The Gold Coast

by Nelson DeMille

  Mrs. Bellarosa, who seemed to have gotten over her ghost jitters, said sympathetically, “Oh, that can drive you nuts. I had that with all my pregnancies.”

  “So did Susan.’’ I stood, avoiding Susan’s icy glare.

  Everyone else stood, and we followed the Bellarosas out of the ballroom. I did a little soft-shoe routine to try to make Susan smile. She finally cracked a smile, then punched me in the arm.

  We crossed the palm court, and I did a bird call, a yellow finch, which I’m good at, and all the caged birds began chirping and squawking.

  Bellarosa glanced back at me over his shoulder as he walked. “That’s pretty good.”

  “Thank you.’’ I felt another punch in the arm.

  We stood at the front door, all ready to do the good-night routine, but Susan said, “I would like to give you both a housewarming gift.”

  I hoped she had opted for the cake, but no, she said, “I paint Gold Coast houses, and—”

  “She gets nine hundred a room,’’ I interjected, “but she’ll do any room in the house for free.”

  Susan continued, “I do oil paintings of the ruins. I have photos of this palm court when it was in ruins.’’ She explained and ended by saying, “I have the slides, but I need to do some work here for three-dimensional perspective, proportion, and different lighting.”

  Poor Mrs. Bellarosa seemed confused. “You want to paint it like it was when I first saw it? It was a wreck.”

  “A ruin,’’ Susan corrected. Susan is very professional when she’s in her artiste mode.

  Frank chimed in. “Sure. I get it. Like those pictures we saw in the museum in Rome, Anna. All these Roman ruins with plants growing out of them, and sheeps and people with mandolins. Sure. You do that?”

  “Yes.’’ Susan looked at Anna Bellarosa. “It will be beautiful. Really.”

  Anna Bellarosa looked at her husband. Frank said, “Sounds great. But I got to pay you for it.”

  “No, it’s my gift to you both.”

  “Okay. Start whenever you want. Door’s open to you.”

  It seemed to me that Frank had some prior knowledge of this, and I would not have put it past Susan to have done an end run around me and Anna Bellarosa. Susan gets what Susan wants.

  I moved to the door. “Well, it’s been a very enjoyable and interesting evening,’’ I said, going into my standard good-bye.

  “Yeah,’’ Frank agreed.

  Susan did her line. “Anna, you must give me your recipe for cannoli cream.”

  I felt my stomach heave again.

  Mrs. Bellarosa replied, “I got no recipe. I just make it.”

  “How wonderful,’’ Susan said, then finished her speaking part. “I don’t know when I’ve had so much fun. We must do this again. Come to us next time.”

  Actually, Susan sounded sincere.

  Anna smiled. “Okay. How about tomorrow?”

  “I’ll call you,’’ Susan said.

  Frank opened the door. “Take it easy going home. Watch out for the fuzz.’’ He laughed.

  I shook hands with my host and kissed Anna on the cheek. Anna and Susan kissed, then Frank and Susan kissed. Everyone was taken care of, so I turned toward the door, then stopped, took a calling card from my wallet, and left it on a plant table.

  Susan and I walked to her car. Susan wanted to drive, and she got behind the wheel. She swung the car around in the forecourt, and we waved to the Bellarosas, who were still at the door. Susan headed down the drive.

  We usually don’t say much to each other after a social evening, sometimes because we’re tired, sometimes because one or the other of us is royally ticked off about something, like flirting, close dancing, sarcastic remarks, and so on and so forth.

  As we approached the gates, they swung open, and Anthony stepped out of the gatehouse. He waved as we went by. Susan waved back. She turned right, onto Grace Lane. Finally, she spoke. “I had a nice evening. Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at me. “Was that a yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Then you’re glad you went?”

  “Yes.”

  She turned into the open gates of Stanhope Hall and stopped the car. Unlike the Bellarosas, we don’t have electric gates, so I got out, closed the gates, and locked them. The gatehouse was dark, of course, as the Allards turn in early. It is at this point that I sometimes announce my preference to walk the rest of the way home. This is usually followed by spinning wheels and flying gravel. George sweeps and rakes it out in the morning.

