Tea Cups & Tiger Claws (36 page)

“How may I help you?” crackled the bored sounding voice on the other end.

Mack leaned back to let Sarah talk. “This is Sarah Evans. I’m here to see Mr. Osborne.” Seconds later the big gate groaned and opened down the middle.

When they got to the bottom of the long drive,
Mack recognized the mayor standing on the front porch. He wore slacks and a burgundy jacket with a tie belt—kind of like a bathrobe, but shorter—and one of those scarves around his neck that rich people use to hide their wrinkles. He smiled and pointed at a place for Mack to park.

After greeting them with a hug and a kiss for
Sarah and a handshake for Mack, the mayor said, “Please forgive my attire, I was just about to dress for the winter ball.” He gestured toward the front door.

As
Sarah led the way into the house, she said, “Have you heard anything from my cousin, Mr. Osborne?”

“No, not recently, but I’m sure we’ll both see her tonight
. Now tell me, dear, is everything alright? I noticed that scrape on your arm.”

“This?” asked
Sarah as she raised her arm. “A relative did this to me…someone who’s also related to you.”

“Really,” he said with a surprised smile. “To whom are we both related?”

"Dorthea Railer," said Sarah. “I'm related by my cousin’s marriage, you’re related by the death of her father.”

Nothing like beating around the bush
, thought Mack, as the mayor’s smile fell to the ground. Like a good politician, he picked it right back up.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean
, Sarah.”

“I need to talk with you about
Jeb Railer.”

“In the mood for a little town history, are we?” He searched her unsmiling face
for a moment and then ushered them into his office just off the main entryway. He closed the sliding wooden doors, pointed to a brown leather couch against the wall, and said, “Please have a seat.” He sat in a matching chair a few feet away, angled toward the couch. Sarah stared at him. He picked specks of lint off his gray slacks, and said, “I don’t know how much help I can be…that’s a little before my—”

“I know Dorthea Railer is blackmailing you sir…and I know why
,” said Sarah.

He acted surprised. “Is that so? And exactly where did you get this information?”

“From Dorthea.”

“Really?
She doesn’t sound like much of a blackmailer. More like a blabber mouth, don’t you think?”

“The
fingerprints on the club are yours. You know it and so does Dorthea.”

“I’ve been mayor for thirty years,
Sarah, and have had my fingerprints taken seven times. If I’d had anything to do with that incident, don’t you think someone would have figured it out by now?”

“We don’t have time for this
,” pleaded Sarah. “I don’t care about the past, I won’t say anything about it, but I need your help now. Dorthea is going to murder Veronica and you’re the only one who can help!”

“You’re asking for help? That’s strange because just a second ago it sounded like you accus
ed me of murder—”

“I won’t say anything. I promise. Please, just help us.”

“I don’t know how you got onto this absurd and erroneous path, Sarah, but out of respect for my long friendship with your uncle and aunt, and respect for the recent tragedy in your family, I’m going to let it pass. I suggest you do the same. Now I must ask you to leave.”

“No. I’m not leaving. I’ll call the police if I have to.”

“Really? Well then, why don’t you call right now?” He picked up a telephone from a round side table next to his chair and extended it to Sarah. She froze, caught off guard by his carefree attitude. After a moment he put it back on the table and said, “You see, you know in your heart that what you’re saying is ridiculous. I’ve been a family friend—your friend—my entire life. You know that now, don’t you?” A relaxed, friendly smile spread across his face.

Mack
tried to make sense out of it. The dirt on this guy had to be there—that’s how blackmail worked. And of course Prospect Park’s puppet police didn’t have it, he and Sarah should’ve known that, but it had to be somewhere. They’d had the fingerprints at one time. What happened to them? Had they passed them onto another agency? And then he got an idea.

He got up
from the couch, stepped toward the Mayor, and picked up the phone’s receiver. “Maybe we’ll try the FBI instead. Aren’t they the ones in charge of fingerprints for unsolved murders?” he said.

When the
mayor slowly placed his hand over the telephone dialer, Mack knew that the bluff of a lifetime had just paid off.

“Sit down,” said the Mayor without looking up. Then he turned to
Sarah with a lifeless face and said, “What exactly is going on?”

“The marriage between Veronica and Ernest is nothing but a way for Dorthea to get her hands on Sunny Slope Manor. But she
won’t stop there. She’s going to murder Veronica.”

“And how do you know this?”

