by Tom Savage
Artifice. The word occurred to him as he looked around, trying in vain to picture a gang of hearty, rum-soaked rascals lolling at the base of this tower, sabers in teeth and patches over eyes, wooden legs and talking parrots and all the rest of it, singing a rousing chorus of—
“. . . Isn’t It Romantic?” The soft, plaintive voice of the pianist, a young, blond Stateside man in a dinner jacket, wafted across the terrace.
Artifice. Robin’s gaze finally came to rest on the lovely young woman across from him, whose name was not Diana Meissen, whose hair and eyes were not dark brown, whose agenda remained unclear. He tried to imagine what she was thinking as she sipped her wine and smiled at him, but he quickly gave it up. The pirates were more accessible, more easily comprehended.
Artifice. He was an actor, and he was currently employed by this woman’s aunt as a detective. He was traveling under an assumed name, shadowing another human being, reporting on her actions. For this he was being paid a great deal of money. . . .
Two people waiting for a table in a restaurant, the evening waiting ahead of them, an evening in which they would normally be getting to know each other, finding out if they did or did not enjoy one another’s company. Picking up on, responding to, one another’s sexual tension. Yet here they sat, both using false names and false identities, neither one who he or she claimed to be. And only one of them knew that. He had a sudden vision of the two of them sitting there, both wearing those instant disguises sold in novelty shops, the thick black glasses with false noses and mustaches attached that made whoever wore them look like Groucho Marx. The image should have amused him, but at the moment he didn’t find it remotely funny.
He sighed. Sex was the least of tonight’s tensions.
“So,” he offered into the odd silence, “how are things at Cliffhanger?”
Something like a frown floated across her face for a moment. In that brief instant she appeared to be ill at ease, troubled. Then she raised her glass and emptied it.
“Great,” she said, extending the glass toward him for a refill. “Adam—Mr. Prescott—and Lisa are leaving Friday morning for New York. She’s visiting some relatives in Connecticut, and he’s delivering her and going on to Florida to be in a Labor Day regatta or something. Which reminds me: why don’t you come to the house Thursday for dinner? It’s a little going-away party—well, hardly; they’ll only be gone a few days—and Kay wants to have some people there. Her friend Trish will be there with her boyfriend, the guy you met at the birthday party.”
“Jerry.”
“Yes, Jerry. Would you like to come? You haven’t seen the house yet.”
“What do you mean? I just picked you up there.”
She grinned. “You didn’t even get out of the car. I mean, you haven’t seen the inside of the house.”
“No,” he said, “I haven’t. I’d like that.”
She smiled again. “Good. I’ll tell Kay you’ve accepted.”
He nodded, thinking that even their dialogue sounded like lines in a play. He couldn’t think of anything to say to her that wasn’t a shallow pleasantry. He remembered the dossier in his hotel room: there were so many subjects to be avoided. But, he mused, I can’t spend all evening avoiding them. I’ve got to get her talking, find out—
She smiled over at him. He forced himself to smile back.
Artifice.
Then the waiter arrived to lead them in to dinner.
Adam watched as they followed the waiter in from the terrace and up the stairs. She looks so beautiful tonight, he thought. That red dress. . . .
He was sitting at the end of the bar farthest from the doorway, on the other side of the room from where they passed through on their way up to the dining area. The moment they entered, he turned his face away from the door and leaned down behind the bar, as if he’d dropped something. Then, as they ascended, he slowly straightened, smiling to himself. They had not seen him: they were too intent on each other’s presence.
The smile died on his lips as he pondered that fact. The way she leaned toward him as they walked, his hand lightly holding her arm, guiding her, their heads bent together. Her sudden, musical laugh as they climbed the stairs.
He glanced at his Scotch. He was gripping the tumbler tightly in his fist: a little more pressure and it would shatter. Slowly, methodically, he relaxed his grip on the glass. He raised it to his lips, drained it and signaled to the barman for another.
Bob Taylor.
