The Polka Dot Nude (13 page)

“You don’t have to change anything for me. You’re pretty terrific just the way you are.” His voice was a caress; his eyes glowed with admiration.

Marnie came jiggling back with the dinner menus. I pressed Brad to have the surf and turf, since that was the most expensive thing they served. Over dinner, I wanted to extol Madison Gantry’s genius, but Brad kept detouring me to talk about the theft from my cottage, and the mystery surrounding it.

“Did you lose much writing time? How long do you figure it will set you back?” he asked.

“A few days. I can make it up.”

“I’ll retype anything that needs retyping. You’re sure everything is there, in the box?”

“Positive. The box hadn’t even been rifled. I think he just opened the lid and rammed in my manuscript. Weird!”

“It confirms you weren’t burgled for your research or the typewriter. What he did take and keep was the polka dot nude.”

“It sounds like a case for Max Getter. I’m reading
Pavane for a Polish Princess
, by the way. It’s terrific. I’m really glad you put me on to Madison Gantry.”

“Yeah, he’s good. You know, I keep wondering why someone wanted that nude painting. It’s not worth a lot in dollars, so it must be important to somebody in some other way.”

I was more than a little surprised at how my praise had rolled off him. “Too bad we don’t have Max Getter here. I wonder how he’d fit these clues together.”

“If it were a Gantry plot, we’d have more clues. There’s only the one, really.”

“Max could do a lot with one clue. That sharp German mind.”

“Will you lay off with the Max Gerter,” he said impatiently. “This is serious, Audrey. It must have something to do with Rosalie’s death, don’t you think? As soon as she died, somebody came running after you and stole that picture. None of her Supreme Court judges or presidential candidates would do that.”

“Nobody would. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“There’s Lorraine Taylor, and her daughter,” he said pensively.

“Why would they want it? They probably have a lot of Rosalie’s other works.”

“Did you know Drew runs an art gallery in New York?”

“Rosalie never mentioned it. How do you happen to know that?”

“Don’t you do
any
research, Audrey? I read it in the
National Enquirer.”

“The
National Enquirer!
Oh well, in that case there’s no possibility of a doubt. I mean, the
National Enquirer
and the Bible. Do you mean to say you, a college professor, actually read the
Enquirer?”

He had the decency to blush at least. “I read everything. Nothing conceived by human mind is alien to me. I saw Rosalie’s picture plastered all over it at the supermarket, and picked one up. It talked about Lorraine and her daughter, who runs a gallery in New York. Drew’s gallery is in the phone book, so the
Enquirer
got that right. So,” he continued, “to return to my point . .

“Just what
is
your point?”

“That Drew Taylor’s connected with the theft of your picture, in some way that I haven’t been able to figure out yet. It didn’t say in the
Enquirer
that Drew inherits anything. Actually Rosalie didn’t leave much, considering how much she earned. Her estate only amounted to a couple of hundred thousand.”

“But there’s Hartland. It’s worth a lot. Since Rosalie’s dead, I can tell about the daughter now. There won’t be any sequel—that was the only reason she wouldn’t tell me earlier.”

Brad pokered up. “It’s more likely the child she wanted to protect than herself. We don’t know what Drew’s circumstances are. She might be a highly respectable woman, who wouldn’t want the world to know she’s illegitimate. For that matter, the father could be some guy you and your publisher wouldn’t care to tangle with. Besides, you don’t even know whether it’s true. You’d be laying yourself open to a libel charge if it isn’t.”

“It’s true all right. She said in her diary she was gaining weight, and a letter from a friend hinted at morning sickness. Then later she comes home with a baby—Lorraine does, I mean. Brad, I’ve been meaning to ask you for ages. Why did you slice those pages out of Rosalie’s diary—the ones about her gaining weight?”

Caught off guard, he looked as guilty as sin. Furthermore, his inventive mind failed to throw up any plausible explanation. “I had to. I just had to. Don’t ask.”

“We’ll make a deal. I’ll promise not to ask, if you’ll promise to tell me.”

“You must work for a union.” He rubbed his furrowed brow, bending his head so I couldn’t read his eyes. When he looked up, I knew he had concocted some improbable answer. “Well,” he admitted with a sheepish smile, “you won’t like it.”

“Try me.”

