Sherry teared up and I swallowed hard, both of us understanding his wish. He also toasted the Vancortlands for their generosity. I guess it was settled. The wedding would take place here, and for the moment, Deborah didn’t seem to mind that she hadn’t gotten her fight.
Made me wonder what she’d pull next.
After dinner the men went to the smoking room, even Justin and Nick, though they didn’t smoke, but they planned to go to the billiard room after for a game.
“Wedding albums,” I said, urging Sherry forward behind Deborah with a get-going hand.
“Imagine,” I said behind her. “Pictures of all the brides.”
I saw the light finally go on in her eyes as Sherry turned to me.
Forget the amazing staircase; we took an elevator to the third floor. The turn-of-the-nineteenth-century lift had brass filigree V’s in a flamboyant script decorating its see-through doors.
Deborah left us in her personal sitting room while she went for the albums.
“Look at this place,” Sherry whispered. “You’d think she was royalty.”
“Well, it is the master suite,” I pointed out.
“No, it’s not. Cort’s suite is on the second floor.”
Separate suites on different floors. I filed the information into the growing data bank in my brain. I’d seen Mildred cross this very room on her way to Deborah’s bedroom. At the time, there’d been no doubt in my mind that Cort and Deborah shared the suite.
I thought of the interested way that Cort and the cake lady had looked at each other at the party. But I was losing track of my purpose. Would the Vancortland wedding photos include the mystery bride? I could hardly wait to see.
Deborah brought a stack of wedding albums. “They’re all here except mine. I can’t think where I put it. But don’t worry, I’ll find it eventually.” She forced Sherry to move so she could sit between us on the French provincial settee.
We had to sit through four complete albums. Five if you counted Justin’s baby album. Then we had to go and find the portraits of each bride, the first having married around the turn of the century.
Why hadn’t I asked to see portraits instead of the albums? There went two hours of my life I’d never get back. Okay, so my disappointment had grown a sharp edge. No album or portrait of the bride that was becoming more illusive by the minute.
After what seemed like five hours, the men came to find us. As soon as they arrived, I asked Cort if any of the Vancortland men had ever been engaged to anyone other than the women they married.
Deborah and Cort went very still and avoided making eye contact between them.
“Nope,” Justin said, taking Sherry’s hand and tugging her beside him. “The Vancortlands marry their first loves and they stay married, right, Mom and Dad?”
Did he sound facetious?
His parents said nothing, but I didn’t think a “yes” would fit on either count.
Who the Hermès was the dark-haired woman in the gown? Did people get false psychic vibes? Could I have picked up on a maid who’d daydreamed about a Vancortland, whose fantasies included the gown and the master of the house?
I didn’t dare ask for a tour of the servants’ quarters, given my prevalence of interest in anything Vancortland on this occasion. That would be too telling, but there was so much more to explore.
Eyeing Sherry, I let my gaze run from left to right, and back, hoping she’d read my “I want to see it all” signal.
She leaned into Justin like a cat seeking a stroke. “Show us more,” she coaxed.
Justin tipped up her chin. “You’re being polite. You don’t really want to see the whole mausoleum?”
Deborah protested his disrespect.
Sherry ignored them both. “Every corner.”
Shaking his head, Justin led Sherry by the waist, while Nick and I followed the same way. My father paid more attention to Deborah than her husband did.
We saw the indoor pool, and the outdoor pool, the gymworkout room and the Sound of Music ballroom. “That’s it for the high points,” Justin said.
“But I’ve never seen servants’ quarters,” Sherry said, her arm around his waist sliding toward his butt.
“No!” Deborah snapped. “That’s where I draw the line. No one needs to go up there. I hate it up there.”
“I like it up there,” Cort said. “It’s genuine.”
Sixteen
I love the T-shirt as an anti-status symbol, putting rich and poor on the same level in a sheath of white cotton that cancels the distinctions of caste.—GIORGIO ARMANI
“Come, daughter.” Cort stole Sherry from Justin. “I’ll show you the servants’ quarters. I made myself an office up there.”
