CHAPTER

thirty-five

The Bloomie’s bag possessed the same quality of fascination, exuded the same magnetic pull as Pandora’s mythical box. If I left it sitting on top of the dresser, it caught my eye whenever I glanced up from the screen. When I shut it in a drawer, the drawer handle seemed to glow with an eerie inner light. I should have shredded the infernal thing and tossed the remnants into the trash, but I didn’t, and after so many weeks, its attraction had increased until it seemed to shoot out diabolical rays.

Stop it, I lectured myself. Concentrate on forming sentences. Opening Pandora’s box never helps.

Of course, I had already opened it once. Moreover, I’d found satisfaction therein. I’d successfully deciphered your shorthand jottings: JFLY meant James Foley, Malcolm’s cousin. 2nd BST BD meant second-best bed, as in the item granted to wife Anne in William Shakespeare’s final will and testament. I’d concluded that we’d traveled parallel tracks, Teddy, that each of us had been told about the Elizabethan oddity of old Ralph Malcolm’s will.

I’d pondered the large figures and the meaning of HMB, but they continued to elude me. Caroline had displayed your check for a hundred and eighty thousand, but that was far less than the written numbers. None of our interview subjects had the initials HMB. The theater’s board, the outfit Malcolm seemed forever to be dodging, was the Cranberry Hill Board, the CHB, not the HMB. Had the letters been HMB, in that order? Perhaps I needed to take another peek.

Aside from the notebook with its scribbled hints, what else resided in the depths of Caroline’s bag? I recalled two business cards, one from a legal firm, the other from a Realtor. I tried to focus on the writing, but my mind was like a fly buzzing around the corners of the room, unable to light. My pace slowed to a painful crawl. The more I tried to concentrate the less I was able to, and as concentration waned, the pull of Pandora’s Bloomingdale bag became a constant, irritating hum.

What foolishness. I opened the drawer in a rush, upended the bag on the bed, isolated the business cards. RUSSELL AMES AND HUBER, NEW YORK, and PICARIAN REALTY, EASTHAM, MA. I thumbed the heavy stock of the Realtor’s card, ran a finger across the raised letters. Mr. Picarian hadn’t printed his business cards on his inkjet home printer. The phone number had a 508 area code. I could lift the receiver, press a few buttons, and inquire whether a Mr. Blake had recently spoken to someone concerning local property values.

The telephone on the bedside table was a handset, one of many distributed throughout the various structures on the property, each linked to a central console located in the PA’s office. I could use the land line, but not without the possibility of Darren Kalver interrupting or listening in. And I hated to use my cell. Cell numbers were routinely captured by other cell phones. Who knew where Picarian Realty’s office phone actually rang?

I tried to reinvolve myself in Chapter Eighteen, but found myself staring at the rumpled bed instead, picturing Garrett’s strong shoulders and slim hips, grinning foolishly at memories of the previous night’s sexual adventures, wondering what he was working on this morning, and where. He had a flurry of activities to monitor, both at the Amphitheater and the Old Barn, not to mention several casting issues to settle.

It was a good thing we each had our own work. We didn’t get in each other’s way. We complemented each other. But for how long? My lips tightened as I tried to wrench my thoughts away from the shadowy future. The actresses were coming, arriving this week. The beautiful ones, graceful as butterflies, trained to charm.

The Realtor’s address was temptingly close. I shoved my chair back, gathered my purse, and moved. Because I couldn’t stand thinking about all the pretty girls waiting breathlessly for the chance to be Ophelia, the pros, the amateurs, the endless stream of ladies-in-waiting to enchant Garrett Malcolm. Anything was better than imagining that beckoning chorus line. I got in the car and drove.

Picarian Realty. A small, gray-shingled cottage with a large billboard. The sign featured the same script that flourished across the business card. I pulled into the gravel lot. Maybe you came here to do follow-up research. Maybe when I mentioned your name, the person behind the desk would snap to attention like a pointer sniffing the scent and reveal something that would illuminate your final days on the Cape.

Across the road stood an old windmill, a wooden structure lifted from a children’s tale. As if to underline its picturesque quality, a bearded artist had established a work station slightly to the right from which he contemplated his palette, his canvas-topped easel, and the mill in turn. The wind was brisk, but the arms of the mill, the outspread wings, were bare, with no surface to catch the wind. I wondered whether the mill was undergoing preseason repairs, whether the artist would give it a great spread of canvas, like a sail, in his painting.

Picarian Realty’s entrance was set at the top of three sagging wooden steps, a screen door that opened outward, a wooden door that opened inward. A sign in the dusty front window said OPEN. There was no doorbell, so I turned the knob and pushed.

“Yes, can I help you?” The man at the desk extinguished a cigarette as he spoke, hastily stubbing it out in an ashtray concealed by a drawer.

