The Impersonator (35 page)

“Thank you, Mr. Lowe. It’s shockingly heavy, you know. All these beads weigh me down like a suit of armor.” Same scene, same lines. Another fox-trot.

I watched as Ross, an empty glass in each hand, headed for the west wing “gentleman’s room” at the end of the corridor. For those who wanted hooch in their punch—which was most of the crowd—a discreet table of gin, whiskey, and rum had been set up in one of the small rooms, allowing everyone to maintain the polite fiction that men heading down the corridor were going to straighten their ties. In a moment Ross returned and handed one of the glasses to Captain Henderson, the police chief, who could not, of course, be seen getting his own.

My next partner, the son of the Dexter Cannery owner, was tall and dark, but his best friend could not have called him handsome. The unattractive first impression vanished the moment he spoke.

“Care for a glass of punch, milady?” he asked in a delicious baritone tailor-made for radio.

“Mmm, yes, please, Mr. Scarpetta.”

“With or without rum?”

“With.”

“That will be this one,” he said, handing me the cup in his left hand. “I brought one of each, to be sure of getting it right.”

“But what about you? You’re left with hoochless punch.”

“No sacrifice is too great to win the favor of the birthday girl. Besides, my next glass will be punchless hooch to make up for this one.” He looked me up and down in silence.

“What’s the matter?” I asked finally. “Aren’t you going to tell me how pretty my frock is?”

“Like everyone else? You can’t need that many compliments. I’ll tell you that your shoes are delightful, but I’ll wager your feet will be killing you by dinner. How can you dance in such high heels?”

The band began playing “Way Down Yonder in New Orleans.”

“Oh, that is one of my favorite jazz tunes!” I said.

“Hmm, yes. Sadly, this is not a jazz band, and I’m afraid poor Hank Creamer wouldn’t recognize his own song if he were here tonight.”

I laughed. “You’re right, this is awful. Let’s sit.” We moved to the nearest table and I couldn’t resist saying, “As a matter of fact, I know Hank. He’s written a number of popular songs and is a talented song-and-dance man himself.”

“He’s a
friend
of yours?”

“I haven’t run into him in a while, but yes, we’ve shared billing a few times.”

“But I—but I thought he was colored?”

“He is.”

“Oh, my God,” he said, clearly horrified. “How very … interesting.”

Seemed Mr. Scarpetta and Henry had bigotry in common. It was funny how quickly he turned ugly again.

Precisely at ten Aunt Victoria directed the parade of servants who carried in platter after platter of scrumptious fare. The band took a breather. By now, some of the guests were pretty gassed. Ahead of the game, Henry stood at the other end of the room, encircled by admirers and carrying on like a populist, railing against Bolsheviks and aliens. I suspected Mr. Scarpetta was an avid supporter. Dear Henry … little did he know I’d already scotched his precious political career.

“It’s going well, don’t you think?” asked Aunt Victoria, misinterpreting my smile.

“Everything is magnificent, Aunt. The food is divine.”

“You look lovely tonight, Jessie darling. Your dear mother would be so proud of you. I see you are wearing her pearls.”

My breasts were bound tight for a boyish profile and the pearls lay flat on my chest. Even doubled, the rope reached to my waist. I was wearing Blanche’s gold bracelet as well, but none of it made Blanche any more real to me. When I wore Jessie’s glass beads, I felt Jessie’s presence. No one who knew me would have believed it, but I much preferred Jessie’s Venetian beads to all of Blanche’s finery.

At eleven, servants carried a large cake into the room and I blew out twenty-one candles to the accompaniment of “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” I saw Val whispering to the bandleader, and moments later the musicians cranked up the Charleston number from the Carr Cousins vaudeville show. Before Aunt Victoria could object, the twins and the Hartley sisters performed the catchy routine to enthusiastic applause. So that’s what those four were doing this afternoon, shut away in their room! They were so cute even Aunt Victoria had to applaud.

“I wish David Murray could be here to see us,” said Caro wistfully after the fuss had died down.

“People don’t go to parties the same week they bury their mothers.” Henry sneered, swaying on his feet.

“I just meant that he wanted to see us do our act again. He said so! But he’s coming tomorrow to say good-bye to Jessie, and maybe we can do it then, if Alice and Sophie are still here.”

