Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky (13 page)

I shuffled through the stack until I found the one of Mrs. Phipps cradling a sleeping Raul. She beamed with maternal pride. “How about this to accompany my story?” I held the picture up.

Yvonne slipped on her glasses and peered at it. “We’ll put it in the Coastal Living section. I’m sure Mrs. Phipps will be pleased.”

“When people see Raul, they’ll say, ‘What in hell is that?’”

“In that case it’s your job to educate them,” she said, her voice as sweet as melted penuche.

The night was cold and misting when I took Chester for a walk. With my collar turned up and an umbrella tucked under my arm, I set out, walking around puddles to the end of the road. I wished I’d worn gloves. The cold numbed my fingers.

Dark clouds skittered across a faint, ghostly moon. All in all, it was so dreary I felt like an alien who’d landed in a hostile environment. Spring in New England is like that. It will break your heart. One day you’re wearing cutoffs, the next day you’re scraping ice off your windshield. A stretch of good weather—three days is considered an undeserved blessing—convinces us that spring has arrived. Then it snows. You’d think we’d wise up, but we never do. Hope for spring springs eternal.

Coming home, I heard the phone ringing before I opened the door. Normally I don’t answer at night, unless I’m expecting a call from my dad. He’s suspicious of answering machines and won’t leave messages. I decided to answer:

“Hello?”

“Ah, just the girl I want.”

My first impulse was to tell the caller that at age thirty-nine I was hardly a girl. Likewise, my dad can’t get it right. He calls women girls unless they’re pushy. Those, he calls dames. In any case, it was no time for a lesson in political correctness; my feet were wet. “What can I do for you?”

“You could pay me the honor of having lunch with me tomorrow.”

The voice dripped oil. I recognized the caller. “Hello, Mr. Alfano. Thanks, but I’m pretty busy around lunch time.”

“You career gals are always busy. Don’t you have any fun?”

“You know how it is, stories breaking out all over town.”

“And you have such a unique way of writing about them.”

Bunny Alfano was doing what he did best, slinging the BS. As always, the man had his reasons. He faced a run for office and needed positive publicity. Nonetheless, I was intrigued. Bunny, with his
Who, me?
demeanor, had the inside story on Settlers Dunes as well as certain people in high places. The guy had the goods on everyone. If I played to his vanity, I might get him to spill those goods. Although it wouldn’t be following the highest journalistic standards, it reflected Yvonne’s policy regarding our advertisers: tit for tat. “Want to meet at Stella’s?” I asked.

He chuckled. “I hope you’re joking. My brother likes that hash joint, but I’m fussy.”

“I mention it because it’s convenient.”

“Listen, darlin,’ forget convenient. How does the dining room at the Olde Shores Country Club sound? I’ve got a private table. Meet me there at noon, okay?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Now I’m a happy man. By the way, don’t forget your camera.”

“I never do.”

The next morning I rummaged in my closet, searching for something suitable to wear to the venerable Olde Shores Country Club. Although I had no idea what the landed gentry wore to lunch, I doubted it was a denim miniskirt.

I settled on a navy skirt and white blouse. Posing in front of the mirror, I asked Chester, stretched out at my feet, “What do you think?” He lifted his head, regarded me silently and went back to sleep. Just as I thought.

Before leaving, I phoned the office. Fortunately, Yvonne didn’t pick up. I left a message at her extension saying I was going to reshoot Mabel Snodgrass’s birthday party. It wasn’t a lie. In all my photos, Mabel appeared to be in a coma. Her family had erred by holding the party during Mabel’s nap time. When she periodically awakened, I hurriedly snapped pictures. None came out very good. The pictures made her look not only old but mummified.

Before hanging up, I hastily added that I’d be seeing Bunny Alfano. “We don’t have a file photo of him. I’ll take care of it.”

The drive along the coast was so beautiful I felt like weeping. The sea sparkled like a field of diamonds under a pale lemon sun. It was one of those rare days when the smell of the ocean is so strong you can taste it. Passing the giant rocks overlooking Thatcher’s Island, I had an urge to stop the car, kick off my shoes and climb those ancient, sun-warmed boulders worn smooth by centuries of crashing waves.

Nearing Hemlock Point, the houses got bigger and farther apart. I passed the narrow, sandy road leading into Settlers Dunes, almost missing the fresh, new sign stuck in the sand outside the entrance. I stopped and backed up to get a look.

