Goodnight, Irene (24 page)

He laughed. “You’re not so scary. And with your friend following us everywhere, I feel quite safe, even if we lack a little privacy. Does it bother you to be ‘shadowed’ so? I could probably lose him if it does.”

“He’d find us sooner or later and he’d just be mad about it, so if you don’t mind, we’d better let him keep an eye on us. He’s a good friend of the man I’ve been working with on this case — the man who was injured in the car chase. I think Pete feels honor-bound to protect me while his friend recovers.”

“Well, there is nothing wrong with loyalty. All right, we will not make his job more difficult.”

We drove along toward the beach, where the gold and pink hues of the sunset colored the sky above darkened water.

“So,” he said, “how did you become a reporter?”

“Went to college during the days when Woodward and Bernstein were covering Watergate. The school was flooded with journalism majors. I guess I was bitten by the same bug. Found out I really liked it. And how does a hockey player become a banker?” I suddenly remembered Frank asking this same question.

“It’s not as strange as it seems. My family was in banking in Montreal. I wanted to play professional hockey right after high school, but my parents begged me to go to college, and so I majored in business while going to school on an athletic scholarship. My parents were right. All players someday have a life outside of hockey. But nothing will ever compare to the thrill of being in the NHL. If I could have, I would have played until I fell over dead on the ice. I wouldn’t trade my hockey years for any amount of money.”

“So how did you end up here in Las Piernas?”

“I married a woman from southern California. We settled in Newport Beach. My attraction to the ocean and the warm weather lasted longer than her attraction to me, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need to be. That was years ago. I moved here to get away from old memories and was pleasantly surprised. Las Piernas made me feel more at home. I’ve been quite happy here.”

By then we were on the long road that led out to the cliffs. There were no other houses now, just trees towering above the two-lane blacktop. About three hundred yards from the house, we came to a guardhouse and a gate. A yawning guard took a look at Guy’s invitation and lifted the gate arm. Pete pulled over to one side, as if undecided about following us further. We drove in and pulled into a graveled parking area. I didn’t see Pete’s car come down the drive and assumed he had felt I would be safe for the time being.

We got out of the car and walked toward the house. The Sheffield Estate was huge. A three-story Victorian painted in bright colors, it had been the Sheffield home in the earliest years of their reign over Las Piernas. Elinor Sheffield spent vast sums to ensure that it was kept in top condition. The plumbing, heating, and utilities had been modernized, but in most other respects the original portion of the house was much as her great-great-grandfather had left it.

A butler directed us around a corner to the back of the house, which faced the ocean. Here the effects of modernization were more clearly seen. A large open room had been added, as well as a sweeping veranda. The second story of the addition held a sun deck, shielded from cold winds by tall Plexiglas panels. The portion of the original house which stood sentry over these additions was a high tower that stood at one corner. The tower’s curving windows faced both the sea and the woods.

It was a warm night. Dozens of people chattered and glasses clinked; the cocktail hour was well under way. Guy managed to nab a couple of glasses of wine and we walked out to the far railing of the veranda, which came out nearly to the cliff’s edge, commanding an almost 180-degree view of the beach and surrounding cliffsides. The lights of downtown Las Piernas and the marina glimmered to our right; to our left, the slowly sloping coastline was outlined by the lights of other cities. Below us waves fell in white rolling succession, booming at beach level but from this far above more like distant thunder.

From all around us came the sound of inconsequential conversation, small talk from bigwigs. Several times Guy was approached by someone who knew him from the bank. He would introduce me, a certain amount of chitchat would ensue, and then he would break off with a polite, “Excuse me a moment.” I turned to watch the ocean.

“Don’t get too near the edge, my dear, it’s not as solid as it looks.”

I turned and found myself facing a lioness. Elinor Sheffield Hollingsworth was no less than five-eleven, and with her high heels on she must have climbed to the neighborhood of six-one. At five-eight I’m no shrimp myself, but there was something more than height at work here. The woman had presence.

