Two Down

by Nero Blanc

  Belle’s jaw dropped. She wanted to contradict the statement, but couldn’t. Jamaica was correct. Garet had manifested many traits of the elder Grahams—and not the better ones, either.

  “You see, Genie?” Jamaica continued. “There is the psychology of true drama . . . the inner life of the mind . . . That’s what made you a good performer. You were able to enter your characters’ brains and inhabit the murky unconscious. Subliminally, we all want Mummy and Daddy; we want to be carefree babies again.” Then she turned toward Belle, adding a seemingly benevolent: “Following the end of a permanent relationship, you must always beware of ‘transitional’ situations, darling. I’ve had a number of such impermanent types in my life. It’s important to know that some lovers are not intended to linger. Many, in fact.”

  “Oh, really, Jamaica,” Genie said with a wry shake of her head. “What a wicked thing to say to this poor woman. To say nothing of presumptuous!” Genie extended her hand. “I’m Tom Pepper’s wife,” she said with a genuine smile. “We haven’t met, although I know you by reputation.”

  “Belle Graham.” The look Belle gave Genie was full of gratitude—as well as a core recognition that Jamaica with her clever verbiage and facile innuendo would continue to spin circles around them all.

  The actress intruded upon the incipient friendship. “A word to the wise never hurt anyone, Genie darling. ‘Transitional’ doesn’t mean impossible.”

  Genie turned away from Belle and studied her friend. “You’re a vicious person, Jamaica,” she said with a bemused chuckle. “And I disagree with your previous statement. Words can do a great deal of harm.”

  4

  Try as she might, the term “transitional” had stuck in Belle’s brain. Jamaica’s obnoxious warning had nearly ruined the remainder of the dinner dance. Sunday had also seen Belle laboring under its gloomy shadow; she’d had a difficult time thinking about Rosco without the epithet sneakily inserting itself into the picture. He was so very different from Garet, so very different from the aloof and bookwormish people with whom she’d been raised.

  Involuntarily, she began questioning her decision, wondering whether Rosco was merely a passing fancy, someone she’d “get over” when she “came to her senses.” It bothered her horribly that she could hear parental disapproval whispering in her ears—especially since her mother was long dead and her father almost incommunicado from his distant home in the Florida Keys. I’m thirty-two years old, Belle reminded herself repeatedly. I don’t have to please anyone but myself. Gentrified Garet was the aberration, not Rosco. It’s normal to have a big, tumultuous family rather than the other way around. But Rosco’s descriptions of the Polycrates clan kept clanking ominously through her thoughts.

  For these reasons—and maybe a hundred others—having tea on Monday with Sara Crane Briephs was the last thing Belle wanted to do. But she’d agreed, and she never reneged on her word. If she happened to catch pneumonia or break her leg in a freak fall down the stairs, well, that would be another thing . . .

  Disconcertingly whole and healthy, Belle rang the bell at White Caps precisely at four o’clock Monday afternoon. As before, Emma led the way through the austere foyer, conducting her to the house’s mistress as if delivering a sacrificial lamb.

  After a few murmured pleasantries, Belle found herself seated with her ankles demurely crossed and her back barely touching the rigid frame of an antique chair. An inquisition conducted by a grade-school headmistress could not have begun more forbiddingly. The great lady poured; Emma proffered the filled cup; Belle sipped and then sipped again; the weather was mentioned, likewise the “journey from Captain’s Walk” (all of fourteen minutes away). Belle began counting the seconds until she could reasonably take her leave. Rosco was going to have to face this grueling friendship alone.

  “More tea, Belle?” The hostess sat rigidly erect in a crimson-backed chair so stiff and imposing it resembled a medieval throne. She can’t possibly be comfortable, Belle thought, but inadvertently sat straighter in her own high-backed chair.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Briephs.”

  Emma removed Belle’s gold-rimmed porcelain cup and relayed it to her mistress, who then lifted both cup and saucer in one hand while raising the teapot in the other. Steaming, golden liquid cascaded unhesitatingly through the air in a ritual so practiced it looked faintly religious.

  “Another slice of lemon?”

