Soon enough, she stood across the street from her grandmother’s mansion with her back against the wrought iron fence of Boston Common. The first thing she noticed was the odor of sulfur and a gloomy atmospheric. Designed in 1796 by Charles Bulfinch, the Federal style house radiated a vague malevolence. Sky tried to view the arches, the Chinese fretwork balconies, the Corinthian pilasters as a stranger might, because she knew some considered the house a thing of rare beauty. But she found no softness here, no welcoming aura. Even the cupola, where Sky had crouched as a child during games of hide and seek with her grandfather, seemed suspicious to her now.
She climbed past the fluted Greek columns of the portico and paused in front of the powder blue door. A silly song came to her, one her grandfather sang long ago. ‘Blue Sky blue, when I see this door, I think of you.’
It made Sky’s heart hurt to see the door blistered and peeling. A spider web laced though the iron fretwork of the porch railing and she thought about Francois Duquette’s story, the insinuation that Izzy poisoned Whip.
Sky pushed the ringer, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand. Tonight’s charity ball.
A minute later, the door opened and a slight man with an intelligent face and skin the color of caramel blinked at her.
“Mademoiselle?”
Sky introduced herself to Izzy’s butler and stepped into the marble-floored vestibule. She knew he was the butler because Izzy’s butlers always wore the same uniform: white shirt, black pants, black vest. Sky was surprised to see a person of color, however. Izzy was an unreconstructed racist. Her taste in domestics usually ran to Scots or Irish.
The butler led Sky into the formal parlor, unchanged since her childhood. She took in the Louis Quatorze table, the carved and gilt-framed sofa, the Queen Anne chairs, the antique French Aubusson rug, and decided that the only thing missing was the red velvet rope. The place was a virtual museum.
“There’s a spider web on the portico,” Sky told the butler. “Izzy has fired staff for less.”
“Ah. I am afraid you have caught me.” He offered a lopsided grin. “I have been watching that little spider since it crawled out of the egg sac last fall. Argiope aurantia. An orb-weaver.” His voice had a lyric quality, as though he were singing the words. “Come June she will have a most beautiful yellow and black striped body.”
The butler bowed slightly from the waist. “Call me Raj.”
He disappeared soundlessly down the carpeted hallway and returned a few moments later. “Your grandmother is in the greenhouse.”
Raj led Sky down the central hall, past oil paintings with massive gilt frames – horses and hounds, landscapes with spectacular cloud formations, the three-masted Arbella in full sail, dour ancestral portraits – to the glass-paned greenhouse.
Her grandmother sat in a wicker chair among gigantic potted palms with a Hudson Bay blanket draped over her lap. Small and delicate, like Sky, Isabel Winthrop now seemed shrunken, an effect magnified by the cloud of white hair puffed into a bun on top of her head.
“You’re here.” The once strong voice was feeble with age and sickness. “Come closer.” She clawed at the air with an arthritic hand. “My eyes aren’t what they were.”
Sky stepped forward. The odor of mud and decayed leaves hung in the clammy air.
“You’ve got a new butler,” Sky said.
“I found him at a resort in the Maldives, working security. He’s Nepalese.” Izzy’s lips crumpled into a sneer. “He steals from me. He thinks I don’t know.” She looked at Sky with rheumy eyes. “He’s stealing your inheritance.”
“Good. I’ve no doubt he’s earning it. Grandfather’s trust fund is enough.”
“Stupid child. There’s never enough.” A thin string of drool escaped from the old woman’s mouth. “You won’t be young forever. One day you’ll want my money.”
“I’m going to the Four Seasons tonight. The Diamond Ball. Black tie. I need an invitation.”
“The Diamond?” Izzy seemed to perk up. “I chaired that event for many years. Raised millions. Raj has that invitation somewhere. The bitch sends me one every February.” She pressed a button on the wall monitor next to her chair and croaked the butler’s name into the screen.
“Agnes Pickman’s granddaughter chairs the Diamond now. Tuffy.” Izzy gave a derisive snort and peered at Sky. “I could have handed your mother this town on a platter. But no, she was too busy thumbing her nose at me. Agnes likes to flaunt her granddaughter in my face, the little whore. I happen to know that Tuffy had a case of gonorrhea at Middlebury. And two abortions at Wellesley. Tuffy hasn’t changed her ways since school, still goes down for anything in pants. Poor Agnes.” Izzy smiled.
