Death Wears a Beauty Mask and Other Stories Page 18

  “Tom, why would you even think of drinking a martini on top of a sleeping pill?” Henry asked.

  “Because I’m a fool,” Shipman snapped. “And because I was so sick of Arabella’s loud laugh and irritating voice that I thought I’d go mad if I didn’t drown them out.”

  Henry and Sunday stared at their friend. “But I thought you were crazy about her,” Henry said.

  “Oh, I was for a while, but in the end, I was the one who broke it off,” Shipman replied. “As a gentleman, though, I thought it proper to tell people that it had been her decision. Certainly anyone looking at the disparity in our ages would have expected it to be that way. The truth was, I had finally—temporarily, as it turns out—come to my senses.”

  “Then why were you calling her?” Sunday asked. “I don’t follow.”

  “Because she had taken to phoning me in the middle of the night, sometimes repeatedly, hour upon hour. Usually she would hang up right after hearing my voice, but I knew it was Arabella. So I had called her to warn her that it couldn’t go on that way. But I certainly did not invite her over.”

  “Tom, why haven’t you told any of this to the police? Certainly based on everything I have read and heard, everyone thinks it was a crime of passion.”

  Tom Shipman shook his head sadly. “Because I think that in the end it probably was. That last night Arabella told me that she was going to get in touch with one of the tabloids and was going to sell them a story about wild parties that you and I allegedly gave together during your administration.”

  “But that’s ridiculous,” Henry said indignantly.

  “Blackmail,” Sunday said softly.

  “Exactly. So do you think telling that story would help my case?” Shipman asked. He shook his head. “No, even though it wasn’t the case, at least there’s some dignity to being punished for murdering a woman because I loved her too much to lose her. Dignity for her, and, perhaps, even a modicum of dignity for me.”

  • • •

  Sunday insisted on cleaning up the kitchen while Henry escorted Tommy upstairs to rest.

  “Tommy, I wish there were someone staying here with you while all this is going on,” the former president said. “I hate to leave you alone.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Henry, I’m fine. Besides, I don’t feel alone after our visit.”

  Despite his friend’s admonition, Henry knew he would worry, as he began to do almost immediately after Shipman went off to the bathroom. Constance and Tommy had never had children, and now so many of their close friends from the area had retired and moved away, most of them to Florida. Henry’s thoughts were interrupted by the sounding of his ever-present beeper. Using his cellular phone, he replied immediately. The caller was Jack Collins, the head of the Secret Service team assigned to him. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. President, but a neighbor is most anxious to get a message to Mr. Shipman. She says that a good friend of his, a Countess Condazzi who lives in Palm Beach, has been trying to get through to him, but he is not answering his phone and apparently his answering machine is turned off, so she has been unable to leave him a message. I gather that she has become somewhat distraught and is insisting that Mr. Shipman be notified that she is awaiting his call.”

  “Thanks, Jack. I’ll give Secretary Shipman the message. And Sunday and I will be leaving in just a few minutes.”

  “Right, sir. We’ll be ready.”

  Countess Condazzi, Henry thought. How interesting. I wonder who that can be.

  His curiosity deepened when, on being informed of the call, Thomas Acker Shipman’s eyes brightened, and a smile formed on his lips. “Betsy phoned, eh?” he said. “How dear of her.” But almost as quickly as it had appeared, the brightness faded from his eyes, and the smile vanished. “Perhaps you could send word to my neighbor that I won’t be accepting calls from anyone,” he said. “At this juncture, there seems to be little point in talking to anyone other than my lawyer.”

  • • •

  A few minutes later, as Henry and Sunday were being hustled past the media, a Lexus pulled into the driveway next to them. The couple watched as a woman jumped from the car and, using the stir created by their departure as diversion, managed to get to the house undisturbed, where, using her own key, she entered immediately.

  “That has to be the housekeeper,” Sunday said, having noted that the woman, who appeared to be in her fifties, was dressed plainly and wore her hair in a coronet of braids. “She certainly looks the part, and besides, who else would have a key? Well, at least Tom won’t be alone.”