  “Are you coming?’’ Susan called out from the car. “Or not?”

  Nations sometimes go to war. Married couples live in a state of perpetual war, broken occasionally by an armed truce. Don’t be cynical, Sutter. “Coming, dear.’’ I got back into the car, and

  Susan drove slowly up the unlit drive. She said, “You didn’t have to leave your calling card.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well . . . anyway, what were you and Frank talking about all that time?”

  “Murder.”

  “Anna is rather nice. A bit . . . basic, perhaps, but nice.”

  “Yes.”

  “Frank can be charming,’’ Susan said. “He’s not as rough as he looks or talks.”

  Wanna bet?

  “I think Anna liked you, John. She was staring at you most of the evening.”

  “Really?”

  “Do you think she’s attractive?”

  “She has Rubenesque tits. Why don’t you paint her naked, dancing around the palm court?”

  “I don’t paint naked women.’’ She stopped the car in front of our house, we got out, I unlocked the door, and we went inside. We both headed into the kitchen, and I poured club soda for us. Susan asked, “Did you discuss any business?”

  “Murder.”

  “Very funny.’’ She asked, “Did you and Anna figure out where you’d seen each other before?”

  “Yes. Locust Valley. The pharmacy. Hemorrhoid remedies.”

  “You’re quick, John.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Why were you wearing your reading glasses? Quick now.”

  “So Frank wouldn’t hit me.”

  “Excellent. You’re crazy, you know.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  Susan finished her club soda and headed for the door. “I’m exhausted. Are you coming up?”

  “In a minute.”

  “Good night.’’ She hesitated, then turned to me. “I love you.”

  “Thank you.’’ I sat at the table, watched the bubbles in my club soda, and listened to the regulator clock. “Murder,’’ I said to myself. But he didn’t commit that murder. I believed him. He has committed a dozen felonies, probably including murder. But not that murder.

  As I’ve said, I’d had a premonition that Frank Bellarosa and I would one day go beyond vegetable chatter. But that was as far as my prophecy went. From here on—from the moment I sat there and had that last drink with him instead of leaving—I was on my own.

  Looking back on that evening, I recalled that if Susan had told me she had a terrible evening and wanted to avoid the Bellarosas, then I would have done just that. But, incredibly, Lady Stanhope was going to do a painting of Alhambra that would put her into almost daily contact with don and donna Bellarosa. I suppose I should have foreseen the dangers inherent in this situation, and perhaps I did, but instead of demanding of Susan that she withdraw her offer to do a painting, I said nothing. Obviously, we were both responding to Bellarosa’s unwanted attention for our own reasons; me, because I saw a challenge and because I wanted to show Susan that her husband was not just a dull attorney and was perhaps a little sinister himself, and Susan because . . . well, I didn’t know why then, but I found out later.

  So, it was a juxtaposition of events—the hayloft incident, the tennis court incident, and the Sutters’ post-winter ennui—that had combined with Frank Bellarosa’s proximity and his own problems to draw us together.
These things happen, as unlikely as it seems, and if ever there was a case to be made for sticking with your own kind, this was it.

  But that’s all hindsight. That evening, my mind was cloudy, and my good judgment was influenced by my need to prove something. It goes to show you, you shouldn’t stay out too late during the week.

  Part IV

  We will now discuss in a little more detail the Struggle for Existence.

  —Charles Darwin

  The Origin of Species

  Eighteen

  We did not have the Bellarosas to our house the next evening as Anna suggested. In fact, as far as I knew, we had no immediate plans to see them again. Susan is the social secretary in our house and keeps a leather-bound calendar as her mother did. The Stanhopes did, at one time, have an actual social or private secretary, and I suppose the art has been passed down. I’m not very good at social planning, so I suppose I’ve allowed Susan to take full charge. I don’t even think I have veto power anymore, as you might have noticed. So, regarding the Bellarosas, I was waiting for word from my resident Emily Post.