She smiled and extended a hand, giving me one of the firmest handshakes I’ve ever had from a woman. She had to be in her mid-fifties, but looked a dozen years younger. She moved with slinky grace, her long shapely legs carrying her without any of the awkwardness one might have expected with her height. She was tanned and athletic-looking without being leathery; she obviously spent time working out. She had short platinum-blond hair and eyes that were such a pale blue they were almost colorless. Until now I had thought her nickname referred to the family fortunes. But I could see why someone had long ago named her “the Ice Queen.” From her proud bearing to her firm handshake, everything about her breathed power. Her eyes riveted one’s attention. Here was a woman who wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything. And yet, both her smile and the handshake were warm, welcoming.

“Irene Kelly,” I said. “I’m with the
Express.”

“Yes, I know,” she said. She arched one perfect brow. “Well, looking at you, my dear, I see we’ll have to keep you at arm’s length from your editor, Mr. Wrigley. He’s right over there, so watch your stern if you go sailing past him. An unnecessary bit of advice to give any woman who has worked for him, I know. Of course, you have our dear Mr. St. Germain, who has always been an excellent defenseman — am I right, Guy?”

“If you say so,” Guy said with a smile. “You look lovely tonight, Elinor.”

“Oh, Guy — you are such an obvious flatterer. But I’ll forgive you, bankers can’t help it when it comes to dealing with the filthy rich. Come along, Miss Kelly. I’ll introduce you to the people you’ve come here to meet.”

I looked helplessly at Guy, who merely smiled and said, “No one refuses Elinor, I’m afraid. Perhaps later she will take pity on me and return my date to me.”

“You’ll do fine, Guy,” she said. “Run along and hobnob with the hoi polloi.” She led me off toward a small group. I caught Wrigley looking at me with mouth agape. I only hoped I wouldn’t stumble as I tried to keep up with her in my heels. As we walked, she said, “If you want the truth, Miss Kelly, I’m bored silly by these affairs. I decided you might liven up my evening considerably. You’re the most exciting person in Las Piernas right now.”

“Me?”

“Why, of course. I’m rich, not illiterate. I read the papers. You’ve had quite a week.” She stopped and turned to me with a worried look. “Oh, dear, I don’t mean to sound so unsympathetic. To you it’s not excitement. Mr. O’Connor was a close friend of yours, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. He meant a great deal to me.”

“Nothing can replace such a loss,” she said. “I’m sorry. I see I’ve upset you. What can I do to change that? Let’s get these introductions over with and I’ll think of something.”

She broke off our conversation to say loudly to the people in the circle, “Watch your tongues, ladies and gentlemen, I bring a member of the fourth estate within earshot of you.” They looked up all at once, like grazing deer that have heard a twig snap. I had met some of the political figures that were in the group — the mayor, Richard Longren, and several council members. Most of them, experts at remembering names, greeted me at once.

Elinor introduced her husband, Andrew Hollingsworth. He was a good-looking man with a tan equal to his wife’s and a hundred-watt smile. As powerful as I knew he was, standing next to Elinor he couldn’t help but be eclipsed. And yet I could see he used this as an asset, letting her charm the crowd while he rode on her coattails.

Some general small talk and coos of sympathy were made about the events of the last week, and I saw Elinor pulling her husband aside and directing him over to another cluster of people. He excused himself and walked over to the other group, leaving our own circle quite distracted, until she stepped in to call their attention back to herself. After a few moments she said, “I promised Irene a quick tour of the house before dinner. Please excuse us.”

Of course there had been no such promise, but I was as much under her spell as they were, and I followed her into the house. As soon as we were a little distance from them, she said, “I must keep an eye on Andrew or he’ll spend all of his time with his friends from the city. But they see each other every day and he needs to keep our other guests happy too.” I knew, though, that what I had seen was not a man playing the congenial host. I had seen a man directed to someone who could be of political help. Elinor was his spotter, apparently, picking important people out of the crowd for Andrew to schmooze with.

