Decked

by Carol Higgins Clark

  If he had opened the gates of a dam, the results could not have been more satisfactory. Penelope Atwater virtually catapulted from her supine position on the fluffed-up pillows. “Enthusiastic? When the groom shows some enthusiasm, I’ll show some. Lady Exner and I were shocked when they made their announcement last week. As Lady Exner said, there are two things in this world Philip cares about. His teaching position and his flowers.”

  “I understand he’s been seeing Val for ten years,” Livingston suggested mildly.

  “That’s the point.” A conspiratorial whisper. “She always initiated their activities. Lady Exner and I think she’s the one who brought about this engagement.”

  Livingston leaned forward, this time cautiously. “Are you suggesting . . . ?”

  “A child? No, not that. But some kind of hold, yes.”

  PENELOPE ATWATER HAD given him plenty to think about, Livingston decided as he sat in the most comfortable club chair in the drawing room. Penelope had finally exhausted her pent-up reactions to the announcement of Val and Philip’s impending nuptials. Actually her reaction made extremely good sense. Livingston mused that Philip obviously had a certain attraction for women, particularly starry-eyed young students, if the rumors were accurate. From what Penelope had observed in the past four years, if Philip had made a decision that it was time to marry, Val’s aggressive personality would repel rather than intrigue him. As Penelope had said, “Val’s very good at making herself useful, if you know what I mean. But some people are born bachelors, and Philip is one of them.”

  Livingston found himself realizing he might want to discuss that aspect further with Penelope. She had suddenly grown extemely tired and he had insisted on leaving her to her rest.

  He thought longingly of his own bed and for a moment wondered if he should simply put off the questioning of Val Twyler until morning.

  No. The certain instinct one of the old-timers called the hound-scent of the born detective was telling him to stay put.

  Regan Reilly flashed into his mind. He hadn’t called her today. There was nothing specific to report. His mind did arithmetic. Nine-thirty here. What time was it on the Queen Guinevere? He knew they turned the clock back an hour each night on the way to New York. Which would make it about five-thirty now. Miss Reilly would probably be at some cocktail party. He’d call her tomorrow at the number she’d given him in New Jersey. Maybe, after talking to Philip and Val, he’d have something substantial to report to her by then.

  AT SEA

  THERE WAS SOMETHING about the last night on a ship, Regan thought. A certain regret at leaving people who had become pseudo-family members. She would probably never see Mario and Immaculata again, but she would remember them with affection. She would miss Veronica.

  Cameron Hardwick was another piece of goods. She looked across the dinner table at him. For whatever reason, he was making an attempt to be particularly pleasant to Veronica, constantly engaging her in conversation. Sylvie was in an animated chat with Kenneth and Dale. Gabby looked as though he was about to burst into tears. He had indicated he would not be on another crossing for a while. She had the feeling that Gabby did not have much money behind him and that this ship represented luxury living. She found herself feeling sorry for him.

  The dinner was particularly elaborate. Pâté, shrimp in pea pods, lobster bisque, veal medallions, trout al-mondine. Her mind blanked out at the rest of the menu. She longed for a plate of real Italian pasta. Angel hair with marinara sauce, a hunk of garlic bread, and I’m happy, she thought. Jeff always teased her about having the taste buds of a six-year-old.

  Mario had insisted everyone order an after-dinner drink on him and Immaculata. “We’ve had such a great time sitting with you folks,” he toasted the table.

  Regan noticed that Immaculata was getting teary-eyed over her creme de menthe frappé. “Only the thought that Mario Junior and Roz and Mario the Third and Concepci-one will be waiting to greet us at the pier makes this parting bearable.”

  Regan looked at Veronica. Cameron Hardwick’s arm was around the back of Veronica’s chair. Their brandy alexanders were side by side. Veronica’s head was bobbing in agreement as he whispered in her ear.

  OXFORD

  THE UNFORGETTABLE SOUND of the infamous St. Polycarp’s van grinding to a halt in the driveway pulled Livingston awake. He had dozed off sometime after eleven and was startled to see that it was past midnight.

