The parlor was crowded by the time Jeff arrived for afternoon tea. He worked his way through the knots of chattering people, picking up stray words as he went along that told him the deaths were the main topic of conversation.
He had changed into olive slacks and shirt, a sport coat in linen, and a vintage silk tie in muted shades of olive, ivory, black, and wine in a pattern that put one in mind of Havana palms and Panama hats. The cuff links, gold cigars with enameled bands, were from the forties.
He decided to find Brookner before Brookner found him. That way he could unload all the information he’d come up with and, he hoped, unload his mind a little so he could enjoy the festival for a few hours.
He checked the interrogation room, but the door was closed. There was a window looking out onto the hallway from the small office. The vertical blinds weren’t completely closed, and Jeff could see the female cop, Mel Littlefield, talking to a staff member. He’d heard political correctness was seeping into some departments and that the term interview room was now being used. When he observed the stocky Indian woman in action, however, he decided interrogation wasn’t an endangered species in this neck of the woods.
She saw him then and came out the door. “Don’t you look sharp.” She eyed him up and down. “Just like the new Kevin Spacey.”
“New?”
“Yep. He musta got himself one of those Hollywood stylists. Dresses really snazzy now.”
“Well, thanks. I think. He looks to me like a middle-aged guy with a receding hairline and jowls like a Basset hound.”
“Not with those sexy eyes and new duds, he don’t. You make me want to go home and watch L.A. Confidential or something.”
He started to ask what the ‘or something’ might be, but he let it pass. Sometimes he missed the playful office banter that those in law enforcement relied upon. It was a vital way of maintaining sanity against the daily doses of stress and death.
She sighed. “Won’t be watching movies tonight, though. This case is moving along just like the traffic around here: mighty slow, with a lot of stops for horseshit.”
Jeff laughed. “Don’t let me slow you down, then. I’m looking for Brookner. He around?”
“Should be back soon. Tell me where you’ll be, and I’ll have him look you up.”
“The Parlor, miss, for afternoon tea.” He pantomimed drinking with his pinkie extended.
“You’re makin’ me hungry for scones, Mr. Talbot.” She curtsied and headed back into the interrogation room.
Long stretches of tables were placed end to end in the Parlor and dressed in crisp white linen. Pedestaled crystal cake stands and silver trays and compotes held a feast of delicacies: pastries, sandwiches, fruits. He thought of Sheila and how much she would appreciate the artistry. Suddenly, he realized that every time he saw a particularly stylized presentation of food, he thought of Sheila. What was I like before her?
He tried to remember. After a moment, he realized that no answer came to him. He simply couldn’t recall life before Sheila. His adult life, anyway. His emotional life. His life as a man.
Easily enough, he remembered growing up with Auntie Pim and Grandfather after his parents were killed. The older Talbots had taught him about high tea and etiquette and proper dress for a gentleman. That was how antiques had first gotten into his blood. The house was full of them, things that were passed down from one generation to the next. And each generation had been taught to respect those heirlooms, to appreciate the history behind them, to keep them in the family. Early on, Jeff had begun adding to those collections and acquiring the accoutrements needed to carry out those rituals.
He’d started with grooming brushes, handsome sets that included brushes for hair, clothing, hats, boots. He had complete sets in every material imaginable: ebony, a wood with such heft it would sink in water; tortoise, so alive with character that he believed if he gripped it just so he could feel the pulse of the body behind the shell; carved horn and ivory; monogrammed sterling.
Silver clinked, snapping Jeff back to reality.
The general mood of this afternoon’s tea crowd was subdued, compared to the gaiety of the previous night’s cocktail party. The deaths had obviously had their effect on everyone.
When a server offered him a cup of tea, he asked instead for coffee. The server’s brows raised ever so slightly, but he moved a gloved hand to another pot and poured. Jeff glared at the man, debating whether to ask why he had coffee if he was going to judge those drinking it. In the end, however, he decided not to waste his energy. He took two hefty drinks, prompted the waiter to refill the cup, and made his way across the room.
Ben and Jennifer Hurst were standing near the main entrance, looking as if they had just stepped out of The Great Gatsby. Jeff started to approach them, then held back. The two were lost in conversation, obviously in love, oblivious to the room full of people. They stood so physically close that each might have drunk from the other’s cup as easily and deftly as his or her own. They fit like custom-made kid leather gloves, conforming to the unique shape of the hands for which they were crafted, gripping the thin, delicate web of skin between the fingers.
Ben’s heather gray vintage trousers and buttoned vest put Jeff in mind of a young Robert Redford. A glittering gold watch chain hammocked loosely across his flat stomach. An ivory shirt, gold cuff links, and saddle oxfords in tan and brown finished the 1930s effect.
