Hal’s boathouse is around the point, out of sight of my place. It’s weathertight, but surely he could do better for visiting friends. If they were friends. If he knew.
“Okay,” I sighed. “I’ll ask him.”
“Just like to be sure,” Carly nodded. “Where’s your mom these days?”
“Cannes.” I bit off further comment.
“Saw where your dad’s schmoozing an earl’s daughter.” She grinned, inviting me to see the joke. Which I did, when I was in the right mood.
Joe Cabral had been Padstow’s auto mechanic when Mama seduced and married him to spite her snooty Brahmin family. They couldn’t retaliate much because she’d already inherited slices of two states from her grandmother. The Colorado chunk was near Vail, and the Texas bit, you’d better believe, was not just mesquite country. So Joe acquired champagne tastes, and Mama acquired me, then chucked him out for some peccadillo she’d never discuss. She must have paid him a wad for the divorce because Joe promptly took his new polish and his old charm and worked his way along the Social Register. He couldn’t go much higher than Mama, but an earl’s daughter might be a half-step up if you counted snob value. I hadn’t seen Joe in fifteen years.
“He was holding out for a princess, but they’re all under age,” I said deadpan.
Carly hooted, pleased at getting a rise out of me. Her car lurched, ground its gears, and purred away. She always was a rotten driver.
Cousin Sam Cabral, our mechanic now that Joe had bigger fish to fry, pronounced my hedge clippers terminal and sold me an almost new pair a summer visitor had abandoned. To my question, he nodded.
“Sure. Two guys on scooters. Night before last. Didn’t ask directions.” His seamed face showed no curiosity. Sam preferred machines to people.
I worked my way through the breadline at Dulcie’s, then cruised homeward. The Carlisles had arrived, I noted, and Deenie Durham’s Jag was in her drive. Since it was Tuesday, they’d probably be here for the week. Maybe that clambake on Friday wouldn’t be a complete bust after all.
I coasted to a stop at Hal’s picket fence, feeling a mite shaky. The worst thing about a small town is sometimes you get tapped as designated busybody. Neighborhood Watches have nothing on us. Today, of all days, had to be my turn.
When Hal swung the door open at my second rap, he startled me because aside from his pallor, he looked the same as ever: long, bony face, hazel eyes, thick lashes, floppy fair hair. I’m five foot eight, but he topped me by half a foot. I took a step back to ease the crick in my neck.
“Sorry to bug you while you’re settling in, Hal,” I said, brisk and chatty, “but Carly — I heard there were some boys in your boathouse—”
“They work with me,” he said flatly, baritone a little husky. From disuse? “Don’t let them worry you.”
“I bought some extra bread and—” The door, which was swinging shut, paused and reopened.
“I bought supplies on the way.” Hal being patient is something to back off from. I backed another step. “I expected some privacy here. Why aren’t you on the Riviera with your mother?”
I didn’t see why I should be held responsible by all and sundry for my delinquent parents. “I’m slumming,” I retorted and swung on my heel. The door clicked shut before I hit the porch steps.
I flounced home, tugging my bike, and took my irritation out on the multiflora rose. The edge of those new clippers made mincemeat of half the hedge before I cooled off.
I pedaled over to the Yacht Club for dinner. Actually, it’s just a big gingerbread house with a flagstone terrace, sloping lawn, and narrow beach, donated to Padstow by Emily Beale, a wealthy old harridan who hated her relatives. On her deathbed, she willed everything else to the Old Seaman’s Home — and did they have a party!
“Tess, baby! Come on over!” Deenie Durham, seated at one of the ironwork tables on the terrace, raised her martini in greeting.
I settled beside her, feeling, as usual, like a giantess. Deana Durham is a gorgeous elf, dainty as a porcelain teacup.
“Where’s Sandy?” I asked, signaling for Raoul, the waiter — another cousin.
“Slaving in his rotten laboratory, I hope,” she said viciously, taking a long pull at her martini. A marble-sized diamond on her finger flashed. “Just because some computer jockey snuffed himself—”
“Who snuffed himself?” Carly asked, plumping herself down beside us. “Anybody I know?”
“You smell!” Deenie cried, edging toward me. A whiff of breeze hit me, and I coughed at the pungent odor of mothballs pouring off Carly’s dress.
“Like it?” she asked archly, fingering the layers of mauve lace over brocade. “Lady from Provincetown found it in an old trunk and asked me to repair the lace. Turned out so nice, I thought I’d air it out.”
“Well, air it downwind of me,” Deenie choked.
Carly shrugged and shifted to a chair down-breeze of us. Raoul caught her scent and stumbled slightly as he brought my glass of wine. Carly’s business placard read, “Seamstress and Sailmaker” — and she wasn’t kidding. She claimed sails “just take bigger stitches.”
Carly ordered scotch. “Who died, Deenie? And why are you breathing fire about it?”
Deenie raised her delicate chin in a pout. “Sid Schneider, a kid who worked at Sandy’s lab. He went up to our cabin in the Berkshires last weekend and hanged himself from the rafters. Ugh! I’ll never set foot in the place again.”
“Why your cabin?” I asked.
“Oh, he had some grudge against Sandy,” Deenie said vaguely. “But why pick on me? I’d never set eyes on the twerp. That doesn’t stop those dolts from security, asking their nosy questions and pawing my belongings. I finally came over here to get away from them.”
“The lab handled government projects,” Carly commented.
Deenie grimaced. “Sandy says they think this creep was selling the lab’s computer programs. That’s all they know! Maybe he found out they were suspicious and decided to take the easy way out. But my precious husband,” she almost chewed the words, “is not utterly irreplaceable. He can’t possibly spare a few days to spend with me.”
“Drowning your sorrows will only add a headache.” Carly patted her hand. “Now Hal’s here, maybe—”
“Hal’s here?” Deenie demanded.
“What’s he got to do with it?” I chorused.
“Hal is — or was — the ringleader of this asinine, super-secret computer team,” Deenie explained impatiently. “Sandy only took over after Sharon’s accident, and I’ve hardly set eyes on him since. They’ve been expecting Hal back for months. And he has the nerve—”
“Hal’s a professor at M.I.T.,” I said stupidly. Claudia hadn’t mentioned any job change when we were clearing Hal’s house, but we hadn’t talked much, come to think of it.
Carly shook her head sorrowfully. “All those years at school really pruned you off the local grapevine, Tess. Hal moved to the laboratory more than a year ago. Said he needed to earn some real money for—”
“Well, I have a few choice words—” Deenie began, rising.
Carly yanked her back. “You, my girl, are going to stop feeling sorry for yourself and let that poor man alone,” she said in a low voice that carried command. “It wasn’t a sprained ankle that took all these months to heal, it was a mind.”
Deenie subsided, rubbing her wrist. “Why did he have to go all dramatic when Sharon died?” she muttered. “They’d been on the outs for more than a year before it happened. She was shopping for a house for her and the kids—”