Tom stopped by at nine o’clock the next morning. He wanted us to know that he’d put a man outside to watch the house. He also wanted to give us some advice.
“Don’t tell anyone about the break-in,” he said. “Especially anyone at The Oaks. Just go there and make small talk and see what happens. I’m betting that whoever gave you that warning in the elevator is getting very nervous. And if he’s nervous, he’s going to make a mistake and reveal himself.”
“Or herself,” I added.
“Herself? Do you really think one of the women at the club could have killed Claire?” asked Hunt.
I shrugged. “Larkin’s a nut case when it comes to tennis. I wouldn’t put it past her to knock off her only real rival. And then there’s Nedra. First I thought maybe she wanted Claire out of the way so Ducky wouldn’t start up with her again. Now I think Nedra doesn’t give a damn about Ducky. Maybe Nedra and Rob were worried that Claire would get him fired and ruin their cozy little arrangement. Maybe they were the ones who killed her—and broke into our house. Let’s not forget that it was Nedra who chewed me out for being such a busybody at the club.”
“What about Ducky?” said Hunt. “You two mentioned him as a possible suspect, but he couldn’t have killed anybody. I’ve known him for years and he’s a super guy. Easygoing, no temper. He doesn’t even get mad on the golf course—and that’s saying something.”
“I agree with you, Mr. Price,” said Tom. “I don’t think he’s a killer either. All we’ve got on him is that he and Claire were lovers years ago and that she broke it off. Not a big deal. I’m more interested in Brendan, the chef, and the fact that he’s the secret son of a big shot at The Oaks—a big shot who happened to be a relative of the deceased. Something’s fishy there.”
“We’ll do our best to find out what it is, Detective,” said Hunt, showing off his new cooperative spirit. It’s amazing what getting laid after a long drought can do for a person’s mood. Hunt was positively buoyant—for him.
“Please call me Tom, Mr. Price,” said Tom.
“Sure, Tom. And I’m Hunt,” said Hunt.
“And I’m going into the kitchen to make coffee,” I said, and left the two of them to chat. When I came back into the living room, they were smiling and patting each other on the back and acting like long-lost buddies.
“He’s not a bad guy,” Hunt acknowledged when we were alone. “Did you know he was Bill Cunningham’s son? Bill Cunningham, the guy from Pubtel?”
I nodded. “I think they’re estranged though,” I said.
“Estranged or not, Tom comes from money. He told me he’s thinking of getting into the Market. We decided that when this case is all over, I’m going to set up an account for him at F&F.”
I looked at Hunt and shook my head. The man had tunnel vision when it came to people: anyone who breathed was a potential client.
“I still think he’s got the hots for you, Jude,” he went on. “I can tell by the way he looks at you.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “He’s just lonely. His wife was killed, and I don’t think he’s been serious about anyone since.”
“Killed? What a tough break,” said Hunt as he put his arms around me. “If he loved her half as much as I love you, he must be very lonely. I’d be lost without you, Booch.”
“Not to worry,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
After a man from Southern New England Telephone came to restore our severed phone line, Hunt spent a couple of hours talking to his office and giving whoever was on the other end very specific instructions regarding cattle and corn and soybeans. On our second line, I called Valerio, to whom I hadn’t spoken in a week or so.
“How eez my beautiful Judy?” he asked. “Eez she ready to divorce that husband of hers?”
“I’m fine, how are you?” I said, ignoring the Casanova routine as I always did.
“How am I?” he said. “Righta now, not so good.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I caught my sous-chef with his hand in the cookie jar,” he said.
“He was stealing money from the restaurant?”
“That’s right. Not only that, he was making me look bad to my customers. I’m telling you, Judy, running a restaurant eez no picnic.”
“I’m sure it isn’t. How did you find out what he was up to?”
“I tasted his bolognese sauce.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Eet was sheet.”
“So?”
“So I make my bolognese sauce with ground veal. Eet gives a richer tasta. But this guy used grounda beef. Chopped chuck, would you believe!”
“Valerio, just because he deviated from your recipe doesn’t make him a thief.”
“You don’t get it,” he said, impatient and accentless. “I buy the best, most expensive milk-fed veal you can get, and this guy packs it up, takes it home, and serves the chuck to my customers!”
“That’s terrible,” I said. “I hope you fired him.”
“Of course, I fired him. But now I have to find somebody to replace him.”
“That shouldn’t be hard, should it? I mean, there are so many people out there looking for jobs in this age of consolidating and downsizing and laying off. I should know.”
