Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky (8 page)

Betty Ann rolled her eyes. “You mean you don’t recognize Chandler Bingham? According to
Back Bay Living,
he’s the most prestigious psychiatrist in Boston. All of Louisburg Square goes to him.”

“I don’t hang in those circles,” I said. “He looks like Prince Philip, the Queen’s husband. Is he related to the Klingers?’”

“I doubt it. I suppose he’s here to keep an eye on Veronica. She doesn’t seem too tightly wrapped.”

“Imagine that, the Klingers travel with their own doctor.”

“I have to wait four weeks for an appointment with mine,” she said, raising herself on tiptoe and scanning the room. “I wonder where the food is.”

“Betty Ann, this is a wake, not a luau.”

“I’m not expecting prime rib. Cheese and crackers, maybe wine.”

I was about to respond when I heard Spencer Farley’s voice over the crowd. I turned. He was huddled with his wife Martha and a short, bronzed man in a canary yellow sports coat. I motioned to B.A., whispering, “Don’t turn around. The Farleys are behind us. Who’s the guy dressed like Big Bird?”

Despite my words of caution, she turned to gape. “That’s Bunny Alfano, the police chief’s brother. Jeez, Rose, for a journalist you don’t know much.”

B.A. takes pride in her celebrity acumen. She’s followed the goings-on of the rich and famous since high school, where she was president of the New England chapter of the Joan Collins Fan Club.

“I know him, I just don’t recognize him,” I said. “It’s the nose. It used to be bigger, like the chief’s.”

“He’s probably had some work done. Bunny winters in Palm Beach. Can you believe he’s running for office? Do you know who his opponent is… was?”

“Of course. Vivian Klinger.”

Despite our attempt to keep a low profile, Spencer Farley spotted us. It’s hard to conceal Betty Ann, who’s six feet and has a voice to match. He maneuvered through the crowd until he reached our side. His mood was somber. “Hello, Betty Ann, Rose. Good to see you both.”

As we shook hands, Bunny and Martha joined us, the latter reluctantly. She wore a navy double-breasted coat dress that made her look like a high-ranking prison matron. Her long face indicated she’d rather be shucking oysters with her front teeth than socializing with us. Like royalty, Martha Farley never speaks first. Thus, I flashed a phony smile and also remained silent.

Bunny Alfano was another story. A short, barrel-chested man, he gazed up at me in wonder. “So you’re Rose McNichols. Do you know how much I enjoy your stories in the
Granite Cove Gazette?”

I smiled modestly as he pumped my hand, his grin bigger and whiter than Dawnette Vicari’s, the local beauty queen. The man’s enthusiasm was a stark contrast to his brother, who’s never been known to smile.

Yet despite his cheerful countenance, I’d heard stories about Chief Alfano’s corrupt brother. Bunny certainly looked the part. The gaudy jacket, gold chains and perennial tan shouted Atlantic City off-season. Yet, though I was prepared to dislike the man and what he stood for, it’s hard to diss someone who acts like I’m the greatest thing since tortilla wraps. Sadly, it’s one of my biggest character flaws. When someone sucks up, I’m a sucker for it.

He continued shaking my hand. “I’d love you to interview me as soon as I get my campaign up and running.” He lowered his voice. “After a period of respect for the deceased, of course.”

“Of course,” I said, attempting to extricate my hand from Bunny’s grip.

Betty Ann saved me by announcing, “Rose, it’s time we paid our respects in the mourning chapel.”

I yanked my hand loose. “You folks will excuse us?”

Bunny pouted while Martha looked relieved. Spencer nodded benevolently. “You two go right ahead. We’ll follow later.”

“What’s the rush?” I asked, catching up to B.A, who plowed through the crowd.

She spun around and jabbed her finger in my chest. “Listen, McNichols, I like wakes about as much as I like Martha Farley. When I have to deal with both at the same time, I get nauseous. Furthermore, how can you be civil to that man? Don’t you know what he and Martha are up to? They plan to put up villas at Settler’s Dunes. Villas!”

“They can’t. That’s town land.”

“That’s what everyone thinks. Now I hear that all these years it’s been held in a trust by the Frost family. The last remaining member has the option to sell. Guess what? It turns out he’s broke.”

Betty Ann’s words were preposterous and at the same time plausible. “If that were so, the
Gazette
would be covering it.”

“Really? When Bunny Alfano is involved, people don’t intrude. It’s bad for their health. Now can we please go home?”

