Authors: Jane Stanton Hitchcock
I explained the whole thing to Gunner again, told him what a tyrant old Mr. Bolton was and how Rainy Bolton was the toughest thing in toe shoes.
“Look, the Boltons wanted their only son to marry someone very substantial. Rainy Bolton mistrusts women who don’t have certain credentials. That’s why they didn’t like me. Rainy thought I was frivolous. But they
adored
Violet. Violet was this perfect combination of innocence and worthiness and ambition. She worshipped Grant, and she would let him be the star. If he’d married me,
I
would have been the star, darling!”
“Even if you do say so yourself,” Gunner snickered.
“I’m kidding! But I was way too racy for old Grant. He’s the biggest prig. At least he
was
up until recently. Back then, the last thing he wanted was a girl with a past,
believe
me. Violet was like the freaking Virgin Mary. And so worthy—unlike
moi
.”
“You’re not worthy?”
“I’m too chic and cynical to be worthy.”
“But Violet’s worthy?”
“God, yes! Read those ‘Class Notes.’ Violet went to law school. She did pro bono work for the Indians. She lobbied for the environment. She’s one of those pure people. She was absolutely right for Grant, and I knew it the minute I saw her. Of course, now he’s completely derailed with Cynthia. But, frankly, I don’t see how that can last. Not now—not with all this terrible publicity. That woman’s in a world of trouble. And when the going gets tough, trust me, Grant Bolton will get going!”
“So how come you never wrote in to tell people what you were up to?”
I really didn’t feel like going into the whole failed-princess thing with Gunner, so I simply said, “I guess I was just too busy living.”
He closed the booklet. “Any more Bob Poll sightings?”
“Actually, yes. I ran into him at the Otanni Embassy.”
“How was that?”
“I don’t know. He’s weird. He doesn’t seem too happy, though.”
“No? How come?”
“I don’t think he likes married life. And I don’t care…. What’s happening with Maxwell? I never hear about him anymore.”
“He’s going through the process. Enjoying his grisly fame. Playing games.”
“What kinds of games?”
“Still not confessing to everything. Kinda hinting someone else was involved in bashing in the skulls of innocent girls and violating them. That’s his power now—his sick, controlling little piece of power in this world.”
“Oh, my God. So do you think Bob Poll could be involved after all?”
Gunner hesitated. “Look, Reven, I need to talk to you.”
“What have we been doing?”
“In private.”
“About the crimes?”
Gunner stood up from the couch. “I’ll call you.”
“I’ve missed you, Gunner.”
“By the way, how’s your senator?” he asked as he was leaving.
“Well, I’m happy you’re keeping tabs on me, even if you don’t call. He’s fine.”
“Tell Violet I said good-bye. Happy reunion.”
I sat there wondering what Gunner wanted to talk to me about. Was Violet right? Could Bob Poll possibly have been involved in these crimes in some way?
Moments later, Violet swept into the room, wearing a chic purple dress and a white patent leather belt—the perfect outfit for this reunion. She looked at me and said, “Well, that was Grant. He wants to come home.”
“Told ya!” I leaped up from the sofa and clapped my hands. “That’s such great news!”
“Where’s Gunner?”
“He had to go. He said to say good-bye. So Grant’s coming back with his tail between his legs. You must be so happy.”
“I guess.”
“Oh, come on!”
“He’s behaved so horribly. Humiliated me in front of the whole entire world.”
“A second ago you were dying for him to come back. What did he say?”
Violet explained how the Corinna Huff article on Cynthia had sent Grant and his parents into a tailspin. Rainy was now denouncing Cynthia, and Mr. Bolton Sr. feared for the integrity of the bank. Grant admitted to Violet on the phone that he was embarrassed to be seen with Cynthia now that her ethics were coming into question. But he assured Violet that the relationship had been souring in any case.
“I asked him if he’d been looking for me at the Otanni Embassy, like Nouria thought. He said he was. He even admitted that his parents were urging him to go back to me to try and patch things up for the good of the bank and everything.”
“Did they mention Tee at all?”
“Not really. I think they’re more concerned about the bank at this point because of the publicity.”
Was ever a family more concerned with their public image, I wondered?
“Well, I’m sure Tee will be happy,” I said pointedly.
“Let’s hope. Grant’s calling him today. He told me Tee didn’t like Cynthia. Thought she was a big phony, even though she tried to bribe him with an iPhone and a lot of other stuff.”
Curiously enough, Violet didn’t seem nearly as elated as I imagined she would be.
