Death Is a Cabaret Page 4

  In light of what had just happened with Sheila, Jeff questioned whether or not his choice of gifts was a wise one. But Sheila had mentioned it a few weeks before and, besides, he wanted to give her something before leaving.

  He found her in his dressing room and handed her the unwrapped package. “I should’ve chosen something different this time.”

  “I doubt that.” She took the package. By the look on her face when she recognized the colorful, weightless box, he knew he’d gotten the right item.

  “You did say you wanted to explore Africa. No reason why you can’t take a virtual trip while I’m in Michigan. And look at the bright side; you won’t need a pith helmet.”

  She gave him a quick hug, then put the software aside and reviewed what she’d packed for him. “I think I’ve chosen the proper wardrobe for your trip. The Grand Hotel’s web site really helped. Evenings are more formal, so I’ve included your black suit, a sport coat and slacks, several ties, and three sets of your favorite cuff links. Also, some casual stuff for exploring the island. I may have gone overboard. You’re only going to be gone a couple of days.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” he said as he walked into their adjoining bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed and absently rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Headache?”

  He nodded. Sheila crawled behind him and began massaging his shoulders. He groaned, allowing her kneading fingers to release the day’s stresses. He told her about the strange confrontation with Frank Hamilton.

  When he’d finished, she said, “He’s lucky the old woman didn’t shoot him and get it over with. You can’t be too careful these days. To tell you the truth, I’m always surprised that you get into as many homes as you do.”

  “Thanks a lot, hon.” He was surprised Sheila would even hint that someone might be leery of him.

  “You know what I mean. People have to be on their guard now. They should be, at least.”

  “There are still a lot of smart folks out there, ones who are good judges of character.” Jeff stretched his neck from side to side, amazed at how quickly the tight muscles were responding. “Hell, I’d talk to Jack the Ripper if I had a .38 stashed in my pocket.”

  “But you talk to strangers all the time, with no way of knowing if one of them might be dangerous. Just because you’re the solicitor doesn’t mean you’re the safe one.” Sheila’s hands worked their way down his back, making broad, firm strokes along the knotted muscles. “You don’t miss carrying a gun, do you?”

  “No. Not now. I did at first, but I’m not sure why. I mean, I never used the damned thing, and it got to be a nuisance having to strap it on every day. I don’t know a desk jockey who ever actually shot anyone.”

  “You were a little more than a desk jockey. Besides, do you really think that perps stealing antiques are less likely to shoot somebody, just because they know something about pricey objects?”

  He knew she was right, but he’d had enough of shop talk. “I think that your use of the word perps just caused dinner to be postponed.” He pivoted and stretched out on the bed, drawing Sheila down with him.

  She tried to pull away. “C’mon, Talbot, I need to get my apron and finish your dinner and—”

  “Would you make it one of those lacy little maid’s aprons?” He asked, nuzzling her neck.

  She slapped at him playfully. “What would be the point? You’d have it shredded before I could say ‘Coffee, tea, or me?’“

  “Yeah, but the exercise would ease my stress level a hell of a lot better than a back rub.”

  “You’ve never complained about my strong fingers before.”

  “Oh, I’m not complaining. But I sure could use some attention before I go traipsing across the country.”

  “Your dinner might burn,” she warned, but the caution held no weight. She was feverishly unbuttoning his shirt.

  And that was one of the things Jeff loved most about his wife. No matter how much pride she took in her cooking, she had her priorities straight.

  “What’s Greer doing tonight?” Jeff watched Sheila as she put on a navy silk peignoir set he’d given her for Christmas.

  “You mean after rescuing our dinner?” She threw him a sly smile. “Going to the theater. A new musical is opening tonight at the Fifth Avenue.”

  “Has he left yet?”

  “About a half hour ago.” Sheila kissed him lightly on the forehead. “I’ll see you in the breakfast room in fifteen minutes.”