  “He must be paying her well,” Henry observed. “That car is expensive.”

  On the drive home, he told Sunday about the mysterious phone call from the countess in Palm Beach. She made no comment, but he could tell from the way she tilted her head to one side and puckered her forehead that she was both disturbed and deep in thought.

  The car they were riding in was a nondescript, eight-year-old Chevy, one of the specially equipped secondhand cars Henry kept available for their use, especially helpful in allowing them to avoid detection when they so desired. As always, they were accompanied by two Secret Service agents, one driving while the other rode shotgun. A thick glass divider separated the front seat from the back, allowing Henry and Sunday the freedom to talk without being overheard.

  Breaking what for her was an extended silence, Sunday said, “Henry, there’s something wrong about this case. You could sense it from the accounts in the paper, but now, having talked to Tommy, I’m certain of it.”

  Henry nodded. “I agree completely. At first I thought that perhaps the details of the crime might be so gruesome that he had to deny them even to himself.” He paused, then shook his head. “But now I realize that this is not a question of denial. Tommy really doesn’t know what happened. And all of this is just so unlike him!” he exclaimed. “No matter what the provocation—threats of blackmail or whatever—I cannot accept that even confounded by the combination of a sleeping pill and a martini, Tommy could go so completely out of control as to have killed the woman! Just seeing him today made me realize how extraordinary all this is. You didn’t know him then, Sunday, but he was devoted to Constance. Yet when she died, his composure was remarkable. He suffered, yes, but he remained calm throughout the entire ordeal.” He paused, then shook his head again. “No, Tommy simply isn’t the kind of man who flips out, no matter what the provocation.”

  “Well, his composure may have been remarkable when his wife died, but then falling hook, line and sinker for Arabella Young when Connie was barely cold in her grave does say something about the man, you’ll have to agree.”

  “Yes, but rebound perhaps? Or denial?”

  “Exactly,” Sunday replied. “Of course, sometimes people fall in love almost immediately after a great loss and it actually works out, but more often than not, it doesn’t.”

  “You’re probably right. The very fact that Tommy never married Arabella after actually giving her an engagement ring—what, nearly two years ago?—says to me that almost from the outset he must have known it was a mistake.”

  “Well, all of this took place before I came on the scene, of course,” Sunday mused, “but I did keep abreast of much of it through the tabloids, which at the time made a big fuss over how in love the staid secretary of state was with the flashy PR person only half his age. But then I remember seeing two photos of him run side by side, one showing him out in public, snuggling Arabella, while the other was taken at his wife’s burial and obviously caught him at a moment when his composure had slipped. No one that grief stricken could be that happy only a couple of months later. And the way she dressed—she just didn’t seem to be Tommy’s kind of woman.” Sunday sensed rather than saw her husband’s raised eyebrow. “Oh, come on. I know you read the tabloids cover to cover after I’m done with them. Tell me the truth. What did you think of Arabella?”

  “Truthfully, I thought of her as little as possible.”

  “You’re not answering my q
uestion.”

  “I try never to speak ill of the dead.” He paused. “But if you must know, I found her boisterous, vulgar and obnoxious. She possessed a shrewd enough mind, but she talked so fast and so incessantly that her brain never seemed able to keep up with her mouth. And when she laughed, I thought the chandelier would shatter.”

  “Well, that certainly fits in with what I read about her,” Sunday commented. She was silent for a moment, then turned to her husband. “Henry, if Arabella really was stooping to blackmail with Tommy, do you think it is possible she had tried it before, with someone else? I mean, is it possible that between the sleeping pill and the martini, Tommy passed out, and someone else came in without him knowing it? Someone who had followed Arabella, and who suddenly saw an opportunity to get rid of her and let poor Tommy take the blame?”

  “And then carried Tommy upstairs and tucked him into bed?” Henry again raised an eyebrow.

