“Don’t you think Dr. Davenport will make a good chief, sir?”
“I think she’ll run Cornucopia into the ground. That’s why I’m going to get an agreement out of her that I get first refusal of Dormus when the crash happens,” Grierson said.
“How many of you knew that Dr. Davenport was Mr. Skeps’s mistress?” Carmine asked.
That flabbergasted them; there could be no mistaking their reaction. None of them had known. And here am I, Carmine the mischief maker, inserting that barb under their skins, yet another poison. “Oh, come!” he said, sounding mocking. “You must have wondered the moment you heard the contents of the will, even if you hadn’t believed anything amorous existed between them before that.”
“I for one genuinely believed Desmond chose her for her ability,” Grierson said. “In fact, I don’t see how their being lovers changes that. Desmond wasn’t the kind of man to be influenced by emotions. He was wrong to judge her so capable, but it wasn’t a judgment he made because she was his mistress.”
“Thank you, Mr. Grierson. As a matter of fact, Mr. Skeps dispensed with Dr. Davenport’s services as a mistress four months ago, and didn’t make his will for two more months. Whatever his emotions were, they clearly didn’t enter into his decision, just as you contend. What fascinates me is that you go against the general direction of opinion in saying Dr. Davenport isn’t up to the job. Have you any reason?”
“My gut,” Wallace Grierson said. “Erica’s all smoke and mirrors, a con merchant. You’re a clever man, Captain Delmonico-also an enormously experienced one. There’s always a kid at the top of the class with near-perfect scores and a brilliant future. But there’s always another kid who hangs around the top without ever getting there because her-we’ll use the feminine-her work is too individual, too unorthodox. And guess what? At the twenty-year reunion, she’s the one with the brilliant career. Erica is the perfect kid with the perfect scores. But she’s never been the head of anything apart from Legal, so she has tunnel vision and a calculator for a mind. She leaned heavily on Desmond, who didn’t realize it.” He frowned. “My gut also says that her heart isn’t in running a business empire. She burns for something else, but what it is, I don’t know.”
“A gut, Mr. Grierson, is a splendid thing,” said Carmine solemnly, walking off without collecting Desdemona.
Parties, he thought, can be better sources of information than formal police interviews. If Myron hadn’t thrown this one, the woman in the brown pancake hat wouldn’t have jogged Mrs. Highman’s memory, and the old Cornucopia Board would not have been the worse for booze.
And our hostess is flagging, he realized as he wandered in her direction. Of course she’s flagging, because she isn’t a party person.
Whereas Myron, West Coast to the core, is utterly enamored of parties-no, put that another way, Carmine! He has to be perpetually surrounded by glitz and bustle, beautiful people strutting their stuff, the tinkle of tinsel, the chatter of people making deals all around him. Parties are just one aspect of it. Equally important are things like lunch at the Polo Lounge and dinner at whichever restaurant is in vogue this week. When Myron visits us, he’s doing penance. No, Jews don’t do penance. He’s like one of those guys who get flogged with a bunch of switches before taking the cold plunge or the steam or whatever. We are Myron’s bunch of switches so he can appreciate the deliciousness of his own world. Why do I love him? Because he’s a total gentleman, Sophia’s true father, kindness and generosity personified, and an all-round great guy. What kills me is
“Had enough?” he asked Erica, reaching her.
She looked startled. “Does it show?”
“Not really. But you don’t have the gift of small talk, and you’re not motivated to acquire it.”
“Are you suggesting that I find the motivation?”
“That depends. If you’re serious about Myron, then yes. He lives in a world of small talk, banter, double-talk and the patois of wheeling and dealing. Where did you meet?”
“In New York, at a board meeting of Hardinge’s, the bank. I thought Myron was tremendously attractive.”
“You and half the feminine world. No doubt he’s told you that he’s married to my ex-wife?”
“Yes. I confess I can’t understand how he and you would ever have eyes for the same woman.”
“Oh, that’s because you’ll never know what Sandra was like at twenty! Very much in your mold, though without the brains. What she did have was an adorable waifish quality that made a man want to shelter her from every wind that blew. Sophia is very like her physically, but her intelligence masks that.”
