Death Is a Cabaret Read online

  Although Jeff had heard Blanche’s story of the cabaret set many times, he never grew tired of it. But as he started the ascent through his neighborhood, he put the set out of his mind. He reminded himself that he’d be spending the weekend thinking about it. Inquiring after it. Pursuing it. That would have to be enough for now.

  Jeff eased the woodie into his driveway and pulled inside the small carriage house he used for a garage. He grabbed a package from the back seat and headed toward the house.

  Dusk was descending quickly. He thought about tomorrow’s trip and how much he looked forward to visiting Mackinac Island for the first time. He slowed down, giving himself a moment both to savor his excitement and to contain it. He hated to think that his enthusiasm might be misinterpreted by Sheila. She always assured him that she didn’t mind staying home, but a part of him realized that he’d never fully adjust to always traveling alone.

  The aroma of dinner met him as he climbed the seven steep steps to the back door.

  The home, built of red brick that had darkened over the last century, was one of the original Queen Anne mansions built in a neighborhood named for that particular architectural style. Jeff was devoted to maintaining the home’s original integrity. It was built by his ancestors and had been occupied by no one other than Talbot family members from the beginning—a desirable state for historical residences. He saw to it that the trim colors were never altered from what had been used when the mansion was built in 1890. The many shades of ivory, maroon, goldenrod, and olive were matched to original paint chips kept in the household files, a task made much easier in recent years with computerized matching. Jeff’s Aunt Primrose Talbot (Auntie Pim) had begun teaching him these things about the house before he’d even received his first box of crayons.

  In the kitchen, Sheila Talbot stood in front of the largest reproduction range made by the Elmira Stove Works (she called it her El Dorado, since she no longer drove), stirring the contents of a stockpot on the back burner.

  Stretching the length of the immense room was an oak refectory table, its center stacked with Yellow Ware bowls and salt-glazed crockery. On the end of the table nearest the range was an assortment of fresh vegetables and herbs, waiting for the magic touch of the chef in residence. At the far end was her mail. Unlike Jeff’s, which would be in the wall pocket in his study, this contained more boxes than envelopes. The trend would continue as Sheila increased her Internet shopping. It was a trend he not only welcomed but encouraged.

  Sheila had the enviable ability to eat anything she desired without ever gaining an ounce, a good trait for someone who loved to cook. Her young, smooth skin and strong-boned features required no cosmetic camouflage. Either of these attributes might have caused jealousy among the female ranks and been reason enough for Sheila’s lack of women friends. Neither was, however. She gave all she could to friendship; for most, it simply wasn’t enough.

  She wore a white chef’s apron over khaki slacks and a crisp white shirt. Her long, straight, honey-colored hair was secured at the nape of her neck with a plain gold clasp.

  Jeff believed his wife couldn’t be any more beautiful. At times he was astounded that she’d ever given him more than a passing glance.

  She looked at her husband like a teacher waiting for an answer to an oral quiz.

  “Coq au vin,” he announced, “with a signature Sheila touch. . . your home-canned basil tomatoes?”

  Her brows arched. “You’re learning.” She replaced the pot’s lid, then gave her husband a quick kiss and started to work on the vegetables.

  Jeff gave a mental sigh of relief. It had been an educated guess. With all the vegetables in the chicken and wine stew, he wouldn’t have known if she had, indeed, strayed from the recipe for the French staple.

  A clatter came from the dining room.

  Jeff wheeled. “What the hell?”

  “Greer’s redecorating his rooms, remember?” Sheila said. “He’s been concerned that he won’t finish before you get back, so I told him to go ahead and start putting things in the dining room. I assured him we wouldn’t mind breaking Victorian protocol by having dinner in the breakfast room this one time.”

  Jeff chuckled. Although he and Sheila always ate in the dining room, it had nothing to do with the strict manners of the Victorians. Before Sheila moved in, Jeff ate in the living room on a TV tray. He played along with his wife’s joke. “We can skip the dining room, as long as the ghosts of my ancestors don’t rattle the chandeliers all night. I’ve got an early flight tomorrow.”

