Sage of Innocence

by Melissa F. Miller

  "There's Giorgio Valetta," he whispered.

  I scanned the sea of silver hair and tried to pick Giorgio Valetta out of the sun-kissed faces. "Which one?"

  He jutted his chin straight ahead. "There. With Mrs. Spears."

  "Perfect." I piloted him toward Marilee, who was nodding intently at something Valetta was saying.

  "--Opportunity to cement his legacy."

  "I see what ... oh, pardon me. Sage! Roman!" Marilee spotted us over his shoulder and greeted us with more excitement than our presence should have warranted, given that I'd promised her we'd be there.

  Giorgio Valetta turned to see who had distracted her. He flashed us an expression of pure annoyance for a split second then quickly arranged his face into something more welcoming.

  I glanced at Roman to see if he'd caught it, too. His face gave no hint, but he squeezed my hand to let me know he had. I released his hand and moved around Valetta to give Marilee a hug.

  "How are you holding up?"

  She smiled. "I'm doing fine. I was just saying to Giorgio that I find great comfort in seeing so many of Fred's colleagues and friends here. It's no secret that he could be, let's say, prickly. But I think most people know that at heart he was a good man."

  Or a blackmailer.

  I just nodded. Roman reached out to shake her hand, but she wasn't having any of that. She pulled him into a hug.

  "Thank you for being here."

  Valetta stood to the side, watching and apparently waiting for us to greet the hostess and move on. He did everything but tap his foot and look pointedly at his watch to communicate his impatience. I tried to think of the last time I'd taken such an instant dislike to someone and couldn't.

  Marilee must have remembered he was loitering there. She turned to him. "Giorgio, do you know Sage and Roman?"

  He looked me up and down, which sounds creepier than it was. Since he gave Roman an identical once-over, I figured he was just uncouth and not a leering pervert.

  "I think not," he finally said.

  I think not? Who talks like that?

  Marilee got busy making the introductions. "Sage Field is Chip and Muffy Moore's live-in nanny."

  Close enough. I extended my hand and pasted on a smile. Valetta shook it in a surprisingly normal fashion. I'd been expecting a bone-crushing squeeze.

  "Miss Field."

  "It's nice to meet you," I said. It was more than a nicety; from what little I'd seen of this guy, he'd make an excellent candidate for a murderer. Maybe clearing Chip's name would be easier than I'd thought.

  "And surely you've seen Roman around the course. He's Chip's caddy."

  Roman bobbed his head and shook Valetta's hand. "Mr. Valetta, sir. Good to see you."

  Valetta squinted at him. "Ah, the Lyman boy. I didn't recognize you all dressed up."

  I watched as Roman's shoulders tightened. But his face was impassive.

  Marilee continued, "Sage, Giorgio is the club president and one of the most consistent golfers on tour today. Wouldn't you agree, Roman?"

  Judging by the contortions working their way across Roman's face, I'd venture to guess that he wouldn't. But he just coughed and nodded. Valetta was too busy basking in the praise to notice Roman's reaction.

  "And how did you young people come to know Fred?" he wanted to know.

  I glanced at Roman, who didn't seem inclined to field this one. "Well, actually, we're more like friends with Marilee," I said.

  "You're like friends or you are friends?"

  What a snotty snoot.

  "I'd say we're friendly. Right, Marilee?"

  "I've come to consider you a friend, dear," she said. "But, it's true, we haven't known each other for long. Sage and Roman have been very kind to me since Fred's death. Sage in particular has been helping me straighten out my finances. Fred always took care of those things."

  Valetta arched a brow. "Are you sure you want to leave that to a babysitter? Chip Moore's babysitter, no less." His voice insinuated that not only was I unqualified, but I also was tainted by my relationship to the Moores.

  Marilee started to bristle, and Roman's face clouded.

  But I just flashed Valetta a big, cheese-eating grin. "In my former life, I was a government accountant. I know my way around a balance sheet and a checkbook register."

  "Oh, is that so?"

  "Yep." I went on breezily. "I've been helping get things in order. Things like cash deposits that had been unaccounted for."