Sky watched water bead on the leaf tip of a spider plant and wondered about Nicolette’s childhood. Was she a surfer? A Valley girl? Los Angeles, city of angels. So unlike Boston.
Izzy continued. “Of course, your mother came of age at a dreadful time. Jack Kennedy assassinated, students marching in Harvard Square, thankless children spitting on their birthrights.” A tremor shook her body. “I suppose I should be grateful she didn’t change her name, especially after …” Izzy seemed to catch herself. She waved a knotted hand. “I was born thirty years too late. The sixties were a ruination.”
Raj appeared and her grandmother barked instructions. “Find that Diamond Ball invitation. And bring my red checkbook.”
“I’ll need a gown,” Sky said. “Something simple. Black.”
“Raj, bring down those boxes from the cedar closet. The pink ones. And the Barguzin.”
The butler nodded and left.
Izzy shrugged. “Your grandfather disapproved of my taste in evening clothes. Ostentatious, that was his word.” She plucked at the candy-colored stripes on the Hudson Bay blanket. “He was an idiot.”
Sky couldn’t help herself. “Who killed Whip?”
Izzy continued picking at the blanket.
“Who killed Whip?” Sky repeated.
“You know perfectly well. Pneumonia killed Whip.”
“I think he was poisoned,” Sky said.
Izzy pulled her head between her shoulders like a bird. “You didn’t marry the detective.”
“No.”
“You lost the baby.”
“Yes.”
“You’re pathetic.” The gray bun bobbled as the old woman spoke. “A failure at everything you touch.” She jabbed a crooked finger at Sky. “Why didn’t you go to Harvard? You were a legacy. You broke my heart.”
“I didn’t like their animal lab.”
“I blame your father. Monk was the same way. Stubborn.”
“Do you remember a man named Francois Duquette?” Sky pressed. “A hairdresser?” She watched the hooded eyes for a reaction but the old woman seemed not to hear.
“People paid to attend when I chaired the Diamond. Now Tuffy invites celebrity trash. Actors, hotel heiresses with pornography videos. Notoriety, that’s what they bring. No money.” Izzy’s sparse eyebrows drew together in concentration. “Celebrities raise the event profile, that’s what Tuffy told Agnes.” Izzy shrugged. “Things change. Jews and Italians on the Diamond board. A black president in Washington. I never thought I’d live to see that day …” Her eyelids shut and her body grew still with sleep.
Sky poked around the greenhouse, identifying a few of the plants she’d been made to memorize as a child. There was amorphophallus, Devil’s Tongue, whose growing bulb resembled a snake. And carnivorous drosera, with a rosette of hairy leaves that trapped and digested insects.
And Izzy’s favorite, Angel's Trumpet, with large purple flowers that hung from the branches in late summer. Latin name, datura. All parts highly toxic. Her grandmother had forbidden Sky to touch the plant and the entire household was instructed to keep the dogs away. A spaniel in the greenhouse was grounds for immediate dismissal.
Frequent infestations – spider mites and leaf borers mostly – had kept her grandmother busy during high summer with her Neem oil and ca
rpenter’s glue, in those days. But Izzy always spared the hornworms. Sky would scream whenever she came across one of the giant, hairless maggots, which invariably caused the hornworm’s huge head to tuck, revealing prominent eyespots. Eventually the worm would transform into a Sphinx moth, a large and powerful flyer. Sometimes, Sky would wander into the greenhouse at night and the moth would swoop past her head to feed on datura nectar. Sky could feel the wind from its wings on her cheek, as if the moth were surrounded by its own force-field.
Raj swept into the greenhouse and placed three large pink boxes on the table next to a sleeping Izzy.
“There is one more,” he whispered to Sky and left.
Sky studied the boxes. Each had a few words scrawled along the side in Izzy’s strong cursive. The top box read Etoile – soutache—fishtail hem. Sky pulled off the lid and lifted white cotton sheeting to reveal a stiff bodice of jeweled embroidery over bronze satin. Blue sapphires and yellow diamond cabochons dotted a netting of fine silk. The effect was stunning.
