Crime & Counterpoint (13 page)

Part III

Poupée de Satin

(Satin Doll)

Two Weeks Later…

1250 N. Plandome Road sat majestically in a timeless, hilltop hamlet overlooking Manhasset Bay on one side and Leeds Pond Preserve on the other. On this day after Thanksgiving, the sky had painted itself a flawless shade of cold blue and hung brazenly, only a small portion eclipsed by the sprawling, custom stone, two-story Colonial mansion. Sparkling, archtop windows, white stucco columns, and red brick chimneys peered out happily upon the sparkling waters. And from the stout, untouchable roof hung an American flag which waved happily in the cool November sea breeze over the wide front porch.

The three-acre estate boasted elegant grounds and gardens in any season. Sculpted evergreen bushes bordered the southern perimeter near a waterfront gazebo. A handful of matured, albeit autumn-barren, saplings dotted a fenced-off apple orchard. And lofty dark green pencil trees formed a military-straight line, guarding the huge expanse of lawn and long asphalt drive.

By the time the sun reached its apex, several luxury cars had filled the generous driveway, bringing guests to the illustrious manor for the wedding rehearsal festivities.

“Daddy, are the turkeys ready?”

Henri Mitchel smiled at his stressed, bustling daughter. “Relax, sweetheart. It will be ready when it’s ready. You can’t rush these things.”

Hair swept up into a thick, chestnut ponytail, Shelley tossed her father an exasperated look as her hands readied four apple pies. She moved about the bright, state-of-the-art kitchen, intimately acquainted with every detail: the Pearl Neff cabinets, designer lighting, high-contrast coffered ceilings, built-in Sub-Zero refrigerator and Wolf Range appliances, two separate islands, and chocolate marble floors.

Henri winked at her and smiled broadly, deepening the cleft in his indomitable, clean-shaven chin. A mild array of wrinkles around his dark eyes and attractive mouth softened his otherwise fearsome form. As always, he cut quite the masculine figure. Perhaps it was the suit; today’s was a Brioni. Super-210 wool. 24-karat gold thread. Practically a bargain at $17,000. But when you were at the top of the food-chain, you had to look the part.

“Your dad’s right,” Bill quipped from the other side of the huge, eat-in kitchen. “A good turkey takes time.” Like Henri, he had his cuffs rolled up to his elbows, and his suit jacket draped on a kitchen table chair. “It’s what I always tell my patients.”

Shelley flung a mildly annoyed glance at Bill who was at the huge island, fixing a giant salad – something easy enough that she wouldn’t have to monitor every step of the way. She blew a strand of stray hair out of her face and shook her head, having nothing to say to that.

Both her father and godfather were having too much fun escaping their high-maintenance wives and the buzzing crowd of forty circulating the first floor of the Mitchel estate. But with 10,000 square-feet give or take, the house should have been able to accommodate so many. However, Shelley began to think they shouldn’t have given the family chef the day off. What had she been thinking in agreeing to feed such a crowd?

She dipped the brush in her hand into a bowl of egg yolks and dragged the liquid skin over the last of four apple pies. Just as she finished, the timer on the ovens went off, indicating her pumpkin pies were ready to be taken out. “Dr. Greene, could you please?” she asked, sounding a touch winded.

Bill dusted off his hands and said, “Sure thing, hon.”

While he emptied the ovens, she filled them with the picture-perfect apple pies. She was too busy to notice the silent messages volleying between Bill and Henri behind her back.

Bill cleared his throat after Henri gave a firm ‘go on’ gesture. “Uh, hon,” he began. “I was telling your dad about the Purple Gazelle. Hearing you play again. And sing.”

Her hands did not stop working though nervous tension settled in. “Really?” She uncovered two sauce pans on the stove: one filled with white chocolate and one with dark.

While the men communicated more unvoiced sentences to each other, Shelley took a spoon and drizzled the sauces upon the golden-orange pumpkin pies of which there were eight. Along with the assortment of main courses she’d prepared, they exuded sensational, flavorful aromas, but their delicious appeal was wasted on Shelley whose mind half-focused on the task at hand and half-worried about whatever her father and Bill would say next.

So to divert them, she assigned more work. “Daddy, I’m out of white wine. Could you get something dry and preferably sweet out of the cellar?”

