Likely to Die (39 page)

 When I approached Mike he was standing with his back to me, facing three enormous panels of tapestry that lined most of the south wall of the Great Hall. He was shoulder to shoulder with a woman in a strapless gown whose skin glowed with the creamiest porcelain texture I’d ever seen and whose short platinum hair bounced gently beneath a diamond tiara as her head moved up and down in response to something that Chapman was saying to her.

 I hovered a foot or two behind them waiting to be glimpsed instead of interrupting the conversation.

 “I never knew Orkney had anything to do with this place but I sure know the story of these things.” The hand with the Jameson’s pointed up at the wall hangings. Chapman was telling the woman that the Earl of Orkney had been England’s first Field Marshal, second in command to the Duke of Marlborough at Blenheim. The huge tapestries celebrated that victory and, as Mike was describing, depicted the arts of war.

 My curiosity was overwhelming my manners and I circled around Mike’s side as my drink was delivered to include myself in their conversation.

 “Cheers. I’m glad you could make it, kid. I’d like you to meet my duchess.”

 The elegant woman shifted her glass of champagne to her other hand and extended the right one to shake mine, throwing her head back and laughing at Mike’s description, introducing herself to me as Jennifer, Lady Turnbull. Enough midnight soaks in my Jacuzzi with fashion magazines made the introduction unnecessary. Her beautiful face and stunning figure had graced as many covers and articles as those of any professional model. And the stories of the American college girl who had married the elderly Lord Turnbull and shortly thereafter inherited his millions had been front-page tabloid news while I was still an adolescent.

 “Jenny’s fiancé is the person who underwrites this conference for the Brits every year. That’s how come they’re here. He’s the guy over there, talking to your boyfriend.”

 Lady Turnbull wrapped one of her long thin arms in the crook of Mike’s elbow and turned him around to face into the roomful of people. I saw Lord Windlethorne speaking to a man I recognized from the same sort of magazine articles as the British industrialist Bernhard Karl, a fiftyish man with boyish good looks.

 “Your detective and I have been having a marvelous time, Alexandra. He’s told me so much about you, I’m just fascinated to meet you.”

 “Didn’t believe me when I told you Creavey and I hit all the nightspots with a duchess, did you?”

 Before I could answer, Jennifer held up her finger in protest. “I keep telling Michael I’m not a duchess but he delights in calling me one. We went absolutely everywhere in the neighborhood last night and he’s promised to return the favor as soon as I’m in New York.”

 I couldn’t quite picture Lady Turnbull on a barstool at Rao’s in her strapless gown and tiara surrounded by a crew from Manhattan North Homicide, but I’d seen enough politicians, movie stars, and moguls there to know Mike could make it happen.

 “I feel terribly underdressed for your—”

 “Don’t be silly. Bernie and I just get all done up like this because we’re hosting the banquet. It so suits the setting, don’t you think?”

 I clung to the duchess and the cop like a fifth wheel for at least another half an hour and another neat Glenrothes. I kept looking to see whether Mr. Karl was keeping an eye on his consort but he was clearly either comfortable with her style or secure in his skin.

 Shortly before eight o’clock, Graham began moving among the guests announcing that dinner would be served in the French Dining Room. Lady Turnbull took Michael by the hand and led him down the corridor while I sort of shuffled along behind them trapped in a conversation about juvenile delinquency with the tedious Danish criminologist. She took her place at the head of the elongated banquet table sparkling in the reflected surroundings of gilded walls and ceiling, dangling chandeliers of all sizes, and countless table-top candelabra.

 As I slipped past Jennifer to search for the place cards bearing my name and Mike’s, she pointed at the seat next to her and beckoned to him. “Since this is the French Dining Room, I’m taking the liberty of keeping Hercule Poirot right here beside me. With all the talk of crime at this meeting, I can’t think of anybody to keep me safer.”

 “Poirot’s a Belgian, Mikey. He wasn’t French and neither are you. Remind her your roots are in Bay Ridge and maybe she’ll give you back to me,” I whispered, dreading the thought of sitting between the Australian penal expert and the Teutonic ethnologist.

 “Don’t be rude to my duchess, Blondie. Room service might be the answer if you’re in one of your moods again.” He winked at me and pinched my arm as I walked behind him.