Dark blue lettering stood out against a white background. It read Coming Soon: Cormorant Cove, Oceanfront Villas of Unparalleled Elegance! In the corner of the sign was the ubiquitous trademark: Ask Martha!

I floored the gas and peeled out, tires screeching and spinning in the sand. Of all the ballsy maneuvers, Martha’s was in a class of its own. This time she’d outdone herself. Her so-called development, whether legal or not, required a devious mind coupled with a steely assurance.

Obviously, she wasn’t working alone. Most likely Bunny was behind the scenes, clearing the way when the opposition reared its head. It would be interesting to find out who was supplying the upfront money.

Thinking about Martha Farley had destroyed my pleasure in the beautiful day. Were she a true aristocrat, perhaps I wouldn’t be so harsh. But Martha was a phony who’d undergone a major transformation. Not only had she acquired a proper boarding school accent since high school—she had been three years ahead of me at Granite Cove High—but a sense of entitlement, as well.

This in spite of the fact that our backgrounds were similar. We both came from poor-but-respectable families. However, the former Martha Muldoon had bagged Spencer Farley. The union had opened doors, allowing her to create Ask Martha!, a real estate business that catered to Hemlock Point’s rich and famous. Every week I’m forced to see her mug smirking at me from Ask Martha! ads in the
Gazette
along with the latest multi-million dollar estate for sale.

That’s why when my dad sold the homestead, he got an out-of-town realtor, although Spencer Farley handled the passing. My childhood home sold for two hundred seventy-five thousand dollars, a tidy sum in the mid ’90s. Martha’s clients, on the other hand, pay that for a poolside cabana.

I glanced at the speedometer and lifted my foot from the accelerator. My thoughts were spinning like gerbils in a cage. Brooding about Martha was definitely bad for my nerves.

Before long I approached the entrance to Olde Shores Country Club. The rambling wooden building looked timeless in the soft spring light. Flowering azalea and tulip beds provided color against sea-weathered gray shingles. On the wraparound porch, a row of empty rocking chairs moved in the breeze as if propelled by ghosts. Farther off in the background, the ocean reflected the robin’s egg blue of the sky.

I found an out-of-the-way parking spot under a drooping bridal wreath. Alighting from my car, I looked around at the manicured grounds bordering the brilliant green of a fairway. It brought to mind the saying,
It’s what God would have created if he’d had the money.

I followed a walkway made of crushed shells leading to the entrance. Along the way, several low, discreet signs pointed in various directions to such destinations as the Ladies Locker Room, Pro Shop and Pool. Another indicated the 19th Hole, no doubt the most popular destination.

I climbed the front porch’s broad wooden steps and opened the main door to the lobby. Inside, portraits of stern-faced Yankees in heavy gold frames regarded me with disdain, as if suspecting an interloper. A large Oriental rug in faded reds and blues covered the wooden floor. At the far end of the room, a wide window offered a view of the rolling golf course.

As I checked my reflection in a mirror, a lavender-haired woman approached. A name tag worn over her left breast read Mrs. Procter: Dining Room Manager. “Can I help you?” she asked. Her tone suggested she could not.

“I’m meeting a member, Mr. Alfano.”

Before she could respond, a loud, gravelly “Rosie!” rang out. Mrs. Proctor and I both turned in the direction of the voice, a sound more appropriate for a barroom than a musty old country club.

Bunny, seated at a table near a window, waved a white dinner napkin. If Mrs. Proctor disapproved of Bunny’s boorishness, she gave no indication. She led me through the large dining room, passing tables of well-dressed people who spoke in murmurs.

When we reached his table, Bunny jumped up and kissed my cheek. He wore a blueberry-blue sports jacket over salmon colored pants. The top buttons of his shirt were open, revealing enough chest hair to stuff a small pillow. Mrs. Proctor scurried off. “Is this place the balls, or what?” he said, and pointed out the window. “That’s the ninth tee and behind those hedges, the tennis courts.” He sat down, saying, “Let’s order a drink. Ever been here before?”

“Years ago.” I didn’t add that I’d been with my dad in his truck making a delivery of lobsters to the club’s kitchen. “How long have you been a member?”

“Not long, about six months.”

“I understand they have a long waiting list.” I’d done my homework researching the club.

He winked. “Waiting’s for dummies.”