He took my hands and blasted me with his most ravishing, professional smile. “Remember the garbage dump, Audrey? I did it for you.” But it wasn’t his real, post-garbage dump smile he was wearing. It was the Styrofoam one that accompanied his defrosted gourmet dinners.

“And you razored the pages out of the diary for
you.
Why?”

“Because the magazine I’m doing that article for insisted I have some evidence to substantiate my claim that Rosalie had a child. I don’t finger Drew as the offspring. I just say I think she had a child. And even for that, they insisted I have something in black and white.”

I had forgotten about the magazine article. “You phony! Warning
me
not to use it! You just wanted to scoop me.”

“No! I’m not saying who the kid is, or even hinting. And at the time I took it, you weren’t going to mention your suspicions that Rosalie had a child at all.”

“It was a crummy thing to do, and you know it!”

“I
do
know it, and I’m sorry, Audrey. I’m not going to use it, if that helps any.”

I proved susceptible to his steaming coffee eyes, and even more so to my memories of the afternoon. What he wasn’t saying—but it didn’t take a Max Gerter to figure it out—was that he cared enough for me that he was foregoing his stolen scoop.

“Promise you won’t use it?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Okay, I forgive you, but I need those pages back. Then you really are writing an article about Rosalie? How do you find time?”

“I have a whole summer free.”

“Unh-unh, Madison. You have to hustle along the next Max Gerter detective book. You might as well confess, Brad. I figured it out. The spaghetti Caruso, the hero an ex-professor. But why did you make him of German ancestry?”

His face looked perfectly blank. “What are you talking about?” he asked, with a genuine frown wrinkling his brow.

“You are Madison Gantry, aren’t you?”

“Lord, no. Where’d you get that idea?”

“The letter from Belton, the box of books in your trunk. Who are you, then, if you’re not Hume Mason, and you’re not Madison Gantry?”

Just when I had begun to doubt it, he owned up sheepishly that he was Madison Gantry. “But I don’t tell anybody. I don’t do any PR—not even my picture on the cover.

“Why not?”

“I like my privacy.”

“I think you’re ashamed of it. You think your colleagues at college would put you down. I really liked the book, Brad.”

“Well, thanks. I’m glad you did, and now that we’ve got
that
settled, can we get back to the real case? We need some tangible evidence that links Drew Taylor to the theft.”

“Fingerprints? No, it wasn’t Drew. She was at the funeral.” I slid a leery look at Brad. Had it been he at the funeral? I only got a glimpse. I must have been mistaken.

“She wouldn’t do it herself. She’d hire a couple of thugs. There are guys that’ll do it for a C note, as Max Gerter would say. The trouble is, that typewriter’s been handled more than a public pay phone. There are your prints and mine, the wino’s, and the cop’s.”

“True, and since I don’t believe in dusting or housecleaning, there’d be prints from the salesman and everybody else who ever touched it.”

“You’re the one who said it. Anyway, pros use gloves.”

“I could phone Drew,” I suggested, though what I would say hadn’t occurred to me yet.

“That would alert her you’re suspicious.”

“All right, what do you suggest then?”

“I suggest we exercise the little gray cells,” he said, tapping his temple. “Like Hercule Poirot. I don’t waste all my time on Gantry. I also waste it on Agatha Christie. Exercise increases the oxygen supply to the brain. Don’t faint—I’m not going to suggest we do jogging. There’s a dance floor out there.”

“There’s a nice hot cup of coffee here,” I pointed out.

“Bitter stuff. They use too much cheap Brazilian coffee. Dancing is much better for you. Besides,” he added with a glowing smile, “if I don’t find some excuse to get my arms around you very soon, I’m going to burst a blood vessel. Your jacket falls open when you reach forward.”

I leaned low across the table. “The creamy whites are heaving, are they?”

He took a long look, with eyes that seemed hypnotized. “I can see your heart throb.” I could actually feel it throb faster from the concentration of his gaze. “Now they’re heaving,” he said, and looked up, smiling.

“My bosoms do not heave. They hardly flow. Furthermore, they’re not white. I’m getting a tan.”

“You knew it was you I was writing about, huh? They were white the last peek I got, when you had on your bathing suit. I’ll look into it more closely, and change the manuscript to read ‘freckled,’ if required. Polka dot nudes are in style this season.

“You’re seriously weird, Brad,” I decided, and stood up.

