CHAPTER 4

SARA CRANE BRIEPHS’ maid opened the door for Rosco Polycrates. As she permitted him entry into White Caps’ marble-tiled foyer, she looked him over, her stiff black dress, organza apron and lacy cap rustling and creaking with an air of distinct disapproval. Rosco guessed the illustrious residence had never required the services of a private detective before.

“Wait here, Mr. Polycrates. I’ll see if madam is ready to receive you.”

Her uniformed figure stalked stiffly away, disappearing into a hushed realm of antique mahogany furniture, silver bowls and picture frames, Oriental Export vases and burnished, paneled walls. Even the crystal chandelier remained aloof and unlit, and the densely curtained windows regally somber while the heat wave, as if denied access for social reasons, clung to the door frame, leaving the foyer surprisingly chill and dank. Rosco shifted from foot to foot and silently cursed himself. “I should have worn socks,” he thought. “At least today.”

Rosco Polycrates was third generation Greek-American; he’d been in the private investigation business for a little over six years. Before that, he’d spent eight years as a detective with the Newcastle P.D. Cited five times for bravery, and once more for simply being a good cop, he’d finally decided he was too much of a free spirit for the bureaucracy of law enforcement. He didn’t like filling out paperwork. He didn’t like jouncing around in the department’s unmarked cars; he preferred his rusting Jeep. He hated carrying a gun, and he refused to wear socks. He was now thirty-eight; the business was doing reasonably well; he was trim and healthy, and by most accounts a pretty good-looking guy—albeit a trifle unkempt.

“Mrs. Briephs will see you now.”

The maid led the way through the foyer, turning right into an even darker corridor, and finally opening a door to a sitting room so large it contained several distinct groupings of couches and chairs. The place reminded Rosco of photographs he’d seen of swanky hotels—or maybe the White House.

“Mr. Polycrates, ma’am,” the maid announced. “Will you be requiring anything further?”

“Thank you, no, Emma.”

Whatever grief-stricken, maternal hysteria Rosco had expected, when he’d been telephoned at eight that morning, wasn’t to be found in Thompson Briephs’ mother. Erect and snowy-haired with a patrician angularity and penetrating, violet eyes, Sara Crane Briephs was ensconced in a high, straight-backed chair whose sole concession to human comfort was a thin cushion of crimson velvet. To her right and slightly behind her—as befitting a dowager empress—stood a middle-aged man in a perfectly cut charcoal suit. He had a powerful chest and jutting jaw. Rosco had the impression he’d seen him before.

“Thank you for arriving promptly, Mr. Polycrates. I despise tardiness. If we’re to work together, I must insist that you conform to my wishes.”

Rosco wasn’t asked to sit; so he stood, aware that the lady was scrutinizing him from head to toe. The maid’s examination paled in comparison to that of her mistress.

“Do you have something against haberdashery, Mr. Polycrates?”

“Pardon?” Rosco added a hurried, somewhat tentative, “Ma’am?”

“You have no hosiery, Mr. Polycrates … No stockings … Did you forget them?”

“No … ma’am. I-I don’t really like them.”

“Ah … youth … youth …” Sara graced Rosco with a brief but glowing smile. “Never permit yourself to grow old and dreary, Mr. Polycrates. Age is merely a state of mind.”

“I was sorry to hear about your son, Mrs. Briephs.”

“So was I.” This was the first hint of sorrow Rosco had heard in her voice. Clearly, Sara Crane Briephs wasn’t a person who believed in wallowing in emotion. “That’s why I telephoned you … Please take a seat, Mr. Polycrates.”

Rosco did as he was told, finding himself rigidly upright in a chair as stiff and formal as Sara’s. This one resembled the carved wood thrones that wealthy churches reserved for visiting bishops. He wasn’t certain if he should feel honored or switch to another seat.

“The newspapers stated that your son died of heart failure, Mrs. Briephs. As I said on the telephone, there’s not much I can investigate … It sounded to me as if the M.E.—the medical examiner—had already made his ruling.”

“My son was fifty-one years old, Mr. Polycrates. He was in excellent health—as am I. We are an indefatigable family. My father hunted tigers in Siberia when he was well into his eighties; I am now eighty myself, yet I continue to play tennis regularly, and each winter I revel in cross-country skiing at my cabin in the Berkshires. Last year, I trekked the Himalayas. My son came from very solid New England stock; he was an excellent athlete, and he had no history of coronary disease.”

Rosco remained silent following this blistering speech, but the man beside Sara’s chair murmured a quiet, but emphatic: “You have to trust the doctors, Sara.”

“I don’t have to do anything, Mr. Roth.” If Sara’s gaze had been capable of hurling flame, Roth would have turned to ash. “You are in my brother’s employ, not mine. Familiarity may suit him and his rabble-rousing colleagues down in Washington; it does not wash with me … Now, when did you tell me he was planning to return?”