  “Please.” Belle very nearly added, “ma’am.” Instead, she uncrossed and recrossed her ankles in an involuntary replication of childhood.

  “So, both of your parents were professors?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Up until your mother’s untimely demise, I should say?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.” Again, a traitorous voice almost inserted a squeaky “ma’am.”

  “And your father no longer teaches?”

  “He lives in Florida.” The answer struck both Belle and Sara as odd—as if the entire state contained no institutions of higher learning. Sara raised a quizzical eyebrow while Belle hastened to amend the statement. “He has a house in the Keys . . . in Marathon. We rarely see each other.”

  Sara paused as if considering an appropriate response, then silently passed the refilled cup to Emma, who returned it to Belle before withdrawing noiselessly to the tea cart.

  Belle fidgeted with the cup, picked up her teaspoon, and stabbed the lemon slice floating on the surface of the hot liquid, an activity her hostess regarded with a quick, basilisk stare. Repressing a sigh, Belle placed the dainty silver spoon on her saucer. What, she wondered, would a person do with a sugar lump or two?

  “Marathon,” Sara mused. “Part of a tetrapolis in ancient Attica . . . the sight of the famous battle in which the Greeks defeated the Persians in 490 B.C. . . . Did your father choose his domicile because of the name association?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Briephs.”

  The answer seemed to take Sara by surprise. “But surely you must have discussed the historical reference? It’s so very obvious.”

  “My father and I seldom . . .” Belle began, then changed tack, opting for the simpler: “No, we didn’t talk about it.”

  “The relationship between parent and child is a vital one, young lady. My son and I were very close. We were not only family, we were best of friends.”

  Belle’s determined lack of response made Sara pause. She studied the younger woman, then redirected her conversation. “. . . So, your cerebral upbringing inspired you with an appreciation for learning and the mastery of language, which facility enabled you to establish a career as a word maven—similar to my son’s chosen profession?”

  “Well, no . . . not precisely in that order,” Belle said.

  A round crystal plate containing minute cucumber sandwiches arrayed on a lace doily was passed by the mute Emma. Mrs. Briephs declined the comestible with a slight but gracious smile, then turned to Belle with a dictatorial: “From our garden. The seeds were brought from England by my forebears. No one else grows cucumbers like these.”

  Belle juggled her cup in one hand to select a tiny sandwich, then wondered where to put it. “Thank you, Emma,” she murmured, repressing a groan. She imagined the phone ringing to announce a disaster, the kitchen catching fire, the furnace exploding: anything that would curtail this hideous conversation.

  “ ‘Not precisely’ like my son’s vocation, do you mean?” Sara demanded. “Or are you referring to your own career path?”

  Belle felt her hackles rise. Sara’s questions had become far too intrusive. Life wasn’t precise; how could anyone suggest that work—or relationships—have an orderly flow? If routine and safety were prerequisites to living, she wouldn’t have met Rosco. In fact, she’d probably still be married to the lordly Garet. Or—and here, Belle’s imagination began taking giddy flight—she would have waltzed away from college, decamped to Paris, where she’d currently be living in bohemian splendor on the infamous Left Bank.

  Then, before she knew it, the d
amnable word “transitional” roared into her head. Belle clutched the saucer tighter. She was very tempted to heave it onto the table and run hollering from the room.

  Instead, reason and a grudging respect for Sara’s age took charge. “I used the term ‘not precisely,’ Mrs. Briephs, because I didn’t set out to write crossword puzzles. I intended to become a poet.”

  “Who stopped you?”

  “No one. I stopped myself . . . I wasn’t very good.”

  The response brought another quick smile to the old lady’s face. “Good answer,” she said. “I like honesty in people and architecture.”

  While Belle, in order to subdue her ire, took another cucumber sandwich, and gave Emma a decidedly pointed: “Thank you.”

  A conspiratorial glance passed between Sara Crane Briephs and her minion; and Emma withdrew, leaving the tea cart behind. Belle was strongly tempted to follow in her trail, but she stuck to her guns and chomped the last bite of wafer-thin bread.

