11 Harrowhouse (13 page)

Their gaiety irritated him. He was removing his socks and he threw one against the wall. It hit noiselessly. He should have thrown a shoe.

He went out and found Massey was seated at one end of the pool, like a monarch awaiting his subjects, the spread of water impeccable at his feet. Massey waved at Chesser to join him, but Chesser pretended he didn't see and went to a corner of the pool at the opposite end.

The surface of the water was undisturbed. Chesser shoved a foot in to test its temperature and splashed twice to spoil its perfection. He walked around to the other side and sat on the edge, to dangle his feet in. He glanced at Massey and wondered if the old billionaire might be offended by his remoteness. Chesser didn't give a shit. He noticed the nearby diving board and the adjacent higher diving platform. He thought of a ridiculous solution. He could go off the high platform, come up faking back injury and sue Massey for a settlement. But, hell, he had no reason to blame Massey. Massey was a fellow victim, if not an equal loser.

More of Maren's laughter from the cabana. Bitterly, he improvised an indelicate figment of what might be going on in there and, for punishment, tried to believe it. He felt abandoned, isolated with his dilemma, quick to disparage anyone to relieve his misery a bit. Even Maren. He'd had a nice clean easy shot at a fantastic deal, and he'd botched it. By just not playing it carefully enough. Chesser thought how Whiteman would have handled it. Whiteman would have sat back and counted the profit while the Queen's royal mail took responsibility of delivering the diamond via registered package. Chesser knew why he hadn't done that. Ego. He'd wanted to be there for a moment of personal glory when Massey first saw that perfect, beautiful stone.

Massey should have chosen someone else to deal with, thought Chesser. He wished Massey had. Why, in the first place, had Massey chosen a Chesser for something so big? Instead of a Whiteman, for example? Chesser had wondered about that. For lack of any other explanation he'd made himself believe Massey was just giving him, an underdog, a break. But now that answer wasn't acceptable. There had to be more to it, Chesser realized. Massey had been altogether too easy on him, too readily cooperative about the loss.

Lady Bolding came from the cabana. Wearing a minimal white bikini. She walked effortlessly to one of several soft-cushioned lounge chairs and tossed her sunglasses onto it. She was very sure of her body and had every right to be. It was ideally proportioned, trim, with a tension that conveyed strength and activity. Her stomach appeared tight as a drumhead and her waist defined itself, easing deeply but softly inward. She shook her head to make her long, blonde hair swish loose.

From across the pool, Chesser, in his mood, tried to find some imperfection in her. He couldn't. But he remembered Maren's insinuation about Lady Bolding's erotic preferences and he thought about that to diminish her impact.

Then Maren came out. In contrast to the sun-darkened flesh of Lady Bolding, Maren was creamy-pale in a bikini of black. She came to the edge of the pool and smiled whimsically at Chesser. He acknowledged her with a half-hearted wave. She turned abruptly to show him that the back of her bikini bottom was designed with a cut-out about the size of a large apricot, revealing that much of her right ass-cheek.

Chesser managed a broad but uneasy smile.

“Don't forget me,” shouted Massey.

Noblesse oblige
. Maren turned and received Massey's approval.

Chesser imagined he could hear the older man's eyes clicking like a camera.

Lady Bolding joined Maren at the edge of the pool, and after setting themselves they dove in together. Excellent, nearly identical dives that sliced the water and caused only the slightest splash.

They swam underwater. Chesser saw Lady Bolding approach the side of the pool to his right, make a neat turn and spring off to shoot herself back toward the other side again. Maren came up at Chesser's feet. Her hair was darker, wet, and adhering in strands.

She threw him a kiss with her lips. “Come swim with me,” she invited brightly.

Chesser shrugged.

“Hey,” she said. “I love you.”

“I know.”

Their eyes held for a moment, seriously.

She had been hanging onto the edge of the spillwater but now she playfully took hold of his left leg and tried to pull him in.

He braced and resisted.