 I was two-thirds of the way down the table before I saw my name, placed between Lord Windlethorne—that must have been Mike’s doing—and Ambassador Richard Fairbanks, the American delegate to the Pacific Economic Conference. A waiter pulled out the chair to help me into my seat.

 Windlethorne joined me almost immediately and I was treated to a lecture on British libel law as interpreted through the most recent court cases, which outlasted the service and consumption of the starter, a Cornish crab with lime pimentos. Midway through the second course of salad smothered in truffles, Windlethorne was diverted by the woman to his left—whom I wanted to kiss in gratitude—and I introduced myself to Fairbanks, whom I had not met earlier.

 The Ambassador was charming, attractive, and funny and I managed to stay engaged in conversation with him throughout the next three courses, as I lost count of the varieties of white and red wine that accompanied each dish.

 When all of the desserts and champagne had been finished and the ormolu clock had chimed midnight, Bernhard invited the heartier participants to follow him along for cigars and port. The Europeans with the earliest airport departures began to peel off and say goodnight, as did a number of the spouses who complained about the odor of all that smoke.

 I would have been happy to call it a night, too, except for my fascination with Jennifer’s interaction with Mike. She was all over him again as they headed out of the dining room, so I reminded myself how much I loved the smell of my father’s cigars and made my way after them into the library with its wood-paneled walls and immense fireplace. I positioned myself next to Ambassador Fairbanks and his wife, Shannon, and eventually Jennifer and Mike worked themselves around the room to us. Chapman was carrying an extra glass of port for me. “This could be the smoothest thing I’ve ever tasted. You gotta try it.”

 Graham came over to the sofas where we had seated ourselves near the crisp fire. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, leaning in to speak to Chapman. “Your mother returned your call during dinner, but asked me not to disturb you. She said she was just calling back with the information you wanted and to tell you when I saw you and that you’d understand. Mrs. Chapman said that last night’s category was Geography and that I was to tell you the answer.”

 “Hold it, Graham.” With a cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth and half a load on, Mike liked the way Jennifer was playing and flirting with him and delighted in her reaction to Graham’s cryptic message.

 He started to explain to her whatJeopardy! is and she squealed back at him, grabbing him by the wrist, “I know exactly what it is. I always watch it when we’re in the States.”

 “Ten bucks, duchess. You in it for Geography?”

 “Fifty bucks, detective. How about you?” She had turned to me asking if I was still in the party.

 Knowing my chances were slightly better than with the Bible or Physics, I told her I was in for fifty with her.

 “Carry on, Graham.”

 “Madam said to tell you that the question was—” He paused as he looked down at the sentence he had written out on the back of a Cliveden postcard. “ ‘Formerly called Mount McKinley, this highest peak in North America is known now by its Native American name meaning Great One.’ ”

 Jennifer pounded the arm of the sofa shouting “Got it!” at the very same moment Graham was asking Mike whether he had understood the message. “D’you know it, too?” she asked me.

 I smiled lamely and offered, “What is Mount Rainier?”

 Her feet were drawn up under her gown now, and Jennifer shook her head at me to tell me that I was wrong. Then she looked over at Mike on the sofa next to her.

 “Clueless, m’lady,” he said, beaming that great white grin back at her.

 “What is Denali? That’s the name of it now. Bernie financed an expedition to the peak of it last summer. For an environmental group or something. Isn’t that amazing?”

 Truly amazing. Even more astounding was the fact that Mike was digging in his pocket for the payoff, which he’d never done so quickly with me in all the years we’d been playing together. Mostly what I got were IOUs. This dame needed his fifty like I needed another drink.

 “Excuse me, Graham. Could I please have another drink—a bit more port?”

 He had just returned with my glass when Bernhard made his way across the room to reclaim his gorgeous treasure and take her upstairs to bed. Mike got to his feet to accept kisses on each cheek from his duchess and promises to both of us that she’d see us in New York before very long. We thanked Mr. Karl for his generosity and resumed our places on the sofas in front of the fire as the conferees continued to trickle out of the room.

