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Saturday, September 18
Despite Harlan cheering her up yesterday, Beverly kept waking up every twenty minutes and gave up after only two hours of sleep. How many hours did that make total over the past several nights? Eight, nine tops. It was no wonder she was quickly working her way through a thermos of caffeine from the waitress in the tea room.
Beverly had developed a bond with the waitress, Gloria Gelling. They had far more in common than on first blush. Thanks to Adam sending Gloria’s husband to jail, she was now hoping to go back to school to earn a bachelor’s degree. When Beverly asked Gloria about her area of study, she’d said business, but with a minor in acting. Beverly was amused by the classic stereotype of the waitress who wanted to be an actress, but they were soon exchanging tips on makeup and disguises.
Any other day, Beverly would have enjoyed stopping by the quaint shops in Woodstock. But today, she barreled southeast along U.S. 4 until she reached the destination she’d programmed into the car’s GPS. The entrance was on a slight hill and looked down at the estate below.
And what a spread it was. The sprawling alpine-style house was flanked by a covered pool and hot tub in the back, with a small pond just beyond. Farther back on the property lay a separate stable and fenced-in paddock. When Beverly called a local realtor earlier, pretending to be a buyer, she found this property was valued in the low millions. Reggie Forsythe’s ex-wife must have gotten a bundle in the divorce.
Mindful of Mr. X’s comments about security and her recent experience at Forsythe’s place, she looked around for security cameras or motion detectors. She wasn’t an expert in home security, but she didn’t think she saw anything unusual. Someday, she’d have to get Mr. X to give her a tutorial.
She checked her makeup in the car’s mirror. Just the basics, nothing flashy. The ponytail was a nice touch, pulled back with a barrette in the shape of an old-fashioned typewriter key. Smoothing her pantsuit as she climbed out of the car, she came close to forgetting to rescue the notepad on the passenger’s seat.
She rang the doorbell and pasted a professionally bland smile on her face. She’d called ahead, but when no one answered, she began to think she’d misunderstood the directions she was given.
But then the door opened to reveal a short woman in a gray dress with a white apron. “May I help you?” she asked in heavily accented English. Her complexion, dark hair and eyes, and the accent made Beverly guess the woman hailed from somewhere in Central America.
“My name is Beverly Zayette. I have an appointment with Imelda Forsythe.”
The maid motioned for Beverly to follow her. The maid led her to the great room, curtsied, and left Beverly alone. Beverly thought she caught a flash of fear in the maid’s eyes, eyes that had stayed downcast from the moment she answered the door.
The great room was great, indeed. Ceilings approaching fifty feet at the apex, filled with wooden beams and floor-to-ceiling glass windows that afforded a breathtaking view of the mountain peaks in the distance. The furniture pieces grouped in front of the massive stone fireplace were trying hard to look casual, but Beverly recognized the designer—Dongyul Ping. His smallest end tables started around one grand. The chandelier was the size of a moose, appropriate since it was made entirely out of antlers.
The most curious thing about the room was the lack of antiques. Not a single Tiffany lamp or even a nineteenth-century painting. Strange, for a woman who’d married into a family of antiques businessmen. Maybe she’d purged that link to her ex-husband along with the divorce.
Beverly reached out to touch what looked for all the world like a Brazilian rosewood mantel above the fireplace. Wasn’t that wood illegal to purchase?
A voice from behind startled her. “You’re that reporter who called.”
Beverly faced the owner of that voice, a tall woman in her mid-fifties dressed like she was ready to mount an entry in the Grand National. Black breeches, red vest, black dressage coat, and tall riding boots. Seeing the glints of steel in the woman’s expression, Beverly was glad Imelda Forsythe wasn’t carrying a whipping crop.
Beverly replied, “Beverly Zayette, Mrs. Forsythe. I’m so grateful you were willing to see me for an interview.”
Imelda cantered into the room and indicated a chair for Beverly to sit down. Imelda herself leaned against the same mantel Beverly had examined, reaching around to pull a golden cigarette holder out of a case and light up a smoke. As Beverly took another quick glance around the room, she also noted that in addition to the lack of antiques, there wasn’t anything silver.
“Now, Ms. Zayette. What magazine did you say you were writing for?”
“It’s a national startup publication, with each issue focusing on luxury homes in a different region.”
“A print publication?”
Beverly nodded.
“Good. I hate those digital things. It’s like someone is spying on you, watching every word you read. God help you if your hobby is collecting guns. Or you have a curiosity about poisons.”
Beverly nodded again. Imelda’s thoughts weren’t all that unrealistic, but she was as paranoid as her ex. Beverly said, “You sound like my ex-boyfriend. He hated everything computer.”
“Ex-boyfriend, huh? I’ve got plenty of those myself.”
