by Nancy Martin
I looked into Potty’s face and decided of all the people I’d encountered since Penny died, this was the man who was most capable of killing another human being. He grinned back at me with no soul in his twinkling blue eyes. A cold shiver of revulsion slid down my back.
“Ha-ha,” he said.
We heard the clack of high heels, and turned to see Nuclear Winter had come out of the little girls’ room. She marched straight over to Potty. She towered above him, running her long fingers up and down the stem of her champagne glass. Potty made no bones about looking at her décolletage.
I took the opportunity to excuse myself.
“Enjoy your evening,” I said as I slipped away. I wanted as much distance as possible between me and the couple that seemed to deserve each other.
I mingled in the crowd for a while, making inane conversation to forget my distasteful encounter with Potty. I nearly disposed of the vial he’d given me, but in the act of leaving it on a busboy’s tray, I hesitated. Perhaps the pills were evidence of some kind. I slipped the vial into my bag and got rid of my half-full champagne flute instead.
Looking around for an interview, I happened to catch the moment when a portly matron in a floor-length dress approached Aldo. Her silver helmet of hair was sprayed into a tall sculpture. They spoke for a moment, and then I stared in fascination as Aldo led her to the dance floor. Like a recent graduate of Arthur Murray, he gathered up his partner and began to dance. And he was astonishingly graceful. Aldo guided the woman around the marble floor in precise, yet florid, box steps. Apparently, his daughter’s wedding had required more than just a tuxedo. The woman in his arms seemed to float along with him. She looked familiar to me, but I couldn’t place her.
Gradually other party guests turned to watch, sipping champagne, and they enjoyed the mature couple dancing smoothly to the music. Soon the whole party had stopped to admire their performance. Aldo never faltered, just continued to sweep his partner around the floor with fluid dignity.
When the music came to an end, everyone broke into spontaneous applause. The woman blushed, but Aldo bowed chivalrously to her. She pulled her hand from his and slipped into the crowd. Aldo became himself again and went back to his potted palm.
Members of the theater staff circulated with trays bearing rolls of numbered tickets for the Chinese auction.
The photographer for the Intelligencer appeared beside me. Dave was still a teenager, moonlighting during his sophomore year in college. The paper had fired several experienced photographers in a round of budget cuts, and I found myself—not long on the job, either—leading most of the new free-lancers by the nose. Fortunately Dave had grown up in a cultured family in Gladwyne and knew his way around a party scene. Briefly, we conferred on the photos he should snap for the paper. He promised to come back to me, then cruised into the theater, camera ready.
I bought a few Chinese-auction tickets to be polite, but I paused before entering the theater, where the items that had been donated for the cause were on display. I scanned the crowd.
Sure enough, Betsy Berkin came up the staircase in a long, surprisingly juvenile dress the color of cotton candy. She wore a white wrap around her bare, Florida-bronzed shoulders. I had taken a chance she’d come to the ballet fund-raiser.
Holding her arm was the perfect accessory for the girl who had it all, Raphael Braga.
“Betsy,” I said when they walked within speaking distance. “Would you like to have your photo taken for the Intelligencer?”
“Nora! How nice of you to ask.” She blushed with pleasure. “I’d be delighted.”
“The photographer’s waiting inside.” I indicated the theater. “You’ll look wonderful in my column this week.”
Betsy slipped her wrap off her shoulders. “Rafe, will you hold this for me?”
I held my breath and hoped I didn’t look as tense as I felt inside.
“Honored,” Raphael murmured. When Betsy had rushed into the theater, he turned to me. His dark eyes glittered with laughter. “That was clumsily done, Nora. If you wanted to speak to me alone, you simply had to ask. Betsy is very young, though. Maybe she would be jealous.”
His smile was amused, but something dark lurked at the back of his gaze.
I said, “Technically, I’m not supposed to speak to you at all.”
“That was Carolina’s foolishness, not mine. She was afraid.”
“I know.”