  They both fell silent as the car turned onto the approach to the Garden State Parkway. Sunday stared out the window as the late afternoon sunshine turned the trees, with their copper and gold and cardinal-red leaves, aglow. “I love autumn,” she said pensively. “And it hurts to think that in the late autumn of his life, Tommy should be going through this ordeal.” She paused. “Okay, let’s try another scenario. You know Tommy well. Suppose he was angry, even furious, but also was so groggy that he couldn’t think straight. Put yourself in his position at that moment: what would you have done?”

  “I would have done what Tommy and I both did when we were in a similar state of mind at summit meetings. We would sense that we were either too tired or too angry—or both—to be able to think straight, and we would go to bed.”

  Sunday clasped Henry’s hand. “That’s exactly my point. Suppose Tommy actually staggered upstairs under his own steam, leaving Arabella behind. And suppose someone else really had followed her there, someone who knew what she was doing that evening. We have to find out who Arabella might have been with earlier. And we should talk to Tommy’s housekeeper. She left shortly after Arabella arrived. Maybe there was a car parked on the street that she noticed. And the countess from Palm Beach who called, who so urgently wanted to talk to Tommy. We’ve got to contact her; it’s probably nothing, but you never know what she might be able to tell us.”

  “Agreed,” Henry said admiringly. “As usual, we’re on the same wavelength, only you’re farther along than I am. I actually hadn’t given any thought to talking to the countess.” He reached his arm around Sunday and pulled her closer. “Come here. Do you realize that I have not kissed you since 11:10 this morning?” he asked softly.

  Sunday caressed his lips with the tip of her index finger. “Ah, then it’s more than my steel-trap mind that appeals to you?”

  “You’ve noticed.” Henry kissed her fingertip, then grasped her hand and lowered it, removing any obstruction between his lips and hers.

  Sunday pulled back. “Just one more thing, Henry. You’ve got to make sure that Tommy doesn’t agree to a plea bargain before we at least try to help him.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that?” he asked.

  “An executive order, of course.”

  “Darling, I’m no longer president.”

  “Ah, but in Tommy’s eyes you are.”

  “All right, I’ll try. But here’s another executive order: stop talking.”

  In the front seat, the Secret Service agents glanced in the rearview mirror, then grinned at each other.

  • • •

  Henry was up by sunrise the next morning for a ride around a portion of the two-thousand-acre property with the estate manager. Back by eight-thirty, he was joined by Sunday in the breakfast room, which overlooked the classic English garden at the back of the house. The room itself was decorated to complement the view, with a wealth of botanical prints set against the background of Belgian linen awning-stripe wall covering. It gave the room a feeling of being constantly filled with flowers and, as Sunday frequently observed, was a long way from the upstairs apartment in the two-family house in Jersey City where she had been raised, and where her parents still lived.

  “Don’t forget that Congress goes into session next week,” Sunday said as she eased into her second cup of coffee. “Whatever I can do to help Tommy, I have to start working on it right now. My suggestion would be that I begin by finding out everything I can about Arabella. Did Marvin finish the complete background check we asked for?”

  The Marvin she referred to was Marvin Klein, the man who ran Henry’s office, which was situated in the estate’s former carriage house. Possessed of a droll sense of humor, Marvin called himself the chief of staff for a government in exile, referring to the fact that following Henry Britland’s second term, there had been a groundswell of opinion urging a change in the restriction that a United States president could serve only two terms. A poll at the time showed that 80 percent of the electorate wanted that prohibition amended to read no more than two consecutive terms. Quite obviously, a majority of the American public wanted Henry Parker Britland IV back in residence at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

  “I’ve got it right here,” Henry said. “I just read it. It would appear that the late Arabella successfully managed to bury quite a bit of her background. Some of the juicy bits that Marvin’s sources were able to come up with include the fact that she had a previous marriage which ended in a divorce that saw her taking her ex to the cleaners, and that her longtime on-again, off-again boyfriend, Alfred Barker, spent some time in prison for bribing athletes.”

  “Really! Is he out of prison now?”

  “Not only is he out, my dear, but he had dinner with Arabella the night she died.”