  Susan had begun her painting of Alhambra’s palm court, and that fact, plus the fact that her horses were still there, took Susan to Alhambra nearly every day. Susan, by the way, had decided on oils instead of water, so I knew this was going to be about a six-week project.

  Susan Stanhope Sutter and Mrs. Anna Bellarosa seemed to be forming a tentative relationship, perhaps even a genuine friendship according to Susan. This relationship, I was certain, was encouraged by Frank Bellarosa, who not only wanted his wife to have friends in the area, but also wanted her to get off his back about the move from Brooklyn to this dangerous frontier.

  Susan barely mentioned Frank, and I never inquired after him. If I pictured him at all in this threesome, it was as a busy man who watched Susan set up her easel for a few minutes, jollied the two women along, and kept to himself for the rest of the day—or more likely, got into his limo and disappeared into the great city for a day of lawbreaking.

  It is very difficult, I imagine, to run a large crime empire, especially since the emperor cannot say much over the telephone or, similarly, cannot send detailed instructions by fax or telex. Personal contact, the spoken word, handshakes, facial expressions, and hand gestures are the only way to run an underground organization, whether it be political or criminal. I recalled that the Mafia supposedly had its origins as an underground resistance organization during some foreign occupation of Sicily. I could certainly believe that, and that would explain why they were such a long-running hit in America. But maybe their act was getting a little old as the second millennium drew to a close. Maybe.

  Susan said to me one evening, “I saw the strangest thing next door.”

  “What?”

  “I saw a man kiss Frank’s hand.”

  “Why is that strange? My junior partners kiss my hand every morning.”

  “Be serious, please. I’ll tell you something else. Everyone who enters that house is taken into the coatroom and searched. I can hear that sound that a metal detector makes when it goes off.”

  “Are you searched?”

  “Of course not.’’ She asked, “Why is he so paranoid?”

  “He’s not. People really are out to get him. Why don’t you understand that?”

  “Well, I suppose I do. But it just seems so bizarre . . . I mean, right next door.”

  “Has Mr. Mancuso spoken to you yet?”

  “No. Will he?”

  “Perhaps.”

  But other than that brief conversation, there wasn’t much mention of Frank, as I said.

  Regarding Anna, Susan was more current. She told me that Anna did not ride horses, play tennis, sail, or engage in any athletic activities. This did not surprise me. Susan tried to get Anna on Yankee, but Anna wouldn’t even go near the snorting beast. Anna Bellarosa, however, was interested in painting, as it turned out. According to Susan, Anna watched and asked questions about what Susan was doing. Susan encouraged her to get an easel and paints and offered to give her lessons, but Anna Bellarosa seemed as reluctant to paint as she was to ride, or to try anything new, for that matter. As fond as Susan seemed of the woman, I had the impression she was a bit exasperated by Anna’s timidness. I informed Susan, “Her reason for existence is cooking, cleaning, sex, and child care. Don’t cause her any anxiety.”

  “But I have the feeling that her husband would like her to develop new skills.”

  So would your husband, Susan. Like cooking and housekeeping. In truth, I’d rather have a Susan than an Anna as my lifelong companion, but if I could combine the best qualities of both women, I’d have the perfect wife. But then what would I have to complain about?

  Susan also informed me that Anna had a lot of questions about “how you do things around here.’’ But I think these were more Frank’s questions than Anna’s.

  Regarding the haunting of Alhambra, Susan mentioned to me a few days after she began her canvas that Anna had gone to Brooklyn by limousine one morning and returned a few hours later with two priests. “They all looked pretty grim,’’ Susan said. “They went around splashing holy water all over the place, and Anna was crossing herself eight times a minute.’’ Susan added, “I sort of pretended not to notice, but it was hard to ignore them. Anna said they were blessing the house, but I think there was more to it than that.”

  “They’re very superstitious people,’’ I said. “You didn’t upset her with any of your ghost stories, did you, Susan?”

  “No, of course not. I told her there are no ghosts in Alhambra.”

  “Well, I’m sure she feels better now that the house is all sprinkled.”

  “I hope so. They gave me the shivers.”