  Jeff didn’t have to ask how Sheila knew that Greer had prevented a disaster in the kitchen. She had an amazing sense of everything that went on in the house. She knew who was on which of the four levels—five, if you counted the widow’s walk up top. He had learned a long time ago to stop questioning her skill at this. He just figured it was something she’d developed over years of never having left the premises. The house was a part of her, and she knew its movements as well as if her own motor skills were instructing it. It was an extension of her, and it seemed to Jeff that she could feel what was going on inside it, just as surely as she could feel Jeff’s touch.

  When Jeff first met Sheila, she was a self-taught chef and better than many who’d been professionally trained. She was working as an assistant at a Seattle restaurant whose reservation book was perpetually full. The two fell in love quickly, and married within weeks.

  She had expressed an interest in pursuing professional training and becoming head chef somewhere. Eager to support her interests, Jeff had decided to send her to Cordon Bleu in Paris as a birthday gift. By the time a slot opened up, however, her illness had progressed to a new and demanding level. She couldn’t bring herself to board the plane.

  She was twenty-two.

  They’d sought out Greer then, and life as they had known it was forever changed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Excuse me, sir. Are you a guest of the hotel?”

  Jeff turned toward the deep voice with an accent that reminded him of someplace warm and tropical. A young man with skin as dark and smooth as mahogany stood over him, dressed in an impeccably tailored white jacket and black slacks. Balanced at his shoulder was a silver tray of crystal stemware that winked in the late afternoon sun.

  Jeff had sought out a far-reaching corner at the west end of the hotel’s expansive porch and was stealing a moment to relax after a day packed tight with travel: first by car, then plane, then another plane, another car, a ferry, and, finally, a horse-drawn taxicab. With his feet planted firmly on the carpet of the Grand Hotel’s lobby, he’d found himself thinking about the fact that he’d have all that travel to repeat, in reverse, in less than forty-eight hours.

  He was enjoying the brisk autumn air that swept up from the Great Lakes, wondering how the fishing was, when he’d been asked if he was a guest of the hotel.

  “Yes,” he said, irritated with the interruption yet curious whether the employee was about to offer him a drink.

  “Our dress code began at six, sir.”

  Automatically, Jeff checked his watch. Although he’d moved it forward three hours in order to allow for the change from Pacific to Eastern time, he’d completely lost track.

  He looked down at his khakis and retro-print shirt with woodies, surfboards, and palm trees in muted blues and tans, then nodded to the employee and made his way to his room.

  His suite—The Lord Astor, he’d been told—was located on the fourth floor and offered a “stunning view,” according to the desk clerk, of the Straits of Mackinac and the five-mile-long bridge that connected Michigan’s upper and lower peninsulas. The room had a navy blue color scheme and typical amenities (coffeemaker, safe, hair dryer), which were juxtaposed with an antique bedroom set—Sheraton design, he believed, although identifying furniture wasn’t his strong suit. The tester bed and a straight-front chest of drawers were carved of mahogany, with well-executed detail that alluded to the fine New England work of the early 1800s. It had never been explained to Jeff just when the Latin word testa—”head”—had com
e to be applied to the canopy of a bed.

  The view from his balcony was even better than the clerk had intimated, but the room wasn’t what Jeff had hoped for.

  A few days earlier, he’d tried to secure the Napoleon Suite with no success. Jeff Talbot, who was not given to premonitions, had had one about the suite and believed that it would somehow assure his acquisition of Blanche’s Napoleonic cabaret set.

  He checked the weekend schedule and made a mental list of the festival’s events he planned to attend. Friday—that was tonight—the gala preview party; Saturday morning, he’d catch a seminar or two, view the antiques slated for Sunday morning’s special auction—specifically, the cabaret set—and check out the booths. Following that would be a luncheon buffet, more seminars, afternoon tea at four, then a break for everyone to get decked out for the final evening of the festival. He’d head back to Seattle immediately after Sunday’s auction.