“Yes, but it’s hard to find an honest person in the restaurant business. Everybody lies and cheats and steals. There are scams going on all the time. I’m thinking of selling the restaurant and devoting all my time to writing cookbooks, going on talk shows, and letting your husband make me rich in the commodities market.”
“Selling the restaurant? But you put your life’s blood into that place.”
“Yeah, and now I want to stop the bleeding. You have no idea how much shit goes on when you own a restaurant. This thing with the sous-chef is just the latest horror story. Last year, when I was on my book tour, I put my chef in charge of buying the food. Disaster. Complete disaster.”
“Why? What happened? Didn’t he buy the best quality?”
“No, but he said he did.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He spent the restaurant’s money—my money—on prime meats and free-range chicken and fresh fish, but what he had delivered to the restaurant was your basic, garden variety, supermarket crap.”
“Why would he do that?”
Valerio laughed. “Judy, my darling. It’s a good thing you’re beautiful because you sure are naive. The man had a kickback scam going with the food boys. They billed us for top quality, sold us shit, and pocketed the difference—a percentage for the boys, a much bigger percentage for my chef.”
“That’s awful. How did you find out about it?”
“My accountant figured it out. I used to complain that he charged too much, but he saved me a lot of grief.”
“Did you really need him to figure out that you were being ripped off? I mean, couldn’t you taste the food and tell that the ingredients weren’t up to your standards?”
“If I’d been there,” said Valerio. “But thanks to Charlton House, I was getting up at five o’clock in the morning to show the viewers of ‘Good Morning, Cleveland’ how to prepare my Swordfish with Pistachio Nuts.” He paused, waiting for my reaction. There was none, because I was deep in my own thoughts, busily pondering the implications of his little anecdote, wondering if Brendan Hardy might be pulling the same stunt on The Oaks as Valerio’s chef had pulled on him. “Judy? Are you there?”
“Oh, sorry. Yes, I’m here.” My mind raced. If Brendan was ripping off The Oaks and Claire found out about it, wouldn’t that have given her an added reason for wanting him out of the club—and in jail? And wouldn’t that have given him a real motive for killing her?
“Well, enough about me,” said Valerio. “Tell me how you are, my gorgeous creature.”
“Valerio, listen,” I said. “Remember when you came up to Connecticut the Friday before July Fourth?”
“Of course I remember. You picked me up at the train. You were wearing a short little white skirt.”
“Right. And Hunt and I took you to our country club for dinner, remember?”
“How could I forget? The fooda was sheet.”
“Exactly. But you didn’t say anything about the possibility that we were being ripped off, that our chef was doing the same thing to the members as your chef was doing to you.”
“No, why should I? I just assumed that your club was like a lot of WASP clubs: great golf course, all the booze you can drink, lousy food. I figured the chef was a dud—period—and that, since members at a place like that don’t care what they eat, nobody noticed. Anyway, why should I suspect something about some country club I don’t belong to? Hunt said he was on the Finance Committee there, right? He’d know if something funny was going on. At least, that’s what he said.”
Yeah, but would he know? He was a commodities broker, not an accountant. Besides, he didn’t know a thing about restaurants. You could tell him that the broiled flounder on his plate was fillet of horse mackerel and he wouldn’t blink. What’s more, he didn’t even manage our family finances—I did. The last time he handled our tax returns, we were audited, for God’s sake. He couldn’t spot a restaurant scam if it hit him in the face.
And neither could the other members of the Finance Committee, I was sure. Evan Sutcliffe, the head of the committee and the club’s treasurer, was in the Christmas tree business, and Logan Marshall was a former ambassador to Uruguay. Addison Bidwell didn’t do much of anything except fritter away the family trust fund. And then, of course, there was Ducky, who worked with Hunt at F&F and knew about things like cattle and gas and crude oil. What did any of them know about running a country club and its three restaurants? Nothing, absolutely nothing. And the truth was, nobody cared whether anybody knew anything. These CEOs and former ambassadors and perennial trust-fund user-uppers came to the club every weekend to play golf, to see their friends, to score points with people who could help them in some way, to relax, be seen, hang out. The last thing they wanted to do on a sunny Saturday afternoon was sit in a hot, stuffy room and pore over the club’s dining room receipts. Why not just sign the checks, pay the bills, and leave all the tough stuff to the accountants, who did the books once a year?
No, there was plenty of room for a scam at The Oaks, plenty of rope for someone to hang himself with.