The band started up again. I was claimed by Mayor Franklin, a clumsy dancer who had governed Dexter since the Flood, and we began an awkward turn around the floor until, mercifully, someone tapped his shoulder. I caught my breath when I saw who was cutting in.

“You looked so pathetic trying not to step on his feet that I took pity on you. You should thank me for rescuing you,” Ross said as he steered me into the stream.

“The conversation was scintillating too.”

“Let me guess—plans to pave the planked street? The cost of the new fire engine? Fortunately he’s a first-rate mayor, so his other qualities can be overlooked.”

“You’re a first-rate dancer, Ross.”

“Don’t act so surprised. I’d return the compliment but you already know you’re the best dancer in the room. Oh, I just recognized the song they’re playing—‘A Good Man Is Hard to Find,’ isn’t it? This band manages to make every number sound like a nursery song.”

“Do you know Mae West’s version?” I asked wickedly. “‘A Hard Man Is Good to Find’?”

His sharp laugh turned heads. “So you’re off on the Grand Tour, are you, cousin? When do you leave?”

“Next week. I’ll let Mr. Wade book the stateroom on the next ship to sail, or whichever one he thinks best.”

“How long do you figure to travel?”

“I’m not sure. Until I see enough of what I want to see.”

“While you’re gone, I’ll not be idle. I plan to solve the murder mystery.” With nothing to do but wait for Stanford to accept his thesis, our bored scholar had turned detective.

“A new research project for you? Good luck. Did you learn anything at the reservation this afternoon?”

“Everyone was pretty tight-lipped. But I’ve only begun to sleuth! I’m a bloodhound on the trail. A regular Tom Swift. Right after I heard about the coroner’s report, I contacted him and asked him about hair cutting. The body hadn’t been buried, so he had another look and, lo and behold, there was a lock of hair missing, just like the other two.”

Too late now to add that to my letter to Smith and Wade, but they would find that fact for themselves. I thought how refreshingly normal Ross seemed when he wasn’t trying to impress with big words.

“You can bet the coroner was pretty interested and wondered how I’d known to ask about hair. Probably thought I did her in—except I would have been all of sixteen at the time. So I told him about the others, and he said that because the girl was from Portland, it made him wonder whether there were similar deaths in that city. He’s looking through the police files to see.” I wondered whether anyone would tell the coroner that someone else had been asking the same questions a few days earlier.

Henry returned to the ballroom, a full glass in hand and Grandmother on his tail. He sat down heavily beside Mr. Scarpetta. Heads together, they talked without sharing a single smile while Ross and I took several turns around the dance floor. Delivery problems? An uncooperative weather forecast? How was Henry going to unload all those cases of Canadian hooch with seas too rough to leave the harbor? Was Scarpetta in on it?

One person who was definitely not in on it was dancing with me. “Next week I’ll nose around the Indian reservation again,” he was saying, “and try to learn what that girl was doing in Dexter. And there has to be some Indian in town who knew what she was mixed up with. The same for the Chinese neighborhood, although I don’t have any connections there, except maybe Chen. And it’s been years, but maybe I can find someone in Portland who remembers that girl who was killed in the warehouse. Something—or someone—brought her to Dexter, and I aim to find out who.”

The low rumble of thunder could be heard over the music while rain lashed against the shutters. I looked at Grandmother, who was watching Henry through half-shut eyes. Henry was standing at the window—raging at the weather, I was sure.

The hall clock struck two as the last of the lively set was saying its farewells. Rainy met me in my room to help me undress.

I handed her Blanche’s pearls. “Here, these go in the velvet pouch. Where are my Venetian beads?”

“Right here, miss. I wonder why pearls cost more than glass beads,” she said, holding Jessie’s beads in the light. “Pearls are pretty, but they’re plain white. These you can look at for a long time and see different colors, swirls, and shapes. There!” She fastened the clasp and stepped back. “Is there anything else you need before I go upstairs?”

“What? Aren’t you going to bed?”

“No, miss. We all got orders to report to the ballroom to help clean up. Mrs. Carr wants the house back to normal by morning.”