Deborah’s gasp made Nick and I hesitate, but my father shooed us along. “I’ll prevail upon Deborah to show me her hothouse.”
“My orangerie,” Deborah said. “I forgot that you like horticulture, Harry.”
Good, my father would be in his glory and Deborah would be too busy to fume and collect mental darts for our return.
The servants’ stairs were plain, serviceable, and immaculate. They smelled of lemon and family secrets. Tacked to the wall at each landing, near the servants’ entrance to the family quarters, was a map of the rooms on that floor with occupants’ names.
“I don’t want to invade anyone’s personal space,” I said. “I just realized that people must live up here.”
Cort shook his head. “Not an issue; employees don’t live in anymore.”
Employees, he’d said. Deborah would have called them servants.
He pointed to a name on the map on the second-floor landing. “Right . . . here . . . this was my mother’s room.”
Justin came closer and ran his finger over the name. “I didn’t know that. I didn’t even know her name was Elinor.”
Cort’s quiet pride was rooted in family. This was his home, but it was Deborah’s trophy. His ownership was born of heritage, hers of self-indulgence.
Justin regarded his father with a new awareness. He might have grown up feeling rooted here, too, if he’d learned to think of this as more than a society prize or a gaudy showplace.
Cort had failed his son on that score, until now.
Unsure as to whether truth or conjecture filled my thoughts, I knew only that I saw more life in Cort at this moment than in any of the other times we’d met.
Today, I liked him.
He squeezed his son’s shoulder, held for a minute, let go, and led the way up another flight. The higher we went, the bigger the secrets. I felt them in the air around us, thickening it, making it heavy, weighing me down with a need to fix problems I didn’t know.
“My grandmother’s name was Elinor,” Justin said to Sherry. “What do you think about Elinor for a girl’s name?”
Cort faltered, but didn’t look back. Nevertheless, he straightened, shoulders back, a new pride in his gait as he continued leading the way.
On the top floor, his office took up one simple room with a round window that looked out over the back lawn and the greater Mystic River beyond. A room pulsing with life.
A small plain bed sat tucked under the eaves, a hand-crocheted rosette coverlet in lilac giving the room life and substance. Beside the bed, a delftware pitcher and bowl of lavender wands sat on a small dry sink.
Cort reached over and squeezed a wand to bring out the faint scent of lavender. He relaxed as he breathed deeply.
A man’s worn plaid robe lay across the foot of the bed. A pair of slippers sat perfectly aligned on the floor beside it.
Cort chucked me under the chin. “It gets chilly up here in the winter, and yes, sometimes I nap up here. Just to get away,” he whispered. “But I don’t live up here. This is not the doghouse. It’s quite the opposite.”
I smiled, listened for the secrets, and ran my hand over the coverlet, hoping for a vision. I saw nothing but the present.
Cort neatened the papers on his desk. “I come here to work in peace.”
He took pride in Justin showing Sherry and Nick a railroad map. The Vancortlands had made their money in railroads years ago but diversified soon enough to save the family fortune. They now owned excursion trains in several countries in addition to North America.
I stood back to take in the room at large, and that was when I noticed the framed photo on the wall by the door. My heart beat a hopeful tattoo, because I couldn’t believe my eyes, so I went to examine the old photograph more closely.
When I got there, elation shot through me.
Oh my Goddess! The illusory bride herself, young, happy . . . guileless.
“Mr. Vancortland,” I said, trying to give the impression of polite interest, my heart now running a marathon, my palms starting to sweat.
“Cort,” he said. “We’re about to become family, Madeira . . . if I may?”
I nodded. “Cort and Madeira it is.” He could be a charmer, I thought. “I couldn’t help but notice the wonderful vintage coat in this picture,” I said, pretending that the photo of the wearer didn’t make me want to Snoopy dance around the room. “I’m sure you don’t know, but vintage clothes are a passion of mine.”