“This is what you’ve been praying for. Aren’t you thrilled?” I said.
“I guess,” she replied with an uncertain little smile. “Why does it suddenly feel like such a letdown?”
“Because you’re in shock. Come on, have a glass of wine and relax. You won!”
As far as I was concerned, Grant’s timing was perfect. Violet could now reclaim her top perch as Mrs. Grant Bolton Jr., the reigning queen of our class. I was happy for her. Honestly. Well, maybe a little envious—but mainly happy.
Maureen came in and announced that the first two guests had arrived. Violet and I took deep breaths and prepared ourselves for the trip down memory lane.
Here’s the thing: you don’t know how old you are by looking in the mirror. You know how old you are by looking at your high school classmates twenty-five years later. I thought I looked really good for my age until I saw what my age actually was. Nobody looks great after forty. We just look better or worse than other people our age.
Every time the doorbell rang, I braced myself for another shock. It was touching how we’d all made an effort to look our best. Still, a few of the girls were totally unrecognizable to me. Twenty-five years is a longer time when you call it what it really is: a quarter of a century, five years more than a whole generation. I kept thinking that some of these girls looked old enough to be my mother. And then I realized we
all
looked old enough to be our mothers, because we
were
old enough to be our mothers!
Many of the women had let themselves go completely. I didn’t even recognize the once perky and athletic Jenny Tilbert, our class correspondent. The former lacrosse team captain and basketball star had gotten fat and let her hair go gray. Oddly enough, she didn’t seem to care. In fact, she seemed more at ease with herself than the few of us who still wore a size eight. Her face had a disconcerting serenity to it.
I sat down beside her on the sofa, and we talked as Jenny wolfed down ginger snaps between sips of tea. Poor Jenny hadn’t had an easy
time of it, though she seemed to take hardship in stride. Divorced for a number of years, she lived alone in a small apartment in Providence and worked part-time for the admissions director of Wheelock. Her two children lived in another state and only visited her on holidays. She said that keeping tabs on our classmates was the highlight of her life.
She told me about some of the girls who couldn’t make it to the reunion. Just out of curiosity, and because I still felt guilty, I said casually, “By the way, Jen, do you know whatever became of Mary Lou Lindsay?”
Jenny got this horrified look on her face and whispered, “She went to
jail
!”
“What? You’re kidding!”
“No. Isn’t that the
worst
? A Wheelock girl in prison!” she said with a shudder. “I think she’s the first in the whole hundred-and-fifteen-year history of the school.”
“Wait! Violet’s got to hear this!” I said.
I dragged Violet away from the little group she was showing off the Tiffany tea service to and sat her down between me and Jenny on the sofa. I ordered Jenny to repeat what she’d just told me.
“Well,” Jenny began, in the breathy voice of a born gossip, “your old nemesis, Mary Lou Lindsay? She went to jail for check kiting.”
Violet shrugged. “I always knew she’d come to a bad end.”
“How’d you find out?” I asked Jenny.
Jenny told us that the school had been notified because Mary Lou wanted to get her high school equivalency diploma in prison, and she needed to find out what her credit situation was for the courses.
“Mrs. Lindsay, her mother, wrote a scathing letter to Dean Trowbridge saying that all Mary Lou’s misfortunes in life were on account of her having been unjustly expelled from Wheelock! She said that if they hadn’t kicked Mary Lou out, she would have gone to college like all the other girls, instead of becoming a felon! Or words to that effect. Isn’t that just too tragic?! A Wheelock girl in jail! I didn’t dare put it in the ‘Class Notes.’ It’s just too
too
…!” Jenny talked in exclamations, just like she wrote.
Violet sat there with a sullen expression on her face. I wondered if now she felt some remorse for having planted that bottle of gin. It sure didn’t seem that way. In fact, she said primly, “Mrs. Lindsay
should blame her daughter, not the school.”
“True. Mary Lou was such a bully,” Jenny agreed. “Do you think I should put it in the ‘Class Notes’ as a caution to us all?”
I thought of my own unfortunate role in Mary’s Lou’s derailment.
“I don’t know. I think it’s sad…. So whatever happened to her?” I asked.
“No idea,” Jenny shrugged. “Needless to say, she never wrote in to me…. Just like you, Reven, you bad girl!” Jenny shook her finger at me. “Why have we never heard a peep from you in all these years? I trust
you
haven’t been in jail!” She laughed.
“Not that much to write about, I guess,” I muttered.