  His expression changed from 'haughty' to 'indigestion' in a heartbeat. "But you've accounted for them?"

  "I sure have."

  We stared at each other for a long moment. His eyes were cold, and I was more than a little bit intimidated. But I figured that the same rule that applied to dogs and small children applied to self-important jerks. Don't show fear; they can smell it.

  He knitted his brows together, about to respond, but Marilee lifted two champagne glasses from the silver tray of a passing waiter and presented them to me and Roman with a flourish. "Here. Please try to enjoy yourselves," she said as she handed them to us. "I'm sure that sounds odd, but I do want this to be an occasion filled with good feelings and good memories of Fred."

  I felt a bit chastened as I accepted the flute. "Thank you." I guess I could leave the verbal sparring with Valetta for a time when Fred's widow wasn't standing next to us.

  "Yes, thank you," Roman echoed. "If you'll excuse us now, I think I see someone Sage should meet."

  We raised our glasses in a goodbye gesture, and he steered me into the crowd.

  "Who is it?"

  "Who is who?"

  "Who do you want me to meet?" I took a tentative sip of the champagne. It was pretty early in the day.

  "Nobody. I just didn't want you to go all 'j'accuse!' in the middle of Marilee's death party."

  I snorted bubbles at the image. Then I gave Roman a closer look. "J'accuse? I hadn't pegged you as an Emile Zola fan. Were you an English major?"

  "Nah. European history."

  "Really?"

  "Well, the community college didn't offer West African history. So I figured I'd do Europe and then when I transferred to a four-year program I could focus on African history."

  "But?"

  "But Chip showed up with this job offer and it was too good to pass up. I'll be able to save enough to pay for college and pay off my mama's house by the year after next." His jaw tightened. "If we keep our jobs, I mean."

  "Well, I think creepy Giorgio is an excellent suspect. Did you see how pale he turned when I mentioned the mysterious cash deposits?"

  He sipped his drink and gave me a worried look. "I did. Are you sure that was such a good idea? Let's say he did kill Fred--and I'm not saying he did, mind you--but if he did, now he knows you're on to him."

  "We've got to flush out the killer somehow."

  "Killer, Sage. The operative word is killer. What makes you think he won't show up at the cottage with a golf club and a grudge?"

  I dismissed the idea and feigned a lack of concern that I didn't feel. "I'm not worried."

  "You should be."

  "Well, I'm not."

  He grumbled into his champagne but I pretended not to hear. "Come on, let's see if we can find Louie and his wife. I'm sure she's half in the bag by now. Maybe she'll let something slip."

  "I thought you liked Valetta for the killer?"

  I stopped and looked at him over the gilded rim of my flute. "I'm not particular, Roman. I don't care whether it was Giorgio Valetta or Louie Lewis. I just want to prove it wasn't Chip."

  "What wasn't Chip?" a velvety voice said from behind me.

  I wheeled around to see a trim woman smiling at me with her head tilted in curiosity. She didn't look like any of the golfer's wives I'd met through Muffy. Her platinum hair was cropped close to her head. She wore square-shaped eyeglasses with thick, black frames that matched her tailored pantsuit. Bright red, matte lipstick that matched her red pumps completed the look. She was the sort of
woman I expected to see when I was in Manhattan visiting Thyme. She looked utterly out of place at the Seagrass Golf and Swim Club, yet she held herself with complete confidence and ease. In other words, I was instantly awed by and jealous of this woman.

  "Excuse me?" Roman finally said when it became clear I wasn't going to answer her.

  "I couldn't help overhearing your friend," she said pleasantly. She stuck out her hand. "Linda Zaharee."

  "Roman Lyman," he answered as switched his glass from his right hand to his left so he could shake hands.

  "Chip's caddy," she remarked. Then she turned to me and cocked her head, appraising me for a moment. "And you must be Sage."

  "Um, that's me." I mirrored Roman's glass transfer move and took her outstretched hand. "You're Chip's agent, right?"

