and complain. He thought I’d be bored on these trips and so it was left at that. He did frequently promise to take me away once all the business was settled—he told me over and over that the summer was the busiest time for him and we would spend September in Paris if that was what I wanted to do.
I spent a lot of time researching Paris, figuring out what I wanted to do and see when we got there.
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br /> When he was at Spindrift, we settled into an easy routine together. If our life together wasn’t quite the same as it had been when we were in Miami, it was easy and comfortable. We had an ease with each other I came to deeply appreciate—we enjoyed each other’s company and I wasn’t quite so insecure anymore. Maybe he didn’t say he loved me as often as I would have liked, and maybe there were times when I felt like he was dismissing me from his life, but what we had seemed to be working. After all, I’d never been in a relationship before, and my mother had died when I was too young to have any memory of her—so I didn’t have the example of my parents’ marriage to go by, either.
My interactions with Carson were also better. I wasn’t so foolish as to think he would ever approve of me completely, but he’d been so helpful over the matter of my costume—and his manner with me seemed to be much easier since he’d shown me Timothy’s rooms. We met once a week to discuss the flowers and the menus for meals, and I found myself no longer quite as intimidated as I’d been. There were times when I would catch him watching me, a strange expression on his face, but I had no idea what it meant, and dismissed it. Carson was just Carson, and that’s all there was to it.
My newfound confidence in myself and my role at Spindrift was noticeable, and both Carlo and Joyce commented on it.
Several times a week I went over to Nell’s so Minette could visit with Charlie and Hetty, and we always had iced tea while the dogs romped together. The subject of Timothy never came up again—I wasn’t about to mention him, and she seemed to no longer have any interest in the subject. We never talked about anything personal—only about the dogs, or the approaching costume ball. She did try on several occasions to get me to tell her what I was going to wear as my costume, but I flatly refused to tell her anything. I was keeping it a secret from everyone, even her.
It was the afternoon of the ball when she brought Timothy up again.