  His limbs felt stiff. The evening had grown cooler and the room felt somewhat clammy.

  The front door opened and slammed shut.

  He was suddenly totally awake.

  “Of all the absolutely appalling days I have ever passed, this, Philip, I assure you, has been uniquely abominable.”

  “I say, Val . . . I’m-I’m-I’m so sorry.”

  Livingston wondered if they’d even noticed his car. Perhaps not. It was parked around the turn of the driveway. He cleared his throat.

  They did not hear him.

  “First of all, how could you have forgotten to make the reservation for the new van when the last thing I did yesterday was to remind you?”

  “But-but-but,” Philip replied, “the bursar was taking his kiddies to a dental clinic in south London. He doesn’t like to have them riding in the old van ... the brakes, you know.”

  “And I’m supposed to ride in the piece of junk so they can get a discount on a few bloody fillings,” Val shrieked. “We were taking students on a school outing, for God’s sake. And why were we driving without a spare tire?”

  “Careless of me, ho-ho-honeybunch,” Philip whined. “Sorry-sorry . . . did cause a slight hiccup ...”

  Some lovebirds, Livingston thought. This time when he cleared his throat he was sure that Penelope could hear it upstairs.

  Their shock at seeing him step from the drawing room was evident. Philip paled. “Has Penelope had a setback? Is she ... ?”

  Val seemed about to say something, then bit her lip as though guarding her reaction.

  “No, no,” Livingston said cordially. “I had quite a nice visit with Miss Atwater.”

  “Then ...” Philip stopped.

  Too polite to ask me what the devil I’m doing here, Livingston thought. “I just have a few questions for Miss Twyler.”

  “Certainly they’ll keep until morning,” Val snapped. “You can’t possibly understand the sort of day I’ve had.”

  A cool one, Livingston thought, not for the first time. If she was nervous, she didn’t show it. On the other hand, Philip looked apprehensive.

  Val continued to stand in the foyer. “Please ask whatever you will and let me retire.”

  “Miss Twyler, are you also known as Mary V. Cook, and were you not a governess in the home of the aunt of Athena Popolous, a Mrs. Helen Carvelous, at the time Mrs. Carvelous was murdered?”

  Philip gasped. “Val, when I told you about Athena—”

  “Shut up,” Val ordered.

  “When you told what?” Livingston asked quietly.

  “N-n-nothing,” Philip stammered.

  “Will you please accompany me to headquarters?” Livingston asked quietly. “We’ll continue the questioning there.”

  They both knew it was not a request.

  AT SEA

  THE WAITER CAME around offering more tea or coffee. Everyone seems anxious to get going, Regan thought. Typical at the end of a trip, when you’ve gotten temporarily close to fellow passengers but now were looking ahead.

  “Immaculata beamed. “I can’t wait till tomorrow morning when we pass the Statue of Liberty. My grandmother’s best friend, whose family came over here from Sicily, gave her pennies to the schoolchildren’s fund so they could build a base for it. Can you believe they brought the statue all the way over here from France and for years didn’t have the money for a base?”

  Hard wick got up abruptly. “Good night, everyone.”

  Mario watched his departing figure. “I’m not sorry to see him go.”

  “Oh, Mario,” Im
maculata said soothingly, “don’t pay attention to him. He’s an angry person, and those kind are their own worst enemies. Let’s go have a few dances before we turn in early. That is our plan, isn’t it?” She batted her eyes at him.

  “That’s our plan. Let’s go trip the light fantastic, baby.” Mario smiled back at her as they pushed back their chairs. “Hope to see you all on deck early in the morning.”

  “We’ll be there,” Veronica said.

  From across the room Milton appeared and offered his arm to Sylvie in a courteous but exaggerated way. “Shall we dance, my dear?”

  Regan watched as Sylvie free-floated out of her chair. I wonder how he got rid of the sister, she thought. Regan was sure she’d appear out of nowhere before Milton and Sylvie finished their first hootchy-kootchy. Violet ought to apply for a job as a “Dating Game” chaperone. Either that or as a bouncer at a nightclub.