  "And Fred's. And Giorgio's and, oh, probably half the duffers here." She gave us another bright smile. "Pro networking tip: When you're at an event like this, just keep your drink in your left hand. Less jostling it around to shake hands. Trust me, you're more likely to spill it during that maneuver than you are just using your left hand to drink it--even if that's your non-dominant hand."

  I stared at the glass in my hand. "Oh-kay. Thanks?" I wondered how much networking she thought the island's child care staff and caddies actually engaged in.

  "So, what are you kids doing here? You're about thirty years too young to be spending a sunny day this way."

  "The Moores are out of town, so we thought we'd just come and pay our respects to Mr. Spears," I said weakly.

  Her only reaction was a barely visible twitch of her nose. "Did either of you know Fred?"

  "Not well," Roman conceded. "But Sage and Marilee are friends."

  Another nose twitch, this time more pronounced. "Interesting." She drained her glass and motioned for a waiter to come take it away. "Fred's murder sure has shaken up this crowd, don't you think?"

  I surveyed the room. At first glance, the mingling golfers and their wives seemed to be behaving within the realm of normal. But on closer inspection, I realized people were talking a bit too loudly, laughing a smidge too heartily, and smiling just slightly maniacally.

  "Everyone's on edge," I said more to myself than to her.

  "Can't really blame them. They can't figure out if Fred was targeted or if his murder was random. Half of them are pretty sure your boss didn't kill him, but they’re hoping he goes down for it anyway, just so they can sweep this mess under the rug."

  "And the other half?" Roman asked.

  "The other half of them are convinced Chip’s a killer. He had the opportunity. His golf club was the murder weapon. As for motive--eh, who knows what goes on behind closed doors?" She shrugged philosophically.

  "You know Chip pretty well," I shot back. "It would be completely out of character for him to hurt an ant, let alone kill a human being."

  Another little shrug, followed by a toothy smile. "I think human nature is a little more complex than that. Is Chip a good man? I think he is. But I know that good people sometimes do terrible things.”

  She was waiting for me to agree, but I couldn’t. Cognitively, intellectually, I knew it was true. But acknowledging it seemed like a betrayal of Chip.

  Roman spoke up. “But more often, terrible people do terrible things.”

  She laughed lightly. “I’m not sure anyone here is a terrible person.”

  “Giorgio Valetta seems pretty close,” I said, watching closely for her reaction.

  She nodded. “Giorgio’s smart and ambitious. But, yes, he’s also calculating and, well, ruthless. Luckily for Giorgio, he was up in Maryland playing in a charity pro-am the day Fred was killed."

  The news that Giorgio had an alibi was like a pin piercing a balloon. I glanced at Roman and his face looked the way I felt--deflated, defeated, stunned.

  She patted my arm. "Don't let Marilee catch you looking so sad. We're celebrating Fred's life, remember? And, on that note, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to find myself a fresh drink." She strode off in search of a tray-bearing waiter.

  I sighed and turned to Roman, expecting some version of 'I told you so.' Instead he shrugged. "So it wasn't Mr. Valetta. I know Mr. Lewis was here that day because Chip was scheduled to play with him. He's over there." He pointed through the crowd. "I think I saw his wife starting a conga line."

  "Roman, there's no music."

  "As if that minor detail would stop her. Come on." He grabbed my hand and pulled me through the sea of people.

  Chapter 16

  I groaned and eased my feet out of my too-high heels. I had a fairly limited memorial service wardrobe and had resorted to wearing a pair of shoes that I knew would hurt my feet. But I hadn't planned on getting swept into a conga line. These definitely weren't dancing shoes.

  I plopped down in one of the chairs in front of the Moore's fireplace and rubbed my instep.

  Roman was watching me with a half-amused, half-sympathetic expression. After a moment, he pulled the other chair around and sat in front of me.

  "Here." He patted his thigh.

  I gave him a questioning look.

  "Give me your feet. I'll massage them for you."

  "What? Nooooo ...." I pressed my feet flat against the floor.

  Feet are gross under the best of circumstances. And my hot, sweaty, probably stinky, feet were not at their best at the moment.

  He shook his head and grabbed my left calf, propping my heel just above his knee.

  "Roman, I don't--"

  "Shut up. Lean back and close your eyes."