  “You’re not the one who has to worry. They only rattle things while you’re away.”

  “You love it.” Jeff planted a kiss on her neck, then started toward the dining room.

  “Don’t take too long,” she called after him. “I have a gift for your trip.”

  Jeff slid open the pocket doors. The Chippendale mahogany table had been fully extended and was draped with movers’ quilts in order to protect its antique finish against scratches. In its center were two prints, double-matted in cream over black and in gilded antique frames that gave off a warm, burnished glow.

  Greer darted in like a hummingbird, hovered momentarily before placing a stack of books on the table’s matching buffet, then greeted his employer before darting back toward his own suite of rooms. He’d removed his customary uniform of black suit coat and tie, and his white shirt cuffs were rolled to his elbows.

  The Talbots’ butler was a slender young man, gay, with shingle-cut black hair, angular features, and the face of someone who’d begun shaving only last week. He had served the couple with loyalty and devotion since completing butler school six years before. Much about the traditional school of butling he’d learned from his grandfather and grandmother, who were butler and maid to a prominent European couple who had made their home in the States during the late sixties.

  He had finished his training at an institution with an eye to the future—one that taught a new-school approach that would accommodate the wants and needs of households in the twenty-first century.

  Greer was perfect for the unusual requirements of the Talbots.

  Stacks of videos filled the table’s matching sideboard, and Jeff didn’t have to check the jackets to know which films they were. Greer owned a copy of every movie ever made that included a butler: Arthur, My Man Godfrey (both the ‘36 and the ‘57 versions), How to Murder Your Wife, His Butler’s Sister, Remains of the Day—the list went on and on.

  Jeff set his shopping bag on a side chair and turned his attention back to the art. The artist’s name was Jack Vettriano. Jeff raised one of the frames slightly, shifting the glare away from the brass plate. “Interesting title,” he said when Greer returned with another stack of books. “Elegy for a Dead Admiral.”

  “The butler first drew me to it, of course,” Greer said. “But it tells a story, too, when you combine its title with the ocean looming in the background.” Greer lifted the second print. “This one is my favorite. It tells with one image what the proper attitude of a butler should be.”

  Jeff took a closer look at the second painting. The plate identified it as The Singing Butler, and in it a butler and a maid were holding umbrellas for a couple in evening dress dancing on the beach.

  Greer snapped a cloth from his pocket and polished a spot on the glass. “The two paintings are very similar, yet completely different. Romance and death.”

  “Maybe not so different. The one about death has quite a romantic quality to it.” Jeff admired the deep golds, blacks, and rich reds that dominated both prints. “I’d like to see if this artist Vettriano has something that might work in my study. His Art Deco style appeals to me.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll check the web and print out some samples.”

  Jeff couldn’t help but smile as he left the dining room. If it weren’t for Greer and Sheila, he’d think a web was simply a spider’s way to catch breakfast.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sheila was removing a pear tart from the oven wh
en Jeff returned.

  “Perfect timing.” She placed the fluted pan on a cooling rack and took him by the hand.

  She led him into the drawing room and motioned him toward the settee while she went to the game table.

  Beaming, she handed him a handsomely wrapped package.

  “Where’d you go for this one?” Jeff removed the ribbon.

  “TravelSmith. You should check out their site sometime.”

  “I’ll leave the high-tech world in your capable hands. Is TravelSmith the latest, greatest destination on your Favorites list?” He said the company’s name quickly, but couldn’t pull off the single-word effect as she had.

  “You think you have me figured out, do you?” She sat beside him.

  “Let’s see. Epicurious for recipes, Williams Sonoma for gourmet gadgets, eBay for antiques, Drugstore for your lotions and potions. Oh, I’m forgetting the dot corn dot corn dot—”

  “Just open your present.” Her eyes narrowed, but she was still smiling.