He had a fine voice, smooth but gravelly, and somehow familiar. Handsome in a blue button-down shirt and navy slacks, he seemed slightly older than Garrett, and when he turned to me, I suddenly felt as if all the sexual activity of the past weeks was tattooed on my face, that I smelled, reeked of intercourse, and that this was a man who would not only notice, but recognize the aroma.

“Is there something I can do for you?”

I studied my feet, hoping he’d mistake the color in my cheeks for sunburn. His question seemed laden with a variety of shaded meanings, and my prepared opening remarks, keyed as they were to an imaginary elderly and wizened Mr. Picarian, died on my lips.

“Are you looking for a house?” he said when I missed the beat again. “Jim Foley, by the way. At your service.”

Foley. No wonder you’d kept the Picarian Realty card.

“Jim Foley,” I repeated. “James Foley the actor?”

“My dear God,” he said. “Good lord. I knew that if I waited long enough, a girl like you would walk through that door and recognize me. Who hired you?”

His timing was impeccable, his expression droll. I smiled in spite of myself.

“My ex-wife is not that cruel, not quite that cruel, so I’m betting on a drinking buddy,” he continued. “Hank? Ernie, the bastard?”

“No, no, I have seen you act.” My mind was spinning; I didn’t know what to tell him, what to ask first. “I recognized your name, and your voice. You’re Garrett Malcolm’s cousin. I’m, uh, working on a book about him. You met my partner, Teddy Blake?”

“The Malcolm connection strikes again. Damn. I had a brief moment of hope.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Then there’d be two of us at the pity party, and two’s a crowd for that kind of thing. But I didn’t know Teddy had a partner. Did they assign you to finish up the Malcolm book? Poor old Teddy.”

“Mr. Foley—”

“Jamie. Call me Jamie, since you’ve seen me act.” When he sat on one corner of the desk and arranged his lean face in a rakish smile, I saw a younger version of the man, the villain in Red Shot, looming up from under the bridge. He looked disconcertingly like his cousin, the same mouth, the same eyes.

“You were terrific in Red Shot,” I said, “and I recognized your voice from the tape you did with Teddy.”

“You’re not going to use any of that, are you? I thought I was deep background.”

“Your cousin doesn’t want to focus on his childhood.”

“Oh, it wasn’t so bad. Nothing alcoholism or a lifetime of therapy couldn’t overcome. Do you mind if I smoke?” He retrieved the cigarette from the ashtray and regarded its mashed end regretfully.

“It doesn’t seem to have damaged him,” I said. “His childhood.”

“Don’t let the actor in him fool you. I take it you haven’t come to rent or buy a house?”

“No.”

“Want me to open a window?” he said as he lit up. “Or we could go for a walk? I do quite a mean tour of Ye Olde Ancient Windmill.”

“Can we talk here? I don’t mind the smoke.”

He nodded me into a straight-backed chair by the side of his desk. I wondered where Mr. Picarian was, or if a Mr. Picarian existed. The room was far from spacious, just the lone desk, a worn credenza, two filing cabinets, and a computer. I hadn’t thought to bring the recorder, but I was able to pull a small notebook and a pen from my purse.

“I’ve got a lot of properties to rent,” Foley said wistfully. “May’s wide open and that’s unusual this late in the year. Economy sucks and with gas prices high, people are going nowhere. Plus the kiddies are still in school in May. You could get a real deal.”

We stared at each other in silence.

“You want me to talk about my cousin?”

“Yes.”

“Everyone does.”

“It annoys you.”

“Just because he’s famous and talented and I’m obscure, if not untalented? Just because he owns half the damned Cape and I own a teensy sliver grudgingly forked over by Uncle Ralph?”

“Like Shakespeare’s second best bed.”

His smile was a flash of white teeth. “So Teddy did take a gander at the will? There was a brief and glorious moment when it looked like I might come into a windfall, but the old man came to his senses. His lawyer did, anyway. Not that I’d have wanted to do Jenna out of the land, not like that, but I’d certainly be willing to do a deal, split the spoils. She can have plenty for the theater. I’ll just take a bit of the seaside for a small resort hotel, maybe a few upscale condos. Think she’d go for that?”

“I haven’t met her.”

“And you won’t. Not with cousin Garrett keeping her safely out of the country. A small chunk of Cranberry Hill and I wouldn’t be slaving away at a desk on a day like this. Doesn’t seem fair, but then ‘Fair is a word for weaklings,’ that’s what Uncle Ralph used to say. ‘Talent isn’t fair, life isn’t fair.’”

His face as well as his accent altered as he spoke and I understood that he was acting, doing Garrett Malcolm’s father as the old autocrat.

“So I hear he’s doing Hamlet again? The old revenge tragedy. What’s he thinking? Modern dress? Rags? Leotards? Fire? Planning to outdo Branagh with fire and brimstone?”

“You should ask him.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Did Teddy tape you here?”

“We went to the Cove over on Twenty-eight. Nice quiet bar. Little early for that now.”

“And I think you mentioned you were writing a screenplay? With Brooklyn Pierce?”