We looked frankly at each other.
Raphael was even more handsome than he’d been ten years ago. His English was more polished, his manner more sophisticated. He had combed his luxurious black hair away from his temples, and he wore sharply cut evening clothes. His shirt studs were inlaid with pearls. Instead of evening shoes, he wore flamenco boots with heels that did not give him an effeminate air in the least.
“I was wondering when you last saw Penny Devine.”
He laughed attractively, and made a business of winding up Betsy’s wrap and placing it formally over his arm. “And what is your reason for wondering? Are you concerned for Penny’s health?”
“Aren’t you?”
“She has disappeared before.”
“Not for this long. And not when—well, part of her may have been discovered on Saturday.”
“By you, I understand. How unsettling.”
“It was, very. But you don’t seem terribly worried, Raphael, even though you were her friend.”
His smile faded. “Let’s get a drink, shall we? Then I’ll tell you what I think of Penny’s disappearance.”
He took my arm and drew me in the direction of the bar. Except for Aldo, who remained stolidly beside his tree, the rest of the crowd had filtered into the theater. Even Bloom had disappeared. Raphael and I were the last guests to ask for drinks. Raphael ordered a vodka, straight up. He also asked for a glass of champagne and bowed as he gave it to me.
We carried our drinks away from the bar. I sipped the champagne and found it bitter—a cheaper vintage than what I’d enjoyed earlier.
“Ten years have agreed with you, Nora,” Raphael said as we strolled along the balustrade. “I like a woman with a little experience in her eyes.”
“Is that a polite way of saying I’m getting old?”
“Only in the way a good wine ages.”
“Speaking of clumsily done,” I said lightly. “Why don’t you tell me about Penny and skip the Latin-lover routine?”
“I have not seen her since last summer. Which I told the police. If you must know, she phoned to say she had visited a farm and seen some quality polo ponies. She wanted to show them to me.”
“Did you go?”
“To California, yes.”
“And?”
“When I arrived, there were no ponies. I discovered she had lured me there.”
“What for?”
“She wanted me to fuck her.” Raphael smiled into my eyes to gauge how shocked I might be. “I declined. Shortly thereafter, she went on one of her trips. She disappeared.”
“Because you wouldn’t sleep with her?”
He laughed again. “Penny could pay for lovers as seasoned as myself, and even at her age, men would have lined up to take her money. I doubt my rejection set her off.”
“Had you slept with her before?” I asked.
“She was very old, Nora.”
He didn’t answer my question, I noted.
He had not sipped his drink while we spoke, but suddenly knocked back the vodka with a swift tilt of his head. He savored it, looking into the empty glass. “I have not seen her in nearly a year. Nor have I seen my wife in that time.”
I drank another swallow of champagne, then said cautiously, “I’m sorry to hear you and Carolina are not together anymore, Raphael.”
“We are not together, but I have not divorced her,” he corrected. “I will not do so while my father is alive. He’s old-fashioned.”
“Do you plan on divorcing Carolina someday?”
“Why do you ask?” he said
.
“I’d be sad for my friend. For you.”
He used the rim of his empty glass to trace the line of my cheek. “Don’t be sad, Nora. Not for me. I have many things to keep me happy. My daughter, for instance.”
Why I allowed him to touch me—even with the glass, not his hand—I’m not sure. But I held still and waited until he slipped the cold surface down my throat before I turned my head away. I felt a little tipsy, I realized. As if my drink was stronger than champagne.
Quietly, Raphael said, “We should go somewhere and talk, you and I. We have things to discuss, and I don’t like crowds.”
He liked crowds very much, I thought. He enjoyed the cheering and the adoration he received on the back of a horse, swinging a mallet, running down his opponent and trampling him, if he could. As he leaned closer, I felt my head lighten. His cologne was suddenly very strong.
“The man you were with on Saturday. The tall one. He is your bodyguard?”
“No,” I said.