“In seven days, Mrs. Briephs.”

Sara sighed dramatically. “And you can’t convince him to curtail his journey earlier than that?”

“The Senator’s in Southeast Asia … on a mission to explore financial incentives and renewed political ties …”

“Typical!” Sara snorted. “The usual liberal mishmash! Of course, he was dead-set against the region when there was a war on. Fickle alliances, faulty judgment … My brother has always been drawn to inappropriate causes—and ties.” Then, resuming her level tone she said, “We will delay Thompson’s funeral until Hal’s return, but my decision is not based on your request, Mr. Roth. It is founded on my belief in family solidarity. Now, leave us, please.”

“I think I should stay, Sara … Mrs. Briephs.” Roth’s modulated tone had become a low but definite growl. “Your brother would wish it. Besides, I still see no need—”

“Hal is not here, Mr. Roth—as you have so meticulously noted. Do I need to ask a second time, or will you leave pleasantly?”

When Roth had reluctantly closed the sitting-room door behind him, Sara gave Rosco a conspiratorial smile. “Is there any wonder that man is nicknamed Bulldog?” Then she resumed her businesslike mode, changing demeanors with a speed and agility Rosco found disconcerting.

“I didn’t ask how much you charge, Mr. Polycrates. As you may have surmised, our family has never before required services such as yours.”

“Three hundred a day, plus expenses … But look, Mrs. Briephs … ma’am … You may want to listen to what Mr. Roth is saying and trust the doctor’s examination. It’s not often they’ll go back on their initial findings.”

“I will never accede to that man’s demands. He is an uncouth and evil creature, and I fail to understood why my brother insists on maintaining him as an associate. Roth is an arriviste, besides being an immoral, money-grubbing politico. I’ve always believed him to be a bad influence, and I’ve known him for many, many years, and it’s only a matter of time before my brother arrives at that same conclusion … Three hundred a day, you said?”

But Rosco felt he couldn’t permit the conversation to continue. Sara Briephs had obviously idolized her son; it was typical of a woman of her generation and breeding to refuse to face the fact that he might have been less physically robust than she. “Mrs. Briephs, sometimes these fatalities can be attributed to other causes … interruptions in electrical impulses from the brain for instance … Have you asked the police to conduct an autopsy?”

“I will not have my son cut up like a piece of calf’s liver,” was the stormy response. “Thompson swam back and forth to his island on a regular basis. He played tennis with me weekly and worked out at a private gymnasium. He did not die of a heart attack … or some bogus electrical impulse. He wasn’t a machine, Mr. Polycrates … Now, will you take the case or not, because if your response is negative, I must bid you good day.”

“Why me, Mrs. Briephs?”

Sara’s keen glance regarded him. “You don’t miss much, do you, young man?”

“That’s my job.”

“I like quick-witted men. I always have … To answer your question, Roth disapproved of you. In fact, he went out of his way to disparage you … insisting you only worked on cases involving infidelity or insurance ‘scams’—whatever they are …”

Rosco winced, but Sara either didn’t notice or graciously overlooked his reaction.

“But the main reason,” she continued, “was your surname. It would have pleased Thompson’s quixotic sense of humor to see the name of a sixth-century Greek tyrant in the Newcastle phone book … It’s a family appellation, I take it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The Greeks and Portuguese have added immeasurably to our community in recent years, Mr. Polycrates. And I speak from a vast reservoir of experience. My great-great-great-great grandfather built this house.”

“My family was still back in the homeland then. I’m only third generation.”

“So I would have surmised, Mr. Polycrates. That doesn’t prevent you—or your grandparents—from contributing to Newcastle society.”

“I suppose not, ma’am—if that’s how you put it.” Rosco’s brain was spinning, yearning to ask the standard questions but guessing Sara would sidestep them with the same deftness she’d applied to the rest of the interview. She was a woman accustomed to running her own show. “Can you tell me anything you might consider helpful, Mrs. Briephs?”

“Such as?”

“Your son’s habits, his associates, history …”

“My son attended Andover preparatory school, then continued on to Yale—as did all his forebears. He was a fine athlete, dressed impeccably and was an extraordinarily facile wordsmith. He accepted a position at the Newcastle Herald the same year he graduated from college. I had assumed he would turn his talents to more serious literature, but he was a lover of innuendo and wordplay. Cryptics suited his quixotic tastes.

“As he matured, he became interested in collecting antiquities—from the Greek Minoan period, specifically. The ancient Cretans worship of sport and of youth may have influenced his choice … He also served on the boards of several local arts institutions, and was vitally connected with the theatre here in town. At the time of his death, he was involved in financing a musical drama scheduled to move to Broadway … All this in addition to a wildly successful career … Thompson received accolades from every part of the country.”

Rosco cleared his throat. This was the most difficult part of any investigation: questioning a blood relation. “Did your son have any enemies you might know of? … Or a lover he’d recently quarreled with?”