  He dressed in tan slacks, a French-cuffed white shirt, and a Frank Lloyd Wright tie with the usual architectural influence in black, tan, eggplant, and sage. All this was orchestrated around a pair of vintage cuff links from his collection. Made in the 1940s, they were large oval disks of African ivory, inlaid with stalking tigers of jade with glinting amethyst eyes, all set in eighteen-karat gold.

  He had a few minutes to spare, so he hung his black sport coat on the valet and seated himself at the desk.

  He took a sheet of stationery and an envelope from the leather folder. It was heavy stock, printed with a detailed etching of the hotel in reds and greens and yellows. He picked up a pen and began to write.

  My Dearest Sheila,

  I’ll bet you thought I might forget to write you from this fabulous place, thus robbing your aptly named “Private Hotel Stationery Collection” of a treasured entry. Not a chance.

  It’s heaven here, or as near as I’ve seen (apart from The Emerald City, of course) in a very long time. The absence of vehicles, combined with the Victorian charm of this little island, has put me in an immediate state of calm. I couldn’t ask for better weather, and the Great Lakes are more formidable than I’d expected. Two days here will do me more good than a month practically anywhere else.

  Red geraniums are everywhere here at the Grand, from the actual plants in lattice boxes that run the length of the front porch to the ones woven into the carpets and printed on everything from the directory to the cocktail napkins. You would love it.

  Although my suite isn’t the one I wanted, it’s plenty comfortable. The feature I find most appealing is the balcony. I’m on the fourth floor and the bird’s eye view (as it were) reminds me a little of the one from our own widow’s walk: large stretches of water, gardens bright with fall color, rooftops, church steeples, the town below. I can see the bridge, too, a five-mile-long span which connects the state’s upper and lower peninsulas. Impressive.

  I have good feelings about this trip and am confident that I’ll be returning with Blanche’s prize.

  Likely, I will feel your touch before these pages do—not a complaint, I assure you. When you have read this, find me, kiss me...

  All my love,

  Jeff

  Jeff put on his jacket and, feeling festive, replaced the conservative three-point pocket square with a tan flounce of silk pinstriped with sage.

  He slipped a slim wallet into his breast pocket, seized his room key from the credenza—he was amazed and comforted to find that it was a real key and not a plastic credit card look-alike—and headed out the door.

  He heard the elevator open, then he saw a young couple step into it and out of sight. The man, tall and blond and deeply tanned, stuck his head out and told Jeff they would hold, then disappeared back inside.

  Jeff picked up his pace and hurried into the waiting elevator.

  The young man punched the button for the first floor. “Are you here for the antiques?”

  “Yes,” Jeff replied. “My first time.”

  “You must have been drawn here by the special auction.”

  “Right again. But I understand tonight there’s a preview of all the booths.”

  The young woman laughed. “Previewing the items takes a backseat to previewing the people, Mr.—?”

  “Jeff Talbot.” He thought he was watching a scene from Breakfast at Tiffany’s. The woman wore deep red lipstick, the quintessential little black dress, large fifties-style black sunglasses, and a picture hat over her glossy black hair.

  She extended her hand. “I’m Jennifer Hurst, and this is my husband, Ben. When you’ve attended this event for as many years as we have, you learn to check out the competition before you check out the antiques.” She removed her glasses. Her brown eyes had a playful light. “Are you looking for something in particular?”

  “Sweetheart,” Ben said. “You’re going to scare Mr. Talbot away.”

  “Call me Jeff. And I don’t scare that easily.” He smiled. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have chosen antiques as a profession.”

  “Profession?” Jennifer leaned in. “Are you one of the sellers?”

  Jeff laughed. If he wasn’t careful, this one would try to buy the gold from his teeth. “Actually, I’m a picker.”

  “A picker?” Ben said. “You could’ve fooled me.”

  “I get that a lot.” He looked at Jennifer. “What do you collect?”

