It was right on time at nine fifty, and the driver smiled pleasantly as he stowed her bag in the hold, then helped her up the steps into the cool, air-conditioned interior. She chose one of the wide, comfortable seats midway up the aisle, next to the tinted windows — this was no ordinary bus, and the occupants were not ordinary people, either arty or glamorous: one woman even climbed on board with two Pekinese and a chauffeur.
Lorraine looked out of the window for a while, but then closed her eyes, not sleeping, just wrapped in daydreams about Jake, still hardly able to believe it was all true. He did love her — she had seen it at the airport. In some way if he had turned and walked away before she had said her last goodbye, it would have been a bad omen, but he had waited, and the last thing she remembered was his smile, and that he had said he loved her.
Rosie was grimly washing a mass of arugula in the little farm-style kitchen of the apartment Rooney had shared with his first wife, putting together a big salad. She and Bill had both half-heartedly decided to diet.
‘I hate this job,’ Rooney moaned, emptying the dishwasher.
‘So does everybody,’ Rosie answered.
‘Anyway,’ he said, clattering the plates into the glass-fronted dresser, ‘Jim Sharkey couldn’t believe his ears. He kept on saying I had to have it wrong, it couldn’t be Burton. Are you sure you got the name right?’
‘How many Lieutenant Jake Burtons are there, for Chrissakes?’ Rosie said, tossing the salad.
‘They don’t like him,’ Rooney said, stacking more dishes.
‘You mean Jim Sharkey doesn’t,’ Rosie said.
‘No, Jim said the boys don’t like him, said he’s a real bastard. Everyone knows there’s a bit of a trade that goes on with information — you know, a backhander here and there. Everybody knows that. We even dish dough out of our own pockets to some informers. I’ve done it, we’ve all done it, but he’s watching them like a hawk.’
Rosie started to set the table. ‘Well, that Jim Sharkey certainly had his hand out when we worked with him, didn’t he? You remember, when we needed the lists of statements taken in connection with the Anna-Louise Caley murder. And he got a four-course dinner, beer, wine, and five hundred dollars on top of it.’
Rooney took the plastic cutlery basket out of the machine and banged the knives and forks into the dresser drawer. ‘All I said was they think he’s a tight ass.’
‘You shouldn’t have been asking questions, I never told you to do that. I said find out what he looks like. That’s not the same as rapping with Jim Sharkey, is it?’
Rooney slammed the cupboard door shut, replaced the basket and closed the dishwasher.
‘So, what does he look like?’ she asked, hands on hips.
‘I dunno. I never saw him, did I?’
Rosie pushed past Rooney to the fridge.
‘Young? Old? Good-looking? Short? Tall? What kind of cop were you?’
Rooney slapped her behind. ‘He’s about fifty-five, five feet seven with a paunch, red face and bulbous nose, but... a lot of women think he’s sexy.’
Rosie laughed at his description of himself, kissed his plump cheek, and they settled to their meal.
The Jitney bus made its way through Southampton, then Bridgehampton, with few passengers getting off and none getting on. The street-lights were turned on, and the little towns looked like some magical place that time had passed by, with old-world shops selling antiques and pine furniture on every corner, along with street markets and traders offering logs for sale.
They eventually arrived at East Hampton, and the bus drew up outside the Palm Hotel. Lorraine waited as the driver fetched her bag, and pointed out the Maidstone Arms Hotel, which was just across the street.
By the time she had unpacked and taken a shower it was after one o’clock in the morning, and even though she felt hungry, she decided to go straight to bed.
Next morning, breakfast was served in the dining room, and Lorraine, dressed in a smart tan skirt, cream silk blouse, oyster tights and court shoes with a low Cuban heel, came down and sat in one of the Queen Anne chairs. She ordered scrambled eggs, brown toast and coffee, which was served promptly by an attractive blonde girl, who also presented Lorraine with the New York Times. When she had finished, Lorraine took a brisk walk along the main street. The shops were all elegant, and what prices she could see were expensive. Sight-seeing over, she returned to the hotel and ordered a taxi to take her to Sonja Nathan’s address in an area known as the Springs. The same pretty blonde girl who had served breakfast was now acting as a receptionist. She handed Lorraine a street map and said she would order the taxi straight away.
Lorraine returned to her room, and put in a call to Jake. He wasn’t at home, but when she called his office, she was told that he hadn’t got in yet, so she went downstairs to wait for her cab. She watched some of the rather elderly guests coming down for late breakfast, everyone apparently talking about the weather — it had, as Lorraine heard a number of people say, turned into a lovely clear day.
‘Mrs Page,’ the blonde girl called, ‘your taxi is here.’ Lorraine went out of Reception and turned down a narrow path that led into the car park, expecting a yellow cab but finding a gleaming limo. ‘Mrs Page?’ the driver enquired, doffing his cap.
Lorraine nodded, and gave Sonja Nathan’s address. ‘Is it far?’ she asked.
‘No, ma’am, nothing’s too far round here. Be there in ten minutes.’ They drove on in silence for four or five. ‘Turned out a real nice day,’ the driver said, smiling at Lorraine via the driving mirror. ‘You from New York?’
‘California.’
He spent the rest of the drive listing which movie star had bought which local residence, and was very proud to have driven Barbara Streisand, Paul Simon and Faye Dunaway. Suddenly he screeched to a halt, peered at a narrow gateway, marked with only a red mailbox, checked the number, then reversed about two hundred yards, stopped again, reversed again and turned into a narrow dirt-track drive.
‘This is it,’ he said, now concentrating on his driving, as the track was narrow, overhung with high hedges and brambles. He made his way slowly past yellow notices nailed to the trees stating NO SHOOTING and TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. The tall fir trees became more dense, and now there were big red notices: DRIVE SLOW — DEER. The driveway began to curve to the right, and there was yet another notice: TURTLES CROSSING.
They were crawling along now and Lorraine was finding the drive, which, she calculated, was at least two miles long, spookier by the minute.
‘Does all this land belong to Mrs Nathan?’ ‘I guess so, but it’s protected round here. This is an animal sanctuary.’ He swerved to avoid a lump of rock. Suddenly the wilderness began to appear more cultivated, and the drive widened into a tree-lined circle. Lorraine got out of the car to see a huge outdoor swimming pool, surrounded by a fence built of thick timber slabs, its margins ablaze with brilliantly coloured flowers.
The sun beat down, giving a clean dry heat, completely different from the fug of LA. She paid the driver, who asked if she would be needing him later. She said she would call.
The shingled, wood-frame house looked small, vulnerable and unoccupied, with both garage doors shut. Lorraine looked again at the garden and knew, by the flourishing, sweet-scented borders and beautiful conifers, that the garden was lovingly cared for. She tilted her head to the sun, her eyes still closed, then opened them rapidly as she thought she heard someone call. She listened, but hearing nothing more, she set off up the front steps, whose shallow treads were made of slabs of wood like stone.