  “Your parents raised you properly, I’m happy to see,” Sara observed placidly. “Well-bred people are always courteous and considerate to those who serve them. Only upstarts need to display their self-importance by humbling others.”

  Belle imagined she was about to undergo additional queries on her history, but Sara apparently had dispensed with the past. “What is your impression of Edison Pepper?”

  “We weren’t introduced,” Belle responded warily.

  “Lucky for you!”

  Belle was about to retort that Rosco had thoroughly enjoyed his conversation with Pepper, when the true cause of Sara’s wrath was revealed.

  “That awful woman in that absurd dress! Did you see how she was trying to bamboozle Rosco?”

  The archaic colloquialism made Belle’s bright eyes flash with humor—a mistake as she quickly realized.

  “I see nothing funny about it, young lady! A woman of obvious artifice employing what was clearly a dearth of art. And nearly naked, to boot! In my day—”

  “Rosco’s a grown man, Mrs. Briephs; he can take care of himself.”

  “I’d be more careful if I were you. When a woman is that obvious in her flirtation, she will stop at nothing.”

  Belle frowned, then began wondering whether Jamaica’s conversation in the powder room had been a ruse, an attempt to create a wedge between Rosco and herself. “We’ve been invited to dine at the Peppers’ home in a week or so,” she admitted slowly.

  “Just so,” Sara growled. “Just so . . . Well, mind your p’s and q’s.”

  Unbidden, a plethora of words beginning with p and q zoomed into Belle’s brain. Potentate, she thought. Purpose, Pluck, Philanderer . . . Quail, Quell, Quisling . . . Then Genie’s pronouncement “words can do a great deal of harm” rushed forward. It seemed like a warning, as if Genie were well aware of Jamaica’s predatory nature.

  “Genie seems pleasant,” Belle finally ventured.

  Sara stared, perplexed.

  “Genevieve . . . Mrs. Pepper . . . I met her in the loo . . . the ladies’ room—”

  “I know what a ‘loo’ is, young lady. I’m not asking for an explanation of vulgarisms, I am seeking your opinion of this social climber Edison Pepper.”

  Belle’s face turned fiery red. She opened her mouth to speak when the grand old woman suddenly slammed her teacup on the table. The vigor of her action nearly shattered the saucer.

  “I’m sorry, Belle. Forgive me, please . . . I’ve gotten off to an exceedingly poor start with you. I’ve made myself seem like a cantankerous old cow . . . My son would not have been proud.” Tears swam into Sara’s eyes and down her powdered cheeks. She didn’t bother to dab them away. “In fact, he would have been appalled.”

  Belle stared slack-jawed, then half rose from her seat. The sudden display of emotion had affected her more than she knew. She fumbled in her purse for a handkerchief, but found only a crumpled tissue. “I don’t seem to have a handkerchief, Mrs. Briephs—”

  “Sara. Call me Sara.” The old lady swiped at her glistening cheeks with fingers bony and rigid with a lifetime’s worth of self-discipline. For the first time Belle understood the effort required to create such an indomitable facade.

  “Yes, I will . . .” Belle was about to walk to the old woman’s side when the door flew open and a breathless Emma rushed in.

  “Oh, madam, I just heard it on the radio in the butler’s pantry . . . Those Pepper people who bought the old Drexel estate on the point . . . The Coast Guard says the missus’s boat caught fire in Buzzards Bay . . . a tragedy for all of Newcastle, the radio is saying . . . Both women are reported lost at sea. . . .”

  5

  Rosco was leaving his office when the phone rang. He decided to let his answering machine take the call, but when he recognized Belle’s shaky voice, he grabbed the receiver.

  “Hi. I’m here. Are you all right?”

  “Did you hear the news?”

  “Two hours ago. Tom Pepper called me right after the Coast Guard notified him. He was already on board his plane, flying back from his hunting cabin. He asked me to meet him at his home.”

  “It’s horrible, Rosco, I . . . I just talked to those women Saturday . . . Genie seemed so . . . She seemed so nice . . .”

  “And she probably still is, Belle. Let’s not assume the worst. The boat was badly burned but afloat, and the Coast Guard hasn’t located the Orion’s inflatable tender yet. Besides, the women were known to be excellent sailors; they should have been able to handle almost any situation.”