Raphael allowed a derisive smile. “I see. Your lover, then.”
I sent a glance across the marble floor to Aldo. He hadn’t taken his attention off me since the moment Raphael walked up the staircase.
Raphael said, “Does he give you children?”
“No.”
My heart had begun to beat very fast. I wanted to ask Raphael a direct question, but I couldn’t form the words.
“Are you all right, Nora?” he asked.
I put my hand to my forehead and was surprised to find it damp.
“You don’t look well,” he said. “Shall I take you out for some fresh air?”
Fresh air sounded wonderful. Raphael put his arm around me. I stumbled. My ears had begun to ring. Then I discovered I could not put one foot in front of the other without wobbling.
“Come along,” Raphael said. “We haven’t much time. I must have the truth.”
I wasn’t sure I could think, let alone talk. I hadn’t felt so drunk in years. The buzz in my ears heightened to a clang, and I couldn’t see straight.
But then Aldo arrived, not the least out of breath despite coming across the lobby faster than I expected he could move.
“Shove off, bub,” he said to Raphael. His voice sounded distorted. Distant.
Raphael stepped back to get a better look at the picture Aldo made—a heavyset old boxer dolled up in a tuxedo with wide lapels. It was a hard decision to conclude whether or not Aldo should be taken seriously.
“Hey, puppy dog,” I said to Aldo. “Dance with me.”
I fell into his arms, which felt all wrong, but somehow the right thing to do at the time. My head spun, and I began to laugh.
I remember that Raphael chose to smile at me. He said, “She doesn’t need your help, Nora. So stop your questions before you get hurt.”
I danced with Aldo. Or else we left the Merriam, I wasn’t sure. I vaguely remember Aldo taking me down the stairs. “You okay?” he asked. “You drunk? Or did that bastard slip you something?”
Chapter Thirteen
I don’t remember anything about the rest of the night. Maybe Emma was around. And there was coffee, I think.
In the morning, Michael was in bed with me, sleeping with a Sudoku book on his chest, as if he’d stayed awake as long as possible. I tried to dig into my brain to recall some detail of the night, but all I found was darkness—a frightening blank. I pulled the covers closer and trembled. What had happened? What had I done? Said?
Then my stomach erupted, and I bolted out of bed and ran for the bathroom, whacking my head on the doorjamb and the edge of the toilet before upchucking whatever poison was in my stomach.
Michael came into the bathroom and mopped my forehead and held me there on the floor while I forced my mind to function.
“What happened to me?” I finally blurted out.
“Emma thinks you were doped,” Michael said. “The polo player slipped you a roofie.”
“I’d never fall for that!”
But I had. I pieced together the few snippets of memory that I could dredge up. The ballet event. Bloom. Aldo dancing.
“Michael?”
“Hm?”
“Did I do anything to embarrass Aldo?”
“He’ll get over it.”
I groaned and put my cheek against the cool tile floor. “Did I make a fool of myself?”
“You were pretty out of it.”
“What did I—did I do anything awful? Say anything?”
He patted my bottom. “Don’t worry. We took care of you.”
I spent the whole day sicker than I could ever remember. Emma came back late in the morning to take over looking after me, and Michael went off to do whatever he was doing. Libby came for her shift later in the afternoon.
“What was it like?” she asked, sitting cross-legged on the bed while I languished in agony under the blankets.
“A complete blank.” A terrifying blank.
While trying to unscramble my brain, I remembered the vial Potty had given me before I encountered Raphael at the party. “Lib, would you look in my handbag for me, please?”
She brought the bag to my bed, and when I opened it I found the vial of MaxiMan, but also the damned envelope I’d given back to Potty. I held it up to show her. “Look at this! Dammit, Potty gave me back all the money!”
Libby looked sympathetic. “Darling, you’re still delirious, aren’t you?”
“No, listen.” I explained to my sister how Potty had tried to bribe me once and didn’t appear to be taking no for an answer. I wasn’t sure Libby believed me, either.