  Anyway, there is a silver lining in every dark cloud, and in this case the silver lining was Italian food. Not that Susan was learning how to cook—no, she can no more cook than I can levitate. But she was bringing home a portion of the Bellarosas’ evening fare almost every night: Tupperware containers heaped with ravioli, baked ziti, eggplant parmigiana, fried zucchini, and other things with unpronounceable names. I had really struck pay dirt here, and I actually looked forward to dinner at home for the first time in twenty years.

  Susan also brought home tomato seedlings and zucchini plants to add to her garden of radicchio, basil, green peppers, and eggplant. She never mentioned this to me, but I saw the new plants one day while I was out walking. Also, all the vegetables were now marked, correctly, I think, so we knew what we were rooting for (pardon the pun). Apparently, too, Susan had picked up some pointers from someone on vegetable gardening, because everything looked healthy, and by the end of May it seemed as though we might have a bumper crop. Stanhope Hall would now be a self-sustaining fiefdom, at least in regard to certain vegetables, and all its inhabitants—all four of us if you count the Allards—would be delivered from the ravages of scurvy and night blindness.

  So far, to be honest, the changes in my life that had come about as a result of the cultural contact with the neighboring fiefdom, to continue the metaphor, were for the better. The clash of cultures had not materialized in any significant way, but there was time for that.

  I had no doubt that I had established a personal relationship with Frank Bellarosa, but I was not certain of the nature of that relationship; or if I did know, I wasn’t letting on to anyone, myself included, what it was. And whatever it was, it seemed to be on hold, because by the end of that month, I had not heard a word from him, directly or indirectly.

  As for any business relationship with him, I considered that whole episode in his library as a bit of madness. Surely he must have regretted taking me into his confidence, which was probably why I hadn’t heard from him. I mean, he certainly didn’t think that he had retained me as his attorney. Right?

  On the last Wednesday in May, Susan went to a meeting of the Gazebo Society, held at the old Fox Point waterfront estate at the end of Grace Lane. She mentioned this to me after the fact, and when I asked
her if she had invited Anna Bellarosa, she said she had not and offered no explanation.

  I knew that this relationship with the Bellarosas was going to be a problem, and I had tried to tell that to Susan. But Susan is not the type who thinks ahead. Everyone, I suppose, had friends, neighbors, or family with whom they’d rather not be seen in public. Much of that feeling is subjective; your goofiest cousin, for instance, may be a hit at your cocktail party. But with the Bellarosas, it was not a matter of my perception or interpretation as to their social acceptability; it was just about everyone’s judgment. Yes, we would get past the front door at The Creek or Seawanhaka, and we would be shown to a table and even waited on. Once.

  So, if in fact the Sutters and the Bellarosas were going to get together for dinner or drinks in public, I would be well advised to pick a restaurant out of the area (but even that was fraught with danger, as I myself discovered about a year ago when I was having dinner on the South Shore with a client, female, young, beautiful, who liked to touch when making a point, and in walked the damned DePauws. But that’s another story).

  Anyway, I suppose the four of us could go to Manhattan if we had to have dinner. The city is supposed to be anonymous, but it seems I’m always running into someone I know in Midtown.

  Also, there seems to be some sort of odd connection between Mafia dons dining out and Mafia dons being murdered, splattering blood all over innocent people and that sort of thing. This may seem a bit paranoid, but it’s happened often enough to be a real possibility, and for me to plan for; thus, if I were dining out with the don, I would seriously consider wearing an old suit.

  I believe Bellarosa when he tells me that the Mafia still maintains high, professional standards of murder, and in fact innocent people usually suffer no more than a stomach upset at these traditional dinner-hour murders. And of course, the dinner or what’s left of it is always on the house for spectators as well as participants in the rubout. The murder, naturally, has to be committed in the restaurant to qualify for a freebie; not outside the front door as happened a while ago in front of one of New York’s best steak houses. Hearing shots fired outside does not get you off the hook for the bill, unless you faint. On a more serious note, civilians have gotten caught in the crossfire, and there was at least one tragic case of mistaken identity some years ago when two suburbanite gentlemen were gunned down by accident in a Little Italy restaurant in front of their wives.