Mystery

chinos, a wash-and-wear white button-down shirt, a tie, and the lightweight blue blazer his mother had made him pack. He pushed his feet into loafers and went downstairs. The house was empty.

Tom let himself out and walked quickly down the avenue of trees to the clubhouse.

A deeply tanned young man in a tight white dress shirt with ruffles, tight black trousers with a satin stripe, and highly polished black shoes but no black tie or jacket, appeared beside him on the ground floor of the club. “Yes?” He had a headful of oily-looking black curls tight enough to stretch his forehead. On both sides of the floating staircase which rose from the middle of the room to the second floor were padded wicker chairs and blond tables that shone with wax. Tiffany lamps stood by each circle of chairs, and though light still came in the long side windows, every lamp had been turned on. The room was completely empty except for Tom and the suntanned young man, and the young man looked as though he wanted to keep it that way.

Tom gave his name, and the young man lowered his chin a millimeter or two. “Oh, Mr. Pasmore. Mr. Upshaw informed us that you are to have full use of his membership and signing privileges for the length of your stay. Would you be dining alone tonight, and would you prefer to relax at the Mezzanine Bar before dining, or would you like to be shown directly to your table?” He looked straight at the middle of Tom’s forehead as he spoke.

“Is Sarah Spence here yet?”

The man closed his eyes and opened them again. The movement was too calculated to be a blink. “Miss Spence is upstairs with her parents, sir. The Spences will be dining with a large party at the Redwing table this evening.”

“I’ll just go up,” Tom said, and moved toward the low, gleaming first step of the staircase.

He came up on a wooden floor that extended fifty or sixty feet toward an open deck with three round white tables beneath green-and-white-striped sun umbrellas. Inside the dining room ten larger tables, one per lodge, stood on the gleaming floor. Three of these had been set with white tablecloths, candles, wineglasses, and flowers. A small bandshell and stage with a baby grand piano jutted out from the far left wall of the dining room. Neil Langenheim, seated opposite his wife at the only occupied table, looked up and waggled his glass at Tom. Tom smiled back.

Sarah’s eyes flashed at him from the middle of a crowd of older people in sports clothes at the long bar on the right side of the room. She met him halfway between the stairs and the bar. “Why are you wearing that tie? Oh, never mind, I’m just glad you’re here. Come and meet everybody.”

She took him to the bar and introduced him to Ralph and Katinka Redwing. The head of the Redwing family smiled at Tom, showing the gap between his front teeth, and gave him a grinding, painful handshake. His small black eyes looked too lively for his pale, lacquered face. His wife, far more tanned and half a foot taller than he, flicked nearly colorless eyes at Tom. Her long blond hair had been frozen into place. “So you’re Gloria’s son,” she said.

“Glen Upshaw’s grandson,” said her husband. “Your first time up here, isn’t it? You’ll love it. It’s a great place. Sometimes I think about retiring here, just being alone with these wonderful woods, all that hunting and fishing. Peace and quiet. You’ll love it.”

Tom thanked him for letting him come up in the plane.

“Glad to do anything I can for old Glen—one of the old island characters, you know. Solid man, solid man. You like the plane? They treat you all right?”

“I never had an experience like that before,” Tom said.

Mrs. Spence edged up beside Ralph Redwing. She had changed out of the miniskirt, and wore a knee-length belted pink dress cut low in front. She looked like a big candy cane. “I think I’d rather be on your plane than Frank Sinatra’s, really I would.”

Redwing put a white, hairy arm around her waist. “There’s no telling what Frank would do, if you showed up on his jet in that dress. Hah! Isn’t that right!” He kept his arm around Mrs. Spence’s waist another couple of beats, and his wife tilted a glass filled with transparent liquid and ice into her mouth.

“Have a good first day?” asked Mr. Spence. “Have any fun?”

“I didn’t do much,” Tom said. “I went to the village and met Chet Hamilton.”

Redwing’s face stopped moving, and his wife stepped back to the bar.

“Tom had a little excitement,” Sarah said. “He thinks somebody pushed him off the sidewalk into the traffic. A car went right over him.”

The lively black eyes had turned depthless. “Should have happened to Chet Hamilton. We don’t talk about the Hamiltons, around here.” He forced a smile. “We leave them alone, and they leave us alone. Word to the wise.”

“What happened? What was that?” This came from a man on the outside of the Redwing group, who had been talking with two other people while glancing occasionally at Tom and had overheard Sarah’s remark. He was about Redwing’s age, and had crisp dark hair and a lightly suntanned, handsome face. In a striped shirt, with the arms of a blue cotton sweater loosely tied around his neck, he looked like every actor who had ever starred in a romantic comedy with Doris Day agreeably mixed together. “Somebody pushed you off the sidewalk into traffic? Were you injured at all?”

“Not really,” Tom said.

Sarah said, “Tom, this is Roddy Deepdale. And Buzz.”

A blond man in his mid-thirties with a blue scarf around his neck had moved up beside Roddy Deepdale to look at Tom with the same mixture of concern and fascination as the older man. He, too, was remarkably handsome. His bright yellow cotton sweater had been tied about his waist. Both men seemed more alarmed by what had happened to Tom than anyone in the Redwing party.

“Well, what happened, exactly?” Roddy said, and sipped a drink while Tom told the story. An old woman with a chinless, toadlike face peered at him between the broad, well-set-up figures of the two men. Except for Sarah, the others had turned back to the bar.

“My God, you could have been killed,” Roddy Deepdale said. “You nearly were!”

Buzz asked if he had seen who pushed him.

“Well, that’s just it. There were so many people on the sidewalk that it must have been an accident.”

“Did you go to the police?”

“I didn’t really have anything to tell them.”

“You were probably right. Last summer, a week or two before we got here, someone broke every window in our lodge. Stole half of our things, even a double portrait by Don Bachardy which is sorely missed, let me tell you, but the physical damage was almost as bad. The squirrels got in, and a lot of birds, and the police couldn’t do a thing.”

“Everybody felt so bad about it, Roddy,” Sarah said.

“Some people did,” said Buzz.

“I did,” interjected the old woman, who thrust her arm between Roddy and Buzz and laughed at the awkwardness of her position. Roddy and Buzz moved aside to admit her, and Roddy placed his hand on her hunched shoulder. “I felt terrible about it, I promise! And I’m distressed about what happened to you, Tom Pasmore, and I congratulate you on your survival!” Tom had taken her hand, which was surprisingly solid and long—longer than his own—in his. The impression of her ugliness had entirely disappeared. She had sagging dewlaps and prominent teeth and no chin, but now Tom saw the intelligence in her eyes, the soft wave of her white hair, and the calm width of her forehead. “I’m Kate Redwing,” she said. “You’ve never heard of me, but I knew your mother when she was just a little girl.”

“I was hoping I’d meet you,” Tom said, “and now that I have, I’m delighted.”

“And I’m delighted to meet you. Sit next to me at dinner, and we’ll have a good long talk.”

“Sarah said to give you this.” Roddy Deepdale passed Tom a tall flute glass filled with a bubbling liquid tinged a pale pink. “I assume it’s a reward for having survived your experience.”

“If Sarah Spence is looking after you, you’re going to be looked after very well,” said Kate Redwing. “Do you suppose someone could look after me? I’ve had only one martini, and it was a very small one, and since my grand-nephew is still primping …”