The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series) (22 page)

Sky nodded. But the snow and brick and wrought iron couldn’t keep away thoughts of Nicolette Mercer’s dead body. Face swollen, lower back mutilated, somewhere in the basement of Newton-Wellesley’s morgue on a cold slab.

“Refresh your memory.” Sky tugged the web picture of Porter Manville from her beaded bag.

Kyle studied the shot. “Frankenstein in Brooks Brothers.”

“This doesn’t really capture him.” Sky smiled at the reference to Manville’s prominent brow. “In person, he’s actually quite striking.”

“And how would you know that?”

Sky shrugged. “Must have read it somewhere.” It was still too early to tell the detective about hiding in the lab supply room. Or about seeing Manville with a hunting knife in his hand. That particular piece of information would make Kyle want to hover – and Sky wanted Manville to herself.

They continued up the carpeted staircase, with its fleur-de-lis design, to the second floor. Tables draped in red and gold circus bunting banked either side of the hallway that led to the grand ballroom. At each table, dowagers in evening wear cheerfully checked lists and consulted file boxes.

“Looks like the League of Women Voters during election day at Lincoln-Eliot,” Kyle whispered. “I’m desperate for another see-through, darling.”

“Show some respect,” Sky chided him. “You’re witnessing the last remnants of a generation of socialites.”

The end table held a large white placard with the letters W-Z. Sky presented her invitation to a striking matron with chin-length salt and pepper hair.

“Skylar, I hardly recognized you.” Agnes Pickman’s deep eyes narrowed at the sight of the sapphire and diamond necklace but her smile never wavered. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you at one of our functions, dear. How lovely of you to come. And wearing your grandmother’s loveliest Balenciaga.” The old woman delivered her lines with a practiced charm and rose to offer Sky an obligatory peck. “There aren’t many of us left, you know. You girls must carry on the good work.”

Sky kissed the rouged cheek and made introductions.

“Tuffy went into the club archives.” Agnes wrinkled her brow in concern. “This year’s ball has the very theme your grandmother used fifty years ago.”

“Carnivale was Izzy’s idea?”

Agnes nodded. “I was hoping for a Black and White. So crisp and smart. But no, Carnivale won out. Tuffy brought in some company I’ve never heard of, she found them on the internet. Gypsies from Montreal.” Agnes flared her nostrils with distaste. “Frankly, I find them … well, unsavory. But Tuffy would not be dissuaded. And the price was right. This recession is taking a fearsome toll.”

Agnes handed Sky a ruby-colored patent leather tote bag with a debossed Diamond Ball logo. “Here is your packet, dear. Funny money and so forth. We’re having a silent auction this year. Your grandmother’s contribution is lovely. Her butler delivered the set this afternoon.”

A woman in a blue Venetian half-mask burst through the ballroom doorway holding up the voluminous skirts of a gold damask gown. She darted past the registration tables to the stairway. A tuxedoed man wearing a red leather mask gave chase, spilling his drink as he ran.

“A masked ball?” Sky watched the couple fly down the hotel steps with growing apprehension. This would complicate things.

“Voluntary, of course.” Agnes arched her thin, penciled eyebrows. “The costuming room is there, with coat-check, should you be so inclined.” She pointed out a door adjacent to the ballroom and shook her head in disapproval. “What’s the point of a party, if not to see and be seen?”

“To raise money for the poor?” Sky suggested.

Agnes appeared not to hear. “Masks are so anonymous,” she muttered. “You’re never quite sure who you’re dealing with. And your grandmother’s event was such a disaster.”

“Why? What happened at Izzy’s ball?” The words were barely out of Sky’s mouth when Kyle yanked her away from the table.

“Are we going to stand here yakking all night?” Kyle steered Sky toward the ballroom entrance. “Time to dump this animal.” He handed the Barguzin to a coat-check attendant sporting a devil mask; the man’s wispy goatee and small black horns protruding from the low forehead seemed crudely authentic. The attendant ran a slow, appreciative hand over the sable before draping it on a wooden hanger. He thrust a numbered stub at Sky.

“
Masca
?” He gestured toward an impressive collection of masks. Dozens hung on the wall, others were heaped in tangled piles on the coat-check table. A few reminded Sky of
tsantsa
, shrunken heads she’d seen in her mother’s research monographs, creepy wizened creatures with straggly black hair and swollen lips. Other masks were quite beautiful, smooth and delicate as eggshell. The devil plucked two from the wall and wordlessly held them up for approval.

