CHAPTER 22

The Athena Restaurant on Front Street in the resuscitated City Pier area had been the scene of Rosco and Belle’s first dinner together. With its cozy, romantic ambience, checkered tablecloths, and evocative, wall-sized murals of Greece, the eatery had remained a favorite; Belle and Rosco felt almost as if they’d been transported to some exotic vacation spot when dining there. Tonight, however, business intruded. Or, perhaps, discussing the Pepper case was easier than addressing the push-pull of their own emotions. Both of them had been deeply affected by their argument that afternoon; love, they knew, could make people unreasonable, sometimes possessive, often anxious. It could also bring joy beyond measure.

“So … let’s see … You were telling me that Billy Vauriens can’t be found …” Nervous energy and a sudden shyness caused Belle’s pale blond hair to bounce as she spoke. She smiled, but the expression was almost too bright. “Doesn’t his girlfriend find that odd?”

Rosco tried to match her impersonal mood. “Not from what she said … I gather they have a pretty loose arrangement.”

“I’d hate that,” Belle blurted out, then stammered an embarrassed, “For me, I mean … Or, rather …”

“I wouldn’t like it either,” Rosco said. “For myself, that is …”

“To each his own,” Belle answered.

“Absolutely,” was Rosco’s swift reply.

In the awkward silence that ensued, he divvied up the remaining dolmades; and the waiter removed the plate from the red-and-white-checked tablecloth, then poured white wine into their glasses. Rosco waited until he and Belle were again alone before speaking.

“You and Vauriens’ lady friend don’t have much in common …” he began, then attempted a less intimate tone as he watched her attack her last stuffed grape leaf. “Unless you’ve been kiting checks, that is.” Finally, he added a quiet: “I’m glad, you didn’t starve out there on Allyn’s Point … Or harm yourself in any other way …”

“I was fine, Rosco. Really I was,” Belle murmured, before returning to the safer subject of Billy Vauriens. “I still don’t understand his situation with his boss.”

Rosco toyed with his glass. Belle could see he had something on his mind that didn’t include Genie Pepper’s half brother. When he answered, however, it was Vauriens’ situation he addressed. “I gather Billy’s part of a pickup crew for construction work. Nonunion, usually working off the books … sometimes only marginally skilled … They’re not the most dependable folks to hire.”

Belle followed his lead with an equally pragmatic: “So, why didn’t this boss question Vauriens about his decision to quit?”

“The guy’s got a site under construction. Probably running behind schedule would be my guess … He barely had time to talk to me. Anyway, he’s used to these part-timers coming and going. He’s got better things to do than keep track of them.”

“Hmm …” Belle nodded. “Hmm.”

Flat soup dishes containing avgolemono were placed in front of them. “Lemon soup.” She sighed. “You know how much I love this stuff.”

Rosco smiled as he watched her. “It’s not that hard to cook.”

“For someone named Polycrates, maybe!” Belle returned his warm glance, but her pronouncement suddenly brought a welter of disturbing thoughts—accompanied by the single damning and unshakable word Jamaica had leveled at her during the Patriot Yacht Club dinner dance; “transitional” clanged in Belle’s ears.

“So …” she continued after several moments, “after you went gallivanting all over Boston looking for Vauriens, then what?”

“Then I drove back to Newcastle, called Pepper, and told him I’d been hunting for Billy … It’s a good thing we were talking on the phone, because I’m not sure I would have been able to handle that much hollering in person … Pepper clearly despises his brother-in-law.”

“Half,” Belle corrected reflexively.

“Right … Genie’s half brother.”

“And Tom didn’t know anything about the five-million-dollar policy?”

“Not a peep.”

“And this forensics expert, Jones—what’s his first name again?”

“Abe.”

“That’s right,” Belle said. Rosco could see her searching for a mental association to remember the name.

“It’s not what you think,” he offered. “Abraham Lincoln and emancipation … Abe stands for Absalom or Absolon—something like that.”