But Sara dodged the query with a quick: “Steven Housemann is the Herald’s editor in chief. He held that position when Thompson began working there.”

“So he hired your son?”

Again the response was evasive: “Mr. Housemann has been editor in chief for a good many years … He recently remarried …”

“I see,” Rosco said, although he didn’t understand the connection between Housemann’s personal life and Briephs’ career. “So there’s nothing more you can tell me about his place of work?”

“I’ve been told his present bride is half her husband’s age—the latest in a long line of inappropriate mates, I might add.”

“Are you insinuating that Mr. Housemann is unstable?”

“Oh, my dear Mr. Polycrates!” Sara laughed in her girlish voice. “If I were to insinuate something you’d know it. Thompson always said I had a wit as sharp as a surgical scalpel.” Then the violet eyes misted over. “You’ll have to ask JaneAlice for information on the Herald’s inner workings.”

“Was she your son’s wife?”

“Oh, my dear!” Sara giggled again. “What an outlandish thought! … JaneAlice! … Wouldn’t Thompson have found that a delicious suggestion.” Sara slipped into sorrow again, and, as rapidly, pulled herself out. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Polycrates. I have a tennis lesson at ten sharp. We’re working on my volley today. In all these years, I’ve never been comfortable with the position … I feel so … so vulnerable standing close to the net. An odd sensation since I fear nothing else—”

“May I visit your son’s house?” Rosco interrupted. “See it for myself?”

“Oh, that awful place!” Sara burst out. “Thompson was determined to flout tradition; and there was nothing I could do to dissuade him. Collecting the art and artifacts of a dead civilization is one thing; re-creating it is quite another. But my son was a stubborn man … Of course, you may see Windword Islands. Emma will provide you with a key before you leave.” Sara stood regally. “Three hundred dollars a day … plus expenses …?”

“That’s correct.”

“I assume you’re worth it, Mr. Polycrates.”

“I do my best, ma’am … But please, call me Rosco …”

“I’ll do nothing of the kind. I had a Boston terrier of that name when I was a child. He was ugly and you are not.”

As Rosco crossed the circular gravel drive that spread before Sara’s stately home he heard someone calling his name. He turned to watch John “Bulldog” Roth approach. The expensive suit didn’t disguise a barrel-chested build a stevedore would have been proud of.

When Roth was within five feet of his prey, he smiled—an expression that didn’t reassure Rosco in the slightest. “I’d like to have a word with you before you leave, Mr. Polycrates.” Roth kept his back to the house as if fearing that his lips might be read.

“Shoot.”

“Sara’s not quite herself. I’m sure you can understand … Tommy was her only child … At any rate, the Senator feels that it would be best for all concerned if this entire matter was closed as quietly as possible.”

“This comes from the Senator himself?”

Roth seemed to ponder his choices. “With Senator Crane abroad, I have a certain responsibility to see that no undue disturbances arise. And, as the Senator is running for reelection this year, I’m sure you can appreciate that any news items, no matter how trivial, are bound to attract unnecessary attention—especially from the Senator’s opponent.”

“In my neighborhood we don’t consider death a trivial news item … What are you suggesting, Mr. Roth?”

Roth stiffened. “I believe the simplest solution is for you to take a few days’ time, following which you report to Sara that you’ve found nothing unusual … I’ll make certain you’re reimbursed for a full week’s employment … Then we simply let the issue pass without undue publicity or histrionics.”

“I’ve always had a tremendous amount of respect for the Senator,” Rosco responded. “In my opinion, he’s one of the few honest men remaining in Washington.” He pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it to Roth. “If the Senator wants to speak to me in person about this situation, ask him to give me a call—and tell him not to worry about the time difference. He can reach me at home if he’d like. The number’s on the card.”

Then, without giving Roth time to reply, Rosco turned on his heel, crossed to his Jeep and eased out of Sara’s driveway and into traffic. He smiled and thought, I like her … She’s one tough cookie. But the bulldog is another story altogether.

After that, Rosco began considering Thompson Briephs, the medical examiner’s report, and Sara’s insistence that there was more to the tale. Rosco’s last job had been far less complex; it had involved an enterprising fisherman who’d decided to send his boats into the Atlantic with a one-way ticket to Davy Jones’ locker—thereby swindling Shore Line Mutual out of a hefty sum, as well as causing a few unfortunate sailors some very hairy hours. But Briephs’ story wasn’t as simple as insurance fraud, and Roth’s attempted interference only served to complicate it further. Rosco pulled his Jeep over and let the facts bounce around in his brain. Finally, he decided to make a few preliminary phone calls, then visit his former partner, Lieutenant Al Lever, down at the Newcastle P.D. If the official story held water, Rosco would report back to Sara without charging a fee. If he didn’t like what he learned, he’d dig out the truth.