Goddamn Bob Taylor to hell. . . .
He was just beginning to wonder what he should do next, how to continue his surveillance of his victim upstairs without drawing attention to himself, when, as if by magic, the solution presented itself. Jack Breen—pale, nervous, and more than slightly drunk—came into the bar and looked around. The moment he appeared, there was a pause, a brief hush in the room as everyone caught sight of him. Oh, look, darling, it’s Jack Breen, out on hail; he killed his wife, you know. .. The words were whispered, or transmitted in mere glances, before the inevitable nods and smiles were offered and conversations resumed.
Adam grinned. He raised his arm and waved, beckoning to the other man. Jack, with visible relief, crossed the room and plopped gratefully down on the empty stool next to his old friend.
Adam slapped him on the back, shook his head, and bought him a drink.
The artichokes had been cleared away and the lobsters placed before them when Robin decided to try being a true detective.
“So,” he began, pouring chardonnay for both of them and placing the napkin-covered bottle back in the bucket at his side, “you said you were from New York. Whereabouts, exactly?”
She looked up at him, fingering the silver nutcracker beside her plate. “Long Island.”
His look of surprise was a credit to at least one of his chosen professions. “Oh, wow! Really? I was born and raised in Merrick. Tell me we live next door to each other!”
“Not exactly,” she replied. “I’m from—farther out. Suffolk County, actually. Um, Islip.”
He feigned just the right amount of indifference. “Oh. I’m not familiar with it. Do your parents still live there?” He controlled his urge to wince as he heard himself saying the words. Just what, he wondered, am I trying to prove?
She was staring at him. He noticed, while picking up his utensils and preparing to dig in, that her eyes seemed to have grown larger, her pupils to dilate. As he watched, she ran her tongue quickly over her upper lip before she spoke.
“My parents are . . . I . . . no, they don’t.”
Stop it, he commanded himself. Don’t do this to her.
“So,” he said, “where are they?”
She sat very still, apparently contemplating the view of Charlotte Amalie beyond his shoulder. Then her gaze came to rest once more upon his face. If he wasn’t mistaken, she seemed to have made some sort of private decision.
“My parents are dead,” she whispered. “They both died when I was little. The woman I call my mom is actually my aunt, my mother’s sister. You saved my life the other day.”
It was his turn to regard the view. He did not answer her immediately: what answer could there be to that? If he thought for a moment, he knew he could find the connection, the theme that linked together her seemingly random statements. What could his saving her life—if, indeed, he had saved her life—have to do with her telling him that her parents were dead? Well, he decided, at least she’s told me something, something I know to be the truth.
He raised his wineglass to his lips, intrigued by the notion that had suddenly materialized in his mind. What if? he thought. What if I were to lean across this table right now and tell her everything? My real name, and what I’m really doing here, and what I know of her? I could start with her true identity, address her by her actual name. Just lean over and take her hand and say, “I know your name is—”
“Hello, you two! Fancy seeing you here. Small World department.”
They both looked up, surprised. Trish Mannin
g loomed above their table, clad in something long and shiny and green that looked suspiciously like a sarong. A large white gardenia dominated the left side of her sleek head, resting in a field of tightly coiled black hair. She grinned down at them and reached out to grasp the hand of the man at her side.
“You remember Jerry, don’t you? Don’t get up, Bob. We’re just wafting by on our way out. I see you’re having the lobster. Delicious, isn’t it? You look stunning, Diana.”
“So do you,” the younger woman replied.
Trish glanced from Jerry to Robin, then turned back to the girl with a knowing smile.
“Of course I do,” she drawled. “If we don’t look stunning for them, they’ll simply find women who do. Men are such pigs, don’t you think? That’s a joke, boys. Anyway, the two of you are such attractive pigs. Well, we mustn’t intrude. See you Thursday, Diana.”
“You’ll see him, too,” the younger woman said, pointing to Robin across the table.
Trish beamed down at him. “Lovely!”
“Oink,” Robin replied.