“Now, that can’t be true! Every story is interesting, no matter how boring it is!” That sentence was pure Jenny. She turned to Violet and said, “But you’re my star, of course. You’ve allowed me to share your exemplary life with your classmates over the years, and I want you to know how much I appreciate it. You’ve been an inspiration to us all! It just goes to show, you can never predict how people will turn out in the end.”
Toward the end of the party, who should walk in but Grant. He looked a little stunned to see his living room filled with chattering middle-aged women. Violet rushed over to him, threaded her arm through his, and marched him around the room, showing him off to all the women.
“This is my husband, Grant Bolton,” she said, over and over, as if she were claiming him back with each introduction.
When they reached me, Violet said excitedly, “Look who’s here, Rev!”
“Welcome home,” I said.
Never one to show emotion, Grant managed a facial twitch meant, I supposed, to be a smile. We both understood why he was back, though neither of us was going to say it. He seemed resigned, like a prisoner moving to a different jail.
The reunion made me sad in a way. Not only did it remind me how quickly life goes by, it made me realize that the thoughtless little things we do can have dire consequences. I couldn’t stop thinking about Mary Lou Lindsay, wondering if her life would have turned out
differently had Violet not planted that bottle of gin in her locker, and I not reported her. I even thought about trying to get in touch with her. But I realized that an apology would be futile. The damage was done. We’d all moved on.
G
rant offered to make things up to Violet in a big way. He arranged to take her to Europe for a reconciliation trip.
“We’re going first class, and we’re staying in five-star hotels. Can you believe it?” she said.
I couldn’t. For a skinflint like Grant, this offer of luxury was the equivalent of a belly-crawl to Lourdes, penitence of a profound nature.
Back on top of the world, Violet now took out her animosity on those who had ignored her when she was down rather than on Grant himself. But she saved the cobra venom for Cynthia. She vowed to “bury Cynthia Rinehart,” if it was the last thing she ever did. And I believed her. I wouldn’t have wanted to tangle with Violet when she was mad, not after what she told me about planting that bottle of gin. There were layers to that girl I was only just beginning to fathom. However, it looked as if Cynthia was going to bury herself before Violet ever got a hold of a shovel.
The aftershocks from Corinna Huff’s article just kept coming. Senator Pomador, one of the leading figures on Cynthia’s board, was indicted for accepting substantial gifts without reporting them. Indicting a senior senator—particularly one as popular and distinguished as Pomador—is no small matter. Cynthia rallied to his defense, of course. But people wondered if some of the gifts he was accused of taking had come from her.
Senator Grider announced that the Finance Committee would begin hearings to discuss financial abuses by nonprofits, and that those hearings would lead to stricter laws governing the operation of foundations and other tax-exempt institutions.
Grider issued this statement: “The laws governing nonprofits have received no serious scrutiny since the 1960s. Over the years, a growing number of people have used tax-exempt entities to fund lavish lifestyles for themselves and their friends rather than doling out the money to the people who actually deserve it. This committee intends to recommend that charity does
not
begin at home.”
The first witness scheduled to appear before the Finance Committee was Cynthia Rinehart.
The weekend before the hearings began, the Huffs gave one of their famous parties. This one was to celebrate the twenty-first birthday of their only daughter, Daphne. Daphne Huff, a studious and amiable young woman, was heiress to one of the great names in politics. Barkley Huff had been an intimate friend of Gay Harding and all the hostesses in the old Georgetown set. In his day, this witty and patrician man had navigated some exceptionally murky political waters with probity and skill. He never lost that strong sense of righteousness that can so easily fade in politicians who hold high office for a long period of time—Senator Pomador being the current case in point. In that way, Huff reminded me a little of Grider. However, Barkley Huff was known for his charm and an appealingly self-deprecating sense of humor—unlike Grider, who was more like a hunk of peanut brittle until you got to know him. Recently, Huff had resigned his Senate seat in order to write a memoir he facetiously entitled
Huff Puffing.
Corinna Huff was the perfect foil for her urbane, easygoing husband. Acid-tongued, irreverent, and judgmental, Corinna ruffled feathers easily. Yet she was a lot of fun to be around, especially if you liked hearing the latest gossip tinctured with her sharp, venomous insights.
In many ways, the Huffs’ parties were what Gay Harding’s parties had once been—a mix of high-level people from all walks of Washington life: politicians, Supreme Court justices, top brass, writers, artists, famous Washington personalities, and, of course, the media
elite. These gatherings were larger and glitzier than Mrs. Harding’s, in keeping with the larger, glitzier spirit of the times. Corinna occupied the throne that Cynthia had once set her cap for and never attained, despite having bought Mrs. Harding’s old house.