“Because Dorthea killed my aunt. I found the doctored pill bottle and traced it back to her. When I called the police, she tried to kill me. Does that sound like someone who just wants her son to marry into a nice family? And, if it means anything, I found the remains of one of her other victims under the hotel.”

He stared with old, watery eyes, but didn’t say a word. After a moment he brought his
hands up and rubbed his face.

“When Dorthea takes something, she takes it all,” continued
Sarah. “As long as Veronica lives, she still owns the manor and Dorthea won’t stand for that.”

He didn’t respond.

“You know this lady. You know what I’m saying is true.”

He lowered his hands from his face
. “I know it’s true,” he said in almost a whisper. “Knowing Dorthea just makes it worse.”

Sarah
didn’t have a response for this. The Mayor continued, “What is it you want?”

“We want the police to go get Veronica, to get her away from Dorthea,” said
Sarah.

“They won’t do it. They won’t go near her. The most I can do is get you in there. I
can hide you in my car. You’ll have to do the rest yourself.”

Sarah
looked at Mack.

“
You’ll need to leave your keys in the car,” said Mack.

The
mayor nodded.

Walter Tubbs, the attorney with a quick eye and an eager smile, stood atop the ballroom’s grand staircase and basked in the sparkling light of the crystal chandeliers. Down below, servants with white gloves and powdered wigs stood ready to serve him fine champagne and exotic finger foods. Just a few feet away from where he now stood in the mezzanine, a conductor with a baton led his orchestra with undulating arms. Dressed in an eye-catching baby blue tuxedo, Walter Tubbs struck a dignified pose and accepted their quiet serenade. He’d been invited to the winter ball at Sunny Slope Manor.

Funny how the invitations you expect never arrive
, and the one you don’t expect turns up with your name exquisitely displayed in a frilly handwritten script. When Walter married the recently widowed Mrs. Emily Barnes and moved up the hill to her mansion, he didn’t expect a welcome party at the country club, but he did expect a chance to thaw out a few frosty millionaires with his warm personality. It never happened. He’d never made even a dent in the impressive address book that had belonged to his wife’s deceased husband. Now none of that mattered because Prospect Park had crowned a new queen who just happened to be his very own client, and had been for twenty years. Instead of starting at the bottom, he’d be right there at the top, the right hand man. It’s true, his professional relationship with Dorthea Railer had been a secret one, and  he’d never formally met her, but he planned to remedy that minor technicality with the utmost dispatch, possibly as soon as that very evening.

A nearby servant cleared his throat and held out a
silver tray. Not knowing how these things worked, Walter just stared. The servant said, “Your announcement please, sir.”

“Say what?”

“Your white card, sir.”

“Oh
, that. Why didn’t you say so? I wondered what that thing was for.” Walter put his card onto the tray with a genteel flourish and a smile. The servant handed the card to another servant standing nearby. This servant looked at the card and yelled, “Mr. and Mrs. Walter Tubbs.”

Hot damn
, thought Walter, he yelled my name, just like in the movies. Then he regretted his early arrival. He could’ve made a real splash with a packed house. Resolved to make up for this oversight with some judicious hobnobbing, he grabbed the arm of the former Mrs. Barnes and scrambled down the stairs to the ballroom, where he stood beaming.

Shortly thereafter, the servant at the top of the stairs
became busy calling names. He filled the place with Danmores and Londales and Petersens and all the other Prospect Park bluebloods. Unfortunately for Walter Tubbs, these guests didn’t have the least inclination to hobnob; they stood around and looked miserable and did their utmost to avoid eye contact with every other human being.

When
the last name had been called, and the orchestra began to play in earnest, Walter looked to the middle of the ballroom but nobody danced. Not having any ball experience and not wanting to advertise that fact, he stood around with everyone else. For all he knew the thing didn’t start until someone blew a trumpet, or made a proclamation, or toasted the Queen Mother. So he waited. After a while, though, when his limited reserve of patience had been depleted, when the other guests began to look like stalagmites with ears, and when he didn’t have any half-hearted smiles left for the former Mrs. Barnes, he dispossessed her of her champagne glass and dragged her to the middle of the room. He’d never impress Dorthea Railer by twiddling his thumbs with all the other thumb twiddlers. He needed to be bold.