“Well, I know you’re a fashion designer,” he said, “so it stands to reason that the history of fashion appeals to you.”
“Thank you, Cort. You’re the first Mystic resident who’s made my passion sound sane.”
He chuckled.
I returned my attention to the picture. “Despite the black-and-white photo,” I said, “I can tell you that the model is wearing a wool gabardine coat, probably blue, so the velvet and braiding on its bertha-type collar would be burgundy. It’s a great example of the forties style.”
“I’m impressed,” Cort said. “You got the colors exactly right. The coat used to be my mother’s.”
“She had excellent taste. My compliments. Is this her in the picture? She’s exquisite.”
I’d seen his mother’s wedding pictures. This was not her.
Cort slid his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels. “The wearer’s name is Pearl,” he said. “The coat was a hand-me-down by then. Pearl was my nurse’s daughter and my best friend growing up.”
“She’d been playing in the snow, I see.”
“We’d been playing in the snow,” he admitted.
“Is she still on staff?”
“No.” He seemed to look back for a minute. “She quit one day and left no forwarding address.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. Maybe she went back to where her mother came from.”
“New Orleans,” he said, “but I went looking once. Her uncle said that Pearl wasn’t there.”
I could sense Cort sinking, sinking into the past, or into grief.
“You were playing in the snow together,” I said to pull him back. “So did you take the picture?”
My ploy worked. He saw me again. “I did, and it’s always been a favorite.”
“She’s naturally photogenic, but really, she looks like a young woman in love.”
“It was the camera,” Cort said. “Pearl always made love to the camera.”
“Judging by her expression, she cared a great deal about that camera.”
“You think so?” His voice cracked.
I pretended not to notice. “I’d love to sketch the coat at some point. It’s such an exquisite example of the times. Would you mind? I’d do it when you weren’t working here. You name the day and time.”
I did want a sketch of Pearl, because I got the strangest feeling that learning about her would tell me something about the murder . . . and here I’d been pronounced sane only two minutes ago.
I also wanted to take the picture from its frame to see if there was anything written on the back, like on the photo in the Updike sitting room. Somehow, in my skewed psychometric mind, it all seemed connected. Or, to quote Eve, I was a nutcase.
To my utter shock and delight, Cort took the picture off the wall and handed it to me. “Take your time with it, Madeira, but I would like it back when you’re finished.”
“You’ve got it,” I said. “Thank you so much. The sketch of the coat will make a wonderful addition to my vintage fashion portfolio.”
Nick, Sherry, and Justin, it seemed, had been eavesdropping, for I don’t know how long, and waiting to go back downstairs.
Nick grabbed my arm as we started down and held me back so we’d be the last to go down. “You’re coming home with me.”
I scoffed. “You smooth talker, you.”
He gave me a look of pure Italian exasperation. With very little effort, I can make him swear an Italian blue streak. Or would that be a red, white, and green streak?
“I mean that I’ll drive you home,” he said, “so we can talk in the car.”
“Pity,” I said, chuckling and running ahead of him down the stairs.
Well, what good was a boy toy if you couldn’t taunt the scrap out of him? Besides, I was celebrating. I had not only found the illusory bride, I had her picture. It was a perfect size to slip into Nick’s pocket when he caught up with me.
After my sewing-room vision, which Deborah quite possibly interrupted in the past and present, I didn’t think Deborah would like to see me with a photo of Pearl.
A dessert buffet waited for us on the patio. Coffee, tea, hot and iced, after-dinner drinks, and quite the assortment of French pastry.
“Did you get this from the cake lady?” I asked, choosing from the decadent morsels.
“Of course not,” Deborah said. “Our pastry chef is perfectly capable of making dessert.”
Ah, I’d fallen out of favor by touring the servants’ quarters. I raised my éclair in a salute. “Yummy. My compliments to your pastry chef.”
