Authors: Elizabeth Adler
As he devoured the eggs and home fries, he thought that if she would only share the rest of her secrets with him, she might be a happier woman, and he would certainly be a happier man.
He called several times that day and left messages. He couldn’t get her at the office—they said she was out. And no, she could not be reached. He called her in the evening and got the machine again.
“Listen,” he said, exasperated, “you’re so damned elusive, I’m running out of coins for the pay phones. I wanted to ask you about that date. You remember, the one we were supposed to have?
“I know this may sound a bit sudden, but it’s my mother’s birthday on Friday, and she’s having a party. Of course I have to go, and I was wondering whether you might like to come with me. It’s a bit soon to spring the whole family on you, but you’ve already met my dog, so you may as well meet the rest, and then you’ll really know everything about me.
“I thought maybe afterward I’d take you to a little club I know, and one or two other places. Then the next day we could take a drive out to Vermont. I have a cabin there, in the mountains. We could get in a little hiking, spend the night. No strings. Honest,” he added with a grin. “Call me, Ms. Malone, ma’am, if you would.
Please
. I’ll be home after nine this evening. With a bit of luck.
“Oh, by the way, did you catch the photo-fit on the networks? The bastard is a serial killer after all.”
Harry got more news from the crime lab that day. The sweater was a Scottish label, Pringle, that had been sold at Neiman-Marcus in Boston. It was a single-ply black cashmere turtleneck and had cost $365. The sweaters had sold well and had never been reduced and placed in a sale. Unfortunately the store had not stocked them for a couple of years, and they had no record of who might have purchased it.
“Our man is definitely well-heeled, Rossetti,” Harry said that night over a beer at the Sevens pub on Charles Street. In fact, Harry was the one drinking the beer. Rossetti had ordered a vodka martini—shaken, not stirred, and with an onion, not an olive.
Harry threw him a sideways glance. “You think you’re James Bond tonight, Rossetti, or what?”
“You’re behind the times, Prof. Martinis are what the smart set are drinking these days. Women like ’em, y’know. They think they’re glamorous.”
“Whatever happened to the glass of white wine?”
Rossetti laughed. “That’s what I mean. You’re behind the times. You haven’t even caught up to margaritas yet. What are you gonna offer Malone if she ever takes you up on that date?”
“Champagne,” he said. “It suits us both.” He wondered if she had called him back, and whether they were destined to miss each other’s calls and never actually speak to each other again. He had meant to go home and get an
early night, but Rossetti wanted him to meet his new girlfriend.
“My new woman,” Rossetti corrected him. “And here she is now.” He adjusted the knot in his yellow silk tie, smoothing back his hair with both hands.
The woman threading her way to the bar was petite, dark-haired, very young, and very pretty. Rossetti grabbed her possessively by the hand, deposited a kiss on her mouth, then slid his arm around her shoulders, drawing her forward.
“Vanessa,” he said proudly, “I’d like you to meet my buddy on the force. His name’s Harry and he usually comes with a sidekick by the name of Squeeze, except they don’t allow dogs in here. And anyhow, Squeeze is too good for this joint.”
She laughed at him. “What about me, then?”
“You’re too good for almost every place except heaven,” he said, looking admiringly into her eyes.
“Good to meet you, Harry,” she said, offering her hand. “It’s a pity about Squeeze.”
Harry thought she was nice as well as pretty. “It’s a dog’s life, all right,” he said, taking her hand and holding it to his lips.
Rossetti gave an astonished whistle. “Hey, hey, I’m the Latin lover, remember? Okay, Vanessa. What’ll you have?”
“Perrier with lime, please.”
Rossetti raised an eyebrow, glancing questioningly at the martini.
She said, “Just think how it would look for a cop to be caught purchasing liquor for an underage female.”
He clapped his hand to his forehead. “I forgot! No, I didn’t. I never knew. How long have we been seeing each other?”
“Two weeks.”
“And how old are you—exactly?”
“Twenty-one next month.”
“Great,” he said, relieved. “We’ll have a party. And you can invite Harry. He could use a little social life.”
She measured Harry in a glance. “I think Harry is perfectly capable of finding his own social life. But if there’s a party, he’s welcome to come.”