Everyone laughed. With a final flutter of her dramatically manicured fingernails, Trish led her escort away and down the stairs.
Robin regarded his companion. She was watching the others disappear, a little smile on her lips. Then she turned her attention back to him.
“I like her,” she said quietly, reaching out for her wineglass. “She’s a good person.”
Before he was aware of what he was doing, he reached over and covered her extended hand with his own. For the briefest of moments he felt the warmth of her soft skin against his.
She stared. Her eyes widened in surprise and she quickly jerked her hand away, lowered it to her lap. He sat there, awkward, immobile, his arm stretched out before him. He watched as the bright-red blush spread across her face.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean . . .” Her voice trailed off, stopped.
He withdrew his hand and looked away from her, out at the lights of the town rising up the mountains behind her. They sat there in uncomfortable silence for several moments. Then, with an effort, he forced himself to look at her again, thinking briefly of what he’d been considering before Trish interrupted them. He’d actually been toying with the idea of letting her know everything. The sight of her face, grave once more, told him that he would not do it. Not now, not ever. And not merely for the sake of Margaret Barclay, or for the money. He knew, looking at her, that this woman was unhappy. He could not bear the thought of causing her more unhappiness. It was too high a price to pay for her secrets, whatever they were.
It would be so easy to fall in love with her. But that, he knew, would bring with it an awesome responsibility, and he was probably not the man for the job. Hell, he didn’t even know what he wanted; what could he possibly do for this woman?
He returned to his meal. The decision was made: he would do what had to be done. He would watch her and report her actions to her aunt in Glen Cove. Then he would leave her alone. He would leave her to her melancholy.
Suddenly she looked up at him and broke the silence.
“By the way,” she said, “what are you doing on Labor Day?”
“I don’t understand it, Adam. Why would anybody do that? I mean, stealing the stuff is understandable, I guess, if you’re poor, or greedy, or whatever. But why Nancy?”
Adam shrugged, watching Jack Breen down his third drink. “I guess she caught them in the act. I’m sorry. It’s such an awful thing to happen.”
“They suspected me, for chrissakes! I spent the night in a cell. A cell! My lawyer couldn’t even get me out until the next afternoon. At least Martin waived bail. There’s something to be said for belonging to the same yacht club as the judge. But I couldn’t even go to her funeral in Ohio. I can’t leave the island! I’m a prisoner here until this is over.”
“There’s no evidence against you,” Adam pointed out. “Besides, there were the Harrimans. It seems there’s a burglar—”
Jack waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t want to hear about that. I just hope I never meet the prick face to face. I’ll kill him, Adam, I swear to God I will! With my bare hands.”
“Shhh.”
Jack lowered his voice. He leaned toward Adam, his bloodshot eyes searching his face. “I loved her, you know? I wasn’t really serious about Barbara. Now what do I do? What would you do, Adam? What if it had been Kay?”
Adam managed to keep a straight face. He even went so far as to look shocked.
“I can’t imagine,” he whispered.
“Adam Prescott! Well, the woods are full tonight.”
He looked up, startled by the voice. Trish and Jerry had arrived beside them at the bar. He regained his composure swiftly, watching with amusement as Trish’s eyes traveled from him to his companion and Jack Breen’s identity registered on her. Her smile disappeared, and she lowered her voice.
“Hello, Jack,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry about . everything. If you need anything—”
Jack reached up and covered her hand with his own.
“Thanks, babe,” he said, smiling wanly at her and Jerry.
Jerry leaned down to whisper in Adam’s ear. “Good of you, Adam. Awful decent of you, to come and baby-sit like this.”
Adam nodded, not correcting the false impression. If they thought his meeting with Jack was prearranged, so much the better. Alibi.
“What are you folks up to?” he asked.
“We just dined above,” Trish said, pointing directly upward. “Now we’re off to that new piano place down on the waterfront for a nightcap. Then I’m going home. Golf, crack of dawn. Stu and Brenda. Snore. But Jerry’s meeting some people later. Aren’t you, darling?”