She stopped pulling. She imitated his scowly face. She got his right foot and brought it to her. He thought she was going to kiss it, but she clamped a bite, sharp enough to make Chesser grimace and nearly cry out. “Crab!” she said.

She swam back across the pool, got out, and flopped face down on one of the cushioned loungers.

Meanwhile, Lady Bolding had been swimming, cutting the water with strong, meticulous strokes. Now, she also got out, squeezed the excess water from her hair, wiped her arms and legs respectfully with her hands, and lay on the cushion nearest Maren.

Chesser watched Massey get up and go over to the two women. There was some conversation, but Chesser couldn't make it out. A servant brought tall red drinks in frosted glasses. Chesser made no move to join them, Maren and Lady Bolding sipped, but Chesser wasn't invited over and the fourth glass, his, remained on the tray on the table. By now the water in the pool had calmed and become smooth again.

Chesser got up. He went to the diving board, walked out on it to the end. He hesitated. He'd never been a good diver. It looked like a long drop to the water. He was sure they were watching, expecting him to perform a damned jackknife or something. He sprung and went up and out and came down like a thrown log, making a smacking sound and a tidal wave compared to Maren's and Lady Bolding's neat entries. When he came up he thought he heard the trailing fragments of laughter.

He swam, beating the water with his hands and kicking the hell out of it with his legs. The opposite of Lady Bolding's bladelike grace. He swam with eyes open, alternately getting the sky and the tiled bottom of the pool as he turned his head for gasps of air. He did one length and another and a third and fourth and one more than he'd intended. He climbed out, using the chrome ladder instead of a more athletic pull-up on the edge.

He thought he felt better. His breathing was short and heavy, but at least some of his mental tightness seemed eased.

He'd join them now, he thought; go over and have his drink. He looked in their direction. Maren and Lady Bolding were motionless, lying on their stomachs with the straps of their bikini tops undone for the sun. He thought of warning Maren not to get burned. He saw Massey wasn't around.

Massey had gone to the main house, directly to his second-floor study, where he locked the door behind him. From the desk drawer he removed a Moe diamond weight gauge and a jeweler's loupe. From the desk surface he took up the gold-and-malachite Fabergé egg. His forefinger pressed the spring release, and the egg snapped open in exact halves.

In it, nestled nicely in a bed of cotton, was the stolen diamond. The Massey.

Expertly, Massey used the gauge to measure the stone—length, width, and from crown to pavilion point. He calculated that it was a little over a hundred and seven carats. As Chesser had said.

He took the diamond to the window facing north. He placed the loupe to his eye and sighted into the stone. This was the first opportunity he'd had to study it closely, and he was pleased to find it flawless, beautifully flawless. Not as Chesser had told him.

He smiled closed-mouthed. He could see the pool area from where he was standing. He rubbed the Massey between his fingers, as though it were a worry stone. Actually, the diamond didn't matter as much as the part it had played and what its quality told him.

More than ever he was now sure Chesser would do.

That night Chesser slept better and longer than he thought he might. His room and Maren's were conveniently adjoined, so they mussed her bed to make it appear used. And then they really used his.

For having been sour and sharp with her, he made an active, loving apology, which she very sensibly accepted. Thursday morning they remained in bed late, letting an oblong of sunlight from an open window creep across them. They touched, listened to English country birds, and talked.

He told her: “I've got to go up to London Monday.”

“I'll go along and visit Mildred. Why do you have to go?”

“Diamonds.”

She said something in Swedish, then translated: “It may look like a boat with a hole, but it may be a hole with a boat.”

“What's that got to do with diamonds?”

“It's appropriate,” she said, lifting her chin slightly to underscore her words.

“And Mickey Mouse wears bright-yellow gloves,” he intoned.

“So?”

“Well, that makes just as much sense.”

“Why?”

“It does, that's all.”

“No, I mean why does Mickey Mouse wear yellow gloves?”

“Because he lost his red ones.”

“Or maybe,” she said seriously, “he doesn't want to leave his fingerprints.”

Chesser shook his head and gave her a dubious look.