Jennifer wore a flowing dress in black printed with tiny pink tea roses. Its flared hem fluttered about her shapely calves in the breeze slipstreaming through the open doors. Her shoes were of black brocade with those chunky little hourglass heels. A tiny bag, beaded with jets, hung on her arm, and a vintage black cloche hid her eyes in profile.
Jeff reddened, feeling suddenly voyeuristic and very alone. He turned to leave.
As if she sensed him, Jennifer pivoted and called his name.
He turned back.
She smiled and motioned him over. “Where have you been hiding yourself?”
Jennifer slipped her arm through his, and he was surprised at how comfortable he felt with the simple gesture that meant he was being included.
Ben gave Jeff’s arm a slap. “We were afraid the local yokels had detained you.”
“You may be closer to the truth than you realize.” Jeff wondered then if the couple tended to be alone most of the time because people viewed them as unapproachable. They were the kind many judged upon first meeting as snobbish, pretentious, spoiled. Jeff was ashamed to admit that he’d leaned that way, too, in the beginning, even though he was totally comfortable with himself in social situations. Now, he almost felt sorry for the couple who came off as aloof merely because of their outer beauty. The Hursts were simply the sort of people who were comfortable with themselves. They seized life, making the best of all it had to offer. Others blamed people like Ben and Jennifer for their own failure at being able to adopt that positive attitude toward living. Filled with animosity, they either reacted with a snobbishness all their own or secretly envied them, proclaiming that they, too, would be like the Hursts once they moved up the corporate ladder or lost weight or married into money so as to afford the nip-and-tuck-and-sculpt-and-tan approach to popularity. Jeff believed the Hursts’ appearances were simply the blessing of good genes.
Jennifer looked from Jeff to her husband, then back. “We were just reveling in the good fortune that we’re alive and have each other. You’ve no doubt heard about Edward.” Her tone indicated genuine sorrow.
“Yes. Hard to believe.”
“Impossible to believe is more like it,” Ben said. “We don’t buy into this suicide story. And no note? Come on.”
“Did you attend his seminar this morning?” Jennifer asked. “Edward was his usual, charismatic self. It’s beyond my comprehension to think he would suddenly take his own life after that.”
“It was a powerful session,” Jeff agreed, not wanting to share his feelings that it, like Davenport’s dinner performance the evening before, seemed a little over the top. “I suppose anything’s possible, but you’re right about the note. It’s never easy to buy into suicide if there’s no indication as to why. I’m sure the police are checking on his family situation.”
“There’s not one, that we know of. Edward’s always been a loner.” Ben paused. “But let’s face it. The police said that that Hamilton guy was killed. What if someone killed Edward, too?”
“It’s something to consider. I’m sure the police haven’t ruled it out.”
“I would hope they haven’t,” Jennifer said. “Especially without a suicide note. Don’t you think there would’ve been something to indicate why he did it? If he did it?”
Jeff finished his coffee. “You never know about some people. That’s the only certainty when dealing with something like this. But to answer your question, yes. There’s usually a clue as to why someone ends it like that.”
“It’s beginning to get scary.” Jennifer moved closer to Ben. “Do you think we’re safe staying here?”
Ben embraced her. “Sweetheart, if I thought we were in any danger, we’d leave right now. But I really think this is just some bizarre coincidence. Besides, the hotel has added extra security—something they didn’t even have to do, what with all the cops around. We’ll just stick together like we’d planned, okay?”
Jeff started to say something but paused when he saw Trudy Blessing weaving her way around small groups of people on the porch.
Crouched as she was, with her arms up and shoulders hunched, she looked as if she were sneaking through enemy lines. She maneuvered the last group and started through the doorway, then stopped abruptly. A look of fear clouded her face behind the large glasses, as if she’d just stumbled upon the battlefield itself.
“Trudy?” Jeff called.
She jumped, looked at him, then started to turn, but not before Ben and Jennifer turned toward her.
Trudy gasped, then went pale. She murmured something—Jeff thought it was his name—but the look on her face and the sound of her voice both indicated confusion. She staggered, then turned and bolted.
“Trudy!” Jeff ran after her.
She moved faster than he expected. When he finally caught up to her, she was halfway down the hill that led away from the hotel. “Trudy, what the hell was that all about? You start to say my name, then you just run away? What’s wrong?”
Trudy stopped, turned to face him. “No, Mr. Talbot.”
As many times as he had asked her to call him Jeff, she’d always addressed him as Mr. Talbot. It didn’t add up.
“Not your name.” Trudy looked past him. “Hers.”
Jeff spun around. He found himself face to face with Jennifer Hurst.