Читать книгу Jane Darrowfield, Professional Busybody - Barbara Ross - Страница 12

Chapter Five

Lunch passed without incident. The residents of Walden Spring were clumped into their respective cliques. Jane ate with the artists and dancers, keeping her ears tuned to their conversation, but her eyes glanced around the dining room observing the other groups.

The popular kids sat together, as before—the men in their golf clothes, the women in their bright summer shifts. One of those women stuck out from the crowd. Free of makeup and mousy haired, she wore a navy-blue tracksuit. Its dark color and total coverage made her look like a signet floating in a pond among a bunch of downy, yellow ducklings. What was her story?

Jane picked out some groups she hadn’t noticed in the chaos of the day before. An obvious “couples” table. What happened when a spouse was lost? Did the survivor have to go sit elsewhere? Perhaps to one of the many tables that consisted only of women, or the much smaller number that had only men. One group at a table by a window was composed of the very old. Had they been at Walden Spring the longest—the senior seniors?

As lunch ended, Evangeline invited Jane for drinks on her balcony before dinner. “Apartment 325. Use your keycard to enter the foyer, then take the elevator up and knock on the door.” Then she announced she was headed back to her apartment for a lie down. Maurice trailed her, though what role he might have in the lie down, if any, was still unclear to Jane.

Jane passed a pleasant afternoon on her balcony, observing the comings and goings of her fellow inmates. Groups headed to the tennis courts, rackets under their arms or over their shoulders, and returned later, walking more slowly, hair glistening with sweat. Golfers pulled their carts up to the tee closest to the condos and whacked at their balls. People walked, or rode their golf carts, toward the parking lot and returned later with grocery bags and packages. It was lovely and relaxing. If Jane hadn’t witnessed the food fight, she would have wondered why Paul Peavey had hired her.

Her eyelids grew heavy. She was tempted to go for a lie down herself, but given the money Peavey was paying her, it didn’t seem fair to do so.

At exactly four p.m., her cell phone rang, a Cambridge exchange.

“Jane? Harry Welch. How are you?”

“How nice to hear from you.” Though he’d asked for her number at the end of their coffee date, Jane hadn’t allowed herself to get her hopes up.

“How about a movie tomorrow night? I can pick you up at your house.”

It was do-or-die time. Jane could turn him down and recommend her lovely friend Phyllis, or she could accept.

She hesitated so long, Harry cleared his throat and said, “I haven’t asked a woman for a date in more than forty years. If I’m doing it wrong—”

“No, no, no,” Jane rushed to reassure him. “You’re doing it exactly right. I’d love to see a movie with you. What do you propose we should see?”

They picked a movie easily. No tussle over competing tastes, another positive sign. Harry confirmed the time, got her address, and rang off.

Jane didn’t mention she wasn’t at her house. That would require way too much explanation. Instead, she decided she would be at her house, to be picked up, by six o’clock the following evening.

* * *

Evangeline lived in one of the two-bedroom Alcott units. Her condo was colorfully and eclectically decorated, quite unlike the high-end hotel décor of the guest apartment where Jane was staying. The walls were crowded with Evangeline’s canvases. Most were sweeping landscapes, though Karl Flagler was there, too, in the buff for all the world to see. Jane was as appreciative of the male form as the next person, though it was odd to see someone she had actually seen in real life. She was grateful Evangeline had warned her about the life drawing classes.

Maurice was the only other guest. Still in his black beret, he’d removed the blazer he’d worn over his black polo shirt. He and Evangeline were quite a pair. She sparkled with life, her purple ringlets shaking with every head nod. He sat slightly stooped, following her enthusiastic pronouncements with his more acerbic ones. They were obviously close, finishing each other’s sentences, but Jane still couldn’t tell—were they a couple or simply friends?

A cart opposite the windows in the living room was set up as an elaborate bar, complete with crystal ice bucket and bright chrome cocktail shaker. Jane accepted a white wine, feeling she was still “on duty.” Evangeline and Maurice had Manhattans, which Evangeline concocted in what appeared to be a well-practiced ritual. Drinks in hand, they adjourned to the balcony, which, unlike Jane’s, faced directly toward the golf course.

