Death Is a Cabaret Page 13

  Ben’s heather gray vintage trousers and buttoned vest put Jeff in mind of a young Robert Redford. A glittering gold watch chain hammocked loosely across his flat stomach. An ivory shirt, gold cuff links, and saddle oxfords in tan and brown finished the 1930s effect.

  Jennifer wore a flowing dress in black printed with tiny pink tea roses. Its flared hem fluttered about her shapely calves in the breeze slipstreaming through the open doors. Her shoes were of black brocade with those chunky little hourglass heels. A tiny bag, beaded with jets, hung on her arm, and a vintage black cloche hid her eyes in profile.

  Jeff reddened, feeling suddenly voyeuristic and very alone. He turned to leave.

  As if she sensed him, Jennifer pivoted and called his name.

  He turned back.

  She smiled and motioned him over. “Where have you been hiding yourself?”

  Jennifer slipped her arm through his, and he was surprised at how comfortable he felt with the simple gesture that meant he was being included.

  Ben gave Jeff’s arm a slap. “We were afraid the local yokels had detained you.”

  “You may be closer to the truth than you realize.” Jeff wondered then if the couple tended to be alone most of the time because people viewed them as unapproachable. They were the kind many judged upon first meeting as snobbish, pretentious, spoiled. Jeff was ashamed to admit that he’d leaned that way, too, in the beginning, even though he was totally comfortable with himself in social situations. Now, he almost felt sorry for the couple who came off as aloof merely because of their outer beauty. The Hursts were simply the sort of people who were comfortable with themselves. They seized life, making the best of all it had to offer. Others blamed people like Ben and Jennifer for their own failure at being able to adopt that positive attitude toward living. Filled with animosity, they either reacted with a snobbishness all their own or secretly envied them, proclaiming that they, too, would be like the Hursts once they moved up the corporate ladder or lost weight or married into money so as to afford the nip-and-tuck-and-sculpt-and-tan approach to popularity. Jeff believed the Hursts’ appearances were simply the blessing of good genes.

  Jennifer looked from Jeff to her husband, then back. “We were just reveling in the good fortune that we’re alive and have each other. You’ve no doubt heard about Edward.” Her tone indicated genuine sorrow.

  “Yes. Hard to believe.”

  “Impossible to believe is more like it,” Ben said. “We don’t buy into this suicide story. And no note? Come on.”

  “Did you attend his seminar this morning?” Jennifer asked. “Edward was his usual, charismatic self. It’s beyond my comprehension to think he would suddenly take his own life after that.”

  “It was a powerful session,” Jeff agreed, not wanting to share his feelings that it, like Davenport’s dinner performance the evening before, seemed a little over the top. “I suppose anything’s possible, but you’re right about the note. It’s never easy to buy into suicide if there’s no indication as to why. I’m sure the police are checking on his family situation.”

  “There’s not one, that we know of. Edward’s always been a loner.” Ben paused. “But let’s face it. The police said that that Hamilton guy was killed. What if someone killed Edward, too?”

  “It’s something to consider. I’m sure the police haven’t ruled it out.”

  “I would hope they haven’t,” Jennifer said. “Especially without a suicide note. Don’t you think there would’ve been something to indicate why he did it? If he did it?”

  Jeff finished his coffee. “You never know about some people. That’s the only certainty when dealing with something like this. But to answer your question, yes. There’s usually a clue as to why someone ends it like that.”

  “It’s beginning to get scary.” Jennifer moved closer to Ben. “Do you think we’re safe staying here?”

  Ben embraced her. “Sweetheart, if I thought we were in any danger, we’d leave right now. But I really think this is just some bizarre coincidence. Besides, the hotel has added extra security—something they didn’t even have to do, what with all the cops around. We’ll just stick together like we’d planned, okay?”

  Jeff started to say something but paused when he saw Trudy Blessing weaving her way around small groups of people on the porch.

  Crouched as she was, with her arms up and shoulders hunched, she looked as if she were sneaking through enemy lines. She maneuvered the last group and started through the doorway, then stopped abruptly. A look of fear clouded her face behind the large glasses, as if she’d just stumbled upon the battlefield itself.