“Judy? Are you there?” said Valerio into the phone, as I had completely forgotten about him. “You’re really not holding up your end of the conversation today, darling.”
“I know,” I said. “But I’ve got to go now, Valerio. We’ll talk soon, okay?”
I hung up and went to find Hunt. He was on the phone with Kimberley.
“I love you too, pumpkin,” I heard him say. “I understand that. Of course I do. That sounds great, but I want to talk to Judy about it before I say yes. No, Kim, it is important what Judy thinks. Why? Because she’s my wife and your stepmother. I’m sorry you feel that way. No. I don’t care what your mother says. When you’re with us, you’ll abide by our rules. No. No. Kim, we’ve been all over that. Yes, I’ll talk to Judy and call you back. Give my love to Grandma and Grandpa. Bye, sweetheart.”
I walked over to him and threw my arms around his neck. “Whoever thought up the expression, ‘You can’t teach an old dog new tricks,’ was an asshole,” I said.
“You’re referring to me, I presume?” Hunt grinned.
“Yes,” I said, mussing his hair so it fell across his brow. “I was wrong to think you couldn’t change where Kimberley and her mother were concerned. I heard you with my own ears. You said no to her—not once but three times! In one conversation! Do you realize what a milestone that is?”
“Yup.”
“What’s more, you gave her the message that you and I are a united front. I’m sure it was hard for you, but you did it, kid. I’m proud of you!”
I kissed him.
“What did she want you to say yes to, by the way?” I asked.
“She wants us to take her with us when we go to visit your folks in Florida,” said Hunt.
“Now that’s a surprise,” I said. “I thought Kimberley hated taking trips with us. Or maybe it was just me she hated taking trips with.”
“Well, apparently she’s had a change of heart. How do you feel about her coming along, Jude?”
“The truth?”
Hunt nodded.
I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to upset Hunt, not when we’d just reconciled. On the other hand, I’d envisioned our trip down to Boca Raton for my father’s seventy-fifth birthday as a sort of second honeymoon for us, a respite from weekends at The Oaks, a break from the craziness of Hunt’s job and my lack of one, a change of scene at the very least. Bringing Kimberley along would put a different spin on the trip.
“I don’t know if we can get another plane ticket,” I said. “The airlines get pretty booked up the weekend before Labor Day, don’t they?”
“Could be. But what if we could get a ticket for Kimberley? Your parents have four bedrooms, and I don’t think they’d mind having an extra guest. What about you, Jude? How would you feel about her joining us?”
The moment of truth. “I would rather she didn’t, I admit it,” I said. “When Kimberley’s around, things get very tense between us.”
“What if I made sure they didn’t get tense?” said Hunt. “What if I swore to you that I wouldn’t let her come between us, that the trip would be just as much fun as if she weren’t with us?”
I looked at Hunt and felt his conflict. Of course he wanted to spend time with his daughter. I’d be a fool not to understand and support that. She was his baby. He adored her. It killed him not to be able to see her more often. Who was I to come between them?
“Under those conditions, I say yes, she can come with us,” I said. “Maybe the trip will be a fresh start for all of us.”
“I love you,” said Hunt. “I really love you.”
“I love you too,” I said. “But there’s just one thing.”
“I know. I’ll call Delta about getting another ticket.”
“No, it’s something else. We can’t go anywhere until Claire’s murderer is arrested. I’m on the Belford Police Department’s payroll now, and Tom never said anything about vacation time.”
“Oh, shit. I didn’t think of that.”
“Besides, I wouldn’t feel right about leaving town before the case is solved.”
“Then we’d better solve it in a hurry, don’t you think?”
I nodded and kissed Hunt. I couldn’t wait for us to go to Florida, even if it was unbearably hot and humid there in August and even if Kimberley was coming along. The thought of getting out of Belford thrilled me. But first, we had to find out who killed Claire.
I told Hunt about my conversation with Valerio.
“It struck me that Brendan might be ripping off the club,” I said, “that he might be in cahoots with his vendors. What if they’ve been selling him inferior goods and he’s been overcharging the club and pocketing the money?”
“Why would he do that?” said Hunt.
“Because they all ‘do that,’ according to Valerio,” I said. “He says the restaurant business is nothing but kickbacks and scams and dirty dealing.”
“Okay, but let’s not forget about Duncan Tewksbury. Why would Brendan go to work for his father and then steal from him?”
