14

At eleven-thirty Wednesday morning, Roz delivered: two yellowed pages, numbers 167 and 168, ripped from an aged yearbook binding.

“I don’t suppose you considered making copies,” I said.

“Hey, is the guy there or isn’t he? I got all the graduating ‘M’s.’ You said you didn’t care how I got them.”

“Did you kill for them?” I asked, my sarcasm confined to a raised eyebrow.

“No.”

“I’m relieved,” I said.

She flounced off, forgetting to demand cash on the barrelhead.

She was right; I didn’t want to know how she’d gotten them.

No Adam Mayhew had graduated Harvard in 1954. Right. I scanned photos. Eye and hand stopped dead at “Andrew Manley.” Same initials. Bingo. You can’t visit this detective toting your monogrammed briefcase, wearing your Harvard class ring, and hope to remain incognito. I raised my glance, saw familiar eyes, familiar ears.

Adam/Andrew had aged well. According to a cryptic note underneath his individual black-and-white photo, med school lurked in his future. “Super-surgeon!” it proclaimed. Nickname: “Drew.” He’d played clarinet, chess, tennis. His hair was startlingly blond, close cut. At twenty-one he’d appeared hawklike. Now his face had wrinkled and puffed into a kindly ball, the image of gentleness. Which likeness was truer to the man? Do we age into our faces? Create them by will?

My grandmother used to say that up till forty you have the face God gave you. After that, you’re responsible for your own wrinkles.

She also used to say, “In der yugnt a zoyne, oyf der elder a gabete.” Translation: “In youth a whore, in old age a model of propriety.”

Hope for me yet.

Armed with proof of Drew Manley’s existence, I backed the car down the narrow drive, wishing I’d had the foresight to wash it. A dusty old Toyota always impresses the wealthy clients. Not to mention arriving late for that important first meeting, which I would, unless I used every taxi-driver shortcut and bent the speed limit to boot.

I could have swung out to 128, maybe avoided some lunch hour traffic, but I decided to plow straight through Boston, taking back roads until I could get onto the VFW Parkway, headed south. As I raced along, I found myself glancing at people on the street—grouped at bus stops, sitting on park benches—trying to imagine Thea with twenty-four years of hard living sagging the smooth curve of her cheek. Would I recognize her if I passed her? If she lived next door?

I turned onto Route 109, drove quickly up Summer to Dedham Street. Signs warned of equestrian crossings. Stalls were for rent. No trespassing after dark. I hit Dover Center at six past twelve. It took another five minutes to find the Cameron estate, located off Farm Road, a narrow lane edged with stone fences, another two to navigate the long driveway, majestically lined with tall Dutch elms. Their leaves made a canopy that dappled the sunshine, half blinding me and lowering my speed.

What had “Adam Mayhew,” my pseudo-client, said? “The house is big … rambling.” Had to give the old liar credit for understatement.

I mentally composed a realtor’s ad: Magnificent, professionally landscaped Colonial estate. Hilltop retreat with unique architectural details. Three magnificent stone chimneys. Circular drive leading to covered whatchamacallit—I yanked the word “porte cochere” from a deep memory recess. The offering price would be well into seven figures, surely not listed for the vulgar world to see. Like tuition at the Avon Hill School: If you need to inquire, you obviously don’t belong.

I liked the porte cochere, probably because I was pleased that I knew what to call it. When the Camerons tossed a small supper party for sixty, their female guests wouldn’t risk getting that little black dress drenched by rain, that mink wrap brushed by snow.

The main house was well sited. The additional wings, given the hilltop perch, posed a challenge the architect hadn’t met. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Maybe the elevation of the left wing didn’t quite match the right. Different architects? Warring visions?

Still, the total effect was impressive enough to make me wonder if there were a servants’ entrance where I might park my humble vehicle without disgrace.

“Snap out of it!” I scolded myself. I wouldn’t get much information out of Tessa Cameron if I let myself be intimidated by her house. I pulled underneath the la-di-da porte cochere, just as if I were piloting a huge black Mercedes S500. Or maybe a Ferrari Testarossa. A red one.