The male mask was Michelangelo’s face of
David
, rendered in three-dimensional gold leaf, with sensuous lips and breathing holes in the perfectly sculpted nose. The female half-mask was satiny white, decorated with the pattern of an intricate silver swan and studded with Austrian crystals.

Both masks were enchanting.

Kyle bartered briefly with the devil over the price of the Michelangelo, agreeing to an even two hundred dollars. Sky reached for the swan but Kyle blocked her hand.

“No way,” he said, slipping the gold mask over his head. He hustled Sky through the ballroom entrance. “Sorry, darling. Tonight, your face is our fortune.”

Sky had been inside the Four Season’s grand ballroom many times, mostly as a child. Clowns and games of hide and seek at birthday parties, Izzy and Whip’s fiftieth anniversary – Izzy’d called it her Jubilee – ‘Sky, you will sit next to me,’ Izzy had said. ‘Give the men something to look at.’ Swathed in satin and brocade, the ballroom had served up her grandmother’s Jubilee with Wedgwood china, Reed and Barton silver, de Montbronn crystal.

Sky hardly recognized the place, now. But the room did have Izzy’s wicked sense of humor written all over it. No wonder Agnes was so unhappy.

The Romanians had transformed the elegant golden space into a dusty cacophony of medieval street performers and carney barkers. Odors of fried fish and Frankincense mingled with exotic perfume. Above the clamor of the crowd rose the plaintive voice of a melancholy violin. Most of the guests were masked, but masks also hung from every post, every wall, every wagon. Part demon and part human, they stared out over the ballroom like disembodied spirits of the dead.

“The ancient lure of the flame,” Kyle nodded toward the dance floor, where the Romanians had managed to stage an artificial but convincing bonfire. Dancers circled the blaze, a jumble of shadow and color.

Sky studied a nearby caravan painted with the garish likeness of a gypsy woman peering into a crystal ball; above the purple-scarved head, in faded circus script, ran the phrase MADAME TATIANA KNOWS ALL TELLS ALL. A queue of masked revelers circled the wagon, chattering and sipping drinks as they waited their turns for a reading. A tall man with long legs and a boyish haircut broke from the line and headed toward them with a loping step. His mask was mottled and purple, with a hooked, beak-like nose that reached nearly a foot from his face.

“Your first victim approaches, darling. I’ll forage for drinks.” Kyle headed for the bar across the room.

“Skylar, you naughty, naughty girl.” The voice was distinctive, the tone rich with Brahmin inflection. Behind the purple mask was J. Forbes Winthrop III; he and Sky shared the same great-great-great-grandfather. Forbes grew up in a townhouse on the flat side of Beacon Hill, not far from Izzy’s place.

“You mustn’t stay away so long, cousin.” Forbes squeezed Sky in a theatrical hug. “You are the family’s social conscience, you know.”

“Hardly.” Sky returned his embrace and readjusted her bodice. “Isn’t
noblesse oblige
the Winthrop curse?”

“I’m talking money-where-your-mouth-is, nose-to-the-grindstone social conscience!” Forbes tapped a finger against the giant purple nose. “Not many of the Vanity Fair crowd work for homicide, now do they? You are a rare and dangerous creature, Skylar.” He rocked his tall body back and forth, heel to toe, as he spoke. “And you look positively ravishing. Skin like a Dresden doll. And those Garbo eyes.”

“Four hours of prep time at the hairdresser,” Sky confided.

“A year at the hairdresser wouldn’t be enough for this crowd. Believe me, the masks are an improvement. You’re so clever not to wear one.” Forbes crossed his arms and leaned in toward Sky. “Did you see the hotel heiress? Skank City. I hear the old man cut her out of the will. She’s being paid to schmooze but I saw her slink into the can half an hour ago. Most likely to enjoy a little blow.”

A troop of witches with wart-ridden gray faces pushed a wheel cart with a high thatched roof through the crowd. As it passed, Sky stepped forward and peeked into the cart. She recoiled at the sight of an empty coffin.

“Time to die,” a man’s voice came from the nearest witch mask. He grabbed Sky by the wrist and yanked her toward the coffin. Sky struck hard at the costumed figure with her free hand, her fist making contact with soft tissue through the black cloth. The witch grunted and doubled up, freeing Sky’s wrist. She darted away and stood next to Forbes.

“Well done, old girl!” Forbes put his arm around Sky’s shoulder. “Quite the bitch slap. But I do believe you’ve made an enemy.”