I thought for a minute. “Maybe Brendan isn’t stealing from his father. Maybe he’s stealing for his father. Maybe Duncan’s in on the scam.”
“Duncan? A crook?”
“Why not?”
“Because he doesn’t have to steal from the club. He’s already got plenty of money.”
“Oh, yeah? What does he do for a living, anyway?”
“He does what a lot of the older members do: nothing. He’s a retired something or other.”
“I think we should find out what kind of a something or other he was before he retired,” I suggested. “Maybe he spread himself a little too thin and now he’s using the club to fatten himself up again. Maybe that’s why he hired Brendan, Mr. Ex-Con, so they could cook up a rip-off scheme together.”
“Jesus. This is all so crazy. I joined The Oaks so I could expose myself to people who were…who were ‘nifty,’ for want of a better word.”
“Hunt, any word but ‘nifty’ would be a better word. I can’t believe I’m married to a man who uses the word ‘nifty.’”
“I can’t believe I’m married to a woman who has involved me in a murder case.”
“I think you’re glad. I think you’re enjoying all this.”
“I hate to admit it but I am, just a little. It’s very different from trading pork bellies.”
“Yes, well, getting back to Brendan and Duncan, see if you can find out how Duncan made his money and whether he has any left.”
“Right.”
“But more important, see if you can get us into the bookkeeping office at the club.”
“No trick to that. All we have to do is walk in. I’ve got a key.”
“Fabulous! What do you say we go to that Tennis Tussle at the club tonight? Then after we get knocked out of the tournament in the first round, we’ll sneak off to the bookkeeping office and have a look-see at the invoices?”
“What makes you think we’ll get knocked out in the first round? I haven’t played much tennis this summer, but I still have a wicked topspin forehand.”
“Really? Well, I have no forehand at all. Besides, I say we should lose in the first round on purpose. It’ll give us more time to dig around before they start serving the Bloody Marys and barbecued chicken.”
“Why rush back for the Bloody Marys and barbecued chicken? You hate barbecued chicken.”
“Yeah, but it’s included in the Tennis Tussle. We’ve already paid for it. Surely, you remember my mother’s motto: ‘If you’ve paid for it, you should eat it.’”
“That’s one of the things I love about you, Booch. You’ve got such a good head on your shoulders.”
“Oh, Hunt, I think we’re close.”
“You’re darn right we’re close, especially after that marathon in bed last night.”
“I meant, I think we’re close to solving this case. If we can prove that Brendan has been ripping off the club—and that Duncan knew about it—we’ve got our murderers.”
“What do you say we celebrate?”
“How?”
Hunt checked his watch. “I’m all done with my calls to the office, and we don’t have to be at the club for a few hours. How about a matinee?”
A matinee. The word transported me back to the first year Hunt and I were married. He used to call me at work in the middle of the day and ask me to meet him at our apartment. “For a quickie,” he’d say. Sometimes I could get away from the office and sometimes I couldn’t. Either way, I was enormously flattered by his interest. And then, seemingly overnight, his interest waned. Pretty soon, there were no phone calls suggesting a midday tryst. There were no phone calls suggesting much of anything—not even lunch. There were calls about who was picking Kimberley up at school and did I remember to call the plumber and was the termite guy coming this week or next. But no “Do you want to run home and make love?” Not until now. Now, seven years into our marriage, it appeared that Hunt had rediscovered sex. Had being involved in a murder investigation revved him up? Had the idea of working for the police turned him on? Or had our near separation and tearful reconciliation recharged his battery?
Who cared why he was back, I decided. He was back—period. The man I married was back!
“A matinee sounds divine,” I said. “Where would you like to have it?”
“In the Jacuzzi,” he said.
“A hot bath? It’s ninety degrees out.”
“I’ll make the water nice and cool.”
“No, I’m not in the mood for the Jacuzzi. I hate it when my skin shrivels up. How about the living room floor? On the dhurrie rug in front of the fireplace?”
“No, that rug is wool. Too scratchy.”
“Okay. What about the rug in the library? It’s synthetic.”
“I don’t think I want to do it on the floor. My back’s sore. I overswung on a drive last weekend and it hasn’t been the same since. Let’s do it on the couch in the library.”
“I just had it recovered.”
“How about the rattan chaise in the sun room?”
“Perfect,” I said. “The fabric’s Scotchguarded.”
So off we went, arm in arm, our bodies poised for a thrilling half-hour or so, our minds secure in the knowledge that sex, like marriage, is a mysterious and wonderful thing.