  He pulled the vest from the box and examined it. He was surprised that she’d gotten him a new fishing vest for his trip—he’d told her he wouldn’t have a spare minute for fishing. This one looked more like a safari jacket, in a shade of khaki with a good, rugged look, like it’d been cut from the earth of the Bush Country. Several pockets covered the front and offered an assortment of closures: buttons, Velcro flaps, and zippers. There were also interior pockets in both fabric and mesh, and D-rings in several places. “Does it come with its own can opener?”

  “Jeff Talbot, this is for walking around the island... not for fishing trips. It’ll hold maps, sunglasses, your notebook, even little antiques. Oh, and fudge. Don’t forget to bring me some fudge from May’s Fudge Shop.”

  “Fudge?”

  “Uh-huh. May’s is the oldest operating fudge shop in the United States, and it’s on Mackinac Island.”

  “Should be easy enough to track down. And, honey, thanks for the vest.” He laid it aside. “I’m looking forward to seeing Mackinac Island. Can you imagine a place with no cars? Just horses and bicycles and carriages everywhere. Even the taxicabs are horse-drawn. Of course, there’s the smell, but they say you get used to it. And you have to watch where you’re walking or you’ll be looking for a shoe store.”

  He pulled her to him. “I wish you could come with me. I can’t imagine the view beating what we have around here, but I’ve heard several people say it seems to at times. Apparently, there’s a cliff just past the Grand Hotel which is lined with Victorian mansions that look out over the lake and make you feel like you’re in the middle of the ocean.” He stared into space, lost in a vision that he couldn’t wait to turn into reality. He dragged himself back to the present and turned with a smile toward his wife. She was noticeably pale. “Honey?”

  “I was okay until the ocean.” Her voice was shaky.

  He wrapped his anus tightly around her, wondering if he would ever get used to these sudden changes. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that.. .” How could he put it? “You’re so well adjusted that I thought you might be getting close to... Damn it. He didn’t want to use the word normal. That would imply that he thought of her present state as abnormal.

  “Sheila, I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I mean, you always seem to enjoy the travel software I bring home…”

  “I do, really. But that’s because it’s two-dimensional, and I’m in control. When you describe it, I see it, I see you there. I know it sounds crazy, but there’s a difference. It’s just too real when you talk about it.

  “The web has opened doors for me,” she continued, “and I love it. But it hasn’t made the problem go away.”

  “Opened doors? I’m surprised you would even use those words.”

  “Well, it has, when you think about it. That doesn’t mean I have to walk out those doors. But others can walk in, if I invite them. The world is under my roof now, on my terms. It’s more than I ever expected, and it’s given me a freedom I never dreamed I’d have.” Sheila pulled away from her husband and smiled. “I appreciate Greer and all he’s done. We’re like twins—always thinking alike. When I ask him to pick up something in town, he finds exactly what I want, no matter how vague my description might be. I realize I can’t function without him. But with the Internet, I’ve gotten back some independence. It’s helped more than you’ll ever know.”

  “I can’t function without him,” she’d said. Oddly, Jeff felt like the outsider, the limited one. But what was he supposed to do? He couldn’t retire yet and, besides, they’d agreed it would drive them both crazy if he were home all the time. He admired his wife for her healthy outlook. At the same time, he recognized that there was a lot more to her than he may ever learn. It was a strange, unsettling realization. He pulled Sheila back to him, held her for a long time after that. “I guess I thought your healthy attitude meant that you’d be able to go places again someday. You seem so much more open now that you’re involved with things on the Internet—like visiting with people, researching, shopping.”

  “Jeff, I don’t want you to hold out too much hope for that.

  “That’s not a sign of giving up,” she hastened to add. “Just realistic thinking.”

  “I realize that. But I miss the days when we traveled together. I keep hearing that Mackinac Island is perfect for couples.”

  She gave him a sly glance. “Just don’t go looking for a replacement, Talbot.”