“I've got so many things to ask Mildred,” she said to the ceiling.

“Ask her who's got the diamond.”

“I might.” She nodded thoughtfully to herself.

Chesser observed her, adoring the priceless silver flecks in her eyes. He moved close and saw himself reflected in her pupils and hoped he was always there. He asked: “What was so amusing yesterday?”

“When yesterday?”

“In the cabana?”

“Oh. We were comparing ourselves in the mirror. Lady Bolding and I. Like two different pages in the same book. You know, side by side.”

“And?”

“She's either a genuine blonde or a perfectionist.”

Chesser got the picture. He was secretly intrigued. “You complement one another,” he said, but as he did he realized it was more a private thing between them and he wasn't included. Some jealousy took over.

“We contrast nicely,” she corrected.

“That's what I meant.”

“I rather like her.”

Chesser thought she might be trying to needle him, but she seemed sincere.

“She's very candid about herself,” said Maren.

“Is she?”

“With me, at least.”

“I suppose this time she didn't hold back. She just had to kiss you.”

“On the shoulder.”

He was sure she was trying to provoke him. He played along. “You didn't resist.”

“I didn't see it coming.”

“But you expected it, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Then what happened?” he asked.

“Nothing consequential. She tried to persuade me to wear a see-through bikini. For you, to cheer you up. I told her it wouldn't. Then she suggested I wear it for Massey's benefit. I said I didn't believe Massey needed any charity, even from me. That amused her. Then I told her I'd wear it for her if that was what she wanted.”

“Why'd you say that?”

“Just to take her temperature.”

“And it was above normal, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Better be careful.”

“Why?”

“You might stir up more than you can handle.”

“More than who can handle?”

“Ask Mildred,” snapped Chesser.

She deliberately reached and found him, held him tenderly.

“I'm yours,” she said pointedly.

“Yeah.” He acted unconvinced.

“You've got nothing to worry about,” she whispered, while touching him as she knew he liked best.

Despite Maren's reassurance, Chesser became especially aware of Lady Bolding. Indications that had gone unnoticed before now seemed obvious, magnified. Little things, as innocent as Maren seated close to her on a small plush sofa, alerted him. Any contact, no matter how slight, seemed erotically motivated, and the situation was made all the more complex by Chesser's own reaction to Lady Bolding's physical appeal. It was difficult for him to consider her an emotional opponent when he also found her so extremely desirable.

Chesser's contentious imaginings were actually the result of his annoyance at himself for having botched the Massey diamond deal. They served as both a diversion and a penance. No matter how much reassurance he might receive from Maren, it would not be enough. Because Chesser at this time just didn't like Chesser.

At night, alone with Maren, holding her, he was able to feel more positive. But only then. Whenever Lady Bolding was around, Chesser was tense, not assertive, on edge. He was even tempted to confront Lady Bolding, but he kept his misery to himself, allowing it to distort and expand.

It seemed to Chesser that Maren was encouraging an intimacy with the lady. She seemed to enjoy being the object of such attention, according to Chesser's point of view.

He was right to a degree. Maren was amusing herself; but merely that. She didn't realize just how upset Chesser was, and had no desire to be cruel to him. She never had. For her it was a relatively harmless distraction in a place she found rather dull, and was particularly welcome because her intuition told her Chesser was attracted to Lady Bolding. What better way to offset that? Besides, it gratified Maren's vanity in an unconventional way to be desired by such a superb beauty. Not to mention the slightly dangerous aspect of it, which, naturally, she found appealing.

What happened that Saturday afternoon was symptomatic. After a sumptuous lunch, Chesser said he felt like taking a nap. He thought Maren would join him, but instead she said she felt like taking a walk. Lady Bolding was also in a walking mood, and that made Chesser's alarm go off.

Pretending indifference, Chesser went to his room. From an upper window he saw the two women strolling leisurely away. Relax, he told himself, it was good to be alone for a while. He needn't be concerned about Maren. He was sure of her. Wasn't he?