We entered the house. I’m not the kind of person who has a background that would make me a good appraiser for a place like Sotheby’s, so I can’t do justice to the Sheffield Estate’s art collection. I can say that the effect of the decorating style was one that was pleasing and spare. A painting here, a small sculpture there; walls painted in muted colors; furniture with simple but elegant lines. The art objects were placed carefully and in such a way as to attract attention gently without being obtrusive.

She took me through the hall and into the older part of the house. We came into a room that had served as a large entry; a grand curving staircase and balcony overlooked its marbled floor. Elinor was recounting bits and pieces of the family history associated with various parts of the house. We came to a large dining room that had paintings of her ancestors adorning the walls. “Terribly old-fashioned of me, I know, to have the old curmudgeons staring down at us over dinner. They don’t look a very happy lot, do they?”

She was right. Most of the people in the paintings looked like their underwear was on too tight. But my Irish ancestors probably would have looked even less comfortable — if anyone had ever wanted peasants to sit for portraits.

“I make up for this room in Andrew’s office,” she went on, “which is quite modern. We’ll skip the kitchen, which is over there to the right, as the chef will never forgive me if I interrupt his preparations. The house even has a basement, can you believe it? There’s a small storage room and a pantry. We’ll skip all of that; the only entry is through the kitchen. Do you exercise?”

I shifted conversational gears and said, “Yes, I try to. This last week hasn’t been very normal in terms of those kinds of routines.”

“Well, I just wanted to make sure you could manage the stairs. They’re rather steep. You should do all right if you’ve stayed in shape.” As we wandered through a maze of hallways she asked me about being a reporter, where I had worked, how long I had known O’Connor, and so on. When we reached a doorway at the end of a hall, she said, “It will be easier if we take off our shoes.” And, to my shock, she reached down and took off her heels. I took mine off as well, quite happy to be out of them for a few minutes, and smiling at the idea that Elinor and I were about to run around the Sheffield Estate in our stocking feet. She saw me smile and said, “I know, can you imagine how fast my grandmother is spinning in her grave?” She laughed and opened the door. We were in the tower. A long spiral staircase wound its way overhead. We set our shoes down at the bottom of the stairs and started our climb.

Now, I’m in pretty good shape, but this woman, who was about fifteen years older than me, was hauling her buns up the stairs at a good clip. She was enjoying watching me try to keep up with her. I didn’t want to work up a sweat in my formal wear. Fortunately, she stopped between the second and third floors to allow me to admire the view.

It was magnificent. The ocean, the lights, the party below. “It’s beautiful,” I said. “I appreciate your taking time out from your other guests to show me around.”

“Nonsense. I’m enjoying this immensely, hearing all about the newspaper. And I seldom meet women who can keep up with me on the staircase.” She laughed softly. “Are you ready to continue?”

“Lead on,” I said, and we made our way up the last flight. Here the stairway came into a large room that took up the entire top floor, with the exception of a small bathroom at the back. That shows foresight, I thought. I could hardly imagine what it would be like if you had to run down those stairs to relieve yourself. The room had close to a 360-degree view. It put the one from one flight below to shame.

“Wow,” I said. “Your grandfather knew what he was doing with this room.”

“Yes, it isn’t easy to get to, but it’s so lovely once you’re here, it’s hard to leave. Andrew uses this portion of it as an office,” she said, as we strolled past a desk with a computer on it. On the wall near the desk were framed degrees. There was the fine scroll of the Harvard Law School degree. I was interested to see that Elinor had a degree in biology.

“You went to Stanford?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said distractedly, moving toward the windows.

I had just glanced at the degree below hers, Andrew’s undergraduate degree, when Elinor said, “Now who on earth could that be?”

I went over to the window and stood next to her. I could see the road, a chain of lights with dark patches between. Below us and to the right was the guardhouse, and a car had pulled up in front of it. “Well, I’ll be,” I muttered.

“You know the car?” she asked.

“Yes, it belongs to a homicide detective on the Las Piernas Police Department. His name is Pete Baird. He’s keeping an eye on me.”

“Really?” She smiled. “You’re not a suspect, are you?”

“Oh, no, I mean that he’s trying to make sure I’m safe. Protecting me.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who needs protecting, Irene. Am I wrong?”