“Just as well, in my opinion. I loathe stupid women!” said Erica tartly.
“Stupidity doesn’t mean a woman’s unlikeable, surely.”
“It does to me!”
“So you’re glad Sophia is smart.”
“Yes. She doesn’t despise her face, but she’s not going to let it decide her destiny.”
“You think of Sophia’s beauty the way you think of your own-as a tool if your back’s against the wall, but otherwise as a nuisance. Whereas Sophia is very different. She thinks of her face as part and parcel of what’s behind it. Sophia doesn’t live in compartments.”
“You always manage to put me in the wrong!” she snapped, turned, and spotted two latecomers. “Philomena, Tony!”
Carmine retired to a good vantage point and watched Erica take Philomena Skeps and Anthony Bera to meet Myron, who, as ever delighted to see new faces, welcomed them with all the verve of a host greeting his first guests rather than his last.
Philomena, Carmine decided, was probably at least five years younger than Erica, and quite cast the ice queen in the shade. Like Delia, she was wearing a tight-waisted dress of pink frills, but there the comparison ended. Despite what she had said to Carmine about Skeps’s miserly tendencies, she was wearing a suite of amazing pink diamonds. Paired with Bera, she looked complete.
Some talk passed between Philomena and Erica, then Myron took Bera away to meet the Mayor while Philomena and Erica continued their discussion. Their manner seemed pleasant, their smiles genuine, but Carmine still felt that whatever they were saying was not all sweetness and light. A glass of champagne was refused, but one of a Chilean red wine accepted; Erica fluttered around Desmond Skeps’s ex-wife like a nervous bride around a fierce mother-in-law. Lobster? No? Chicken vol-au-vent? No? This wonderful country terrine? Oh, good!
Finally Bera extricated himself from Myron’s clutches and rescued Philomena, escorting her to a chair, finding a little table, then giving her the glass of Chilean wine and putting a piled plate down on the table where she could pick at it. Having settled her, he took up his station behind her and let his gaze follow Erica Davenport wherever she went. There were undercurrents here, but Carmine wasn’t sure of their origin or their nature. Phil Smith arrived, with his wife, who-ye Gods!-was saying hello to Philomena in all the glory of her brown pancake hat.
Smith’s visit with Philomena was brief. His wife, poor soul, was unhappy to be dragged away willy-nilly, and tried to stay, but Smith hustled her off as if afraid of what she might say. Recognizing a kindred sartorial being, Delia grabbed her out from under her husband’s grasp, and the two worst-dressed women in the room went off together. Gus Purvey and Fred Collins paid court next, Collins without Candy. Anthony Bera greeted them stiffly, then fell silent and listened to Philomena talk. When Collins, drunk enough now to stagger, began to get agitated, Bera moved quickly in front of Philomena’s chair and obviously told Purvey to remove him. Purvey obeyed, but not a minute later Philomena gave Bera orders to leave her. He protested, but she lifted her chin in a gesture so imperious that Carmine was intrigued. Biting his lip, Bera stalked off, leaving her alone on her chair. Who did she want to see?
Then Myron joined her, and that meant the excellent host had just ruined the lady’s plans. How exactly she got rid of him the watching Carmine couldn’t know, but she did, and so charmingly that he gave her a worshipping smile as he went away. Philomena Skeps was alone again.
Several more people approached her and were dismissed with the same charm she had used on Myron: Dr. Pauline Denbigh (interesting, that one!) and Mawson and Angela MacIntosh. Carmine inched closer, wishing that the room wasn’t beginning to empty; he would never be able to overhear what Philomena Skeps said.
And finally came the desired one; the body language was unmistakable. Erica Davenport.
A waiter passed by; Philomena detained him, and the little table was stripped bare instantly. Erica perched herself on it, turning sideways to see Skeps’s ex-wife, who slewed sideways as well. Frustrated, Carmine stared at their profiles as they talked; he could lip-read dialogue if it was well enunciated and its speakers face-on, but side- on it was impossible.
They talked with such a determined air of isolation that several people, heading their way, backed off. Possibly