“Shh. We said we’re going to the mourning chapel, remember?”

“So what? Pretend I left my glasses at home. It’s dark in there. I might trip over a body.”

“Betty Ann, it would be rude to walk out now after saying we’re going inside. What if they’re watching?” As if on cue, we turned and spotted Bunny grinning and waving from across the room. “See? We can’t sneak out now.”

“Yes we can. I’m not like you, Rose. I don’t have a compulsion to be nice to phonies.”

Her remark touched a sore spot. It’s true I crave approval from the guardians of good taste, but at the same time I enjoy shocking them. This dichotomy, the yin and yang of my character, is most likely genetic. From my dad I inherited a feisty iconoclasm, and from my mother, a dread of calling attention to oneself. After all, her family motto was
die, but don’t let the neighbors know.

In any event, B.A was attracting attention. I took her arm as if she were a cranky child in need of humoring. Leading her to the double doors of the chapel, I said, “You can stay here or you can go inside with me. In either case, I’m going in to pay my respects.”

She patted me on the head. “You’re cute when you get spunky.” Then she reached over my head and swung open the door. “I might as well go with you. Just make sure I don’t trip over any short people.”

Inside, the stillness of the chapel seemed a world away from the milling crowd outside. The narrow room with its rows of upholstered benches was lit with candles and recessed lighting. A long burgundy runner led to an altar where a gleaming white coffin sat surrounded by flowers.

A prayer bench positioned before the coffin was occupied by two women I recognized as members of the Women’s Professional League. Betty Ann and I slowly approached. The runner’s thick pile and the soft music issuing from hidden speakers muffled our steps. We stopped a few feet away to wait our turn.

One of the women spoke up. “The suit is Armani. I saw it in a window on Newbury Street.”

“My dear, you’re mistaken. It’s Prada, their fall collection. Shall I check the label?”

“Forget it. What do you think of the blouse, that big bow?”

“It’s not as ghastly as the white casket. Don’t these people know the rules? Coffins and limos should always be one color, black.”

“The father probably picked it out. It just goes to show, money can’t buy class. By the way, do you know what Klinger Pharmaceuticals manufactures?”

“No, what?”

“Condoms.”

“Get out! Vivian claimed they made synthetic home care products.”

“Well, she wasn’t lying.”

When Betty Ann coughed, they turned, surprised to see us standing behind them. After making hasty signs of the cross, the pair rose. Heads lowered, they walked past us and out the door.

“Nice Catholic girls,” Betty Ann muttered. We took their place at the prayer bench. Before us, the body of Dr. Klinger reclined in tufted satin splendor. She was dressed in a charcoal suit with velvet trim. The dark hair, as glossy as the inside of a mussel shell, fanned the pillow. Her complexion was as pale as the silk bow tied under her chin. A beam of recessed light softly illuminated her features. Lifelike and serene, she seemed to be merely napping.

The effect, coupled with the heavy perfume of the flowers, was unsettling. I felt the room spin and ducked my head. “You okay?” Betty Ann whispered. When I didn’t respond, she got me to my feet, asking, “What’s wrong? You’re paler than death.”

“I feel dizzy… nauseous.”

Now it was Betty Ann’s turn to lead me. Gripping my arm, she assisted me down the aisle and out the doors. Outside, she scanned the room, leading me to a chair near the window. “Sit for a minute,” she said.

I glanced out the window to the porch where a woman in a short knit dress was smoking a cigarette. A mass of champagne-colored hair tumbled down her back. Every time she brought the cigarette to her lips her hem rose six inches. The woman was definitely not a local.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

Betty Ann fumbled in her bag for her glasses. Peering outside, she said, “Aha!” like a birder spotting a rare Baltic gull. “That’s Pamela Bingham, Dr. Bingham’s third wife.”

Once again I was impressed with my friend’s celebrity savvy. “You should write a gossip column, you know.”

“I enjoy following celebs. I’ll never make the team, but I like to know the players.”

We stared at the glamorous stranger whose high-heeled boots were incongruous at a funeral parlor. “
Back Bay Living
did a feature on the Binghams,” B.A. said. “They have a priceless collection of ancient Mayan death masks at their Louisburg Square brownstone.”

“Really?” I said. “Maybe
Back Bay Living
would be interested in my collection of ancient hotel ash trays.”