Harry downed his beer. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Vanessa. I’ll leave you two to work out the party details. It was nice meeting you.”
He said good night, then walked back down the street to where the Jag was parked. Squeeze poked his nose hopefully out of the window, and he took him for a quick walk around the block. He spotted the gunmetal Volvo again and instantly recognized the license number from the hospital parking lot. Boston really was a small town, he thought, noting the name of the restaurant it was parked in front of. You tripped over someone you knew around every corner.
He stopped off at Au Bon Pain and bought a turkey and Swiss on sourdough, remembering the sandwich Mal had fixed for him the other night. Then he drove quickly home and checked the answering machine. It was blinking, and he pushed the play button impatiently.
He smile when he heard her voice.
“Thank you for the invitation, detective,” she said in a tone as brittle as frost on a windowpane. “Unfortunately, I’m planning on being extremely busy this weekend. Just one thing—the photo-fit you left at my place? Was it meant to get you on my show? I suppose the question is irrelevant now, since you have already succeeded in covering every network. Nice work, detective. Just shows it pays to cover all bases.”
He groaned out loud. “Aw, Harry, now look what you’ve done.” He replayed it just to make sure he’d heard right. It sounded even more final than it had the first time.
He stalked gloomily into the kitchen and poured Jim Beam liberally. Chucking in some ice cubes, he paced the floor, taking a slug every now and again, asking himself how he was going to get out of this one.
“What the hell is wrong with her, anyhow, Squeeze?” he demanded. The dog looked back at him, his pale-blue eyes anxious.
“She’s crazy,” Harry said, stalking the perimeter of the kitchen again. “Out of her head. First I ask for her help, and she turns me down, no explanation. Then I ask her for a date, and she acts like I’m an impertinent upstart for even mentioning that I’d like to see her.”
Blazing with anger, he picked up the phone and dialed her home number.
“Hello?” Mal said.
After getting the answering machine for two days, he was stunned into silence.
“Hello?” she said again.
“What the hell do you mean by leaving a message like that?” Harry yelled. “‘Unfortunately you are planning on being extremely busy this weekend.’ What does that mean, Miss Star Malone, ma’am? That you’re pissed off at me for leaving the photo-fit with you? Then why don’t you just say so?”
“I’m saying so,” she yelled back. “Now I’m saying so!”
“Why don’t you tell me what it is about the goddamn picture? Just get it off your chest.”
She clenched the phone tighter and said through gritted teeth, “It’s nothing. And anyhow, it’s nothing to do with you.”
He paced the floor, phone clamped to his ear. “So all this fuss is about nothing, huh? Well, I’ve about had it with your
nothings
, Malone. I asked you for a date, and you accepted. I called—a bit late I admit, because circumstances were against me. But I called. And I invited you for the weekend. Now are you going to come or not?”
Mal was hunched in her favorite chair in front of the fire. She looked at the place at the other side of the coffee table where Harry had sat just the other night, and she remembered how good it had been.
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“Yes … what?” Harry ran his hand through his hair, scowling. He didn’t understand whether she was accepting his invitation or not.
“Yes, please, Harry.”
He held the phone away, he stared at it, then at Squeeze. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He said astonished, I was right, she is crazy. Then he said to her, “You mean it? You’ll really come, Friday?”
“I would like to come, Harry,” she said in a small voice. “I know you must think I’m crazy, but there was something about that picture and it being a serial killer I just couldn’t do it. You don’t need me for that now, anyway.”
“Was that what you thought? That I was using you?”
“Weren’t you?”
“Maybe it started out that way. But not afterward. Not now.”
“I believe you,” Mal said. And she told herself this time she really did.
Harry stopped prowling. He sank into the chair, and Squeeze subsided thankfully onto the floor next to him. There was a smile in his voice again. “Malone, why do we always fight?”
“It’s you. You just seem to rub me the wrong way.”
“Funny, I thought it was you.”
Mal leaned back in her overstuffed rose-patterned chair, feeling the tension in the back of her neck beginning to relent. “Do you think we’ll fight this weekend?”
“Not if I can help it. Do you approve of the itinerary?”