  “Trudy?” Jeff called.

  She jumped, looked at him, then started to turn, but not before Ben and Jennifer turned toward her.

  Trudy gasped, then went pale. She murmured something—Jeff thought it was his name—but the look on her face and the sound of her voice both indicated confusion. She staggered, then turned and bolted.

  “Trudy!” Jeff ran after her.

  She moved faster than he expected. When he finally caught up to her, she was halfway down the hill that led away from the hotel. “Trudy, what the hell was that all about? You start to say my name, then you just run away? What’s wrong?”

  Trudy stopped, turned to face him. “No, Mr. Talbot.”

  As many times as he had asked her to call him Jeff, she’d always addressed him as Mr. Talbot. It didn’t add up.

  “Not your name.” Trudy looked past him. “Hers.”

  Jeff spun around. He found himself face to face with Jennifer Hurst.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Jeff felt as confused as Trudy looked. “You two know e’ach other?”

  Jennifer glanced at him briefly but didn’t answer. She stepped around him and spoke to the young woman. “Trudy, I’m so sorry to be seeing you under these circumstances.”

  “What? What circumstances?”

  Taking hold of one of Trudy’s arms, Jennifer turned to Jeff. “She’s in a state of shock. Help me get her inside.”

  Jeff gently took Trudy’s other arm, although he had no idea why. “Shock from what?”

  Trudy broke free of them both and set her feet. “I’m not a child, and I would appreciate it if you’d both stop treating me like one. What on earth is going on?”

  “If you don’t know what’s—” Jennifer stopped. “Why are you here, Trudy?”

  “I was supposed to meet Frank, but he never showed up. Which, as you well know, is typical of him. Why do I keep letting myself get roped into his schemes? Well, whether anyone believes it or not, I came here to tell him to forget it. I came here to tell him that I wasn’t going to help him anymore. But the phones have been busy here all afternoon—you’d think they would add more lines if they have that many calls—”

  “Frank? Frank who? Hamilton?” Jeff’s mind was reeling. He wanted to catch up to speed, but he wasn’t sure which lane to follow.

  Trudy stared at him, wide-eyed behind the saucer–like glasses.

  “Wait a minute,” Jeff said. “You know Frank Hamilton?”

  No one spoke.

  He nodded then. “I guess that’s not as crazy as it sounds. I mean, you’re both in the antique business, you both live, or—”

  Lived, he started to correct himself. Then it dawned on him.

  Jennifer gasped. “Oh, no. Trudy, you don’t know, do you? Sweetie, Frank was killed this morning.”

  “What?” Trudy fell backward, as if the wind had been knocked out of her. Jeff grabbed for her as she slumped to the ground. He barely managed to break her fall.

  Jennifer was instantly beside the girl, speaking softly and stroking her hair. She turned to Jeff. “Help me get her to my room.”

  They entered the east end of the hotel, choosing a path that would help them avoid the crowded Parlor. The trio—tiny, frail Trudy, flanked by Jeff and Jennifer—ascended the flight of stairs beside the information desk, then took the elevator to the fourth floor.

  Once inside her room,
Jennifer tossed key, purse, and hat onto a table and focused completely on Trudy. As she settled the girl into bed, Jeff got a glass of water and a washcloth and brought them to Jennifer.

  She held the glass for Trudy, then gently bathed the girl’s face with the cool, wet cloth.

  Jeff lowered himself onto a tufted satin love seat and waited.

  The brass plate Jeff had seen outside the door identified this as the Rosalyn Carter Suite. The walls were of peach satin, an obvious nod to the former First Lady’s beloved Georgia. The carpet was a deep, rich blue and woven with creamy white stars in a circular pattern representing the presidential seal.

  The bed, the armoire, the dressing table with its white marble top were a set fashioned from rosewood and ornately carved in the rococo revival style. It was just like the set used by his Auntie Pim, which still occupied her old bedroom in the house where he now lived. It was authentic Prudent Mallard.