  Sunday’s jaw dropped. “Darling, how on earth did Marvin ever discover that?”

  “How does Marvin ever discover anything? All I know is that he has his sources. And furthermore, it seems that Alfred Barker lives in Yonkers, which as you probably know is not far from Tarrytown. Her ex-husband is said to be happily remarried and does not live in the area.”

  “Marvin learned all this overnight?” Sunday asked, her eyes bright with excitement.

  Henry nodded in answer, as Sims, the butler, refilled his coffee cup. “Thank you, Sims. And not only that,” he continued, “he also learned that apparently Alfred Barker was still very fond of Arabella, however improbable that may sound, and had recently been heard bragging to friends that now that she had ditched the old guy, she’d be getting back together with him.”

  “What does Barker do now?” Sunday asked.

  “Well, technically he owns a plumbing supply store, but Marvin’s sources say that actually it is a front for a numbers racket, which he apparently runs pretty much on his own. My favorite bit of information, though, is that our Mr. Barker is known to have a violent temper when double-crossed.”

  Sunday scrunched her face as though deep in thought. “Hmmm. Let’s see now. He had dinner with Arabella just before she barged in on Tommy. He hates being double-crossed, which probably means he is also very jealous, and he has a terrible temper.” She looked at her husband. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I knew this was a crime of passion!” Sunday said excitedly. “Only it appears that the passion was not on Tommy’s part. Okay, so I’ll go see Barker today, as well as Tommy’s housekeeper. What was her name?”

  “Dora, I believe,” Henry replied. Then he corrected himself: “No, no—that was the housekeeper who worked for them for years. Great old lady. I believe Tommy said that she retired shortly after Constance died. No, if memory serves me, the one he has now, and that we caught a glimpse of yesterday, is named Lillian West.”

  “That’s right. The woman with the braids and the Lexus,” Sunday said. “So I’ll take on Barker and the housekeeper. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m flying down to Palm Beach to meet with this Countess Condazzi, but I’ll be home for dinner. And you, my dear, have to promise me that
you’ll be careful. Remember that this Alfred Barker is clearly an unsavory character. I don’t want you giving the Secret Service guys the slip.”

  “Okay.”

  “I mean it, Sunday,” Henry said in the quiet, serious tone he had used so effectively to make his cabinet members quake in their boots.

  “Oooh, you’re one tough hombre,” Sunday said, smiling. “Okay, I promise. I’ll stick to them like glue. And you fly safely.” She kissed the top of his head and then left the breakfast room, humming “Hail to the Chief.”

  • • •

  Some four hours later, having piloted his jet to the West Palm Beach airport, Henry arrived at the Spanish-style mansion that was the home of Countess Condazzi. “Wait outside,” he instructed his Secret Service detail.

  The countess appeared to be in her mid-sixties, a small, slender woman with exquisite features and calm gray eyes. She greeted Henry with cordial warmth, then got straight to the point. “I was so glad to get your call, Mr. President,” she said. “I read the news accounts of Tommy’s terrible situation, and I have been so anxious to talk to him. I know how much he must be suffering, but he won’t return my phone calls. Look, I know Tommy could not have committed this crime. We’ve been friends since we were children; we went to school together, including college, and in all that time there was never a moment when he so lost control of himself. Even when others around him were being fresh or disorderly, as they tended to be at the prom, and even when he was drinking, Tommy was always a gentleman. He took care of me, and when the prom was over, he took me home. No, Tommy simply could not have done this thing.”

  “That’s exactly the way I see it,” Henry said in agreement. “So you grew up with him?”

  “Across the street from each other in Rye. We dated all through college, but then he met Constance and I met Eduardo Condazzi, who was from Spain. I got married, and a year later, when Eduardo’s older brother died and he inherited the title and the family’s vineyards, we moved to Spain. Eduardo passed away three years ago. My son is now the count and lives in Spain still, but I thought it was time for me to come home. Then, after all these years, I bumped into Tommy when he was visiting friends down here for a golfing weekend. It was so wonderful to see him again. The years just seemed to melt away.”