"If that should ever happen, you simply do not tell the whole truth. Lou Marchmount is in no condition to contradict you. And I sure as hell will gladly perjure myself on the score of your virtue."
He held me away, framing my face with his hands, looking deep into my eyes.
"Because, dear heart, you are." He gave me another long searching look and then lightly kissed my cheek-the one his mother had struck.
I wanted to say something, I knew I was supposed to say something, and it wasn't connected with his mother, but I didn't know what it was he expected of me. Then all of a sudden Mrs. Garrison came bustling in from the kitchen, and the moment was shattered.
"Don't you ever ask for peanut butter and jelly here, Nialla, or we'll lose the best cook in Nassau County," Rafe said in a hurried undertone.
Mrs. Garrison's notion of therapeutic food turned out to be raspberry sherbet, which went down easily, coolingly, and I could actually taste it.
Rafe filled a mug of coffee for himself and settled down to the Sunday papers with an air that clearly said, "At last!"
There appeared to be two copies of The New York Times, one each of lesser Sunday editions. For kicks I turned to the society pages. And there we were. Only it was just Rafe and me. I appeared to be hanging on his arm, the very model of the blushing bride, while Rafe was beaming directly into the camera with fatuous pride. He hadn't been, but that's the way the shot came out. There was only a caption with our names, listing Rafael Clery as noted sportsman and horse breeder. We weren't the only bridal couple who'd been feted, I noticed, glancing at the long columns headed by studio portraits of faces fresh or stern under misty veils. The datelines were all the "right" ones from East Hampton, south to Roanoke, north to Boston, with a few San Franciscos, Washingtons, and New Yorks to leaven the rise.
The group picture appeared in several of the Long Island papers: somehow the counterfeit grins looked genuine, and the general impression was of society enjoying its "in" tribal customs and rites, graciously consenting to make their festivities known to the lesser breeds.
The Long Island papers ran some background material on Rafe. (They bloody well had nothing to say about me, except to mention that my father was the late Russell Donnelly, noted trainer. Bess Tomlinson [Mrs. Augustus] was given as matron of honor, also the fact that I had used her family veil. A Gerald MacCrate, sportsman, had been the groom's best man. The ceremony had been private.) Rafe graduated from the University of Virginia? With honors, no less. And he'd been a captain in Korea? I hadn't known that either. Nor that he'd earned a DSC with a cluster.
Rafe evidently believed in reading every word of the news fit to print. He made a lot of noise, too, turning pages, but whenever I glanced around mine, it was an absentminded, not attention-getting-irritated rustling. At one point he got up, took some black bound books from the breakfront desk, and busied himself making notations.
This placid sabbatical scene was interrupted by the phone. I’d been so absorbed in an article on the emergence of pop art and its primary perpetrators that the sound lifted me up out of the sofa like an elevator.
"Hey, your nerves are shot," he said solicitously as he rose to answer it. "Sure, Dennis. You can let Michaels in anytime."
The detective refused coffee, even iced, when he arrived, but a few minutes in the air-conditioned house seemed to revive him. I was glad I didn't have to go outside today.
"I've got surveillance for your mother, Mr. Clery, and the phone tap is set up, so you don't have to worry about her."
"Thanks." Michaels grinned slightly at Rafe's caustic comment.
"I checked in at Nassau County Hospital, but Louis Marchmount is in no condition to be questioned. I've also arranged for a relief man for that private investigator, because"-and here Michaels exhaled deeply-"I'm not the only person who'd like to speak to Marchmount. Someone tried to get in to see him on Saturday morning. In fact, he was so adamant that the hospital guard had to assist him off the premises." Michaels grinned at me. "Both the guard and the nurses' aide at the desk remembered that he had a very bad case of halitosis."
"There!"
"More important. They identified the mug shot of Galvano."
"Saturday morning?" Rafe asked.
"Yes"-and Michaels was grim again-"with plenty of time for him to get to the show and attack Mrs. Clery. How he knew where to find you is not clear."
"The Austin-Healey is distinctive," Rafe remarked. "There're plenty of places on the main road for him to watch for it if that was his game."
"I had a talk with Urscoll."
"And?" Rafe urged politely, because something was troubling Michaels.
"Well, he confirmed what you told me. Said it's only a matter of time before Marchmount is carried off by a heart attack. The excitement of apprehending the extortionist might be the fatal stroke, which is the only reason why Urscoll's company went along with Marchmount's demand. Urscoll said he was awfully worried, because the man's memory is failing. He said he did all he could to prevent Marchmount from becoming excited and getting hold of any drugs. But…" Michaels shrugged.
"What I don't understand," Rafe said, "is how, if Urscoll was so eager to guard Marchmount, Galvano could have picked him for eighty thousand dollars?"
"One man can't guard another every minute of the day," Michaels said, rising. "I've got to get back."
"Don't envy you the trip in this heat."
"Oh, it's not so bad." Michaels grinned smugly. "I borrowed one of the traffic helicopters. That's why I have to get back before the millions swarm back into the city."
"So, how do things stand?"
"We… you… wait, I'm afraid."
"With Erskine handling the local protection?"
Michaels nodded, an odd gleam in his eyes. "He seems very keen on helping."
"Yes, the good, jovial, up-for-reelection Sheriff Erskine would."
"I really have to work through the local authorities at this juncture, Mr. Clery."
Rafe gestured, absolving Michaels. "Standing guard is one thing Erskine's men ought to do well. They even went to college on it."
Michaels stared at Rafe a moment and then guffawed heartily.
"We've only to wait until the blackmailer gets in touch with Mrs. Madison, now. And if he's as desperate as he acts, that oughtn't to be too long," he said as he reached the door.
I wished I could feel as confident as Michaels sounded. But I did trust him.
The hot air was like a furnace blast as the door closed. Helicopter or not, I didn't envy the weary detective his trip.
Rafe snatched up his paper and settled in the couch, beside me, our thighs touching lightly, our shoulders brushing now and then as Rafe turned the pages of his newspaper. The light contact had the effect of… of what? Not possession, really. More. "I'm here because I want to be."
I sneaked a sideways glance at my husband's profile. He was too absorbed in his article to be aware of my scrutiny. I hadn't had too much opportunity to really look at him, what with his habit of being attached to me all the time. He wasn't handsome, certainly; he didn't have to be, with those compelling blue eyes. There was character in the straight sweep of his jaw, the firm chin, the well-shaped wide lips, the aquiline nose, the slight bulge of the brow; he'd be even handsomer in a few years. I was close enough to notice the fine lines under and at the corner of his eye, the few bristles his razor had missed that morning, and the fact that his sideburns needed trimming. Would he let me do it?
This Sunday's quiet, read-the-paper routine was so "married" to me-something I remembered from childhood as part of a Sunday's inevitable order. Mother reading the papers beside Dad on the sofa, with the Sunday symphony rolling through an otherwise silent scene.
Suddenly Rafe swore under his breath and reached for the accounts books he'd abandoned when Michaels came in. He did some rough figuring on the margin of the newspaper and swore again. The numerals, written in a bold hand, were plain to read: $7,578.98. He swore again and closed the open book with a slap, tossing it negligently to the footstool.