Thirty-nine
T
HE FIRST CARS
showed up at the main gates around 4:10, almost an hour before the auction was scheduled to start. Meg had at first been surprised it had been set for so late in the day, but Anita Simon explained to her that in August, people liked most of a Saturday to themselves.
“And if it's one of those dog days, we're better off not having it at noon, anyway,” she'd added.
Andy Simon and the Nashes’ boy, Buddy, had been put in charge of parking. They collected the twelve-dollar gate fee and directed the incoming cars into orderly rows, first on the gravel driveway in front of the house, then on the oval lawn in the middle. By 4:40 or so, they were asking the drivers simply to pull over along the sides of the long driveway leading in from Huntington Road. Anita had been right about one thing, Meg thought; Arcadia was indeed a draw.
Dressed in a light yellow summer dress and a matching pair of open-toed espadrilles, Meg watched from an upstairs window as the prospective bidders gawked at the house itself, some taking a quick snapshot, before moseying around one of the wings to the back lawn. Some of these people she recognized from the party at the Simons’, others she had seen, at one time or another, in town. All of them, she could tell, just from the way they turned while walking or pointed at
something of interest, had been terribly curious about what lay behind the wire fences and elaborately filigreed gates of the estate. The auction had given them a chance, after years of speculation, to find out. Meg wondered what they made of the wildness of the place, the rough-and-tumble look of the grounds. Or, once they got around back, the priapic satyr in the fountain. Thinking about that made her smile.
It was time for her to go down, she realized, much as she'd have liked to hide out until the whole thing was over and done with. In the “skating rink,” she found Mrs. Constantine observing the crowd slowly assemble under the huge striped tent.
“They've got quite a turnout,” Mrs. Constantine commented without enthusiasm. “I hope the weather holds.” The sky was clear now, but there had been forecasts all day for thunderstorms.
“One thing's for sure,” Meg said. “Nobody's getting a raincheck.”
Anita Simon could be seen bustling about in a pair of tight navy-blue slacks and a white blouse, directing people into the rows of foldup chairs, checking over the items heaped on the auction tables, testing the microphone.
“One, two, three, testing . . .” A loud squeak. “Testing, testing . . . Hi, Al. Betty. Here's some seats up front. Don't be shy.” The Plettners sat down in front.
“Where's Peter?” Mrs. Constantine asked. Everyone seemed to be asking that question a lot lately.
“Who knows? I thought he might already be down there.”
“I haven't seen him. All day.”
“I'm sure he'll turn up in time.” He hadn't been in the bedroom when she'd gotten dressed. “I've got to go down to the boathouse and pick up my contribution to the auction. Would you care to join me?”
“I'd love to. I was wondering how I'd find the courage to go out there alone.”
The air outside, even this late in the day, was still very warm; earlier, it had hit ninety degrees. There must have been a hundred and fifty or two hundred people under the tent now, chatting, socializing, sipping lemonade that was being served at seventy-five cents a glass, from an urn set up on a card table. As Meg and Mrs. Constantine tried to skirt around the back of the crowd, Anita spotted them and said over the microphone, “Where are you two going?”
Meg waved to her, crooked one finger in the direction of the boathouse, and mouthed, “Right back.”
“We're officially part of the proceedings now,” Meg said.
Three or four people were standing on the dock watching as Meg fitted the key into the padlock on the boathouse door. She turned it before realizing that the lock was already open.
“Did I forget to fasten this again?” she asked herself out loud.
Inside, everything seemed in place, the chemical bottles still in order above the sink, the lids to the clay containers clamped down, the kiln safely off and its own lid raised. On the center of the worktable, still under its protective cheesecloth, stood the statue of Dodger she'd made for the auction.
“You know,” Meg said, “sometimes I get the oddest feeling coming in here.”
“Why?” Mrs. Constantine asked, remaining in the open doorway.
“I can't really put my finger on anything, but I feel as if someone's been in here while I was gone. Sometimes it feels, especially at night, as if I've almost caught them at it. That's probably why,” she said with a nervous laugh, “I've stopped coming down at night.”