  “Trudy is Frank’s sister,” Jennifer began. “We all lived in Indianapolis until six or seven years ago.” She stopped, gave Trudy another drink. “Seems much longer ago than that.”

  Jeff stared, unbelieving. Had he not been sitting when this news was delivered, he probably would have fallen down. Trudy and Frank siblings? They’d done a hell of a job keeping it a secret. He thought about Blanche then. Did she know? If so, wouldn’t she have told him? Especially in light of his call to her earlier? It had been only a few hours ago that he’d phoned Blanche, told her about Hamilton’s murder and Trudy’s presence on the island. Brother and sister. Was that something Trudy would have—could have—kept from Blanche?

  “Jeff?” Jennifer’s voice was sharp. “Did you hear me? I said, I think she’s in shock.”

  She’s not the only one. “I’ll call a doctor.”

  “No. No doctor.” Trudy was shivering. “I’ll be fine.” Jeff retrieved a woven throw from the couch and layered it onto the comforter Jennifer had already pulled over the girl. He snugged it up under her chin, then sat on the edge of the bed. “How about something a little stronger to drink?”

  “No, I really shouldn’t.”

  “He’s right, Trudy.” Jennifer opened the wet bar, retrieved a miniature bottle of cognac, and twisted the cap off with a snap. She poured its contents into a glass and held it to the girl’s lips.

  Trudy took a sip. She wheezed and coughed when the fumes hit, shaking her head and pushing the glass away.

  “More, Trudy,” Jennifer said firmly. Trudy drank without further prompting.

  Jeff studied Jennifer. This was a much different side of her. Of course, this was a very different situation. But you never knew with people like Jennifer—what little he knew of her, anyway—how they would respond during a crisis. He was impressed to see that she’d put aside the bubbly celebrity act. He thought about how she hadn’t denied knowing Trudy, hadn’t tried to cover up with defensive excuses. It said a great deal about her character.

  Jennifer turned to Jeff. “How is it you two know each other?”

  Jeff told her about Blanche and All Things Old. “Trudy will deny it, but she’s Blanche’s right arm at the shop.”

  “Trudy, I had no idea you were living in Seattle.”

  “That’s where Frank lived, too,” Jeff added.

  Jennifer looked up at him for a moment, then back at Trudy. At length, she continued her story. “I’d just graduated from Ohio State and moved back to Indianapolis. I went to work for my father’s company and got a loft apartment in this fabulously renovated old building. Trudy lived there, too. She was one of the first people I met.

  “She introduced me to Frank. She didn’t want to, but I pushed her until she did.” She looked at Trudy. “Turns out I should’ve listened to you, right, sweetie?”

  Trudy smiled slightly. Her eyes were already going glassy.

  Jennifer removed Trudy’s glasses and told her to get some rest. She stood, looked down at Jeff. “I could use one of those drinks myself. Would you like one?”

  “Sounds good.” Jeff patted Trudy’s arm, then moved back to the love seat. “How close can you come to a bona fide martini?”

  “Makeshift. No olives. No shaker. Can you handle it, Bond?”

  “As long as it’s gin, not vodka.”

  “That I can manage.”

  Jennifer stooped at the small refrigerator, juggled tiny bottles, then surfaced and began mixing. “Frank charmed me to the core. I felt pampered, protected, desired. He completely swept me off my feet. I must’ve been going through a James Dean phase or something. You know, drawn to that rebel attitude, that raw sexiness.” She handed Jeff a glass with clear liquid, then joined him on the couch and took a drink of what he figured was a screwdriver. A mimosa, however, would have been more in keeping with her high tea outfit.

  “One day,” she went on, “I suddenly, frighteningly, realized I had given up my self: my opinions, my freedom, my identity. To this day, I don’t know how he got his hooks into me. What’s worse is that I don’t know why I allowed it.

  “I’d seen how he was with Trudy—bossy, controlling, manipulative—and I had even tried to talk to her about it. But he was her big brother, and she didn’t have any other family to speak of. She made excuses for him, said it was because he cared for her so much. The same excuses I’d been using.”

  Jeff thought about Trudy’s birdcage collection and how appropriate it was that she should choose an item so symbolic of incarceration.