The second box read Grès – charmeuse goddess. Inside, a pale lemon gown, soft as a whisper.
The third read Galanos – black chiffon – ruched & shirred. This was more like it. Black, strapless, simple. Sky pulled the dress out and held it against her body. It seemed the right size. She folded the gown and set it back in the box just as Raj entered the greenhouse.
“The last one!” He set a fourth pink box on the table and hung a black garment bag on a plant hook. The commotion woke Izzy and she continued her monologue.
“The Diamond Ball is the jewel in the crown, the prestige event of the season!” She peered at the pink boxes. “Take the whole lot. And the fur.”
Raj pulled a red checkbook from his vest pocket and handed it to Izzy.
The old woman scrawled something with a crabbed hand. “Here,” she handed Sky the check. “Give the slut my regards.”
The amount took Sky’s breath away. It seemed extreme, even for her grandmother. Izzy’s style was the anonymous donation. The pediatric wing of Boston General was one of Izzy’s projects, but her name was nowhere to be found on any of the floors. ‘My dear,’ she was fond of saying, ‘One’s name should only be in print when one is born, when one marries, and when one dies. Nothing should be noticed.’"
Izzy’s check was sure to make the news. The old woman must be losing her marbles.
“You’ll need jewelry,” Izzy said.
Sky remembered Francois’s comment. “The sapphire and diamond necklace?”
“Perfect.” Izzy smiled. “Agnes Pickman has coveted that necklace for sixty years. Let’s show her what she’ll never have.” She motioned to Raj. “The bedroom safe.”
The butler was off again. Sky wondered how long he would last. Her grandmother’s track record for domestics was around six months.
“You never showed the slightest interest in my charity events. Why now?” Izzy demanded.
“I want to meet someone. He’ll be attending the ball tonight.”
“What’s his name? Perhaps I know his family.”
“Porter Manville.” Sky smiled. Her teen summers had often involved repelling clammy-handed preppies from Choate and Andover, blind dates forced on her by Izzy’s matchmaking efforts. To Izzy, being a Brahmin meant marrying a Brahmin, preferably one whose status eclipsed one’s own. An efficient way of preserving family wealth. Sky brought a friend home one summer afternoon who happened to be a Lowell and poor Izzy nearly peed her pants with excitement. Embarrassing, really.
Izzy frowned. “Porter Manville? I don’t know the name.”
“Pity,” Sky said. “Where’s your housekeeper?”
“No housekeeper. No cook. No maid. Only Raj.” Izzy peered at Sky. “Where is your mother?”
“Turkey. Zeugma. Zone C.”
“That sounds about right," Izzy sneered. "Still digging around in the dirt.”
“I’m leaving,” Sky said. “I have a hair appointment.”
“You don’t have the necklace. I have some nice rings. And earrings. And you’ll need a bag, gloves, shoes.”
“I’ll go barefoot.” Sky picked up the box with the black dress. She decided to take the fourth box, too, in case the chiffon didn’t fit.
“Don’t forget the coat.” Izzy pointed to the garment bag. “Try not to make a fool of yourself.”
Sky lugged the boxes and the garment bag through the house. It was a cumbersome armful and she dropped the whole collection twice on her way out.
“Mademoiselle!” Raj, breathless from all the running, caught up with her as she was trying to navigate the front door.
“Your grandmother insists.” He pulled two shoe boxes, a narrow jewelry case, and a blue velvet drawstring bag from under his arm and tossed them in a Bonwit shopping bag. “Some odds and ends,” he said, hanging the bag over her wrist.
Sky, weighed down by Izzy’s largesse, stood on the portico and thought about Whip.
Whip would just have to wait a little longer.
Raj bowed and offered his lop-sided grin. “Your grandmother says to come back soon. She says it was good to talk.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A north wind blew in from Canada and the temperature in Boston plunged twenty degrees. Sky was heading west on the pike when her cell rang.
