Past Malice (20 page)

And just what does that mean? I wondered. I simply nodded again and watched her retreat to her car, fists clenched and shoulders rigidly held back, before I brushed the crumbs off my lap and took off for home, my mood considerably deflated by the experience.

Brian was there, waiting at the door for me when I got back. “Did I read the note correctly? Did you really go all the way to Boxham? For me?” He was bouncing up and down as he held the screen door open for me.

“For you, for everyone. Happy Birthday, sugar.” I gave him a kiss on the cheek, just knowing the coffee hadn’t done much for my breath, and handed him one of the bags.

“Chocolate-frosted cream-filled?” he said even as he dove into the bag like a raccoon into a dumpster.

“Four of them, top of that bag.”

“You spoil me.”

“Not nearly enough. The least I could do, after giving you a houseful of strangers for the day.”

“You okay?” He peered at me as he got a couple of plates down from the cabinet and started setting them out one-handed while he began eating his breakfast.

“Yeah, just need another cup of coffee.” I’d promised Fee, and I’d keep my word even if I didn’t think there was any real cause. In fact, the entire incident had taken me so off-guard that it had never even occurred to me to ask Fee about the Mather House. Although the house was run-down, the land itself was a gold mine. Why did she hold such valuable property if she was so broke?

Brian had decided that he wanted a quiet dinner out with me and Bucky for his birthday treat, and that evening, the parking lot outside Shade’s was packed. Since we were early, Bucky and I volunteered to snag a place in the bar while Brian parked. The pickup was a little out of place outside the restaurant, standing out a mile amid the upper-crusty imported sedans. My car wouldn’t have been much better, and since it was hemorrhaging fluids, might have been worse.

The maître d’ led us to the last two seats at the bar, and I settled back to survey the landscape. We had been told that the dress was “casually elegant,” which is a pretty broad definition. All the men were in jackets, most with ties, and the women tended to run to very smart, very understated separates or dresses for the older ones with the kind of consummate accessorizing that I could never manage unsupervised. There wasn’t a lot of jewelry to be seen—discreet pearls, a good brooch, a heavy gold choker here and there—but some
of the rings were real knuckledusters, diamonds big enough to ice skate on. Bucky and I played a couple of quick rounds of “who’s had what done,” calculating the cost of the cosmetic surgery done on each face until the bartender came over to take our order. Bucky was better at it than I, since I’d lost some of my edge in university life. She still saw enough of it in her partners’ swanky Connecticut veterinary practice.

“Good evening, ladies. What can I get for you?”

“House chardonnay,” I said.

“Excellent,” he responded. “And for you, madam?”

“’ Scuse me.” Bucky reached over the guy next to her and grabbed the wine list. “What I’m looking for,” she said as she ran down the page, “is a big, nasty red. Dark fruit, chocolate, tobacco, not too heavy on the tannins.” She scrunched up her face, made a fist. “Something with balls.”

I gave her a skeptical glance, and almost said something disapproving. The bartender nodded gravely, and nearly smiled.

“I can recommend a couple of excellent zinfandels that might do the trick.”

“Surprise me. Just pick one that shrieks ‘big, blowsy peasant girl, the village strumpet,’ and that’ll do fine.”

“Right away.”

“What was that about?” I whispered. “You couldn’t just order something like other people?”

“What, like your mimsy little chardonnay? Please. How milquetoast can you get? At least I take a little interest in my liquor.”

“I don’t recall ever hearing a wine described as ‘the village strumpet’ before.”

“He knew what I was after. And I’ll have more fun with mine than you will with yours.”

The bartender put down my glass of chardonnay. I took a sip and it was very nice. If Bucky’s was the village tart, mine
would have been the melancholy spinster aunt, but it suited me just fine. I didn’t like wrestling with my wine.

He set down a glass in front of Bucky, so dark that light didn’t pass through it. I was almost willing to bet that bullets wouldn’t have passed through it. She took a look at it, swirled it around with more vigor than I thought prudent, and took a sip. She didn’t slurp or anything, just lingered over it and closed her eyes. “That’s it, that’s the stuff.” She opened her eyes. “Rookhaven, right?”