  Jennifer took a drink. “Best thing I ever did was get away from him. It took me a while to get over him and what he did to me. I had nightmares and paranoia, then moved on to a sort of denial—a separation of that person from the one I was trying to become.

  “When I first met Ben, I didn’t want to trust anyone. He certainly had his work cut out for him. Eventually, though, I discovered how different the two were and. . .” She shrugged.

  “This morning, when I heard Frank was dead, all those emotions flashed through me, through my senses. Then an enormous relief washed over me. Not that he was dead—he wasn’t worth the trouble, if you ask me. But when I heard his name, I was afraid he had somehow learned I was here, had come to harass me or try and cause problems for Ben and me. I know it sounds irrational, but the part of me that knows him—knew him—was irrational. My relief was in knowing that no one could be abused by him again.”

  She began trembling. “Jeff, I was engaged to him. Can you believe that? I almost married Frank Hamilton.” She said the name as if she were coughing up something vile.

  Jeff put his arm around her shoulders. “But you didn’t marry him. That’s the important thing.”

  “Ben doesn’t know about any of this, though—that I was engaged to someone else, someone who treated people like that, treated me like that.” Her eyes were filled with pain when she looked at Jeff. “I suppose I’m going to have to tell him.”

  “I think you should. A lot of things are going to come out during the course of this investigation. Won’t it be better if he hears about this from you? Before you tell the police?”

  “Do you really think it will come out? I mean, that was so long ago.”

  Jeff was surprised that she thought six years was a long time. At her age, he supposed, it might seem that way. Or, perhaps, it had something to do with what life handed you in any given stretch. Everything’s relative. “Jennifer, I ran one simple check this afternoon and learned that both you and Frank had lived in Indianapolis at the same time.”

  “You’re investigating? But—”

  “Just taking a shortcut for Brookner, shaving off a little time. A good friend of mine is with the FBI. I offered to give him a call.” Jeff finished off his drink. “My point is, it’s relatively easy to get the surface information about a person, that first layer of existence. After that? Well, the detectives ask a lot of questions and start piecing together the puzzle.

  “I have to report what I learned to Brookner,” Jeff continued. “And I won’t be surprised if he’s already found out for hims
elf.”

  “Does that mean you suspect me? I’m telling you the truth, Jeff. I did not kill Frank Hamilton.”

  Jeff wanted to believe her. And he had to admit, he did. For the most part. But he’d been surprised before. Heat-of-passion murders could be committed by damn near anyone. For now, though, he didn’t want to scare her away. “I didn’t run background checks until after Davenport was found. You knew him. That’s why you were on the list. End of story.”

  “Why would they be checking if they think Edward committed suicide?” She set her glass down with a bang. “I’ll bet they don’t believe he killed himself any more than I do.” After a moment, she added, “If it turns out he did, though, someone pushed him to it. Pushed him really hard.”

  “Do you know anyone who would want to? Push him, I mean?”

  “No. Of course, why should anyone believe me? I’ve been lying to everyone. I told you I didn’t know Frank. I repeated that story twice to Detective Brookner. And I haven’t told my own husband any of it.” By the time she’d finished talking, she was shaking.

  Jeff pulled her closer. “You need to talk to Ben as soon as you can. After that, go tell Brookner what you’ve told me. Where is Ben, by the way?”

  She looked at her watch. “He should be here any time now to change for dinner. I told him to meet me in the room if I didn’t come back to the Parlor.”

  Jeff needed some time to assimilate everything he’d learned from Jennifer over the past several minutes. He steered the conversation in another direction. “Last night was Breakfast at Tiffany’s, today, Gatsby. What do you two have in store for your fans tonight?”

  She laughed. “We do get into the theme of things, don’t we? Amazing, how film and literature dictate fashion.”

  “I think it’s only the ones set in period.” Jeff thought about Mel Littlefield’s comparing him to Spacey in L.A. Confidential, that movie set in the fifties that was so much more appealing than the book. “I don’t see much in contemporary movies that makes me want to get rid of the classics.”