“Of course,” Henri replied though he wasn’t fooled. As he left his post by the roasting turkeys and headed to the back of the expansive gourmet kitchen, his polished dress shoes rapped on the creamy, ceramic 24-inch tiles bordering the sea of marble.

“And Dr. Greene, can you please take the next tray of spring rolls out to the servers?”

He let out a mocking gasp. “You send your father to the cellar and me into the den of wolves? For shame, young lady.”

Despite her stress, she smiled faintly. “I’m sorry, Dr. Greene.”

“Yeah, I can hear it in your voice,” he grumbled, picking up one of several large trays lined up neatly upon the large kitchen table. “But just so you know, this isn’t going to save you from a talk with you-know-who.” He gave her a pointed look as he backed out of the kitchen through the swinging doors.

Alone, she heaved a laden sigh and dared to stop for just a moment. She heard the mix of Christmas music and classic jazz her father had piped through the house sound system; it filled her with despairing nostalgia. This used to be her favorite time of year, but now she couldn’t wait to escape. Though where could she go?

A mirror on the back wall by the garage entrance drew her attention, and she walked over to it on bare feet as she started to undo her apron. She slipped it off over her head just as she reached the floor-length looking glass. Smoothing her hands over her hips, she had the uncomfortable inclination to change dresses, thinking this long, black, chiffon gown with the clusters of tiny red roses gracing the soft material was a bit too formal and racy at the same time with a ruffled slit riding a little high on her left thigh. Yes, the scooped cowl neckline and spaghetti straps were all just too much, she now thought with disgust. Sure, it was a perfectly classy dress for the club. But not a rehearsal dinner party. Perhaps, she could just hide out in the kitchen until dinner started. She had so much work to do, anyway, and had to leave by eight if she planned to trek the three blocks to the Plandome LIRR Port Washington Train Line – only thirty minutes to Manhattan.

But then, her father’s footsteps gave a slight echo as they approached, stepping from tile to marble and then tile again. She tensed. He appeared seconds later in the mirror, standing behind her, his handsome, tanned features carved into a warm smile. In his left hand, he held an olive green bottle of
sauvignon blanc
by the neck. His familiar musk settled about her – a touch of strong wine, spiced aftershave, and ocean breeze. It blanketed her with an intense longing for simpler days. Not just prior to Zach, but years ago. The days when the world was still a blank slate waiting for her to fill it with color. When she would sit on her father’s lap and tell him about all the grand things she would accomplish, and he, as always, would encourage her.

Thus, she would forever be her father’s daughter; he had let her have her fantasies.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he asked, his tender, deep voice having the desired effect on his favorite.

“Nothing,” she replied too quickly.

His clean-shaven jaw shifted as he stared at her through concerned dark eyes.

She started undoing the hasty chignon into which she had amassed her thick hair and let the mass of chestnut waves fall and curl as they may, fixing only a few locks around her face.

Henri smirked and ran his hand over her silky tresses with clear affection. “You look beautiful.”

At once, the loving compliment set her at ease but made her want to cry as well. She smiled fully and leaned towards him for a hug, closing her eyes to stop tears before they had the chance to form. Henri enveloped her willingly, attaching a kiss to her crown.

“Will you play for me later?” he asked.

She sagged visibly, “Oh, Daddy,” and pulled away from him, heading back to the countertops.

Bridling his displeasure, he followed her. “I hear you’ve been spending time with Abigail’s grandson.”

Attempting to be blasé, she started tossing Dr. Greene’s salad and adding her own touches. “It’s really nothing.”

“I’m only asking because Bill tells me he’s back in the picture now,” he said, watching her profile. “Though I don’t blame him for staying away all these years. He did fall so far from the tree.”

“Just cause he’s not on Wall Street or an attorney or a physician, doesn’t make him a black sheep.”

“He was always trouble.”

“Don’t worry, Daddy.” She held her tone and cast her father a sweet smile. “I only go for men like you.”

Henri’s heart tightened; that was precisely what he was afraid of.

Zach sat in his still-warm BMW Z4, the final car at the end of the line, surveying the fantastical property and the numerous vehicles ahead of him. His was arguably the cheapest of the lot.

