She completely rearranged her hair, accentuated the curve of her lips with a make-up pencil, made her eyebrows darker and wider. She looked, she thought, like some of the girl reporters who had come to get society items from Clarissa. She knew she’d be running a slight risk, of course. But the Moresbys traveled in a different set, and were rarely in town. She didn’t think there was much danger that they would penetrate her disguise and recognize her.
At the kitchen door, she paused to tell Toto if Jerry called, she had gone house hunting. “And,” she added cautiously, “I may not be home for dinner. If I find myself in the neighborhood of any old friends, I’ll probably stop.”
“Yiss, Missa Crevellin.”
V
The afternoon was sparkling clear. As Bina drove swiftly along Wilshire, her tension eased. There was no longer any sense of shock at the thought of Terry Moresby’s picture being in Jerry’s pocket. Over the phone, the girl had sounded childlike and spoiled. She’d probably liked the shot of herself and had dozens made to pass out.
But Bina was glad she was checking out the Moresbys. Tomorrow, she could tell Lefty definitely just what connection Jerry had with them. And they wouldn’t be dragged into it any further.
It was fortunate, she thought that the Moresbys had seen her only once or twice briefly at parties. And that she and Jerry had had no wedding pictures in the paper.
It wasn’t, she told herself violently, that she was afraid to tell Jerry. It was just that she couldn’t bear his thinking right now that maybe she didn’t trust him.
In the newspaper morgue, she called for every possible article mentioning the Moresby’s boat, or similar trips to Tahiti. By the time the Moresby’s open sports car slid up to the main entrance, she felt she could at least keep up with the conversation.
Terry Moresby slid over to the middle of the seat to let Bina in. She was a very pretty woman close up, Bina observed. Her graying hair was protected by a swathing of veils. Her sand-colored, silk suit was expensively simple, enlivened by a wide row of exotic bracelets of many-hued, semiprecious stones. But nothing so lovely, Bina observed, as Mexican jade.
Dennis Moresby navigated the city traffic with brisk impatience. “No use talking in a stupid town,” he said, “when you can do it on a boat.”
Terry Moresby said, “A poor excuse is better than none.” She winked at Bina, laughing her sulky laugh. “Anything to get down on that boat.”
Bina returned her smile. “Are boats a new love, or has your husband always been this way?”
“As long as I’ve known him,” Terry Moresby said. “They had to custom-build our wedding ceremony, you know. ‘Will you, Terice Bayles, take this man and Jennifer, to be your lawful married husband and boat?”
Dennis’ rugged face relaxed in a grin. “She never stops yamming, but you couldn’t hire her to stay at home.”
Terry sighed, looking down at the jeweled spikes of her shoes, the persimmoned half-moons of her pedicure. “Ten more days of living,” she mourned. “Then it’s trousers and dishpan hands.”
Desperately, Bina tried to draw Dennis Moresby out about his brokerage business. But his mind was already ahead, down on the boat. Yes, he felt it was safe, leaving his office to shift for itself. He had a good man taking over. He called him at various points along the coast.
Bina decided to take the plunge. She said she had interviewed another Beverly Hills broker and his aunt not too long before. And she’d been shocked to hear since of the aunt’s death. Did they know Mrs. Crevellin?
There was a distinct pause. Bina was sure she could feel an almost physical effort of the man and woman beside her to keep their eyes straight ahead.
Terry Moresby said, “Yes. We knew Mrs. Crevellin.” Her voice sounded flat. She made a halfhearted attempt to warm it. “We were shocked to hear of her death, of course.”
“Her nephew — what was his — name?”
“Jerry,” Dennis Moresby said.
“He seemed very fond of her.”
There was another brief silence. Terry Moresby broke it with elaborate disinterest. “Yes, I guess he was.”
Bina let the talk flow back to the boat. She was angry at herself for being so stupid. Lefty would have had them talking of Jerry and thinking they brought him up. She had only assimilated enough of Lefty’s technique to realize what an amateur she was at getting information.
At least, she thought, she had learned one thing. Whatever deal they had — or were about to have with Jerry — if they had any deal — had not been helped by Clarissa’s death. Or had it? Was this the stiffness of fear?
Dennis signaled from the wharf, and the man on their boat brought the dinghy to pick them up. They rowed out through anchored boats to the Jennifer.
Terry was splashed, and she gave a scream of temper. Dennis said, “You shouldn’t wear clothes like that down here.”
“For ten more days I shall remain civilized,” Terry said balefully. But she was the first up over the side of Jennifer.
Bina had a sudden struggle with herself not to show wide-eyed excitement. Except for the smelly fishing barges Lefty had taken her on, she had never been on anything afloat. This graceful craft, with its shining brass and fresh paint was a place of pure enchantment.
Terry assured her it was a tub. She showed her everything on deck, and below in the tiny, stainless steel galley.
“Can you imagine cooking down here in a storm?” she groaned, “with the pans sliding and the food sloshing. And washing dishes in that sink afterwards. Washing dishes! You lie on deck and dream of dish washers and maids and bubble baths! Boats! Ha!”
She called up to Dennis’s deck hand. “Frank! I want a new faucet down here! And did you get that leak fixed in the water tank?”
“How about some grub?” Dennis called down.
Terry tied an enveloping apron about her. With speed and skill, she opened cans, broiled bits of bacon-wrapped water chestnuts, added piles of anchovies, smoked oysters, cheeses onto a tray, surrounded them with English biscuits and crackers.
Bina carried the fragrant assortment up the steep companionway steps, marveling at Terry’s sure-footedness behind her with the martini tray.
“It’s a gift of goats and sailors,” Terry grimaced. She called out, “Soup’s on!” and they settled into long chairs to watch the dusk deepen over the water and the boat lights twinkle on. The Jennifer moved beneath them like a cradle.
“Who wants a city?” Dennis said.
Over the second martini, Bina managed to edge out a few facts from his torrent of plans. This was only their second long trip. They were rank amateurs. Except for that one long haul to Tahiti, they were week-end cruisers with the rest of the land lubbers.
“And it’s Terry’s fault,” he finished. “We made the first trip with the guy I bought the boat with and his wife—”
“It wasn’t so bad with another woman aboard,” Terry sighed.
“We’ll make better time without two women having to go ashore to buy out the shops at every port. But anyway, when this guy was transferred east, I sold his half to another fellow. But he had trouble over it and sold it back to me. Terry can’t stand her own company, and she’s so damn fussy about a crew.”