  Dale put his napkin on the table. “Kenneth and I are off to the casino. See you later.” He winked at Regan.

  “We’re going to see if we can finally win some money. We haven’t had much luck so far, and this is our last chance,” Kenneth added as they walked off.

  Regan thought she saw Gabby twitch. “Are you turning in early tonight, Gavin?”

  “I’m not sleepy,” he insisted.

  “Well, I must say I am,” Veronica remarked. “This has been a delightful trip. All’s well that ends well, right, Mr. Gray?”

  “I hope so.” Talk about last chances, he thought glumly.

  Oxford

  AT THE POLICE station Livingston ushered Val and Philip into his office. The transcripts of the Greek newspapers were on his desk. He opened them and handed the one with Val’s picture to her.

  “Is that you, Miss Twyler?”

  Val nodded.

  Livingston showed the picture to Philip. “I say, Val...” Philip’s voice trailed off as though the absolute proof of Val’s presence in the group picture with Athena had overwhelmed him.

  “Professor, I’m going to ask you to wait in an adjoining room. I’d like to speak to Miss Twyler alone.”

  “Of course. Quite so.” Philip got up heavily and walked slowly to the door. Livingston’s assistant was waiting to escort him into a nearby office. Divide and conquer, the oldest police device of all, Livingston thought as he watched Philip’s hunched shoulders and rumpled jacket fade from view.

  Livingston noted that Philip had avoided Val’s warning stare; it seemed a good sign that he did not make eye contact with her.

  “Miss Twyler—a few questions.”

  She spent the next hour parrying with him, using exactly the reasoning he had expected from her. She had been the governess in the home of Athena’s aunt when the terrible tragedy occurred. Naturally, like everyone else, she had been questioned. The police visited her repeatedly at the Pearsons Hall campus. You can imagine the gossip. She had no idea Athena had come to St. Polycarp’s as a student.

  “You never confided this to your fiancé, Professor Whitcomb?”

  “There are some things we try to put behind us, not dig up.”

  “Like bodies?” Livingston suggested. “But obviously Philip confided something to you. What was it?”

  “I don’t know what he meant by that.”

  “You at one time had a blue Austin, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes narrowed.

  “Do you happen to remember the license number?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Would it begin with three-one-five?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Miss Twyler, Athena Popolous had written ‘B.A. three-one-five’ on a matchbook cover from the Bull and Bear. Why do you suppose she did that?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Were you in the Bull and Bear on the night of April 23, ten years ago, when you came to Oxford for your interview?”

  “I stopped to have a bite before I drove back to Pearsons Hall. I’m not sure which pub.”

  “Do you know a Cameron Hardwick?”

  For the first time she looked flustered. “I’m not sure.”

  “The proprietor of the Barleyneck Inn can verify that you’ve rendezvoused there on and off for ten years.”

  “That was before I became engaged to Philip.”

  “You had tea in his room there last Saturday.”

  “To tell him I was getting married.”

  A cool one, Livingston thought again. “Isn’t it quite a coincidence that Cameron Hardwick is on the Queen Guinevere?”

  “No. He sails frequently.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Investment counseling. There are many older women with a great deal of money on those cruises.”

  Possible, Livingston thought. Circumstantial, damn it, he fumed. Everything explainable. Every explanation possible. Tomorrow he’d talk to Regan in depth about Hardwick, and he’d also contact the NYPD; perhaps they had a file on him.

  “May I please go home now, Inspector? I’m very tired.”

  Livingston looked at his watch. It was 2:05 A.M. “Let’s wait a bit, shall we? I’d be happy to have someone fix you a cup of tea. And now I want to speak to Professor Whitcomb.”

  As he had hoped, Philip was a total wreck. Nervous. Terrified. Perspiring. Chewing on his fingernails. Whatever he has on his chest, he’s dying to get rid of it, Livingston thought.

  “Prof——Philip, if I may . . . There’s something you

  want to tell me ... something you’ve already confided to Miss Twyler. No innocent person has anything to worry about.”

  “Totally innocent . . . t-t-totally,” Philip stammered.