“Exactly. Their Mignon vineyard, in Sonoma. I think you’ll find that there’s just a hint of—excuse me.” His lecture was curtailed by a call from the end of the bar.

“Eucalyptus,” Bucky said.

“Huh?”

“There’s a flavor of eucalyptus in it.”

“And where did you gain all this expertise?”

“I have friends who like wine.” The way that she buried her nose back into the glass told me.

“You mean Joel.”

“Maybe.” Bucky stayed immersed in her glass until something at the other end of the bar caught her attention. She put her glass down abruptly. “Hello! Will you look at this little beauty! What a little darling she is!”

“Huh? Bucks, what’s with the silly antipodean accent?” I tried to look where she was looking but couldn’t figure out what was going on.

“Lovely skin, just gorgeous!” she continued in broadest Strine. “Shiny, in fantastic shape for one of her age. Just watch out for those claws, mate! She’ll get you, whap! quick as anything, if you’re not careful. And just look at those teeth….”

Just then Brian appeared. “Place is jammed tonight. High Rockaway Pale Ale, please,” he told the bartender. “Why is Bucky talking like the Gator Guy?”

“Who?” I said.

“Crazy guy on TV who tracks reptiles and teaches about them. I think he retains more of his lizard brain than most of us, but he’s pretty good at what he does, you have to admit. Oh, I see.”

At last the bartender had moved out of the way and I could see where Bucky’s attention was so focused. An older couple was seated at a table directly opposite the bar in the dining room. She was maybe in her well-preserved forties, while her male companion might have been deep in his seventies, maybe older. At first I thought my sister was talking about him, as he certainly had a reptilian cast to him: compact, tanned, and lizard-skinned, hooded eyes that were a little bulbous, and a slow gaze that was unnerving even from this distance. Steely gray hair was threaded through with white, and a good deal of this also showed where his white shirt opened at the neck under his jacket. An image of Mediterranean tycoons immediately sprang to mind, and I got the impression that while he might be old, he was still a powerful man.

But Bucky had been talking about the woman, and now I could see why. She was as carefully maintained as any of the other women in the room, Bucky and me excluded, of course; we couldn’t be considered maintained by any stretch of the imagination. She was more metallic than they, however: shiny, hard, sharp. She had piles of dark hair, and wore it proudly in cascades down the back of her head. Her fingernails—the claws to which Bucky had alluded—were longer than the taste embraced by most of the crowd here, and were an unabashed scarlet, as were her lips. Her teeth were very white against tanned skin and it wasn’t difficult to imagine this couple at expensive island resorts in winter because you don’t get a tan like that by putting the laundry out on the line or raking leaves. She wore heavy gold at her wrist
and throat, as well as on her fingers and ears, and it was clear that it was genuine and expensive. She had a tall clear drink with a lime wedge in front of her and looked concerned when her companion signaled the waiter for another round. She put her hand on top of his and he kissed it fervently.

I found that I was the only one still absorbed by the couple in the far corner. “Whew, big money in here,” Brian said, taking it all in after he took a sip of his beer.

I rested my hand on his back. He liked his dining on a more casual note and was never entirely at home the few times we’d been to really good restaurants with our friends Kam and Marty. He always went for the food and the company, though.

“Except in this corner,” Bucky said. “We’re the intellectual elite.”

Brian smiled and relaxed. I tensed up, annoyed that she should be able to say something so obvious and silly and have it reassure him like that.

“Evening, Dr. Fielding,” a voice said from behind us.

Bucky and I both turned around, saying, “Evening.” We looked back at each other crossly.

Daniel Voeller, dressed very elegantly casual in a black silk suit and a cobalt-blue shirt, was standing behind us looking puzzled. “You’re not both archaeologists, are you?”

“Perish the thought,” Bucky said, with the conviction of an oath.

Not much nicer, I laughed too. “Nice to see you, Daniel. No, my sister, ah, Carrie, is a veterinarian. And this is my husband, Brian Chang. He’s got a real job too.”

Hands were shaken. “Are you having dinner tonight?”

“Yes, I’m about to join my father and stepmother over there.” He indicated the couple I’d just been contemplating. “A little family celebration. Dad likes to get out every once and a while, though his health isn’t the best. Delilah tries to
keep an eye on him, but it’s beyond anyone’s capabilities, I fear. Especially tonight.”