 Someone had turned on the CD player that was sitting on a table in the corner. Bette Midler’s voice came at me asking if I wanted to dance under the moonlight. I walked to the double doors that led onto the terrace. A few people had strolled outside to enjoy the bracing night air, escape the cigar fumes, or distance themselves from the heat of the fire.

 I moved to the edge of the balcony and rested my crystal wine glass on the solid stone slab that overlooked the starlit gardens, breathing in to clear my head and my mind.

 Mike joined me. “Sleepy?”

 “I was an hour ago but I’m really wired now.”

 “Anything in particular?”

 “The case, I guess. Odd to be in the middle of all this elegance, all this irrelevant excess from another age, while somebody else is working our murder case. I don’t mind that they are, I just wonder what they’re up to. You think it’s DuPre?”

 “You know me. I think it’s everybody until we prove it’s somebody.”

 Now it was a man’s voice singing to me from inside the great house. In between Mike’s comments I could make out phrases. “When the day—” Then Chapman spoke to me over the sound of the singer. “—and night has come—” And, in fact, the moon was the only thing I could see.

 “Dance with me?” I asked. I was gliding to the music by myself across the uneven foundation of the ancient structure, imagining that all sorts of titled men and women had waltzed over the same terrace for centuries.

 I was singing along with Ben E. King now, hoping my partner would stand by me. Chapman was staring at me, cigar in hand and unable to repress his grin at the sight of my intoxicated, finger-snapping dance steps.

 I said it again, a bit less tentatively this time. “Dance with me, please.” He still seemed to hesitate. “I’m only asking you to dance, I’m not—”

 “All right, all right.”

 He put down his cigar, placed his glass next to mine, and picked up the beat as we swayed to King’s tender voice.

 “So who am I dancing with tonight, a Wili or a duchess?”

 I didn’t get it. “What?”

 “Are you planning to dance me to death, like the Queen of the Wilis, or does ‘blue collar’ just look more appealing to you this evening because Lady Turnbull got such a kick out of it?”

 “That’s not fair. I—”

 “Shhhh.” He let go with his left hand and put it up to his lips. “No talking. I’m trying to figure out a way to get one of those tiaras for you. If her boyfriend had left her with me for just another hour, I could have talked that one off her head and given it to you. You know how good you’d look in front of a jury trying a case with a tiara on? You couldn’t lose.”

 The disc had switched once more and Smokey had speeded up the pace by telling us that he was going to a go-go. Mike danced himself over to the edge of the balcony and picked up his cigar. I was swaying alone and watching my skirt twirl, backing up the Miracles with some harmony, and trailing after Chapman to find my glass of port and refill it.

 “I’m pulling the plug, Blondie. Bar’s closed.”

 “I just want to fin—”

 “C’mon upstairs. Tomorrow’s a long day and we got a lot to catch up on when we get back.” He had me by the elbow and was steering me through the library doors and across the Great Hall.

 “You didn’t cut Jennifer off last night, did you?”

 “She holds it a lot better than you do, kid. Stairs or elevator?”

 I looked up at the three-tiered flight of stairs when we reached its bottom and the steps appeared to be rolling like an escalator. “The lift will do just fine, thank you.”

 It lurched its way to our floor and Mike again reminded me to lower my voice as we passed the row of suites that led to ours. He turned the knob and opened the door and I followed him inside. He gave me the shirt he had worn earlier in the day and grabbed the robe that I had left on the end of my bed. “Go into the bathroom, brush your teeth, take a couple of aspirin, and get yourself ready to go to sleep.”

 When I came out five minutes later, he handed me a slip of paper with my name on it that had been folded and pushed under the door of the suite while we were at dinner.

 I opened the note, glanced at it, then looked up at Mike to see if I could tell from his expression whether or not he had read it. “Mr. Renaud phoned. Please call him at whatever hour you get in tonight.” Joan must have egged him on and explained my relationship with Mike.

 “Want me to leave the room?”

 I shook my head. “It’ll wait ‘til I get home.” I was crashing rapidly.

 “Go on, Blondie. Get into bed.”

 The housekeeper had turned down the blankets. I unwrapped the little chocolate mint on my pillow, put it in my mouth, and slid down between the covers. I reached up to turn out the light as Mike came over and kissed the crown of my head.