Not one for slow waltzes and foxtrots, he
doubled the beat of the milk toast played by the orchestra and launched into a spirited jitterbug. At first it seemed to go pretty well; he always held his own on the dance floor, and the former Mrs. Barnes loved to twirl after a drink or two. As for the nearby corpses, they still looked dead but maybe now they knew the difference between a party and a funeral parlor. But then, just as he’d warmed up, the music stopped right in the middle of the song. He looked around and saw everyone staring up to the top of the stairs. The conductor had turned away from his musicians to also look over at the stairway. Walter looked for himself, wondering what could be so captivating, and he instantly became a captive himself. He’d seen Dorthea before, from a distance, but never like this.

Dressed in a midnight-black full length gown with clusters of sparkling gold strands
that ran diagonally across the form fitting bodice, she looked down upon the gathering. Her black gown and shiny black hair complimented, bowed elegantly to each other, but what truly mesmerized was what came between the two: like a pearl nestled in black velvet, her pure white face cast a warm glow over the entire room. Everyone stared, none more than Walter Tubbs, whose eager smile had grown especially eager. Had her heavenly countenance never been chaffed by the sun? Had perfect beauty finally overpowered the relentless march of time? She had the radiance of a woman half her age, without the nervously darting eyes, or the mouth that shapes and reshapes itself in an endless search for perfect sensuality, and other such beauty queen protuberances, of which he considered himself somewhat of an expert.

He could have gazed
for an hour and marveled even at the little things, like the diamond tiara which graced the crown of her head, the crisp sheen of her black opera gloves, and the small, delicate embroidered white flowers which occasionally interrupted the clusters of shiny gold thread in her gown. It would have been a pleasure. Unfortunately, other things happened to be in store for Walter Tubbs.

In a loud, clear voice the servant yelled, “
Lady Dorthea Railer.”

At first just a smattering of laughter greeted th
is strange announcement. That smattering, however, soon turned into a swell, which soon had the entire room within its power. Walter looked around and saw all the zombies alive with laughter. The man had said, “Lady Dorthea Railer.” Surely it had been a mistake. Dorthea didn’t come from royalty. Even Judith Newfield, the honest to goodness daughter of a duchess, had used the title with only the upmost propriety. And her sister, Abigail, had never attached such an appendage to her name. It really was a bit much. Walter laughed also, and so did the former Mrs. Barnes.

Everyone laughed
…except Dorthea Railer. She simply stared, not glaringly, but heavily enough for the merrymakers to know that her gaze had blanketed the room. Some of the revelers succumbed to this blanket and cut short their laughter. Others rode the joke to the end and laughed accordingly. One by one, though, whether smothered by Dorthea or exhausted naturally, all the eruptions in the room eventually became extinguished…except one: that of the former Mrs. Emily Barnes! His wife! For some unfathomable reason she kept laughing and wouldn’t shut her trap. There she stood, next to him, in the middle of the room, exposed, and she laughed like a lunatic. Everyone looked at them. Dorthea Railer, the new queen of Prospect Park, the one he’d hoped to charm, looked at them. Then she descended the stairway and walked straight toward them. He slid close to his wife and casually wrapped his hand around her plump arm. He squeezed and the laughing spasm abruptly ceased. She looked at him angrily. He smiled, looked intently into her eyes, and pulled her inch by inch off the dance floor.

Walter
thought about how to best affect a nonchalant retreat into the background. Meanwhile, the guests at the base of the stairway cleared away, while others, in more distant parts of the room, crowded forward, and in short order Walter found himself standing in the front row beside a path formed for Dorthea Railer’s benefit. She’d be walking right by him. And the laughing hyena! He looked over his shoulder for a way to scoot back to the second row or to the third row or to Cucamonga. No chance, everyone had pressed in to see her. He wiped the sweat from his red face, locked arms with his wife, and didn’t plan to let go until the danger had passed.

Dorthea glided slowly through the parted crowd without saying a word. Maybe she’d walk by and let the unfortunate incident pass
, he hoped. After all, everyone knew Mrs. Barnes didn’t come from the best stock. Why had she even been invited?

Walter
stood motionless as Dorthea approached. But not Mrs. Barnes. She fidgeted and looked around and hummed a ditty. Walter tightened his grip on her arm. She squirmed. Dorthea stopped in front of them. Walter wanted to close his eyes. Dorthea turned and stared at Mrs. Barnes. She stopped fidgeting and humming. And then Dorthea stared at Walter. Like a surgeon who explores with a scalpel, Dorthea explored with her sharp, steel-blue eyes. She peeled back his cover and revealed the depths of his humiliation. He knew it. He felt it. But it didn’t stop. She kept on staring.