“We have a stepmother like that. Looks after Dad.” Beebee was just five years older than I, and though we would never have a great relationship—we were just too different—I had to admit she made Dad cut down on the red meat he was so fond of and made him exercise enough to keep healthy.

“I’m just here to fill him in on things at the factory, what’s up with his pet projects. We’re a team, Lila and I. She watches the home front and I take care of the family biz at the factory. He’s worth every bit of our efforts. He’s an amazing guy.”

“Oh, yes?” Daniel seemed so unguarded and enthusiastic that I was surprised.

“Self-made man, immigrant story right out of Horatio Alger. Came from nothing, made everything. If only his health wasn’t so shaky. It’s the one thing his money can’t do.” He caught himself. “But I’m getting soppy.”

I offered him a way out. “How’s Charles tonight?”

“He’s well. He’ll be along later.” Daniel leaned in and said confidentially, “He likes to limit his exposure. You know how it can be with in-laws.”

Brian nodded gravely. “Amen to that.”

Bucky hit him on the shoulder.

Daniel laughed. “Well, I just wanted to say hello. I must get going.”

“Enjoy your meal, Daniel.”

It was only when our appetizers arrived a short while later that I began to wonder about the Voellers celebrating so soon after Aden Fiske’s death.

There was one more chance encounter that night. Having gorged ourselves on fresh seafood served up in a simplified French style, we had decided against coffee and dessert right
away. I was following Bucky out when I noticed a familiar form at the bar. I promised Brian that I would only be a moment. “I’ve got one more treat for you,” I said, by way of apology and inducement. “I’ll be two seconds, tops.”

“I’ll get the truck,” he said, resigned. He let go of my fingers reluctantly. “Emma, please don’t be long.”

“I won’t.” I walked up to the bar, where Detective Bader was talking with the bartender, lingering over a plate of the oysters Florentine that Brian had liked so much.

“—then she sent him down to the pantry to find a left-handed whip. Kept him looking for hours.”

They both laughed at that, and I saw my chance.

“Good evening, Detective Bader.”

“Eh?” He turned around, and although his smile faded, it didn’t entirely disappear. There was a wary look in his eye. “Well, hello there, Ms. Fielding. How was your dinner?”

I thought it was an odd question to start with, but figured that even detectives get to have some time off too. “Very nice. Actually, it was excellent. We don’t often get meals like that.”

“I could eat like that every day, if I wanted to.” He patted his stomach proudly. “But I’ve got to watch myself, so I limit it to just once a week. Otherwise, I ask Sandra to keep her eye on the fat.”

I could tell he was dying for me to ask. “Who’s Sandra?”

“My daughter. She’s the chef here, isn’t she, Rich?”

The bartender nodded.

“Wow, I guess you would have to watch it,” I said. “I’d be the size of a house.”

“She can cook anything you want, better than anyone. All she has to do is taste it, just once. It’s amazing how she does it, and worth every penny I spent sending her to Europe when she was training. You should see what she can do with just a couple of fresh onions, a little olive oil, and—”

Apparently I’d found the one topic that kept Detective Bader talking.

“—and the best decision that Walter Voeller ever made was to hire her. You here for an occasion?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

“No, it’s a little too rich for my blood,” I said. Detective Bader’s daughter worked for Walter Voeller? The name just had to be connected with Daniel’s family. “It’s my husband’s birthday.”

“Well, you couldn’t have done better. Though you know, if Sandy wasn’t who she was, I sure as hell wouldn’t be in here every Saturday night. Couldn’t afford it.”

I was about to ask him the questions I had, about what he wanted to show me, but thought better of it. I knew as well as anyone that it was nice to be able to get away from the thought of work for a while; I was sure as a police officer, Detective Bader had an even more difficult time. But at least, his work wasn’t actually living at home with him, even for a couple of weeks. “I just thought I’d say hello. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Again, that guarded look shadowed his face. “Sure, first thing.”

“You enjoy your dinner.”

“I’ve been looking forward to it since last week. You have a good night.”

I nodded to the bartender and hurried out the door. Brian and Bucky were waiting in the pickup, the engine running.

“See, I wasn’t too long,” I said as I slammed the door and buckled my safety belt.