Belle looked thunderstruck. “Absalom Jones? As in one of the founders of the African Methodist Episcopal Church?”

“I wouldn’t have pegged Abe as a religious guy—”

“I’m talking about his namesake, Rosco! A late-eighteenth-century former slave … an extraordinary leader and orator.”

Rosco stared, nonplussed. “Does your brain have room for any additional information? Or do you have to throw away outmoded data every so often?”

“Rosco, he was famous!” Then she saw how crestfallen he looked, and softened her response. “I’ve used the name in my more challenging cryptics—cross-referencing King David’s traitorous son, Absalom … It’s fairly arcane stuff … Actually, I’m not certain how I originally came across the information …” The rush of verbiage began to slow. “So, this Abe Jones of yours said he suspected that the Orion fire was a case of arson?”

“King David’s evil son,” Rosco mused in response. “What do you know about that.”

Belle grinned. “Polycrates was a Greek tyrant, if you don’t mind me reminding you.”

“Sixth century B.C.,” was Rosco’s rapid retort. “The family’s become much less autocratic since then.”

“That remains to be seen.” Belle chuckled.

“Anyway, the guy was big on piracy—meaning he must have liked boats.”

Belle laughed again. “So, you’re saying Abe Jones believes the Orion fire was arson?”

“‘Torched’ was the word he used, Belle. I’ve known Abe for quite a while, and it’s uncanny how right on most of his initial insights are. If he feels it was arson—”

“And you don’t think you should share that piece of news with Pepper?”

Rosco hesitated. “Not yet … Ultimately there’s still nothing confirmed … and I don’t want Tom going ballistic over a situation that could be misinterpreted … Until we have concrete evidence, we have to consider the possibility that the fire may have been accidental—no matter how slim the possibility. It’s never a good idea to pass half-truths onto a client. I get paid to deliver facts.”

“But what if the Orion were set on fire?” Belle asked.

“Well, then I’d say the situation doesn’t look promising for Mr. William Vauriens.”

Belle’s eyes wandered to the murals in the restaurant’s candlelit alcoves. The scenes they replicated made her yearn to be in Greece. On one wall stood an island village full of ancient, whitewashed houses. On another were olive trees on a sea-breeze-swept hillside. One painting was a bird’s-eye view of a tawny valley dotted with toppled marble columns.

“Five million dollars could buy a lot, couldn’t it?” she murmured almost unconsciously.

Rosco followed her glance. His response was equally thoughtful. “It sure could.”

Instinctively, their hands met on the tabletop. “I’d like to take you there, sometime,” Rosco said quietly.

Belle didn’t speak; instead, her entire being seemed transported by the suggestion while the term “transitional” suddenly and miraculously vanished, leaving her mind as full of tranquillity and hope as the images on the restaurant walls. “I’d like that,” she said at last.

Rosco squeezed her fingers again. They were both smiling in earnest, although not yet at each other.

“So …” Belle finally asked, “so … what else did you learn about Vauriens?”

“Vauriens,” Rosco answered, and sat up straighter. “Right … Well, apparently, Genie kept trying to get him to clean up his act. He’s not unattractive, from what I heard—‘killer looks’ according to the girlfriend—”

“The one with the ‘loose’ relationship.”

Rosco raised his eyebrows, but sidestepped the interruption and its implication. “Anyway, Genie decided Billy should study acting … Something to ‘keep him off the streets.’”

Belle completely failed to see where this revelation was heading. “So?”

“So, she got him an apprenticeship at a theater in Connecticut … the Avon Shakespeare Festival …”

“Oh my …” Belle said.

“He left Connecticut at the end of the summer. It seems the part of Balthazar in The Merchant of Venice didn’t offer him enough of a stretch.”

“Oh my …”

“Now do you see why I worry about you?”

Belle’s eyes met Rosco’s. “Where do we go from here?” she finally asked. Both realized the question had nothing to do with Billy Vauriens.