Evangeline passed hors d’oeuvres that consisted of a piece of processed cheese on a cracker with a slice of pimento-stuffed green olive on top. Maurice scarfed them down. Skinny as he was, he always seemed to be hungry.

Jane asked about the golf course.

“It was developed in the 1920s by the descendants of the owners of the mansion that was here,” Evangeline said. “Much later, the family gave the house and land, including the golf course, to the town, and then decades later, the town sold it to the parent company that built Walden Spring. There was a terrific brouhaha about it, losing a public recreational facility like that, but it’s a nice amenity for the community, and of course it looks lovely. Will you play while you’re here?”

“I thought you couldn’t get a tee time unless you were a friend of Bill Finnerty’s,” Jane said.

“Everyone says that,” Evangeline said. “But there are ways around it. When my son-in-law visited in the spring, I baked Bill a plate of cookies. Bill gave him a perfect tee time in a wonderful foursome.”

“Who put Bill in charge of the tee times?” Jane asked.

Maurice shrugged. “Peavey, I guess. Most courses would have a pro and a manager, but this little nine hole is just for the residents. Karl Flagler’s in charge of the maintenance, and I guess they needed someone else to manage the playing times. Anyway, Finnerty’s dictatorship shouldn’t be allowed. The course is for the whole community.”

“It must require a lot of upkeep,” Jane said. “It’s an expense all the residents bear. You should all be able to use it.”

“Here, here.” Maurice raised a glass to Jane.

“Do you play?” Jane asked.

“Can’t stand it,” Maurice answered.

“Powder room?” Jane asked Evangeline.

“Use the one off my bedroom,” she said, pointing back into the unit and down the hall.

Evangeline’s bedroom and bath were as stylish and eccentric as the rest of the apartment. The walls were painted a pleasant, neutral color and lined with her canvases. The fabric—bedspread, curtains, table scarves—were in bold reds, yellows, and greens. As in the rest of the apartment, there were no personal photos of travel destinations, husbands, or kids. Crowded out by her artwork, Jane supposed. She stopped to admire a set of three paintings over the bed. Unlike the sweeping landscapes in the rest of the unit, these were precise, close-up oil studies of a wall, crumbling concrete shot through with deep crevices with bits of marble clinging to the rough surface here and there. Jane had to give it to Evangeline. She was good. Jane felt if she touched a painting, her fingertips would feel the rough surface of the stone.

When she returned to the balcony, Evangeline and Maurice had refreshed their cocktails and Jane’s wineglass had been topped off.

Jane had hardly sat back down on the rattan love seat when there was a terrific noise from the parking lot. Mike Witkowski and his motorcycle gang roared into the quad, shattering the quiet of the late afternoon. They stopped their bikes under the column of balconies kitty-corner from Evangeline’s and revved the engines, making a horrible racket. Doris Milner came out on a second-story balcony and yelled at the riders to pipe down. Her threats were met by catcalls and general hilarity from Mike’s group.

“Jeez, this again.” Maurice pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his slacks and pushed some buttons.

Bill Finnerty, face red with anger, appeared behind Doris on her balcony. “Cut out the noise!” he shouted. “Or, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Mike called back. “You’ll go to Peavey? Ha!”

“We’ll call the cops!” Doris screamed. “The hell with Peavey. We’re reporting you for disturbing the peace.”

“I don’t think so,” Mike called back. “Bill doesn’t want the cops involved any more than I do, right, Bill?”

“Too late!” Maurice shouted from Evangeline’s balcony, cell phone at his ear. “I already called. They’re on their way.”

Then things happened quickly. As Paul Peavey made his way from his office under the archway three of Bill’s plaid-pants golfing buddies dashed onto Doris’s balcony and heaved water balloons onto the gang below. The first balloon caught Paul on the side of his head and soaked him. The next one flooded Leon’s sidecar. While Mike’s gang cursed and turned their bikes around, Mike stood his ground, staring up at Bill. “Watch your back!” he called. “I’ll get you.”

Maurice shook his head. “How old are these guys?”

“Old enough to know better,” Evangeline answered, disgusted.

The evening seemed to be at an end.

“Might as well head to the dining room. I’m sorry,” Evangeline apologized. “We’ll try this again sometime when there isn’t a free-for-all going on.”