  “But what if the tender tore loose in the blaze and they couldn’t escape?”

  “Then the Coast Guard would have found two bodies aboard the Orion—which they did not, meaning the women and the dinghy have to be somewhere . . . There’s a full search-and-rescue operation under way, Belle. We have to give it a little time.”

  Belle remained quiet for a long moment. “Why does Pepper want to see you?”

  “He’s very upset . . . which is natural. And he’s a guy who’s accustomed to getting things done quickly—and calling all the shots. Obviously, the Coast Guard has no answers presently. So . . . he’s not a happy man.”

  “You mean he’s hiring you? To investigate this?”

  “Like I said, he’s upset. I’ll just have to talk to him. See what he has in mind. I’ve investigated maritime loss in the past. He knows that.”

  “Well, he must be thinking the fire’s a result of foul play.” Rosco could almost hear Belle’s brain whirring with this new piece of information.

  “I doubt that. Most likely, he just wants to make sure the Coast Guard is giving the situation one hundred percent . . . Which you can bet they are; they don’t go into these things halfheartedly.”

  “You really believe Genie and Jamaica are all right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Another unhappy pause. “I’d been thinking some terrible things about Jamaica . . . I wish I hadn’t . . . It makes me feel so guilty . . .” Then Belle’s practical side kicked in; she was a person addicted to finding solutions. Ambiguity and doubt were two sensations she abhorred. “Why didn’t the women radio for help—or even phone? I can’t imagine Jamaica going anywhere without a cell phone.”

  “I’ll check with Pepper. Maybe he knows.” Rosco glanced at his watch. “Look, I should be going. I told him I’d be there by five-thirty. Are you all right?”

  “. . . Yes.”

  “You’re sure? You don’t sound it.”

  “I’m okay . . .”

  “I’ll stop by after I leave Pepper’s, how’s that?”

  “Thanks.”

  “I almost forgot . . . How was tea?”

  “We’re still having it . . . Sara says hello . . .”

  Rosco smiled into the receiver. “Sara?”

  “I’ll be home at six,” Belle said in answer. “Get there when you can.”

  The drive from Rosco’s office to the Pepper home took about twenty minutes. It was five or six miles south of the Yacht Club on a high b
luff. On a clear day the property would have had a commanding view of the coastline and the sea beyond, but a thick bank of burly gray clouds had suddenly swept in from the east, bringing with it a squally rain that stung Rosco’s face as he stepped from his Jeep. He turned up his coat collar, trotted over to a broad entry portico, and rapped three swift times with the polished brass knocker. The door was opened by a short, beefy man in his sixties. He was dressed in the formal black suit of a butler, but his build was more like that of an aging bodyguard.

  “You must be Mr. Polycrates.” The accent was vaguely British, although Rosco guessed England wasn’t the man’s country of origin.

  “Yes.”

  “Come in, please. Mr. Pepper is expecting you.”

  From over the butler’s shoulder Rosco heard Pepper call out an irritable: “That’s all, Anson. No . . . Wait! Take the man’s coat. Hang it up.”

  After Rosco had shed his soggy coat, Pepper approached. A rocks glass filled with Scotch was in his left hand. He offered his right to Rosco. “I appreciate the hell out of you coming here on such short notice . . . The weather’s certainly turned foul . . . Scotch?”

  “I think I’ll pass. Thanks.”

  Tom stared down at the glass. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s early . . . Sorry, I just needed to calm myself down. I’m a wreck . . . Why don’t we step into my office. I’ve set up a command post there.”

  Rosco followed Pepper down a corridor whose walls were covered with oil paintings and hunting prints, and they entered a spacious corner room lined, floor to ceiling, with bookcases. A pair of wide bay windows overlooked the bluffs, and the two men stood watching as six-foot swells pounded the rocky coast. The storm was definitely building.

  “I can sit in this room and stare at the sea for hours at a time. It fascinates me. I wouldn’t go out on it on a dare, mind you, but it’s something to look at.” As if suddenly aware of the significance of this speech, Pepper sighed heavily.