“The truth,” she wailed plaintively, as if that was the dumbest thing she could have done.
The truth was that Anna had given Hugo a new set of tools, including the spanking- new coa, as an engagement present. And she talked him into going to Chiara-monte’s the morning Guido was stabbed to collect the money Guido owed him.
“I never should have forced him to go. It’s all my fault. But that was hours before they say Guido was stabbed. We were already downtown by then, getting the marriage license.” She collapsed into tears again.
She recovered, and continued. “He didn’t even tell the police, because he thinks it’s bad luck if his mother isn’t the first to know. So I told them and he was angry with me. What could I do-let him go to jail?” And now he was there anyway.
Anna told me how the happy couple waited seventy-five minutes for their number to be called at the license bureau. According to the cops, that was more than enough time for Hugo to drive back to Chiaramonte’s, stab Guido, and return to the office in plenty of time to sign on the dotted line.
“Weren’t there witnesses? There must have been a roomful of people if you had to wait that long.”
“Have you ever been in love, Meez Paula? There was a roomful of people staring into each other’s eyes. I couldn’t see anyone else there but my Hugo. What if no one can identify him? The police say they will look, but I am scared. Meez Paula, he didn’t do it.”
“What can I do?” I said lamely.
She bolted upright. “You can help us. You must. That police officer likes you-he’ll listen to you.”
“He’s liking me less these days. He’s mad I didn’t tell him about Hugo’s car, so now he thinks I’m hiding something.” She looked at me, pitifully. I’d dashed her only hope.
“I may know some other people who can help,” I said.
CHAPTER 29
They both had gates to keep out undesirables. Otherwise, Chestnut Hill, New York, was as far away from Somerville, Connecticut, as you could get, the kind of place where every few years some yahoo caused a stir by trying to park his Cessna on his front lawn.
As I drove on, the houses got bigger and more elaborate. It reminded me of that old joke. A guy gets a flat in an upscale neighborhood. He doesn’t have a jack, and it takes him a while to walk back to the last house to borrow one. It starts to rain, and he’s muttering about his bad luck, his crummy car, and the undeserved affluence around him, and by the time he rings someone’s doorbell, he says, “Screw you and your jack.”
An unseen person buzzed me through the wrought-iron doors that then swung closed behind my car. I continued around the well- tended circular drive to the front door of a huge Tudor house, where Hillary Gibson came out to greet me. She wore a blue cashmere sweater, a white shirt with the collar turned up, and wide- legged pants. She extended her hand.
“Ms. Holliday, please come in. I rather thought I’d hear from you sooner.”
I left the car where it was and followed her up the short steps to the house. The center hall was large, with a sweeping staircase off to the right. To say it was simply decorated was an understatement. It was practically empty. Just a few Oriental rugs and lots of plants. She anticipated my reaction.
“I know,” she explained. “Friends tell me I really need to get some furniture. My former husband’s taste was so execrable that when he left I couldn’t wait to get rid of everything. And I’ve taken my time replacing things. I like it sparse.”
“So do I,” I fibbed, thinking of my own tchotchke-crammed house.
Hillary’s former husband had made a fortune in insurance. Dubious business practices had earned Randall Adams an eighteen- month stay in a minimum-security prison in Danville, Pennsylvania. As expected, Hillary stood by her man during the scandal, but they parted quietly shortly after his release. She kept the house, and a ton of dough, most of which was hers anyway; he got to disappear, probably avoiding further prosecution, with his twenty-three-year-old surgically enhanced secretary. Hillary didn’t seem to mind and, in fact, couldn’t wait to jettison the Adams name and have it chiseled off the stone pillar in the front of the house, which remained tellingly blank.
Her low heels clicked on the marble tiles as she led me through a garden passageway to a P-shaped conservatory overlooking a small stream. The conservatory was classic Victorian-all mahogany and leaded glass with solid brass handles and fittings. The roof vents were automatically controlled but had a manual override to let the air in on cool, sunny days. Hillary raised them as we entered.
The room held three enormous date palms. A bird’s-eye maple vanity with a triple-paned mirror served as a sideboard, where tea and cookies were waiting for us.
“Please sit down.” She motioned to a grouping of mis- matched faux bamboo furniture and, without asking, started to pour the tea.
“What a wonderful space,” I said, taking the cup. “Doesn’t the humidity ruin the furniture, though?”
“The green house hasn’t really been used for years. It’s been my sitting room. That may change.”
“Well, it’s lovely. Perfect,” I added.
“Not quite,” she said, “but almost.”
I wondered what she thought was missing. “I see you’re something of a gardener yourself,” I said, eyeing the landscape outside.
“I’ve always enjoyed the peacefulness of the garden and the beauty, but not the work. Gerald was always the hard worker of the two of us.”
Hillary’s family had lived on the same block as the Peacocks for years; some distant cousins had even married. For as long as she could remember, though, it had just been the two women, Dorothy and Renata. As a child, Hillary was treated to the best side of her sometimes antisocial neighbors. She had the run of the gardens and the maze, which she’d mastered by the age of seven. Only the herb garden was off limits.
By the age of twelve, Hillary was old enough to realize others thought her friends strange, but she didn’t care. Especially that summer, when Adonis appeared in their garden, in the form of Gerald Fraser. He was handsome, tanned, terribly serious, and, at fifteen, an older man. Despite her parents’ protests, their friendship evolved, eventually deepening into love.
“Your parents didn’t approve of Gerald?” I interrupted.
“He was poor and they were snobs,” she said matter-of- factly. “Gerald worked harder and studied more than anyone I ever knew. He got a scholarship to study art abroad,” she added with pride. “Gerald was all set to leave when his father had a stroke. Eventually, his father recovered, but Gerald’s mother never did. She was as helpless as a child, didn’t even know how to write a check. It took all the money Gerald had saved for the family to get back on their feet.”
She took a sip of tea and broke off a small piece of cookie but didn’t eat it.
“Dorothy Peacock pleaded with Gerald to take a gift or a loan from her, but his father wouldn’t hear of it. So Gerald stayed here, helped his family, and commuted to Teachers College. Eventually I went off to Vassar.” She sounded guilty, even after all these years.
“One day,” she continued, “just before I left for school, Gerald and I were strolling through the maze, daydreaming about the future and what we might do. Exiting the maze at the white garden, we came upon Dorothy and Renata. They were… embracing. Only then did we realize why they’d been so reclusive and why there was this fiction about Renata’s frailty when she always seemed perfectly healthy to us.”
“So they were lovers. Ms. Gibson, do you know what happened to the real sister?”
“The real Rose Peacock was frail; she’d suffered from rheumatic fever as a child, and it weakened her heart. She never fully recovered. That’s why it was so easy to convince people the woman they thought was Rose was sickly.