“Let’s face it, it’s hard to find a good man.”
“Whatever a good man is. Good can mean different things, can’t it? Good as in rich, good as in sex, good as in letting you do your thing and not asking any questions.”
“Pick any two, right?”
Imelda laughed derisively. “Pick any one. They’re all mutually exclusive. Take my ex-husband, for example. He was good at being rich.”
“You do have a nice home, Mrs. Forsythe.”
“Thanks to a prenup, I got a nice stash, but it wasn’t enough to buy this place. One of my ex-boyfriends was good at investing and gave me some helpful advice.”
“Prenups are essential. You were smart to go that route.”
“You bet your life, I was. Oh, I didn’t divorce Reggie for the money, I mean I knew he was a crook. But I didn’t care about that when I married him. I wanted his money.”
“You haven’t remarried?”
“I’ve had my share of men, but why should I hurry? Besides, men are my favorite sport.”
“You say you knew your husband was a crook. Wasn’t it taking a chance to marry someone like that?”
Imelda took a puff on her cigarette and made a perfectly round smoke ring. “I hate boring. And that’s one thing he wasn’t. If we’d had any neighbors within hearing distance, they would have called the cops on us daily, thanks to our fights.”
Beverly was beginning to see that Imelda was a match for Reggie Forsythe in more ways than one. Those fights between them must have been fun to see. She murmured a hopefully sympathetic, “Hmm.”
Imelda was good at smoke rings, puffing out two in rapid succession before she added, “I have no idea what all Reggie was into. Who knows? As long as I got my baubles and vacays, I couldn’t care less.”
“Surely, nothing too evil? I mean, you impress me as being savvy. You would have noticed something like that.”
“Reggie was capable of anything. I wouldn’t put it past him to have killed someone. He did have a cruel streak. Possibly with psychopathic undertones. That’s what my therapist said, right before he asked me out on a date.” Imelda smirked.
“Must be an interesting family, the Forsythes.”
“Oh, his father was all right, I suppose. Had a tender side when he didn’t know you were looking. Who knows? If his first wife hadn’t divorced him, things might have been different. I don’t think he ever got over that.”
That comment brought Beverly up short. But Grammie had to divorce him, she couldn’t have stayed with such a man. Could she? For the first time, Beverly stopped to think that perhaps her grandmother had an indirect hand in pushing Forsythe senior into his downward spiral. Had he truly loved her? Did the act of her leaving devastate him?
Imelda picked up a brass bell on the mantel. It resembled a Buddhist temple bell and had a dark shimmer as she rang it. On cue, the maid who’d greeted Beverly entered the room, her eyes still downcast as she approached Imelda. She stopped three feet in front of her mistress as if an imaginary line were drawn on the floor.
Imelda barked at the maid, “Palma, did you lay out the extra riding hats and gloves for our guests?”
“I was just going to start on that, Madam.”
Imelda scowled. “Oh, for god’s sake, I reminded you about that yesterday. The guests will be arriving in an hour. Drop whatever else it is you’re doing and get on it. Right now.”
Palma bowed. “Yes, Madam.”
Imelda took another puff on the cigarette and blew smoke in Palma’s face. Beverly doubted it was accidental. After Palma curtsied and fled the room, Imelda pulled the last of the cigarette and threw it into the fireplace. “They say good help is hard to find. That woman is insufferable. Botches such a trivial task as that.”
Beverly fought the impulse to slap Imelda right then. But she needed to ask some real estate questions if she hoped to protect her cover story. Plus, it would help get her mind off the tears she’d seen in Palma’s eyes.
Imelda was an excellent interviewee and witty at times as she talked about the houses in the area. Beverly dutifully wrote everything down. Who knows? She could try to sell the article at a future date.
When she estimated she’d given it enough effort to look realistic, she closed the notepad. “I know you have guests coming, so I don’t want to overstay my welcome. My next project should be writing a profile of your ex-husband. Maybe I’ll get a Pulitzer for investigative reporting.”
Beverly said it with a smile as if joking, but Imelda looked thoughtful. She replied, “If you need to dig up dirt on the man, you should look up one of his former associates. Had a Greek name. Xenakis, I think. And one other, Kannan Hendrick. If you want to find him, he’s in Hartford at 101 Blessing Road.”
Imelda laughed. “Now, there was a man who had no sense. Guess that’s why he ended up where he did.”
Beverly thanked her again and headed out into the crisp air that felt a few degrees colder than when she’d arrived. Snow would soon fall on the mountains in and around Woodstock, which the ski resorts were no doubt hoping for.
Beverly had never been a fan of snow. Pretty, yes. But its cold beauty only masked the hardened landscape of muck and withered grass lying underneath. A lot like Imelda Forsythe.