Werner walked in—or out—to the patio from the house, and he had two uniformed officers with him.
My heart went into overdrive, and I scanned the room to locate Sherry safe in Justin’s hold. “Joining us for dessert, Detective?”
Please don’t be here to arrest Sherry.
“Honestly,” Deborah said, turning on my sister. “I wish you’d keep your scandals to yourself. I don’t need you bringing all of Mystic’s gossip and scrutiny down on my head.”
Justin and Cort turned on her, literally, and she raised her chin, a clear case of false bravado, though none of them said a word.
Werner tilted his head. “Is there some reason you prefer not to be scrutinized, Mrs. Vancortland?” He studied her as he slipped his hand into his inside breast pocket. “Look to your own house,” he added, as he removed his notebook.
Deborah stepped back, absently clutching her emerald-cut diamond pendant, though she no longer held Werner’s attention.
I sidled over to peek at his notes from behind—a list of those present. He turned and tilted his head my way, so I lowered myself to the chair behind me as if that had been my intention all along.
He didn’t buy it.
I didn’t care.
He turned to my sister. “You still can’t leave the state, Ms. Cutler,” he said. “Young Mr. Vancortland, you can’t, either. I’m here to ask you some questions, and I suggest that you cooperate.”
Deborah hit the floor in a dead faint.
Sherry shouted, “No!”
For a surreal moment, half a second, we all stared down at Deborah, then everyone moved at once to get her into a chair.
Werner told one of his officers to call 911.
Deborah came to and gave me such a look of hate, I stood up and moved away from her.
With his mother settled, Justin hooked an arm around my sister. “It’ll be okay.” He turned to Werner. “There must be a mistake.”
Sherry, however, trembled like the last leaf of winter in a Mystic River breeze.
Cort got his wife’s maid to tend her and he came to stand by Justin in a show of solidarity, his hand on his son’s shoulder. “May I ask why, Detective?”
“Jasmine Updike died pregnant. Your son could very well be the father.”
“No,” Sherry said. “She couldn’t—I mean it isn’t . . . wasn’t Justin’s. They hardly knew each other. They haven’t seen each other since they were study partners years ago.” Sherry’s voice broke on the last.
Doubt and calculation grew and diminished, circling the room like a saw-toothed gargoyle on clay feet while Sherry begged Justin, with a pleading look, to confirm her faith in him.
He tightened his fist around her hand, his knuckles going white.
“I understand your loyalty, Miss Cutler,” Werner said, “but Justin Vancortland and Jasmine Updike lived together for two years while they attended college.”
Seventeen
Above all, remember that the most important thing you can take anywhere is not a Gucci bag or French-cut jeans; it’s an open mind.—GAIL RUBIN BERENY
With a cry of dismay, Deborah fainted again, but she was already in a chair, her maid wielding smelling salts.
Sherry tore from Justin’s arms, and though he tried to pull her back, she stepped from his reach, shaking her head, her eyes overflowing with horror and disappointment.
I wanted to go to her, but my own shock held me captive.
Werner cleared his throat to recapture Justin’s attention. “Where were you at eight fifty-five p.m. on the night of Miss Updike’s death?” Werner asked.
Justin gave Sherry a speaking look.
The secret!
“He was with me,” my sister said, a weak alibi at best, given their relationship.
“Doing what?” Werner asked, “and where?”
“Justin,” I said. “Don’t say another word. I’m calling Aunt Fiona.” I hit speed dial with success. After a short conversation, I clapped my phone shut, symbolically putting period to the free-for-all. “Attorney Sullivan’s on her way. Take a break.” I gave Werner a half nod.
“I should have thought to call a lawyer,” Cort said. “Forgive me, son. Shock and all that. Thank you, Madeira.”
Deborah moaned as she came to, her maid wiping drool off her chin, a humbling moment for the self-styled head of Mystic society.
A Veiled Deception Page 12