She heated up some chicken soup for me, the first food I could choke down, and afterward I felt a little better. She gave me a get-well card that Lucy had drawn. It featured me in a huge bed with a thermometer in my mouth. My eyes appeared to be crossed, too. Which felt surprisingly accurate.
By evening, I was capable of making a phone call, so I telephoned Detective Bloom from my bed.
“Okay,” he said when I’d told him what I’d learned about Potty. “We already know the old codger has a yen for younger women. But not that he had such a mean streak, too.”
I sipped the last of the soup from a mug Libby had brought to me before she left for home. “That doesn’t mean he killed his sister, but he certainly gave me the willies. And I don’t believe the suicide-note story anymore.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. He looked confused when I mentioned it. Or maybe I’m the one who’s confused.”
“You okay, Nora?”
I had debated about whether or not to tell Bloom about Raphael drugging me with Rohypnol. But I didn’t want to reveal anything to him about my relationship to Raphael. So I said, “I’m fine. What’s next on our agenda?”
There was a pause in my ear before he spoke. “You’re red-hot to do this, aren’t you? You want a deputy badge?”
“I was thinking I should call on Nuclear Winter.”
“Okay. What are you going to talk to her about?”
“Maybe she knows when Potty last saw Penny.”
“Good plan.”
“Did you find out anything about Kell Huckabee’s disappearance?”
“His daughter tells us he took off last fall. He was some kind of interim caretaker of the estate, but Potty fired him for running some other businesses for himself and neglecting the place. Now the guy seems to have disappeared. We’re trying to find him, but—well, do you know anything about him?”
“I can ask Julie. Maybe she’ll tell me more than she told you.”
“That kid is scared to death of everything.”
“What did Vivian say?”
“She doesn’t know where Huckabee is either. She seems glad he’s gone. I get the impression nobody liked the guy.”
I asked, “Did you see that mobile home where Vivian keeps her cats?”
“God, yes, what a mess inside.”
“Really?”
“The stench just about knocked me over. I took
one look inside from the doorway and called Animal Services. They’re busy with a case involving a puppy mill right now. It may take them a couple of days to get over there to clean out Vivian’s kitties so we can search the place for evidence.”
“You didn’t go inside?”
“Nope. And I’m not going to until some of the cat mess is cleaned up. I hate those cat ladies—the ones who hoard animals. They always talk like they’re saving the world, but who can stand the smell?”
I remembered Michael’s first impression of the Devine estate and asked, “Ben, did you find a big fence on the property?”
“Yeah, around the back. A big enclosure of some kind.”
“Nothing’s there? No animals?” I thought of Libby’s recollection of a lion cub.
“Looks like they raised livestock there once. Cows or something. The old lady said something about the caretaker raising calves, but I got the impression the work was overwhelming. Why do you ask about the fence? What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know.” I could feel my headache returning, and I fumbled on the nightstand for more aspirin.
Bloom said, “There’s a break in the morgue situation, by the way. We might get a prelim tomorrow.”
My pulse quickened. Who knew what kind of secrets might be revealed once various tests were conducted? “Let me know what you learn.”
“Sure thing. Are you really okay? You sound—I don’t know—not so good.”
“I’m just a little hungover.” I tried to make it a joke.
He didn’t believe me. “Everything okay at home? I mean—with him?”
“We don’t need to talk about this,” I said.
In a different tone, he muttered, “I hate what he’s done to you.”
I said nothing.
Bloom let the silence grow, and then said, “You used to be happy. And now—look, it’s none of my business, but he’s made you miserable, Nora.”
“I’m not miserable. And it’s not his fault.”
“If I can stop him, I’m going to do it,” Bloom said.
I didn’t want to hear more. For a while, I had sensed Ben Bloom’s frustration, but now he sounded truly angry.
I heard footsteps on the staircase. Not wanting to be caught talking to Bloom, I turned off the phone just as the bedroom door opened.