“I’ll just walk a step behind you like the Duke of Edinburgh, and watch you undulate,” he whispered in my ear, as he drew my chair back.

“Voyeur!” His hand settled on my hip. I could feel the heat of his fingers as we walked, with my hips moving intimately against them.

Only three couples occupied the tiny dance floor. Others sat at tables around the edge, drinking. A combo played soft, romantic music. It was a black-velvet night, the sky sprinkled with stardust, and the reflection of a fat, wan moon danced in the dark water beyond.

A brisk breeze blew in from the river. “Do you think it’s going to be warm enough to dance outside?” I asked.

“I feel like a nuclear reactor, ready to melt down. Are you feeling cold?”

“No, I’m fine.”

His head bent above mine,
above
being the operative word here. He was tall enough that my head just fit the crook of his shoulder. “Romantic,” I sighed. “You’ll give me a chance to run for cover if the meltdown starts, won’t you? I wouldn’t want to glow in the dark.”

“Why not? A body like yours should be visible at all times.” His arms tightened till our hips clung together as we moved in time to a sinuous Latin rhythm. I felt his lips brush my ear. “If it weren’t so corny, I’d say this night was made for love.”

“When did corniness ever stop you? Max Gerter actually said he wanted Sophia so bad it hurt.”

“I know how he felt.”

“Were those creamy bosoms really mine?”

“A man needs inspiration for that kind of purple prose. It doesn’t just come from nowhere.”

“It was supposed to come from Rosalie’s movies. That’s what you were writing about.”

“Poetic license. I take my inspiration where I find it.”

“It’s funny, you looked blank when I first asked you if you were Madison Gantry. You’re sure you’re not Hume Mason?”

“I promise on my mother’s grave.”

“I bet your mother’s alive and well, and living in County Cork, or some dumb Irish place.” I smiled dreamily.

“No, she’s dead, but I have relatives in County Cork, just a shamrock’s throw from Blarney Castle. I’ve caressed the stone many times. And you know what they say about us stone-kissing, silver-tongued Irishmen.”

“Something about having ‘a cajoling tongue and the art of flattery . . .‘ I forget the rest.”

“It goes ‘or of telling lies with unblushing effrontery.’ Straight from
Lewis’s Dictionary of Ireland.
”

“I never heard of it. I got it from the
Oxford Companion.
Why should I believe a card-carrying, stone-kissing liar?”

“We’re getting deep into metaphysics here. Do you believe a liar when he tells you he’s lying?”

“I don’t do metaphysics after a double martini and half a bottle of wine.”

He lifted his head and smiled down at me. “What
do
you do when you’re feeling giddy, Audrey?”

“I drink coffee and sober up.”

“Daredevil! I have a suggestion to make while you’re still tipsy.”

A twinge of suspicion tweaked at me. “Is it decent?”

“It’s legal, between consenting adults.”

My bones firmed up, then stiffened. Finally I came to a halt in the middle of the dance floor. “You know it’s getting late, and I have to be up early tomorrow.”

“I’ll speak to the desk clerk.”

He had misunderstood. They say people see what they want to see, and in this case, Brad had heard what he wanted to hear. He thought I was urging him to rush out and reserve a room.

“That won’t be necessary. I meant I’d like to go home now.” I stalked back to the table. Brad followed behind, trying not to look foolish. I would not be bulldozed into going to bed with him or anyone else before I was good and ready. I began gathering up my cigarettes and lighter and stuffing them into my purse.

Brad watched me, then said, “Can’t we discuss this like a couple of adults? I’m not talking about a one-night stand. I take our relationship seriously, Audrey.”

“I have been seriously taken, Brad, not taken seriously. There’s a difference. Unfortunately, only one of us is a grown-up. The other appears to be a sex-starved adolescent.”

“It’s only natural when a man and woman are together a lot. I admire you, very much. I like you, and I want you. What’s wrong with that?”

Admiring and liking were fine, in their way. The word
love,
however, was conspicuous by its absence. “There’s nothing wrong with it. And there’s nothing wrong with my refusing either. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“You said when we were better acquainted. We’re pretty well acquainted now, wouldn’t you say? Or was that just an excuse?”

“I don’t need an excuse! I don’t
owe
you anything. I didn’t ask you to go climbing up the garbage piles—it was your own idea. I’m leaving now.” I strode angrily from the room.