“Darling, Axelrod and I are just leaving Templeton’s condo.” Kyle’s voice crackled over a bad connection. “Nobody home. Not even the fair Fiona, which Axelrod finds personally devastating.”
“Why are you wasting your time on Ellery Templeton?”
“Jake wants him at the station for questioning. Face it, love, your guitar player has no alibi.”
“Ellery just needs to find the guitar dealer,” Sky argued. “The guy that sold him the antique Fender.”
“Alleged guitar dealer. Curious that he can’t seem to get hold of the man, don’t you think?” Kyle exhaled audibly into the phone. “And I might as well tell you, Jake thinks this CEO is a long shot. Says this charity ball is a waste of manpower.”
Sky caught a glimpse of her face in the rear view mirror. Dark circles under her eyes, chapped lips, hair going every which way. She conjured the manicured persona of Theresa Piranesi. Was that what Jake wanted? Is that what he’d left Sky’s bed for?
She felt a little rough around the edges. Maybe the Diamond Ball was a waste of time. What was the point in going if she looked like hell? Sure, she had the right props. She’d just suffered the Gorgon’s lair for those props.
“These are society people, Kyle. Socialites and heiresses. Hollywood types.” Sky glanced at her pallid complexion. “My glamour quotient is running low. Maybe we should forget the charity ball, catch Porter Manville at Wellbiogen in the morning.”
“You don’t sound like yourself, love. What’s wrong?”
“Not enough sleep,” Sky heard herself say.
Who was she kidding? Jake Farrell was the problem. Jake Farrell’s body. Jake Farrell’s personality. Everything about him. He was insufferable. How could she have given herself to him last night?
“Need I remind you, darling? Porter Manville has escaped our grasp numerous times. Embarrassing, frankly.” A current of frustration threaded Kyle’s voice. “This murder is two days old. Two days cold.”
And growing colder, Sky thought. So little evidence at the murder scene. Nothing terribly useful from Professor Fisk. Or Zach Rosario.
What did Sky want at this very minute? A hot bath and a few hours with the lab data.
What did she need? Some face time with Porter Manville. Find out what he was doing in the lab this morning. See what he knew about Nicolette.
“You’re right, detective. The Diamond Ball is an opportunity we can’t afford to waste. See you at nine.”
Sky hung up and nearly collided with a red mini Cooper switching the Jeep into the right lane. She took the first Newton exit and drove straight to her office, where she printed out the log pages, the ones taken at the lab with her cell. Maybe she could look at them
while her hair dried. She pulled the Dido CD from her trench coat pocket and tossed it on the desk while she waited on the printer.
Something about the way her old Hewlett Packard spit out copies reminded Sky of Porter Manville, furiously opening drawers and cabinets next door while she hid in the lab supply room. What had he been looking for?
She decided to make extra copies of all the data, even the pages torn out and hidden in Nicolette’s bedroom. No point in taking the chance that they’d get lost. Or stolen. Pulling a white, leather bound copy of B.F. Skinner’s Verbal Behavior from the highest shelf, Sky embedded the original lab pages into the chapter entitled “Multiple Causation” and shoved the book underneath the bookcase. Out of sight.
It was five o’clock by the time Sky pulled into the parking lot of Duquette’s salon. Black clouds loomed over the city like a disease.
“Ma chère!” A nearly hysterical Francois met her at the door. “I thought something happened to you. Are you all right? What’s all this? Mon Dieu, a Bonwit bag! I haven’t seen one in years.”
“A few things from my grandmother’s closet.” Sky shrugged. “We’re the same size.”
“Isabel Winthrop’s closet? How exquisitely exciting.”
Francois handed Sky’s boxes and bags to the ever-present assistant with the asymmetrical haircut and snapped his fingers. Four women materialized, each wore a turquoise polo shirt with the gold Duquette fleur-de-lis logo.
“Hair stylist, massage therapist, manicurist, make-up artist.” Francois smiled. “Shall we begin?”
Sky sat in a pink tufted spa chair studying rat data by candlelight.
The room was small but private – Francois had insisted – with all the tools of a day spa, plus wet bar and fireplace. Whispers of a babbling brook and the occasional songbird’s chirp were piped into the dark room and Sky’s attention wandered.
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