He glanced at me warily. “Did I? Well, let’s just say we’ve talked about collaborating on a few things.”

“And you asked Pierce to get in touch with Teddy. That was kind of you.”

“Brookie’s a decent guy for a superstar. Hasn’t forgotten the debt he owes to Lady Luck. And he’s got plenty of tales to tell about old Malcolm.”

“Ralph Malcolm?”

“No. Dear Cousin Garrett. Only a tad older than I am, but I rub it in whenever I see him. And when I don’t.”

“What kind of tales?”

“The kind he won’t repeat. Brookie doesn’t leak other people’s personal stuff. Or his own, for that matter. He’s smart that way, gabs just enough to keep the press interested. It’s a neat trick. Give ’em the shit they think they want, not the shit you know. Give ’em stuff you make up out of thin air. If you don’t, they’ll make it up themselves. Brookie does a good job.”

“You’ve been friends a long time.”

“Did Brookie talk to Teddy? Before he—you know? Before the accident?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Brookie’s been a true pal. Never high and mighty, just because he’s good at what he does. No great family, no background, just a natural actor. He used to invite me out to his place in Brentwood. God, the parties he threw. He’s been a good friend, to me and to my cousin. Garrett owes Brookie.”

I kept my face carefully neutral and waited, pen and pad clutched tightly in my hands, wishing I’d brought the recorder, wishing I had your gift for inspiring confidences.

“Brookie deserves better than he gets from Garrett.”

The second hand of my wristwatch swept several times around the compass as I waited, reluctant to break the intimate silence. Several times I thought he might speak, take the plunge. He seemed to want to unburden himself, but he kept his mouth shut and concentrated on his cigarette, watching smoke rise from the glowing tip and accumulate in the small room.

“But then Malcolms don’t forgive or forget, do they?”

He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another one. The room grew stuffier by the second. I should have agreed when he’d suggested opening the window.

“What do you mean?” If I had been taping, the counter would have clicked through fifty digits before I finally spoke.

“Huh?” He did a lovely double take, a reaction that made me remember I was dealing with an actor.

“‘Malcolms don’t forgive or forget’?” I prompted.

“Oh, that. It’s like I told Teddy. They never forgave my mother for marrying out of the profession.”

“I thought you were talking about something else, about Brooklyn Pierce?”

“I don’t talk about my friends. But hey, it’s your job to ask. Like selling and renting is mine. And I really ought to get back to it, writing keen little snippets about charming cottages on Salt Pond, only eleven K a week to you, ma’am, in high season.”

“One more thing.” I spoke even though I knew I’d been dismissed.

“Yeah?”

“You said Garrett was keeping Jenna out of the country?”

“You haven’t heard that she’s coming home, have you? To meet with the lawyers?”

“You mean with the theater board?”

“She can meet with them till hell freezes over. With the lawyers about the trust, the conservation trust. Garrett’s mentioned that, I suppose.”

“Yes, he has. And no, I don’t think she’s on her way home.”

He seemed relieved. “Makes sense, doesn’t it? Take those early pratfalls out of the limelight: a lot of pressure being the last of the Malcolm dynasty. I can’t imagine my cousin wouldn’t do whatever he thought best for her. I mean, he absolutely adores that girl.” He rose as he spoke, ready to usher me out the door.

“Thanks for talking to me.”

“No problem, and if you think of anything else, you know where to find me.” He hesitated, biting his lower lip, an actorly moment: man considering whether or not to confide.

I waited, hoping he’d tell me more about Garrett and Brooklyn Pierce.

“Things working out all right for you?” His eyes, more gray than blue, were the same shape as Garrett’s.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Garrett’s not giving you any trouble, is he? I mean, he’s going along with it, with you taking over for Teddy?”

“I’m good at my job.”

“I’m sure you are, but just a cautionary word, okay? Don’t let him bully you into anything.”

I couldn’t tell by his tone if he was mocking me or warning me, but I was washed by the same embarrassment and confusion I’d felt when I first entered the cottage, as though the intimacy of my relationship with Garrett was emblazoned on my forehead or written across my chest.

Determined to display my professionalism, I quickly asked another question. “Do you know anyone with the initials ‘HMB’?”

He smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Is there a prize?”

I shrugged.

He opened the door, putting an end to the interview. “I guess the prize goes to the next contestant.”

The artist, defeated by the breeze and the darkening clouds, was packing his canvas into the trunk of his pickup as I strolled past. I wondered what it was like to be James Foley, son of the famous Ella Malcolm, grandson of the great Harrison Malcolm, living on the same small peninsula as his cousin, a man who’d succeeded in the field for which they’d both been bred. Did Foley watch his cousin’s movies on late-night TV or change the channel if one appeared onscreen? Had he come to terms with the limits of his own stage career or did he imagine he might be a star someday?

I was sure Garrett had told me it was Jenna who’d insisted on leaving the country. Foley must have gotten it wrong.