A trim dark-jacketed man raced down five steps and interrupted my fantasies, intent on assisting me from the driver’s seat.

“May I take your keys?” he inquired.

“Why?”

“Guests generally park to the left of the big house. I’ll be happy to move your car—”

I gunned the engine and drove to the proper area. I don’t easily part with my car keys.

So, all in all, I was fifteen minutes late for my session with Tessa Cameron.

She made me wait.

The foyer wasn’t bigger than my house, but it was certainly prettier, with a bridal staircase descending to creamy marble tiles. A huge gilt-framed portrait of Franklin Cameron dominated the entryway. Based on photos I’d seen, the artist had been a flatterer, enlarging the man’s eyes, strengthening his chin.

I was ushered to the left, into a room with ornate molding. I don’t know what the family called it—the drawing room, the withdrawing room. I’d have named it the sunroom because the windows faced south and the plants bristled with glossy leaves. The wallpaper was off-white, with stripes of pale pink and gold, a different texture for each color. A jumble of greenery and rattan gave the place the look of an outdoor garden, but the furniture wasn’t casual patio stuff by any stretch of imagination or pocketbook.

The room rated a fat goose egg in snoop-potential. Not a single photograph of the illustrious clan. The only drawers opened to reveal a NYNEX phone book and plain white stationery. Except for the absence of a Gideon Bible, I could have been cooling my heels in a fancy hotel suite. I sensed the decorator’s icy hand.

Sharp staccato footsteps sounded first, followed by raised and furious voices. It took me a minute to realize that the argument issued from above. Swiftly I moved toward the window wall. All the better to hear you with, my dears …

A woman’s voice, high, shrill, demanding. Rapid-fire speech to match the tap-tapping spikes, so angry I couldn’t hear sentences because the sounds slid together. I concentrated on isolating words.

“Disgust.” Definitely. “You disgust me”? Possibly.

The man replied: baritone, a low rumble of resentment. Threatening?

Other feet approached. I turned in time to see Tessa Cameron enter the doorway as though by divine right, a woman of a certain age. Only her plastic surgeon could tell for sure, but I put her down as the best-maintained sixty-five I’d seen off-screen and unfiltered through flattering light. An oval Madonna face, spoiled by discontented lines edging a pursed mouth. Brilliant amber eyes, all-seeing as an eagle’s. Ramrod-straight posture. Once-dark hair gilded the color of money. A faintly foreign air to her gliding walk, as though she belonged in a long gown and lace mantilla.

As she drew close, I couldn’t help breathing her scent: Camellias. Her height surprised me. She walked with the calm assurance of a taller person, a grande dame. It came as a shock that all her power radiated from a slender five-foot frame.

She wore a simple sleeveless off-white sheath that looked as if it had been cut to her measurements and stitched to her body. Pearls were her only adornment. Made me glad I’d changed out of my jeans. When Filene’s Basement, Boston’s mecca for the thrifty—not to mention the cheap—holds its annual women’s suit sale, I arrive early and take my place among the throng waiting to charge the doors. My sleek blue gabardine has made it through four seasons and, considering how rarely I wear it, I’m hoping for another ten. I’d paired it with a cream silk blouse. My aunt Bea’s rose-gold locket dangled in the V-neck. I’d even found a pair of run-free panty hose, which—considering the heat—I regretted.

My hostess looked like she’d been born wearing panty hose and heels. Probably had feet shaped like Barbie’s.

“Miss Carlyle?”

“Yes,” I admitted, feeling enormous, like Alice after she’d OD’d on Eat Me mushrooms. Size 2 women have that effect on me.

The overhead argument rang out with renewed zeal and increased volume. I wished the combatants would curse each other by name.

“Bastard!” the high voice screeched.

A rumbling burst finished with the word “police,” or possibly “please.”

“No way did I sign on for this!” Female outrage spewed at broadcast level. “The campaign, yes! But I had no idea what—”

The woman lowered her voice abruptly. I could hardly ask Tessa to clarify.

“Come,” she said firmly, her hand clasping her pearls. “Won’t you join me in my office?”

Damn, I thought, I’d rather eavesdrop.