She thought for a minute. “Party, nightclubs, a cabin in the mountains? It may be the most adventurous weekend
I’ve had in a long time.” She curled her bare legs under her, snuggling further into the chair.
“Well, let’s not make too much of it. My mother’s parties are black-tie stuff—all the old die-hard New Englanders—stiff as they come. And the nightclubs are not exactly high-style—more like local hangouts. And the cabin in the mountains is just that—a log cabin. So bring your warm pajamas and your hiking boots.”
“I’ll remember to do that.”
Harry hesitated, uncertain how to phrase it. He didn’t want her to think she was committed to anything just because they were going to be together for the weekend. There was still that unknown element to her that he didn’t yet understand, and he didn’t want to scare her away.
“When I said ‘no strings,’ Mal, I meant it. This is a just-friends weekend.”
“Okay,” she agreed, but he could tell she was laughing. “By the way, what time is the party?”
“Eight, for an eight-thirty dinner. And as my mother told me, that means
prompt
eight o’clock,
prompt
eight thirty. She’s a stickler for punctuality.”
“A woman after my own heart.”
“Mine too, I guess, though not for the punctuality.”
“I’ll be at the Ritz-Carlton,” she said. “I’ll meet you in the bar. Just tell me what time.”
Any stray thoughts that she might want to share his bed quickly disappeared, and he said with a tinge of regret, “At seven, then.”
“Harry.”
Her voice had that purr in it again, and he grinned. “Yeah, Malone?”
“I can’t wait.”
Mal put down the phone, smiling. She felt as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. It wasn’t what she had intended. In fact, she had meant very definitely
not to answer the telephone. But somehow her hand had just reached out and done it. It had had nothing to do with her at all. And she had gotten it all off her chest in a good shouting match.
She laughed, remembering. She was a woman known for her control, but Harry Jordan had a knack for making her lose it. She really couldn’t wait to see what the weekend held.
M
IFFY
J
ORDAN WAS NOT
your average-looking woman and certainly not your usual mother figure. She was tall with good long legs and an elegant body that had barely changed its shape since she was a trim, athletic twenty-one year old and had married Harry’s father. She kept it effortlessly in shape doing the things she had always done as a way of life: sailing, playing tennis, going for long walks, and gardening.
“I’m a low-Maintenance kind of woman,” she told her friends briskly when they inquired jealously how she managed it. “My mother was just the same, and my grandmother. It’s in the Peascott genes.”
The Peascott genes went back a lot of generations to the original settlers of Boston, although it wasn’t something she ever boasted about. It was simply a fact. But when Miffy looked in the mirror in the morning, she always thanked God for the good Peascott bones.
She was about to turn sixty-five years old, yet she had no need of a face-lift. She had been sailing since she was a child—her own father had taught her—and those lines around her eyes from squinting into the sun and the wind were her personal reminders of a happy life. And her cheekbones still supported their light burden of smooth flesh very nicely, thank you.
She had thick smooth hair that had once been blond and that had naturally, with the years, turned into the
kind of muted platinum that women pay smart hairdressers a fortune to achieve. It was cut to just below her ears, and she wore it swept off her face in a smart bob.
She dressed neatly and conservatively in what she called respectable clothing, bought from the expensive stores and boutiques whose staff knew her well and understood exactly what suited her. Her everyday jewelry was a single strand of huge creamy pearls with matching earrings, a diamond wedding band, and the gold Cartier tank watch that her husband had given her thirty years ago.
In fact, Miffy Jordan looked as preppy as they came, but the truth was, she was as unconventional as her son. She traveled the world alone, trekking in the Himalayas; driving a four-ton truck through the Sahara and getting hopelessly lost; racing Ferraris in Monte Carlo; spending a month in a Buddhist retreat in Vietnam; and paddling the length of the Amazon from Brazil to Colombia. She had narrowly escaped death en route from poisoned darts, as well as from a bomb meant for a member of a drug cartel in Bogotá.
“I’m not the velvet-hairband type. I can’t while away my days playing bridge and sipping iced tea,” she told Harry when he had suggested she cool it—after all she wasn’t getting any younger. “I’m not meant to die in my bed. Peascotts never do.”