Authors: Sheryl J. Anderson
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Amateur Sleuth
Killer Cocktail (3 page)
“You underestimate yourself,” he said, and I could tell he was still smiling.
“Chronically”
“Have a great time.”
“You haven’t answered my question. Or told me why you called.”
“You sure you didn’t call me?”
Now I laughed. “Not really.”
“I don’t want anything. Just call me when you get back.”
“But why’d you call?”
“Tell you then. Stay out of trouble.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He sighed and I knew he was remembering the circumstances of our first meeting. “Try harder.”
In retrospect, he gets to look all brilliant and psychic, which isn’t entirely fair. Of course, if any of us had realized how the weekend would end, we would have all stayed in Manhattan, even if we did nothing more exciting than sit in my apartment eating cold Chinese takeout and playing cribbage. But life is never that simple. Thankfully.
Maybe there’s something in
the air, something in the water, some magical portal you pass through as you drive out Route 27—but the Hamptons are a different world. And it’s more than the fact that there’s so much accumulated wealth in the area that you smell newly minted money rather than cut grass when the gardeners are at work. It’s beautiful, engaging, and not quite real. Even appalling, soul-numbing traffic on the drive there can’t diminish the beauty once you arrive. The water, the sweeping expanses of green, the jawdropping homes, it’s all pretty amazing.
the air, something in the water, some magical portal you pass through as you drive out Route 27—but the Hamptons are a different world. And it’s more than the fact that there’s so much accumulated wealth in the area that you smell newly minted money rather than cut grass when the gardeners are at work. It’s beautiful, engaging, and not quite real. Even appalling, soul-numbing traffic on the drive there can’t diminish the beauty once you arrive. The water, the sweeping expanses of green, the jawdropping homes, it’s all pretty amazing.
Aunt Cynthia lives in Southampton in what Tricia calls a “large house,” which befits Aunt Cynthia, a woman of large reputation and even larger holdings. Apparently, her greatest talent is structuring her own divorce settlements, which she has done four times. I don’t know whether it speaks to how happy the men were before things went south or how happy they were to get out alive once things headed that way that she consistently emerged with the social standing, the friends, and fifty-one percent of the assets. Always leave them taking more, I guess.
Currently, her massive portfolio included astute real estate holdings, a Broadway show that was actually making
money, and underwriting a stepdaughter who’s the hot housewares designer of the moment. According to Tricia, her aunt was deplorably lacking in basic humanity, but she seemed to have a pretty good eye for business.
money, and underwriting a stepdaughter who’s the hot housewares designer of the moment. According to Tricia, her aunt was deplorably lacking in basic humanity, but she seemed to have a pretty good eye for business.
Tricia pulled up to the wrought-iron gate at the foot of a driveway that would have run the entire length of the subdivision I grew up in. She poked the button on the intercom and a gruff male voice responded, “Lap dancers are supposed to use the service entrance.”
“Jokes are supposed to be funny,” Tricia retorted.
“I must advise you to retreat now, before your troops are fired upon,” another male voice, less rumbly but pleasantly deep, continued.
“Can’t you guys find something better to play with than the intercom?”
“Not until you bring Molly and Cassady into the house.”
“And who’s keeping me from doing that?”
“It’s Richard’s fault,” the first voice assured her.
“Everything’s Richard’s fault. Open the gate, Davey.”
“Did you bring me a present?”
“I brought you Molly and Cassady.”
“Excellent. Advance.”
There was a discreet hum and the great gates swung back with mechanical grace. “My brothers obviously opened the bar early,” Tricia sighed as she drove up to the house.
Cassady and I declined to comment because we were busy gaping. It was a magnificent Georgian mansion and looked like something out of a British miniseries, one of those gray stone country houses where important people hid during World War II, having tea and rationed milk in between discreet affairs. Tricia parked in front of the massive double front door and hopped out of the car, heading straight for the front steps. Cassady and I scrambled after her
and I pointed to the trunk of the car. “Shouldn’t we bring our stuff in?”
and I pointed to the trunk of the car. “Shouldn’t we bring our stuff in?”
“Nelson will take care of that,” Tricia explained over her shoulder.
Cassady and I looked at each other in delight. “Nelson,” Cassady repeated.
“He’ll get the bags,” I returned.
We managed not to giggle as we followed Tricia inside. Which was just as impressive as the outside and sparkled a great deal more. Tricia introduced us to Nelson, who was less Anthony Hopkins and more Mel Gibson than I’d anticipated. He greeted us with a warm formality and informed Tricia that most of the family was already dressing for dinner since the guests would be arriving soon. When she inquired about her brothers, Nelson rolled his eyes in the most respectful manner possible and said they, too, had gone to dress. He suggested we go up to our rooms and he would bring up our things.