At that moment Mrs. Proctor appeared, handing us menus and announcing that our waiter would be with us shortly. When she left, I asked, “What do you mean for dummies?’” What I really wanted to know was how Bunny got in at all. In that room of old bluebloods, he stuck out like Barbara Bush at a Harley Davidson convention.

He grinned at me over the top of his menu. “One thing you should know about Bunny Alfano, he doesn’t wait.” He indicated my shoulder bag hanging from my chair. “Get your pen and pad out. That’s a good quote.”

While I dutifully scribbled away, a waiter arrived to take our drink order. Bunny wanted a Southern Comfort Manhattan; I requested iced tea. “Get a real drink,” he insisted. “Live a little. I’m paying.”

“I’ve got to go back to work, Bunny.”

“Don’t worry about it. Did I tell you I know Yvonne? We go way back.” With that, he whipped a cell phone from his pocket. “Lemme call her.”

I put my hand on his arm. “Never mind. I guess I’ll have a Johnny Walker Black.” What the hell. How often do I have lunch at Olde Shores Country Club? Even with Bunny Alfano as my tablemate, it was a far cry from Mega Mug. When we were alone, I asked, “What were you saying about that waiting list?”

He winked at me. “This is not for publication. You see, in order to join this club you need a member to sponsor you, to put your name up for membership. I didn’t know anyone.” He leaned toward me, lowering his voice and glancing around the room. “Bunch of stiffs, as you can see for yourself. What I did was, I looked at the list of members and found someone who was into the ponies big time.”

“The ponies?”

“The race track, honey. Anyway, he and I had a little talk. Following that, he put my name up for membership.”

“Is that ethical?”

“What do you think this place is, the Senate? Hell, stuff like that goes on all the time. Then my name went to the nominating committee. This is where things can get sticky. Some guy’s got a beef against you, like maybe he don’t like the way you part your hair, he can prevent you from getting in.”

“What did you do?” I asked, not exactly wanting to know.

He grinned. “That’s where it pays to have friends in high places. They can find out some interesting stuff.” His glance swept the room. “Looking at them, you wouldn’t believe the jams these old buzzards get into.”

“By friends in high places, do you mean your brother?” I asked.

He made a face. “He’s small potatoes. Besides, my brother wouldn’t tell me if my coat was on fire.”

Our drinks arrived. I raised my glass. “Here’s to a productive membership.”

A few minutes later, the waiter appeared to take our food order. “The
tenderloin de boeuf
looks very good, Mr. Alfano,” he said.

“Lemme have that,” Bunny said. “Rose, order anything you like. Get the twin lobsters. Get the triplets.”

I ordered filet of sole. When the waiter departed, I asked, “Do you come here with your wife for dinner?”

“When she’s around. We’ve got a place at the Jersey Shore, close to her relatives. My wife thinks Granite Cove’s boring.” He shrugged. “I suppose she’s right, but I grew up here. Roots, you know?”

Bunny’s defense of our town made me view him in a warmer light. If only I could bring the conversation around to Settlers Dunes, perhaps I could convince him.

I didn’t have long to wait. He suddenly put his drink down and nearly lunged across the table, his eyes bulging. “Will you check out the gams on her?”

“What gams?” I turned to see the object of his ogling. Seated on the opposite side of the room at a table for two were Martha Farley and Pamela Bingham. The latter’s short, tight skirt exposed her sleek, tanned legs. Her hair, worn in a twist, was as bright as her diamond encrusted Rolex.

I turned to Bunny. “Which one are you ogling, Martha or Pamela?”

He laughed and took a big gulp of his Manhattan. “Mrs. Bingham is one fine package. I’ll have to introduce myself.”

Although I was somewhat chastened, losing my date’s interest to another woman so early in the game, I quickly got over it. l slipped on my glasses, not to view the so-called gams, which I’d already seen at the Frost Funeral Parlor, but to check out the bottle of wine the white jacketed waiter was pouring into their glasses.

Not surprisingly, it was Dom Perignon Champagne. The stuff went for a hundred and fifty dollars at The Liquor Chest downtown. “Hmm,” I said, “I wonder why Mrs. Bingham is lunching with Martha.”

“Oh, I suppose ol’ Martha is pushing her fancy Settlers Dunes project.”

I almost sprayed my drink over the table. “Funny you should mention that, Bunny. I’ve been meaning to ask. You see, I’ve always assumed that Settlers Dunes was town land. Now it seems I’m wrong. In any event, Martha Farley certainly doesn’t own it.”