She pushed the stool away from the table and took hold of the edge of the cheesecloth. Something bulged—or did it?—under the cloth. For a split second, Meg remembered that terrible dream she'd had on her first night in Arcadia, when she'd imagined a sculpted satyr, a miniature of the one in the fountain, springing to violent life in her hands.
“Well?” Mrs. Constantine said, coming closer. “Time for the unveiling.”
“Yes,” Meg said, still hesitating.
Forget it,
she told herself;
put it out of your mind.
She raised the cloth from the bottom and flipped it back on the table.
“Oh,
no,”
Mrs. Constantine said. “How could this have happened?”
Meg had no idea. The head of the sculpture, wrenched out of place, dangled at the end of the armature. The tail had already fallen—or been torn—off, and lay, broken in two, on the stone work surface.
Meg felt chilled to the bone; this was how Dodger had, in actuality, been mutilated.
“How could this have happened?” Mrs. Constantine repeated. “Did the clay contract somehow? Or expand? What could do such a thing?”
Nothing Meg could think of; not since she was an apprentice, years before, had a piece turned out so badly. And even then, she'd understood why. She'd wedged the clay insufficiently; she'd fired it too soon; she'd built the armature wrong. None of that had happened this time; the day before, when she'd covered it, it was fine, finished, and ready to go.
“I don't suppose there's any way, with a glue of some sort or whatever . . .”
The look on Meg's face must have told her no. She slipped her arm supportively through Meg's. “I'm so sorry, after all the work you put into it, this had to happen.”
Meg still couldn't believe it; there was no logical explanation. Aside from the obvious. But who? Ni-
kos? For interfering with Fifi and Fritz? Angelos? Just for fun?
. .. Peter?
“Is there anything else you could bring to the auction instead?” Mrs. Constantine asked hopefully. “Not that I think you have to anyway, but if you wanted, I'm sure that any of your vases would do very well—didn't you say that Anita and that Caswell woman had been down here once and greatly admired them?”
It seemed an eternity ago. But yes, that in fact had been the day Anita had requested she make a special piece for the auction—after she'd admired the two sculptures of Leah and her nude look-alike. Why not give her one of those? Why not get rid of that nude, maenadlike figure; she'd never enjoyed having it around anyway. It was only collecting dust on the bottom shelf near the door.
“That's a good idea,” Meg said, covering up the ruined model of Dodger. “I've still got a statue here that she liked.”
She crossed the room and knelt in front of the two covered figures. Lifting a corner, she saw one leg of the naked dancer; she slipped the statue out, checked quickly to see that there was no damage to this one, and said, “Our new donation to the Passet Bay Nature Preserve.”
Mrs. Constantine appeared to be at a loss.
“Not like my usual work,” Meg admitted with a laugh, “but what the hell, Anita liked it.”
Leaving, Meg carefully secured the padlock, shook it to make sure it would hold. No, Peter could never have done such a thing.
But would Byron have been so convinced?
At the tent, things were running behind schedule. Several last-minute donations, like Meg's, had yet to be numbered and put on display; Anita was scribbling descriptions of them on colored notecards. “But that's
the statue I saw
months
ago,” she exclaimed when Meg presented the maenad. “I thought you were doing something new for us?”
Meg explained there'd been a problem, and this was all she could offer at the moment.
“Oh, well, that's fine,” Anita said, recovering. “I'm sure we'll get a very good price for it. The way I've got it planned, since this is your place and all, we'll save your donation till last, sort of as the place of honor. How's that with you?”
Meg said anything was fine with her. Anita's blouse, she noticed, was patterned with a geometrical Greek motif—in keeping with the theme of the auction. The gazebo was garlanded with vines, like a temple to Diana.
“Just put it out on one of the tables,” Anita said, “wherever you can find room. We'll be ready to go just as soon as your husband gets back.”
Back? “Where is he?”
Anita looked up from the notecards. “Last I saw him he was at Jack and Joan's place. They all should have been here already,” she said with some irritation.
Meg set the sculpture down on a table crowded with framed oil paintings, a leather-bound set of Dickens, binoculars, a lamp with a Buddha base. Lazaroff boomed out a hello over three rows of people and tried to introduce someone named Ginny; all Meg could see was a tousled head of blond hair and a hot-pink halter top. If praying hard enough could make you invisible, Meg thought as she and Mrs. Constantine made their way toward the back of the tent, she'd most definitely be invisible now and stay that way for the next two or three hours. But standing in back would have to do.