Cassady watched him as he walked out the front door. “Nice to have a man around the house,” she offered.
Tricia sighed. “I’d rather not consider all the ways Aunt Cynthia might keep him busy.” She called out for her brothers, but there was no answer, though I swore I heard an echo. Tricia checked her watch and hurried us upstairs where, without benefit of a compass or trail of bread crumbs, she was able to find the room where she always stayed. Cassady and I had been assigned the room next door.
It was going to be an eclectic mix of people all weekend, which would be a source of entertainment unto itself. The relatives—plus Cassady and I—were staying here, with the rest of the guests scattered around the area at their family manses or friends’ palaces. Most of the guests were David and Lisbet’s social set, but there were friends and associates
of Mr. and Mrs. Vincent on hand, as well as some friends of Aunt Cynthia’s whom she told Tricia she’d invited to make sure things stayed interesting.
of Mr. and Mrs. Vincent on hand, as well as some friends of Aunt Cynthia’s whom she told Tricia she’d invited to make sure things stayed interesting.
Our room was massive and yet welcoming, furnished with pieces to make a museum director drool, and soft, elegant fabrics that made you want to curl up in a wing chair or drape yourself over one of the two double beds, which I did immediately.
Nelson arrived moments later with our bags and a plump young woman named Marguerite who wore a classic black-and-white maid’s uniform and carried three flutes of champagne on a silver tray. Nelson and Marguerite left their goodies and withdrew, leaving us to freshen up, toss back the champagne, and slip on our party finery. My Elie Tahari floral silk dress had had the good manners not to wrinkle, so once my Edmundo Castillo black patent sandals were buckled (the huge buckles were what sold me, even more than the three-and-a-half-inch heels), I was ready to go.
Cassady, on the other hand, uncharacteristically chose to fuss with her hair. “Most people go out of town to let their hair down,” I pointed out as Cassady piled her auburn locks on top of her head.
Tricia stood near the door, wearing a Dolce & Gabbana fitted paisley dress, draining her champagne and trying not to tap her Ashley Dearborn–framed toes. “Cassady, you’re more stunning than mortal eye can bear. Let’s go.”
Cassady pursed her lips at her reflection in the bureau mirror. She was wearing a strapless Stella McCartney and looked fabulous, of course. “I just want to make a good impression. For your sake, Tricia.”
“Gild by association?” I had to ask.
Tricia walked over and tugged on the front of Cassady’s
dress. “Sweetheart, no one’s going to realize you even have a head. Aunt Cynthia likes punctuality. Let’s go.”
dress. “Sweetheart, no one’s going to realize you even have a head. Aunt Cynthia likes punctuality. Let’s go.”
We followed Tricia through another maze of gently illuminated hallway, down a staircase wide enough for the Giants offensive line to descend in formation, and out to the backyard. I doubt, though, they use that word in Southampton. The south lawn, perhaps. The back forty. The adjacent county, even.
On the vivid expanse of lawn there was a gently billowing tent lit by gauzy globes. Within the tent, people were finding their way to their tables while waitresses of the aspiring model/actress/trophy wife variety stood off to the side, ready to serve. This was evidence of Cassady’s theory that the Hamptons are the only true example of trickledown economics: All the excess cash in Manhattan has trickled down to the Hamptons where it then trickles down to all the waitresses and lifeguards and dog walkers who pool that cash to move to … Manhattan.
It was twilight and the lighting inside the tent had that indirect glow that makes everyone look fabulous, but keeps you from being absolutely sure that what’s on your plate is cooked thoroughly. And then there were the people. I’ve been to a lot of society functions in New York City, but there’s usually an undercurrent of nouveau riche that cuts the headiness of lots of old money being in one place. But here, you could sense the trust funds in the rustle of designer clothing, hear the boarding schools in the practiced laughter. Apparently, life is a Ralph Lauren ad after all.
Tricia, being the high priestess of protocol that she is and a dutiful daughter to boot, led us straight to her parents, who were just about to leave their greeting post to go to their table.
The Vincents are the definition of a handsome couple. Tricia gets her penetrating eyes from her father, Paul, a commanding, broad-shouldered man with a jazz disc jockey’s voice and an intimidating handshake, but most of her looks come from her mother, Claire, a slim, elegant woman whom I suspect of wearing pearls to bed.
Mr. Vincent hugged us all enthusiastically, planting a large kiss on Tricia’s forehead. Mrs. Vincent was a little more restrained in her embraces, offering her cheek to each of us. It didn’t bother me but alerted Tricia to something amiss.
“Mother?” she asked with a leading lilt to the word.