She laughed. “Kiddo, don’t be jealous. You’re worth a dozen Pamela Binghams. Besides, she’s definitely not society. He met her while skiing in Aspen. She was a cocktail waitress at his hotel.” She took in the long tanned legs of our subject. “But you’ve gotta admit, Pamela Bingham is a perfect example of a trophy wife.”

I studied the retro go-go hair and sniffed. “The trophy’s a little tarnished. She needs a root job.”

“I don’t think Dr. Bingham pays much attention to her roots,” she said.

Fascinated, we watched her toss the cigarette into the bushes and withdraw a compact from a tiny purse. Turning her back to the light, she peered into the mirror. This action caused her hem to rise so high, her leopard print panties were visible to one and all.

While this ritual was taking place, Mr. Koski was performing his own ritual, moving from window to window lowering the shades. When he reached a window overlooking the porch, he glanced outside and spotted Pamela Bingham. As a result, he lost his grip on the shade. The resulting
whap
caused everyone to jump.

Precisely at that moment, a disheveled Lawrence Klinger rushed into the room. He ran to the chapel doors and flung them open, disappearing inside. He was soon followed by a grim-faced Dr. Bingham.

Betty Ann was first to reach the doors. Opening them a crack, she peered inside. I joined her and together we watched in awe as Lawrence Klinger caromed the length of the runner. He then threw himself upon the casket. “Vivian, darling, forgive me!” he cried as Dr. Bingham hovered nearby.

As we watched, a raspy voice behind us demanded, “What’s going on?”

We turned to see a short, squat woman with a bulldog face glaring at us. A crowd of cronies had formed around her. Impulsively, she made a grab for the door.

Betty Ann turned, hands on hips, her body blocking the entrance. “It’s a personal matter, folks. Let’s give the family some privacy.”

This did not go down well. The woman moved closer, her upturned face inches from Betty Ann’s chest. “I saw you gawking at them. Now move aside.”

When B.A. failed to move, the woman snaked her hand around her and yanked the door knob. The door flew open with a
klunk
, hitting the back of B.A.’s head. Immediately the crowd surged past, only to stop at the entrance and gasp at the spectacle of Lawrence Klinger prostrated upon the coffin.

“Are you okay?” I asked a stunned Betty Ann. Her answer was blotted out by a shrill scream arising from the reception area. The bulldog woman and her gang, hearing this, reacted like a pack of dogs. They turned and charged out the door, knocking Betty Ann’s head once again.

“Are you okay?” I repeated, pulling her away from the door.

“I think so.” She shook her head to clear it. “Let’s see what’s going on.”

We rushed to the reception area to find Veronica Klinger sprawled on the rug. Her thin legs in smoke-colored hose looked as substantial as chop sticks.

“Call 911!” somebody shouted.

“I’ll get Bingham,” I told B. A. and raced back to the chapel. On the way I passed a distressed Mr. Koski, muttering to himself.

When I reached the chapel, Mr. Klinger was on his feet. Dr. Bingham, his arm around the man, was guiding him away from the coffin. In the stillness, my voice rang out. “Dr. Bingham, you’d better come. It’s Mrs. Klinger. She’s fainted.”

He stopped and stared. Then he half-dragged his companion to a nearby bench where he sat him down, whispering something in his ear. Then straightening his tie, Dr. Bingham strode to the door. When he passed, he was so close I could count the beads of sweat dotting his bald head.

That night Boston’s premier psychiatrist was certainly earning his fees.

Yvonne’s voice rang out in the office: “Rose, I’ve got you the most delicious story. You’ll adore it.”

“What is it?” I’ve discovered that the things Yvonne adores are usually pretty lame.

“Are you familiar with the Phippses of Hemlock Point?”

“Last time I was at Hemlock Point I was trick or treating. They called the cops on me.”

“Seriously.”

“I am serious. They’re paranoid out there. How threatening is a twelve-year-old dressed like Cindi Lauper?”

“Now listen. You must have heard of Lester and Myrna Phipps of the Miles O’ Tiles chain? Their stores are all over the country.”

“I’ve seen the stores. Who hasn’t? I can’t say I know the owners.”

“Then you’re in for a treat. I’ve just learned that their dog won Best of Breed at the Westchester Dog Show. Isn’t that fabulous? Mrs. Phipps said she wouldn’t mind if we did a story on him.”

“What about Coral? She loves rubbing elbows with the Hemlock Point crowd.”

Coral’s got the Boston Flower Show, unless you’d rather switch with her.”