  “Not a chance, and you know it.” He was irritated with himself for complaining. As usual, it had taken her edgy sense of humor to put them back on safe, level ground. He would never understand how she could take it so lightly at times.

  “Jeff.” She cupped his chin in her hand and gently kissed his lips. “Don’t beat yourself up over my staying behind. You knew all this going in.”

  She stood abruptly, effectively ending their conversation, and reached for his new vest. “I want to finish your packing before dinner.”

  Jeff nodded, not wanting to upset Sheila again, knowing that anything he said would come out wrong. He would’ve preferred to do his own packing, but he recognized his wife’s need to participate. As he watched Sheila leave the room, he recalled their first months together. Sure, he had known when they married that she was agoraphobic. But her illness hadn’t been nearly as advanced, as limiting as it was now. They went out several nights a week, practically gorging themselves on all that Seattle had to offer. She wouldn’t go beyond the boundaries of the city, but hell, she didn’t have to. The city had virtually all they could want. They attended everything from baseball games to the ballet. They made it a goal to see how many coffeehouses they could visit. She had even kept a journal, noting favorite blends, the atmosphere of her favorite haunts.

  She’d enjoyed getting together with friends for lunch, going out for a weekly manicure, hopping down to Pike Place and choosing the ingredients for a new recipe she’d come up with, shopping the boutiques.

  Then the changes began, subtle at first. He’d noticed that she was purchasing more and more when they went antiquing, yet the items never seemed to show up anywhere in the house. Only later did he realize that she was preparing for a life under the confines of a single roof.

  She took a large portion of her trust fund and began stockpiling for her own collections as well as for future gifts for Jeff and others in her life—others being a group that had diminished to almost no one as fewer and fewer of her friends came around.

  She bought sets of china, inkwells, walking sticks. She stored up clothing, buying multiples when she found something she particularly liked. She became increasingly selective, realizing that she would no longer need black cocktail dresses and sexy high heels. She bought sweaters, jeans, slippers, pajamas.

  At first, Jeff wondered how she could possibly enjoy the newly acquired treasures. It reminded him of those few clients who had set him up with bank accounts and given him carte blanche to buy up everything he could find from a specific era in order to cr
eate a particular mood for a room, or an office, or an entire home. These weren’t true collectors. They simply threw money at a notion, an idea. Their hands didn’t quiver with the anticipation of holding a letter written by Jack London. Their hearts never pounded against their chest walls because the item they’d searched for all their lives was finally right in front of them with a price tag attached.

  He’d worried that Sheila had become one of them. But when she converted two adjoining bedrooms on the third floor into an antiques booth of sorts, he had understood.

  Now, when she longed to go antiquing, she would dress for an “outing” and go to her surrogate store and make a purchase or two. On those days, she would have Greer pick up lunch from one of her favorite places, like Beba’s or Pasta Bella’s. Greer, devoted beyond duty, would play along, serving her minted iced tea and bacon quiche, and she’d lunch in the sunny breakfast room while admiring her purchases. She had the healthiest attitude about her agoraphobia of anyone Jeff had ever heard of. He attributed it to her foresight during the time in which she could still leave their home.

  Jeff had expected Sheila’s illness to be harder on her than on him. And it had been, in many ways, before she got caught in the web. Personally, he couldn’t imagine life without travel. He loved it, thrived on it. But the two had a special relationship, an odd combination of dependence and independence. Still, he missed having her with him when he traveled. He would have loved to take her places, show her—

  Damn! He’d forgotten to give her the gift he’d brought home. It took him a moment to remember where he’d left it. The dining room. He was doubling back toward the kitchen when Greer peeked around a corner.

  “The missus?” he asked.

  That was another thing Jeff had trouble adjusting to: hearing Greer call Sheila “the missus.” Greer and Sheila shared the same birth year, nearly a decade under Jeff’s.

  “She’s upstairs.”

  Without comment, Greer produced Jeff’s shopping bag, then turned and went back toward the dining room.