  I sputtered for a moment as he worked his strong fingers into my sore foot muscles, kneading and pushing.

  "Ahhhh." I rested my head against the chair's back and let my eyelids flutter over my eyes. Comfort overtook my embarrassment in about ten seconds' time. "Where did you learn to do that?"

  He swung my left foot back to the floor and gently lifted my right foot. "My mom worked the jewelry counter at Dixon's. And they made her wear crazy shoes like these. After she worked a really busy shift, like during the holidays, or Mother's Day weekend, or what have you, she'd come home and I'd rub her feet for her before dinner."

  The image of a young Roman, ten or eleven years old, massaging his mother's tired feet at the end of a long day, popped into my mind, and I smiled. I opened my eyes and found him staring straight at me, his lips curved into a half-smile, while his fingers worked their magic. His eyes pinned mine.

  I swallowed and cleared my throat. "Thanks."

  "My pleasure."

  I pulled my foot away, suddenly freaked out by the intimacy of it all. "You and your mom must be really close, huh?"

  He nodded. "She never complained. She didn't lose her temper. She was--she is--a rock."

  "Your father didn't help at all?" I ventured, unsure of how he'd react to the topic.

  His face darkened. "Not that I know of."

  "I'm sorry--" I began.

  "Don't be. We didn't need his charity."

  I opened my mouth to say providing for one's child was hardly charity but thought better of it. Instead, I said, "Did you get anything useful out of Louie while Rita was dragging me around the dance floor?"

  "Did I see her doing ‘The Macarena?’"

  It was going to take some heavy-duty meditation to cleanse my mind of the image. "I don't want to talk about it. What did Louie have to say?"

  He gave a disappointed shake of his head. "Nothing more detailed than what he said Friday night. He makes no bones about the fact that he didn't exactly love Fred. But he's quick to point out that nobody else really liked him that much either."

  I slapped the arm of the chair in frustration. "Okay, let's take a different tack. What secrets could he have that he'd pay to keep hushed up?"

  "Well, not the fact that he wears a toupee. Because if he wanted to keep that under his hat, so to speak, he'd probably spring for one that matches the color of his eyebrows." Roman waggled his own eyebrows.

  "Let's focus," I said, as I hel
d back a laugh.

  "I don't know. That's going to differ from person to person. I imagine Louie Lewis wouldn't pay a penny to hush up a story that he cheated on his wife, but you could bleed him dry if you threatened to go public with his penile implant."

  "Louie has a ... penile implant?"

  "I don't know, Sage. It's a hypothetical. That's the type of thing he'd want to keep quiet. Something that would call his manhood into question."

  "Oh, oh, right. Got it." I thought for a moment. "I bet you Giorgio's secret is something political. You know, something that would make him unfit to serve as club president?"

  He nodded in agreement.

  We looked at each other in silence for a long moment. Finally, he said what we were both thinking. "What do you think Chip's secret is?"

  The question was still hanging in the air when headlights arced across the sitting room windows and we heard the crunch of gravel as Muffy's minivan pulled into the driveway. The Moores were home.

  * * *

  Roman and Chip carried the sleeping kids up to their beds while I helped Muffy bring in the bags and pile them in the laundry room.

  "Thanks. Have you two eaten dinner?"

  "We grabbed a bite after the memorial service. Didn't you stop on the way back? I can fix you something."

  She waved her hand at the idea. "No, we had an early dinner. And then the kids begged to come back a day early, so here we are. I just wanted to make sure we're not interrupting your meal." She shot me this sly look when she said it, and I realized she thought Roman and I were involved.

  "It's not like that," I told her. "He's only hanging around because Chip told him not to leave me here alone."

  "Right. I've seen the way he looks at you." She smirked.

  I liked Muffy a lot. She was a great mother to her kids and a good boss. But she was my boss, not my bestie. I hurried to change the subject. "So you should know, I helped Marilee Spears get her financial records in order while you were gone."

  Her finely shaped eyebrows rose in response to that piece of information. "Really? Why would ... oh, of course, your accounting background. That was kind of you."