“Oh God,” he said to himself. Rubbing a hand over his tired face, he glanced in the rear-view mirror, saw the glittering bay directly behind him, and considered kicking the coupe into reverse. But…

He grabbed the bottle of champagne that he’d picked up on the way and emerged into the unseasonably pleasant afternoon atmosphere. He’d sort of dressed up even though Jared had said it would be a casual affair. But he knew that casual to this crowd was like Sunday best for him. So he wore black slacks, his Johnston & Murphy dress shoes, and a slate grey button-down Van Heusen. He’d finally gotten a haircut in anticipation of the wedding tomorrow – per his grandmother’s directive. The thought of her tightened the belt of his conscience; he still hadn’t seen her new apartment.

Smelling the familiar scent of brine, he drew a deep breath, an act which still caused his chest to ache more than he’d let on, and then forced his heavy feet forward.

Something white caught his peripheral vision, and he turned his head. The fairytale gazebo. Off by itself, watching its water reflection – just as he remembered. His stomach filled with queasy melancholy. He could almost see eight-year-old versions of himself, James, Carter, and Jared sitting on the wooden planks with their feet dangling over the edge and crude stick poles in hand. They’d never caught anything, particularly because loudmouth Erik was always tagging along. But clearly, digging up bait and breaking off branches for fishing still clung to the eaves of his memory.

Zach’s mouth quirked, and he continued, absorbing the magnificent view all around him. He’d forgotten how successful Henri Mitchel was, which was laughable considering it was
his
grandfather who’d essentially made the man. It took money to get this kind of waterfront haven in New York. Money and powerful connections.

The rustling of the pencil trees drew his attention; he looked up to his right, observing their lofty pinnacles. They were enormous. He thought he remembered them but certainly not this tall. Their overpowering shadows draped the wide lawn. Finally scaling the long driveway, he arrived at the open garage and found a deep red, late-model Audi R8. He stopped to admire. He eyed the smooth curves of its hard but light aluminum body, the sleek carbon fiber side blades, and crystal-clear LED lights. It didn’t look like it had seen much use, if any.

A door inside and to the back of the four-car garage opened, spewing a stomach-cramping array of sweet and spicy aromas. He jolted, moving out of sight of whoever it was that might be exiting the house. Quickening his step, he headed to the front porch. He didn’t want to be caught staring at such a beauty.

The doorbell chimed – a discordant tri-tone above Nat King Cole’s “Quizás, Quizás, Quizás”. The sound barely came through to the principle entertaining rooms which had been overrun with clamoring children darting through many adults’ legs. But Jared and Carrie, enjoying a moment in the empty two-story Grand Palace foyer with the double staircase curving up to the second floor like golden cobras, heard the call and went to answer.

Their shoes echoed upon the polished-to-a-shine mahogany woodwork. Jared glanced at Carrie, snuck a kiss, and pulled the door open.

Upon finding the late arrival standing on the porch, they exclaimed “Zach!” in a near-perfect octave.

Zach managed a meager smile and returned the hug Carrie threw at him as he stepped inside.

She squeezed his neck, standing on tip-toe. “I’m so glad you came.”

“Thought you said you couldn’t make it,” Jared said, closing the heavy door behind him.

“Yeah, well,” Zach replied. “Turned out I didn’t really have a choice.”

Carrie gave him a look. “You are such a grumpy old man, sometimes.” Then, in the next instant, she squealed. “Oh, but I know what might make you happy.” Her smile seemed to grow larger and more infectious or perhaps psychotic as she started tugging at his leather jacket. “Take this thing off,” she whined.

Grunting, he complied while Jared extended his hand for the coat and the champagne bottle. Zach vaguely looked around, heard the warm, hissing music of an era gone by, and thought for sure he’d regressed in time.

“
Y así pasan los días… Y yo desesperando… Y tu, tu contestando… Quizás, quizás, quizás…
”

“Now, let me look at you,” she bubbled, clasping her hands together as she stood back to appraise him. “Roll up your sleeves,” she commanded. “You look stuffy. Girls don’t like stuffy, and her father won’t either.”

Zach grew impatient. “Whose father?”

But just then, a man thundered, “Hold the fucking phone! Zach Ericson!”