  Livingston made a stab in the dark. “Now sometimes any of us can be guilty of bad judgment,” he suggested soothingly.

  Bull’s-eye. Philip gave one final bite to his thumbnail. “Bad judgment. Exactly. That’s it. D-d-definitely should have called the authorities.” He snapped his lips together.

  “When?” Livingston whispered. “When, Philip?”

  “Needed m-m-mulch, you see ... n-n-never better than the stuff under the 1-1-leaves in the woods. Compost heap and all that . . . breaks down to necessary ingredients . . . marvelous ...”

  “Yes, bad judgment, Philip, bad judgment,” Livingston urged.

  “You see, the year before Miss Po-Po-Popolous disappeared, terrible problem ...”

  “What was that?” Livingston felt as though he were trying to land a fish.

  “An unstable young woman suggested that I impreg-preg-pregnated her. Impossible.”

  You won’t have a hard time convincing me of that, Livingston thought.

  “But quite unpleasant ...” Philip gazed at the floor. “I had spent some time with h-h-her. Bad judgment...”

  “Yes, Philip, yes ...”

  “And so the Saturday after Athena last showed up at class I was in the w-w-woods ...”

  “Yes . . .”

  “You see, the poor dear girl used to bi-bi-bicycle past the house. It had been noted ...”

  “Yes . . .”

  “I discovered her body!” Philip burst out.

  “You discovered her body ten years ago!”

  “T-t-terrible experience. Shovel hit it. Almost fainted, you know.”

  “And you didn’t report it!”

  “I was afraid because of what happened the y-y-year before . . . Didn’t want to lose my job . . . was sure the body would be discovered by someone else ...”

  “And it never was?”

  “N-n-no . . . until last week.”

  “You told Miss Twyler about this?”

  “Yes . . . Had a little too much port one night . . . sort of blurted it out . . . Next day she suggested that if the b-b-body was ever found, it would be better if I was a m-m-married man.”

  That’s one way to swindle a proposal, Livingston thought. “I see. I see.”

  “I really am quite content being alone with my flowers,” Philip added forlornly.

  AT SEA

&n
bsp; REGAN WATCHED VERONICA anxiously. Granted she’d been kicking up her heels for the past few days, but this sudden dramatic exhaustion was frightening. She had seemed progressively more tired toward the end of dinner, leaned on Regan as they left the elevator, barely seemed to have enough strength to shed the sequined cocktail dress.

  Regan helped her into her nightgown and tucked her in. It’s a good thing I talked her out of her bath, she thought. I’d have had to fish her out of the bubbles. She looked down at Veronica, already in a deep sleep, and felt a rush of compassion. She looks so vulnerable, especially since she hasn’t started snoring yet, Regan thought guiltily.

  Veronica’s packing attempts had been a near disaster. Before dinner she had dumped the contents of all her bags in a frantic search for Sir Gilbert’s poem on the joys of family life. She wanted to read it at the first meeting with her nieces.

  Regan had found it in the pocket of the Sit-and-Be-Fit outfit Veronica had worn to the poetry session. “Of course, of course,” Veronica cried happily. “I was planning to read this one second. ‘Say, Say, Say’ I committed to memory.”

  They’d barely had time to dress for dinner.

  Now, with Veronica safely out of commission, Regan was able to begin the bewildering task of sorting out Veronica’s clothes and repacking them. It took nearly two hours. It was midnight when Regan put the bags in the hall. She showered and climbed into the Castro. Bye, bye, Bernadette, she thought. Tomorrow night I’ll be sleeping in a real bed.

  She reached for the light, paused, got up and went to the door. She had locked it.

  Regan turned the clock back an hour, as they’d been doing each night, and set the alarm for 3 A.M. The very prospect of getting up in less than four hours made her fall into an uneasy sleep.

  MARIO AND IMMACULATA tiptoed down the corridor to the Merlin Suite. Immaculata giggled softly. “I feel like we’re eloping,” she whispered.

  Mario fumbled with the key and dropped it. It made a faint ping as it bounced against the door. “Sssh,” Immaculata said nervously. “If anyone finds out we’re up here ...”