“I’m fine, dear. You’re sitting with some of Davey’s chums. Go keep an eye on them. We can’t throw off Cynthia’s timetable.”
“Mother,” Tricia repeated.
Mrs. Vincent summoned up a polite smile and asked, “Did you see who came with Richard?”
All three of us turned and looked out across the guests at the same time. Richard is a tall, sculpted hottie and even in this shining crowd, he was easy to spot. We just weren’t prepared for who was on his arm.
“Rebecca?” Tricia gasped.
There was a moment I thought Tricia was wrong, that Richard was unfortunately dating a new woman who looked uncannily like the old one. But then I realized Tricia was right. It was Rebecca, just with radical changes. The platinum marcel with rose highlights had become a soft cinnamon page boy. Pearl studs had replaced the retro oversized hoops. Courtney Love had morphed into Courtney Cox.
“What’s with the extreme makeover?” Cassady muttered in my ear.
“At least she’s started wearing a bra,” I whispered back. The dresses Rebecca designs are actually quite pretty.
They’re clingy and sheer and brightly colored—three potent reasons why Rebecca, who is not as svelte as she thinks she is, was often her own worst advertisement. But tonight, not only did she seem properly strapped down, she looked like she’d been working out.
They’re clingy and sheer and brightly colored—three potent reasons why Rebecca, who is not as svelte as she thinks she is, was often her own worst advertisement. But tonight, not only did she seem properly strapped down, she looked like she’d been working out.
“Richard’s trying to annoy us,” Mr. Vincent said with the stiff upper lip of a practiced politico. “He must be bored.”
“This couldn’t have been his idea.” Tricia looked like she was having trouble breathing and I wondered if there was a special Heimlich maneuver for someone choking on bad news.
“It’s hardly a discussion to have right here where everyone can see us.” Mrs. Vincent’s smile didn’t waver as she patted Tricia’s cheek reassuringly, then gestured to the tables. “Have a seat and we’ll talk after the meal.”
Tricia inherited her mother’s distaste for public awkwardness, so she politely followed instructions. Cassady and I trailed behind her to a table occupied by a young turk on a cell phone and a couple who were either kissing or licking pate off each other; the lanterns made it impossible to determine which. Tricia slid into her chair, eyes still fixed on Richard and Rebecca, and we stationed ourselves to her right. Our tablemates didn’t even register our presence.
“I don’t see Lisbet and Davey,” Tricia said.
“Stop staring at your other brother and look around a little,” Cassady suggested. She pointed across the tent and both Tricia and I turned to see the guests of honor huddled with Aunt Cynthia beside the bar. At first glance, I thought David and Lisbet were getting a lecture, the way their heads were bowed and they were leaning in to Aunt Cynthia as though to listen earnestly. Then I realized Aunt Cynthia was pouring into three shot glasses she grasped expertly in one
hand. David and Lisbet were poised to take and toss the moment she stopped.
hand. David and Lisbet were poised to take and toss the moment she stopped.
Aunt Cynthia is a tall, angular woman with cheekbones as sharp as her business sense. David takes after his aunt more than his father would like. He’s a little gaunt, a little loud, but his charm and his smarts keep you from staying too mad at him for too long. It remained to be seen whether his matrimonial track record would be anything like hers.
Lisbet is a lithe, sloe-eyed vamp with annoyingly good legs. Her neckline plunged, as usual, its openness emphasized by an emerald necklace that commanded the eye even from the other side of the tent.
“Amazing necklace,” I noted.
“What’s amazing is, she’s wearing it. It’s a family piece of Dad’s. Richard wanted Rebecca to wear it to some premiere early on and Mother and Dad said no. I got to wear it for my debut and haven’t asked since.” Tricia looked from Lisbet to her parents. “They’re trying so hard, they’re going to hurt themselves.”
The trio did their shots, then Aunt Cynthia handed the bottle back to the bartender and strode to the platform where a jazz combo was quietly playing “Moonlight in Vermont.” Aunt Cynthia yanked at one of the tiers of her silk tornado of a dress and grabbed the microphone from the keyboard player’s stand. “Good evening and thank you all for coming.”
The combo and conversation stopped immediately. Aunt Cynthia gestured to where the Vincents were seated. “On behalf of my brother, Paul, and his lovely wife, I’d like to welcome you to this gathering. We’re going to have a lot of fun this weekend, celebrating the engagement of two fabulous young people, my nephew David and his marvelous Lisbet.”
The guests applauded and a few people whooped, Arsenio Hall’s enduring contribution to Western civilization. David and Lisbet waved to everyone while they made their way over to join Mr. and Mrs. Vincent at their table. Lisbet already had the slow blink that comes with a good buzz, and dinner hadn’t even been served.
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