Grider picked me up at my house. I asked him about Senator Pomador who was on the news smiling and denying all the accusations. Oh, those tombstone teeth! Cemetery row. Grider seemed genuinely sad about his colleague’s troubles.
“Pomador used to be a good man. He just let his sense of entitlement get in the way of his judgment. When you’re a public servant, you gotta be extra careful not to lose sight of the reason the voters put you there. You’re supposed to be doing them a service, not yourself.”
“How does this affect Cynthia Rinehart?” I asked him. “He was on her board.”
“I can’t see that it helps either of them,” he said.
It was a balmy fall night, and we strolled to the Huffs’ on N Street, only a few blocks away. Their Federal-style brick house, built in the nineteenth century and added onto in later years, was a perfect place for large parties. The entertainment rooms were airy and spacious, with high ceilings, unlike period Federal houses, which tended to be cramped and dark.
Corinna, Barkley, and their daughter Daphne were standing near the front door, greeting guests as they entered. The minute Corinna saw Grider, she broke away from the receiving line and pulled him off into a corner, where the two of them embarked on what looked to me like an agitated discussion. I wandered off into the crowd by myself in search of a friendly face. I saw Peggy and Rolly Myers across the room. They were engrossed in serious conversation with Stephanie Baker, a charter member of what Violet called the “gloom and doom” brigade. Stephanie was a worthy woman who somehow felt obliged to remind people of impending world disasters, particularly when they were having fun. I didn’t want to interrupt.
Unfortunately, it was one of those parties where no one wants to talk to someone who is less famous than they are, so there is a constant swirl of expectation coupled with dissatisfaction. The few conversations I had were diluted by the conversant’s inability to look me in the eye when we were talking. People kept glancing over my shoulder in an effort to see if anyone more important was coming
into view and possibly available for a chat. This grew a trifle wearing. I headed out into the garden, where a huge striped tent sheltered dozens of round tables set for dinner. With candles flickering in the darkness, it looked like a field of tiny campfires on the eve of battle.
No one was around except a waiter filling up the water glasses and a man sitting alone at a table in the shadows.
“Reven! That you?” he called out. I recognized his voice. It was Bob Poll.
I gave him a tepid little wave.
“C’mon over and talk to me! There’s too much shock and awe in there! It’s a lot friendlier out here.”
There’s never any harm in being polite, so I walked over for a chat.
“Siddown, siddown,” he said, patting the white folding chair beside him. He poured himself a drink from a half-empty bottle of vodka and offered me one. I declined.
“So…no chocolate fountains here, unfortunately—just hard liquor. How’s the antiques business these days?”
“Fine. How’s married life?”
“I wouldn’t know. Mel and I are separated.” I have to say I was surprised.
He raised his glass, toasted the air, drained what was left, and poured himself another. “Happens to me all the time,” he went on. “Happened to me with my first wife. Married her when I should’ve divorced her. Happened again with Mel. No hard feelings. Just hard cash—although Mel’s not greedy,” he said with a bitter laugh.
“I’m sorry.” I wasn’t.
“Why? I’m a free man again. But you’re not a free woman, from what I hear…. Still going out with Senator Grimface?”
I stood up. “It’s been nice talking to you, Bob—”
“Hold on! Whereya goin’? Did I say something offensive? If I did, I ’pologize. Siddown.”
“I have to get back.”
I turned to go. He grabbed my hand. His face looked demonic in the candlelight, or maybe I just thought that because of what Violet and Gunner had said about him possibly being involved in the murders.
“She was such a pretty girl….”
I looked at him quizzically. “Who?”
“You…you’re a pretty girl.”
“You said ‘she.’” I pulled my hand away.
“Oh. Did I? I meant you…. You wanna know what people should never be allowed to do?”
“What?”
“Get old.”
“Why not?”
“Because they just shouldn’t. We should all live fast, die young, and leave a beautiful corpse…. Never mind. You’re too young to remember that.”
He frightened me a little. I was anxious to get away.
“See you,” I said, leaving.
“You will, you know! You’ll see me! When you least expect it, you’re elected! It’s your lucky day! Remember that one?
Candid Camera
?”
I hurried back inside the house. Grider ambled over to me.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Just getting some air.”
“Mind if we scoot along outta here?” he said.
“If you like.”
“They’re not serving dinner for another hour, and I have a big day tomorrow. What say you come over to my house for a bite? My housekeeper left me a nice roast chicken and some salad. I’ll cook you up some grits—my specialty.”