What did she want
? Certainly not small talk. A hissing snake doesn’t care about rainfall totals or the current measure of snowpack in the mountains. Definitely not charm. Buckets of the stuff couldn’t make him and Mrs. Barnes look good. How about surrender? How about debasement? That might put an end to it; nobody steps on a bug twice.

He ex
tended his left arm in an exaggerated motion, brought it across his waist, and bowed reverently—and as damned low as he could go—and did his utmost to drag Mrs. Barnes down with him. Miraculously, she followed suit and affected some sort of a curtsy-bow, not exactly ladylike, but close enough. He stayed bowed. Soon he heard a slight rustle and saw the skirt of Dorthea’s gown turn and walk on. But then he heard something else. He peeked to his left. The lady next to him had curtsied and the man next to her had bowed. He looked across the aisle and saw bowed tuxedos and curtsied ball gowns. He raised his head a notch and saw genuflection all around. When he stood up straight, along with those nearby, no one stared at him. They all had their eyes on Dorthea, who had stopped at the end of the path and had turned to face her guests.

And she glowed like a light bulb! She liked the worship! And he’d given it to her! All of it! He’d pulled off a miracle!

“Welcome, dear friends,” said Dorthea. “My son and daughter-in-law wanted so terribly to welcome you in person, but, as they are on their honeymoon, I’ve gladly been prevailed upon to stand in their place. And so, with humble gratitude, I welcome you and say thank you for your presence. It has been some years since this grand ballroom has received the honor it deserves but tonight, with your presence, you graciously bestow that honor, not only upon this ballroom but upon the family into which I’ve recently been adopted. Now, as the newest member of that family, I say to you, won’t you pay me the highest honor of all? Won’t you dance?” She looked at the orchestra, raised her arm and said, “Maestro.”

The music played
, and the people danced, perhaps not enthusiastically, but they danced just the same. Walter Tubbs, newly raised from the dead, eager smile not quite ready to show itself, escorted the former Mrs. Barnes onto the dance floor where they fell obediently in line with all the other waltzers. A small group of guests gathered around Dorthea, to curry favor, no doubt. “Boot licking hypocrites,” he said, under his breath.

In this manner the evening shuffled forward
, one sluggish minute creeping behind another, one stilted waltz indistinguishable from the other, and Walter couldn’t have been more content. Still mindful of the recent trauma, he danced without embellishment and, when not on the dance floor, stood resolutely in the company of stalagmites. He toned down the overtures to smart looking men and women of means who happened to look his way. He pretended to be ignorant of the positive impression he most certainly had to be making upon Dorthea Railer. In short, he comported himself with his usual style and charm but in more modest proportions. But then, as he and the former Mrs. Barnes took another turn on the dance floor, and as he contemplated the prospect of more invitations landing in his mailbox, another shell exploded. Fortunately this time it hit on the other side of the room.

It started with
an audible gasp and an awkward halt to the music. Walter felt a surge of cold air and saw the curtains billow over by the second story verandah. At first he thought a window or door had been blown open by a gust of wind but then the crowd, an animal that feeds on spectacle, especially human spectacle, came alive and went on the prowl, and formed a semicircle around some poor soul by the curtains. This theory got confirmed by the murmur that arose, first quietly, originating from those in front, and then spreading to the rest of the room. He easily deciphered two words from this murmur, two big words: Veronica Newfield. Walter hadn’t been keen on having his own humiliation put on display, but he didn’t mind gawking at someone else’s, especially someone named Newfield. He scooted and shuffled until he had a good view.

“Where’s Dorthea?” yelled Veronica, if it really was her.
Underfed and poorly clothed, she looked more like a hippy girl who’d eaten too many magic brownies than any Newfield he’d ever seen.

“Here I am
, dear.” The crowd re-shaped itself to reveal Dorthea standing some twenty feet away, calmly smiling at Veronica. “Are you still not feeling well, my dear?” she asked.

From where she stood by the verandah door,
Veronica sized up Dorthea with a sneer. “Nice crown, Dorthea. Did somebody die and make you queen?” The words had barely come out of her mouth before she busted into a strange fit of laughter. The crowd stared in utter silence. Then the laughter stopped. “Nobody died!” screamed Veronica. “That’s who! Nobody! Because I figured out what you’re trying to do.”