Jerry nodded. “Yeah, at the Reef. Dancing, I think. Why don’t you guys meet us there?”
“Sure,” Jack slurred. “I can’t stand the idea of that empty house.”
“How about you, Adam?” Jerry asked.
“Oh, I don’t know, Jer. Kay’s playing bridge tonight, and—”
“Oh, yes,” Trish observed, “and Diana’s upstairs with that divine Mr. Taylor. Lisa must be home alone.”
“No,” Adam said, thinking swiftly, amending his plans. “Lisa’s spending the night with some friends down the road. Slumber party.”
Yes, he thought. Dancing, Perfect.
He raised his eyes to the others. “I’ll call Kay and see if she wants to meet us there. But I’ll have to go home and change. Could you manage . . .” He trailed off, indicating Jack, who was now practically slumped against the bar.
“Done,” Jerry said.
“Come on, Jack,” Trish said, taking his arm and pulling him gently up from the stool. “Jerry’s going to drive you. You can leave your car here tonight and come back for it tomorrow.”
“Fine,” Jack mumbled as she led him away across the bar.
Jerry followed them, turning to wave.
“Hope to see you at the Reef,” he called back across the room, loud enough for several other patrons to hear him.
“I’ll try,” Adam replied.
He waited a moment after they were gone. Then he went to call the hotel where his wife was playing bridge. He waited several minutes while the front desk transferred the call to the game room off the lobby, and several more for the message to be conveyed to Kay’s table and the caddy to return with her reply. She would meet him at the Reef in about two hours.
He glanced at his watch. Perfect.
Then, the little smile widening on his face, he went upstairs to the dining room.
Bob Taylor watched him silently as he approached their table.
“Hi, kids,” he said as he arrived. “Trish said you were up here having dinner. I just came to say hello, and to tell you, Diana, that Kay and I are going to the Reef later tonight, so we won’t be home until late.”
He watched, amused, as Diana processed that information.
“Fine,” she said at last. “I won’t expe
ct you, then.”
Adam looked from her to the young man across from her, who seemed to be annoyed by the intrusion. Good, he thought.
“So,” he said as lightly as possible, “what are you two doing after dinner?”
He hadn’t meant it to sound insinuating, but he could tell from the brief flash of anger on Bob Taylor’s face that it had been interpreted that way.
“After this, Bob’s taking me home and returning to his hotel,” Diana said. She was enunciating carefully, looking directly into his eyes.
“Yeah,” the dreary young man offered to the conversation. “I’m expecting a phone call from the States in about an hour. Got to get back to Bolongo.”
Taylor was looking at the girl as he said this, Adam noted. The extraneous information was apparently for her benefit. So, he thought, the romantic date isn’t going so well. Good.
“Bob’s coming to Cliffhanger for dinner on Thursday,” Diana said, still watching Adam intently.
“Great!” Adam enthused. “I’ll see you then. Have a nice evening.” He raised his eyebrows, smirking at the young woman. “See you back home, Diana.”
She nodded, conveying a message with her eyes. Don’t do this, she was obviously thinking. Not in front of Bob. We mustn’t be suspected. . . .
He beamed down at them. Then he turned and sauntered away from the table, aware of their eyes following him back across the dining room. He grabbed their waiter as he hurried past and told him to take them an after-dinner drink, and to put it on his bar tab downstairs. The waiter nodded. Then Adam went back downstairs and across the patio to the parking lot, chuckling to himself. An after-dinner drink, he thought. A last few awkward moments together. Excellent.
Now that he knew exactly where everybody was and where they would be in the next hour, his surveillance was no longer necessary. The irony of his good fortune was not lost on him. Diana and Bob, Trish and Jerry, Jack Breen: all in the same place tonight. And a new, improved alibi. Excellent.
He checked his watch: nine-fourteen. He would go back to Cliffhanger now and change for the rest of the evening. Then he would run ahead and wait for victim to come to him.