Zach looked around as the equally large frame of Brad Hanover appeared. He was a shortstop for the Baltimore Orioles and a swaggering but likeable bag of meat still liberally flavored with the New Yorker brogue. Brad grabbed Zach and pulled him in for an enthusiastic barrel hug. “How ya doin, baby?”

Carrie departed for the kitchen with the champagne while Jared went over to his brother-in-law, smiling. “Careful there, Brad. He’s still healing up.”

“Oh shit.” Brad gave Zach a concerned once-over. “What happened? Football injury?”

Jared supplied, “He’s a cop now,” as if that would explain everything.

Brad’s brows shot up. “A what?! Are you serious?” And then came the dawn. “Ohhh, right, right, right. The national championship with the uh – the Trojans.” He puckered his brows and drew a sharp breath through his teeth. “Tough break. You know for the record, I tried to call you after that, but I get it. I wouldn’t’ve wanted to talk to any of the gang either.” He paused for a beat. “But a cop? Never uh, never pegged you for the type.”

“Well, I don’t think any of us did, but he’s a really good one,” Jared said proudly. “Carter called it.”

“Huh. Really? Yeah, you look” – Brad gestured to him and took a playful jab at his chest – “even better than you used to. What is this, what is this?” He poked at Zach’s rock-hard muscles as if examining. “You still boxing, I figure.” He looked to Jared, grinning. “What do you think? You his doctor?”

“When he lands in the ER, which is oh, about every other month.”

“What?!” Brad screwed up his face. “That’s crazy! What’re you doing?”

Zach took a breath. “I really don’t know.”

Brad and Jared both looked at him perplexed for that existential statement. Nat King Cole’s premium cigar-and-martini vocals covered the awkward silence.

“
Estas perdiendo el tiempo pensando, pensando…
”

Brad cleared his throat. “Oh, uh, ya know Melissa and me got married, right?”

“I’m not sure.” Zach frowned and looked to Jared. “Did you tell me?”

“Yeah. I did,” Jared answered with a mild glare that said he’d mentioned it multiple times.

Brad smirked, craning his neck around looking for his wife. “She’s around somewhere. We got three kids now. Two boys, one girl.”

Zach’s face filled with guttural surprise. “Really? They here?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Brad covered the distance to the open doorway of the entertaining rooms, searched the thrumming crowd, and upon spotting a string of running midgets, he cupped his mouth and boomed: “Hey! Janine!” Over his shoulder to Zach, he explained, “Melissa wanted to name her after Shelley.”

Zach puzzled at this as little feet came running towards them. Loudly. Jared smiled at his blue-eyed niece’s approach.

“Hey, there she is.” Brad bent down just in time to catch his nearly five-year-old daughter.

“Daddy, Daddy, they’re chasing me,” Janine said in breathless smiles.

“Oh yeah? Well, don’t worry, baby, I gotcha.” Brad pointed to Zach. “This is Uncle Zach. He’s an old buddy of mine. Can you say hi?”

Janine looked at Zach shyly.

Zach, feeling completely out of his element, smiled at the sweet face. “I used to play football with your dad.”

“Football?” she asked.

“That’s right,” Brad continued. “And baseball and soccer and –”

“Track,” Jared added.

“Yeah,” Brad nodded with a grin. “And we were on the swim team with your Uncle Jared. But Uncle Zach used to beat all of us at everything.”

Zach dipped his head self-effacingly. “That’s not true.”

“Well, maybe Daddy did beat his ass a couple times.”

“Can you beat his ass now?” she asked innocently, stubby fingers playing with the gold chain inside Brad’s open collar.

Jared, Brad, and even Zach laughed. “Maybe later we can all gang up on him,” Brad replied, kissing her forehead. “And don’t repeat that to Mommy.” He set her down. “Hey, I think I see the Redskins coming. Better run, baby.” Revving, she took off like a four-year-old light-speed demon.

Brad smiled fondly at her and said to Jared, “This is gonna be you soon enough, brother-in-law.”

“Guess so,” Jared replied.

Zach watched Janine zip through the open French doors, back into the crowd with several boys on her tail. Brad and Jared continued talking, but a dull ache burgeoned inside him. That is, until he glimpsed a twenty-four-year-old angel in the far corner. And without warning, his pulse began galloping at an uncontrollable speed.