The witch straightened. “Later,” the voice promised with an ugly laugh. The masked head gestured to the others and the coven resumed their search for a fresh victim.

“Are all Diamond Balls this weird?” Sky rubbed her wrist and watched the witches wheel the roofed cart away.

“Good heavens, no. In fact, I find it hard to believe Tuffy Pickman cooked up such a fantastical extravaganza. Her affairs are usually so tedious.” Forbes gestured toward a monk with a shaved pate and narrow ring of hair who strolled through the crowd juggling knives. “This is all so
convincing
. Many of these costumes are quite accurate. And quite old, I suspect. Puts me in mind of
Faching
parades I’ve attended in the Black Forest, wild partying before the deprivations of Lent.” Forbes brushed back long bangs, an old childhood habit. “These festivals were virtually universal in Christendom prior to the Protestant Reformation. They date to pagan times, actually. A sort of driving out of the evil spirits.”

Sky tended to trust her cousin’s observations when it came to arcane bits of knowledge. Forbes was a Princeton man by way of Exeter prep. He had a Harvard law degree and a stint as U.S. attorney under his belt, but he was also something of a scholar. Aside from managing his portfolio, Forbes’ most recent employment consisted of directing his Tall Ship Foundation, a concern devoted to bringing Eastern European art to Boston’s shores.

Two characters in lion masks marched past them with the purposeful stride of storm troopers, faces jutted forward in an expression of attack. Both lions boasted powerful shoulders and manes that reached far down their backs, like capes. Black feline eyes narrowed in suspicion, their snouts pulled back in a snarling grimace to reveal jagged canines. The lion masks were frightening, eerily fierce, clearly designed to intimidate. Each red uniform was sewn with a medieval coat of arms.

“Scary,” Sky observed.

“In-house security.” Forbes watched the lions disappear through a curtained exit. “During carnivals of the Middle Ages the poor mingled freely with the upper class. Dressing up as kings – or militant lions – was a way of blowing off steam. Sticking it to power.”

“The way Halloween revelers wear Nixon or Bush masks?” Sky suggested.

“Yes!” Forbes gestured toward the room at large. “Or perhaps the way lesser mortals might mingle with the Brahmin elite.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh.

“This is for charity,” Sky scolded.

“Indeed. They pony up for a party. But how many of these folks will you find volunteering at the local soup kitchen tomorrow? Not a one, I’ll wager.”

“Martha Peabody volunteers at the Cottage for Little Wanderers every week,” Sky said. “And Mercy Adams virtually lives at the North Shore food pantry.”

“Well, that’s two. All due respect to Martha and Mercy, the history of charitable giving in this burg has a most checkered past. There was a time when organized charity fiercely opposed organized labor, did you know that?” Forbes’ voice took on a stentorian tone. “Our not-so-distant relatives blamed the labor problem on the un-American habits of immigrants!”

“This event raises millions, Forbes. It will keep some poor souls alive.”

“Certainly. But you have to agree, Americans tend to view poverty as moral failure. Why else would we be the only advanced Western democracy without national health insurance?” He paused. “Of course, the climate is changing. Thank God we’re rid of that last ship of fools.” His voice carried a streak of anger. “Wall Street’s engine of doom, the whole house of cards collapsing around us, those triple B tranches.” Forbes shook his head. “The unemployment stats are a harbinger, Skylar. Not to mention the fact that your average working stiff’s 401K is pretty much down the crapper. So much for the safety of diversification.”

“Maybe you should run for office.” Sky was joking, but Forbes didn’t laugh.

“I’m mulling it,” he admited. “Talking to money people. Collecting focus group data, thinking about my issue portfolio, that sort of thing. There’s real change happening, cousin. The Globe’s days are numbered. The Museum of Fine Arts is laying off staff. The MFA, for god’s sake. Imagine what the real victims are facing. I can help. I’m tired of sitting on the sidelines.”

“Senator?”

“Governor,” Forbes corrected her. He read the look on Sky’s face. “It is a family tradition, Miss Smarty Pants. I don’t know why I even bother.”

“By all means, follow in our illustrious patriarch’s footsteps. How many times was he re-elected governor?”

“Twelve,” Forbes said. “But who’s counting?” He chuckled. “Although, technically speaking, it was Massachusetts Bay Colony at the time. But he was the first, don’t forget that, Skylar. That is something you clearly take little pride in.”