Grider lived in a compact Queen Anne Revival house in Cleveland Park. It had a small turret and a wide front porch with two rocking chairs and a swing. He admitted he hadn’t changed a stick of furniture since his wife died, and it looked like she hadn’t changed a stick during the entire twenty years they’d lived there. The faded curtains, exposed extension cords, and worn carpets discolored in spots from ancient dog urine were the hallmarks of a shabby gentility that scorned the idea of replacing old, worn things. It was a house that relied on memory, mistrusting change of any kind, a house that ignored the passage of time and its effects, clinging to the belief that what had once been good would always be good, no matter how it appeared now.
I hated it. I wanted to torch the place and redo it from top to bot
tom. Naturally, I didn’t tell that to Grider. Not only did he seem unaware of its shabby state, he was actually proud of the old homestead.
“If Flora had to re-cover anything, she always used the same exact fabric. She was a woman who knew her mind.”
The living room was antimacassar hell. Those crocheted white dirt catchers, yellowing from age, were draped over the backs and arms of every piece of upholstered furniture. A batch of family photographs populated a mahogany credenza against the wall. The largest one, front and center, was a picture of Grider and his late wife in their younger days. They reminded me of Grant Wood’s famous painting
American Gothic.
They dared the viewer to challenge their lack of humor.
Grider fixed us a nice little dinner made from his housekeeper’s leftovers. He also made me grits, as promised. They were quite delicious.
“I thought grits were a southern dish,” I said.
“Neighbor of ours in Omaha was originally from Rock Hill, South Carolina. He taught Flora how to make ’em. But hers were so awful I had to learn how to make ’em myself.”
We ate in the little breakfast nook, just off the kitchen with its ancient linoleum floor. He offered me a glass of the sherry he kept on hand for company. It tasted foul, but I drank it anyway. I was a little nervous, being there alone with him so late at night. I’d been to the house before, but just to pick him up, and never for any length of time. I hoped he wasn’t going to pounce on me and ruin a lovely friendship.
“Corinna seemed very anxious to talk to you tonight,” I said as we ate.
“Yup. She had some very interesting information for me. Sharp as a tack, that girl is.”
I waited for him to elaborate. When he just kept eating, I said, “Can you share it, as they say?”
“Nope. Well…I shouldn’t. Senate business. But I s’pose it can’t do any harm, since you’ll find out about it tomorrow anyway.”
He took a swig of milk, which left a thin white mustachio on his upper lip.
“You have a mustachio,” I said, pointing to my own lip.
He quickly wiped it off with his napkin. “See now, some gals
woulda just ignored that. Then I woulda looked in the mirror later on and felt like a damn fool. But you take care of me.”
He stared at me with cow eyes.
I cleared my throat. “So what did Corinna have to say?” That broke the spell.
“Well, see, the Rinehart gal, who’s testifying before us tomorrow? She fired her lawyer.”
“Is that significant?”
Grider guffawed. “I’ll say. She’s hired some tough son of a gun from Billgood and Connors. You don’t hire Billgood and Connors unless you’re expecting some nasty litigation.”
“So you think she’s worried?”
“If she ain’t, she oughta be.”
“Grant left her none too soon, I guess.”
“So he went back to his wife, eh?”
“Yup. They’re in Europe as we speak. The reconciliation tour.”
“He should never have left her to begin with,” Grider said. “Marriage is a sacred state and should be respected as such.”
“I take it you don’t believe in divorce?”
“Nope. I think once you make a commitment, that’s it. You stick with it, no matter what the consequences.”
“You’re a better man than I am, Gunga-Din.”
“Know that film, do you? Cary Grant—one of my favorite actors. Never won an Oscar. Anyway, I don’t say other people have to think like I do. No law against divorce. People only have to think like I do where the law is involved.”
“Like Cynthia Rinehart.”
“Exactly…. Like to talk to you about something else, if I may.”
“Sure.”
“Let’s clear the dishes and go into the parlor.”
I loved that he called it the parlor. Grider and I sat on the couch—or the settee, as he said. He didn’t look at me. He stared straight ahead through the lace-curtained windows out at the black night, tapping his foot nervously as he spoke.
“Went fishing back home last week, and realized I’m out of practice,” he began.
If ever there was a conversation stopper, that was it.
“Really? You didn’t catch anything?” I said, feigning an interest
just to be polite.
“Nope. Made me think of us.”
“Oh?”
“You and I have been keeping company for some time now,” he went on. “We’ve both had a good look-see at each other, and I’d like to get some idea where we’re headed.”