I was exhausted, and I hadn’t been working since daybreak. Aghast, I considered countermanding Aunt Victoria’s orders, then backed off. Let her run the house, I thought, she knows more about servants than you do. I could, however, give one order. “Well, then, Rainy, tomorrow morning you must sleep as late as you like. I don’t want to see you before noon, you understand? And I don’t care what anyone else tells you.”

She smiled. “Yes, miss. Sleep well.”

I fell asleep at once but could not take her advice. My sleep was interrupted by flashes of dark dreams that culminated in the now-familiar Jessie dream. She was in some dark place; she was frightened; Venetian beads sparkled all around her. Her feet were cold and wet. Then my feet were cold and wet and I was Jessie, trying to move away, trying to call for help. Calling to hurry. No one heard our voice.

48

Just before noon I put on a plaid wool day dress and comfortable shoes and went downstairs to appease the growling beast in my stomach. The house was weirdly quiet; the ticking of the grandfather clock seemed as loud as it did at midnight. It was Sunday—my last full day at Cliff House. Gray skies and soggy ground were the only reminders of last night’s storm. I found Caroline in the dining room hunched over a plate of eggs and toast.

“Good morning,” I said. “Where is everyone?”

“Sophie and Alice left,” she said morosely. Postparty melancholia had settled in. “Their father came by to fetch them for church.”

The buffet table was set with late breakfast as if it were any normal Sunday. I marveled at Marie’s stamina … did the woman never rest?

“Your dance last night was quite the hit!” I said, joining Caro at the table.

She brightened a little. “Yes, it was, wasn’t it?”

“You killed ’em. However did you and Val teach the Hartley girls all those steps, and so quickly?”

“We practiced all afternoon in secret. I did my magic trick, too.”

“No! Really? Where?”

“In one of the spare bedrooms, the one next to the bar. I was careful to do just as you said—never show anyone the same trick twice or they will figure it out. I made sure that different people were in the room each time I did it.”

“You’re quite the entertainer. I’m so proud!” She didn’t notice the catch in my throat when I said it.

At that moment, Ross came into the dining room looking none the worse for wear. “Where is everyone?” he asked.

“The Hartleys just left,” said Caro, resuming her long face. “Val’s upstairs.”

“My grandmother and Uncle Oliver had breakfast in their rooms,” I added, “and I haven’t seen your mother, but I’m sure she’s up. It’s astonishing how the house looks—you would never think there had been a hundred people here for a party last night!”

“Yes, Mother is indefatigable. I saw her from my window with the gardener earlier this morning. Henry was up early too.”

“Oh?” I asked, keeping my voice light. “When was that? I thought he’d be sleeping it off this morning.”

“So did I, considering what he poured into himself, but I heard him in the bathroom a couple of hours ago. He and Scarpetta had a sailing date yesterday that they couldn’t keep, so now that the weather has cleared, it’s anchors aweigh.”

Ambushed by overconfidence! I was so sure he’d have a hangover and not appear until the afternoon, I hadn’t even considered getting up earlier. Swallowing a last bite, I excused myself from the table and went into the kitchen where I slipped out the back door, circled around the garden, and picked up the path to the cliff edge.

Once there, I shaded my eyes with my hand and squinted out to sea. I had no idea how long it took a sailboat to travel from one place to another, but I was betting that Henry would repeat his trip of a few weeks ago—the one the boy William had described—sailing south along the coast to the rocky area by the third cave. That had to be the way he made his deliveries, although for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how, unless it was a transfer at sea. A strong wind from the south blew into my face as I scanned the empty ocean.

Dejected, I sat on the grass beside a copse of scraggly bushes, heedless of the damp. How long did it take to navigate out of the harbor, turn south, and sail several miles along the coast? An hour? Three hours? Had he left yet? All I could do was wait and watch.

Shockingly, there was his boat, right in front of me, emerging from behind one of the massive rock formations that stood a half mile out in the sea. It skimmed across the water, sails full of wind, bobbing like a painted horse on a merry-go-round in a way that would surely have made me sick if I’d been aboard. It was heading south into the wind in a zigzag pattern with sails that shifted back and forth, something that puzzled me because it would have been faster to go straight, but I am not a sailor and know nothing about these things. Young William had been right—Henry was headed for the waters off the caves. As I watched, I estimated the amount of time it was taking him to go the distance down the coast.