Mrs. Constantine sat down on one of the few remaining empty chairs. Meg was telling her about a package that had arrived from Byron the day before, containing a Cumberland University sweatshirt (and a course catalogue, which she didn't mention), when
Peter emerged from the house. Though Meg was facing the wrong way, she could tell he'd come out from the look on his mother's face: she suddenly stared past Meg with that now-familiar expression of regret and dismay. Meg turned. Peter must have just stepped out of the “skating rink” he had on his white sailor cap with the lowered brim, the baggy khaki pants he'd bought the week before, and, even on this stifling day, a long-sleeved shirt buttoned at the cuffs. Just behind him were Jack and Joan Caswell; they loitered at the fountain for a moment, as if waiting for someone. They were. An elderly man in a jaunty Panama hat, carrying a walking stick, followed them out of the house.
“I wonder who that is?” Meg said.
Mrs. Constantine didn't say anything. They slowly descended the hill, Peter with that odd shuffling gait he affected now. Stan Simon, in a Greek fisherman's cap, met them halfway.
“Are you all right?” Meg asked. Mrs. Constantine had become deathly pale; she was clutching at the bodice of her dress. “Is something wrong?”
Peter's head was turning; behind his sunglasses, he was scanning the crowd. He pointed now to where Meg was standing. The old man nodded, and started in their direction.
“Do you want me to get your medicine? Do you want to go up to the house?” Meg knelt beside her chair. “Are you okay?” she asked, urgently now.
“Yes,” Mrs. Constantine replied, but so shortly it was no more than a breath of air. Her eyes had fallen to her lap, as if searching for something there.
Meg heard the old man's cane digging into the grass behind her. “Good afternoon,” she heard, in a clipped foreign accent. “I am an old friend of Alexander Constantine. Gregory Kesseogolou.”
The name from the will; Meg recognized it. She turned and stood up. He was an inch or two shorter than she was, with leathery brown skin, a full mous-
tache, and a sharp, slightly hooked nose. His eyes were as black and shiny as olives. She took his extended hand.
“This lady I hope will remember me,” he said, inclining himself toward Mrs. Constantine. “I knew her many years ago, when I conducted some business with her father—rest his soul. I hope I may still call you Ellie?” he ventured, with a smile.
Meg waited for Mrs. Constantine to reply. Or acknowledge him. She did neither. Finally, leaning forward on his cane, Kesseogolou took her hand himself and held it. “I was very sorry to hear about your father,” he said, then gently placed her hand back in her lap. Unfazed, he said to Meg, “I'm told you never met Alex.”
“No, I didn't,” Meg replied, still watching Mrs. Constantine, who only now appeared to be breathing again.
“That's a pity,” he said, wagging his head. “He was someone worth knowing . . . particularly in this day and age.”
Mrs. Constantine suddenly looked up, as if she were beholding a ghost.
“Ah, there now!” Kesseogolou said, with a laugh. “The same pretty eyes I remember. I suppose it's a shock to you, that I'm even still alive. Sometimes,” he said, glancing at Meg to include her in the joke, “it's a shock to me, too!” He laughed, and looked toward the gazebo, as if he were aware the auction was about to begin. “I will come and see you later,” he said to them both and, touching the brim of his hat, went to the front of the tent again. The Caswells had been holding a seat for him.
“Are you sure you're all right?” Meg whispered, and Mrs. Constantine, taking a deep breath, nodded slowly.
Anita was in the gazebo, tapping the microphone; Peter sat just outside, behind one of the auction tables.
“If everyone could please take their seats . . .” Anita announced, “I think we're about ready.”
There must have been over two hundred people under the tent now.
“For those of you who don't get a chance to see
People
magazine, my name is Anita Simon"—Stan let out a whoop, and then there was a ripple of laughter—” and I'd like to welcome you all to our second annual fundraiser. What it's for, I think you all know by now. All of the proceeds from this auction will go toward creating the Passet Bay Nature Preserve, a refuge for all the beautiful birds and wildlife that everyone here today cares so very much about.”