  “Several things, but mostly porcelain: vases, figurines, dinnerware, tea sets. What about you?”

  Jeff’s heart missed a beat. Were they here for the cabaret set? There was no way he could ask. “Like I said, I’m a picker. Mostly, I find items for others—”

  “Which is exactly why you shouldn’t tell him what we came here for.”

  “Don’t be silly, Ben. It’s his first year here, and we know who to go to first for what we want.”

  The elevator door opened with a jerk, and Jennifer quickly replaced her dark glasses. As the three stepped into a flurry of animated, well-dressed people holding champagne glasses and balancing small plates of hors d’oeuvres, Ben said, “We’re having dinner with a friend after the preview. Would you join us?”

  Jeff liked the young couple and would welcome the company under any circumstances. Considering Jennifer’s last statement, however, he was especially appreciative of the dinner invitation. He wanted to know if this pair was after the tea set, ‘and if dinner would be his best chance to do some discreet investigating. He wasn’t one to use people, but he would need to be on top of things if he was going to end up with it. “I’d love to.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  After arranging to meet the Hursts outside the main dining room at eight, Jeff set out to locate the bartender in the crowded parlor. He succeeded, ordered a martini, and began working his way through the crowd. Most of the attendees seemed comfortable with their surroundings and with one another, and he figured there were a lot of repeat guests at the annual event. There were some as young as Ben and Jennifer Hurst. Others doddered along on canes and behind walkers, and he couldn’t help but admire them. He hoped he would still be pursuing antiques thirty or forty years from now.

  He stationed himself near three empty chairs and studied the people in the room. Perhaps Jennifer Hurst’s prediction was right. You attended the preview to check out the competition instead of the merchandise. He caught himself idly guessing who among the group would try to outbid him for the famous cabaret set. Although it had been out of circulation for half a century, he was sure the recent buzz of its inclusion in the auction had reached several who were interested. He assumed Blanche hadn’t heard because the other pickers were like him; they didn’t want to get her hopes up in case something went wrong. It wasn’t necessary that he concentrate on the competition. Blanche was prepared to pay whatever it took to bring the set back into her possession. But it was as good a game as any while he waited.

  He was glad to see that the Little Black Dress and wide-brimmed hats weren’t going out of style. Several women were wearing the traditional after-six ensemble, and Jeff wondered
absently whether Ben had ever approached another woman, thinking it was Jennifer. Ben could’ve sneaked up from behind and planted a bear hug on any number of women and never once succeeded in embracing his own wife. Thank God it wasn’t a lineup at police headquarters.

  Police headquarters. Mackinac Island must have police, he thought. Jeff speculated at what sorts of tickets might be written on an island with no motorized vehicles. Can the driver of a horse-drawn wagon be ticketed for speeding? Can he be jailed for DWI? Was there a jail?

  Jeff was picturing these odd scenarios when three elderly women made their way over and took up residence in the trio of chairs beside him. They seemed not to notice him standing there, as they were in a heated discussion about proper dress for such an event as the preview party. All three women were dressed in black and wearing hats and gloves. Two of the ladies had walking sticks—antique sticks, he noted—and he tried to get a closer look without seeming obtrusive.

  Both sticks were made of ebony, but the handles were different. The one held by the woman at the far end was almost identical to one in his own collection: ivory, carved into the shape of a burlesque dancer’s leg bent at the knee to provide a long, slender handle. It was likely from the Victorian era, when risqué subjects were a highly popular counterpoint to the prudish ways impressed upon society by Queen Victoria. Check any time of repression and you’ll find the seedy, scandalous objects of a counterculture.

  It made sense that the woman in the far chair was using a man’s walking stick. With her height and build, she would need the length and security a more substantial stick offered.

  The other woman’s walking stick depicted an eagle’s talons clutching a glass orb. The talons were sterling silver, as was the collar, or band, that joined the handle to the cane. On both canes, the ferrules had been replaced with practical rubber tips.