The Nantucket Diet Murders (16 page)

Now Gussie was greeting the first arrival, pointing the way to the hallway benches and chairs for leaving his coat, escorting him to the dining room. Mrs. Potter knew that from now on, guests would simply be shooed toward the room where she was ensconced, coming in from the front hall through the big open double doors from the library. She knew that after receiving tea and telling her it was nice to have her back, most of them would eventually drift into the two similarly connecting front and back parlors on the other side of the house. She waited to see who would be first, She wished she could quell this feeling of growing unease.

“Well! Well . . . I must
say!”
Ted Frobisher proclaimed slowly as he made an uncertain passage to where Mrs. Potter was sitting. “We’re having
tea!
Gussie, I can’t tell you what a delightful surprise this is! Mother used to have tea parties like this! Genia, my dear, you’re looking lovely today in that yellow dress.
Tea!
I can’t get over it . . . I couldn’t be happier!”

Ted’s delight seemed totally genuine. He may have imbibed whatever was his usual quantity of vodka by this time of day, but as he bent to kiss Mrs. Potter’s cheek, his bearing changed from that of middle-aged alcoholic vacuity to that of a happy young man. “No sugar, thank you, Genia,” he said with obvious satisfaction. “My dear, is that Earl Grey tea I smell? If it
is
, I’ll skip the milk. Just middling strong, thanks. And do I see cucumber sandwiches?”

By now Gussie was back in the big front hall and Mrs. Potter heard more arrivals, more greetings, more invitations to leave your coat here, anyplace, more announcements that Genia was in the dining room, where she’d be
so
pleased to see them.

Ted’s apparent pleasure in the party was a help, and Mrs. Potter’s
spirits lifted briefly as she affectionately was welcomed back to the island by a succession of friends. Still, she found herself watching them, old and new, with even greater than usual intentness. She could not completely push to the back of her mind her uneasy fears about Ozzie’s and Edie’s deaths, nor her inner certainty that Beth’s library research had to do with poisons. She could not shake the growing feeling that someone among the party guests knew more about all this than she did. She knew she was making an inner recording of who arrived and what happened, at the same time she was greeting and being greeted, being embraced and embracing.

Mary Lynne arrived, her newly svelte figure smoothly encased in violet wool, her magnolia throat encircled with pearls. The pearls at the open neck of Helen’s heavy white satin blouse, above her skirt of dark green velvet, were smaller but, as Mrs. Potter realized, undoubtedly real, whereas it seemed likely that Mary Lynne’s, like her own similar strand in the jewelry case upstairs, were certainly not. Helen’s daughter, in the tan wool dress she undoubtedly wore for her Saturday at the science library and carrying the same shapeless tan shoulder bag, was predictably plump, pale, bespectacled, trailing her mother. A newly vivacious Leah arrived in a black velvet pantsuit, white ruffles showing at the neck, her earrings as green as her eyes, her silver hair now appearing even a little more emphatically platinum.

Victor Sandys was resplendent in what appeared a new and fashionable costume—a black velvet blazer over plaid tartan trousers (a different tartan from the day before, Mrs. Potter noticed), wearing shining new patent leather slippers with a flat grosgrain bow. Arnold Sallanger’s gray flannels were baggy, his tweed jacket bore elbow patches of worn leather, but his brown eyes were bright behind the rimmed spectacles, and he smelled antiseptically clean. Dee’s flat dark hat and great earrings were as dashing as ever above the white flash of her smile, and her high-necked, long-sleeved fine wool knit dress, the color of mushrooms, was not only timeless but clearly infinitely adaptable. Mittie wore a fine
creamy cashmere turtleneck sweater, equally timeless, with a long skirt of plaid wool in huge blocks of black and white—a skirt Mrs. Potter thought looked vaguely familiar, although of course much much smaller than any Mittie might have worn before. Beneath it Mrs. Potter glimpsed the trim toes of Mittie’s tassel-tied black Belgian flat pumps. George Enderbridge arrived at the same time in a neat headmasterly suit of gray tweed, made more casual by his well-polished loafers and slightly more dashing by the striped ascot at his throat. All of the women had lightship baskets over their arms, some round, some oval, some small, some large, but all different in their ivory-decorated lids.

Interspersed among these old friends, mingling with them all in easy familiarity, were other islanders Mrs. Potter knew and remembered with fondness. The new couple Gussie had mentioned were not so new after all—they had met on her last Nantucket visit. There were those she had known for many years—couples, singles, some now retired, various academics, artists, and writers now making the island their home, and a few people connected with present-day island business, including the owner of the dress shop from which Mrs. Potter knew she could happily choose her wardrobe for the rest of her days. And, inevitably, there were more widows—bright, independent, attractive women who had chosen to come to Nantucket, or to remain there, now that their husbands were gone and their children grown.

In spite of these happy distractions, Mrs. Potter found herself tense and watchful. Beth, usually the first guest at a party, quick to see how she might be of help, was very late today, she thought.

Meantime, Ted Frobisher’s initial reaction to the unexpected drama of the tea table, and his unconcealed enjoyment of the party as it progressed, were the most surprising, and to Mrs. Potter the most gratifying, response of the hour that followed.

Ted stood back politely between each round of newly arriving guests, then stepped forward to kiss each cheek or shake each hand. His smile was happy and his offers of assistance
were eager and endearing as he pointed out the various sandwiches. He rejoiced over the arrival of the hot cheese puffs as Teresa brought them in fresh from the oven, and he spoke again his compliments for Gussie’s special parsley sandwich filling as well as the blackly rich one with the olives. He offered to take people’s cups back to Mrs. Potter for refills, as she was busy saying hello and being kissed. He brought the tray of second-best teacups from the sideboard when they were needed,

He inquired with a politely lifted eyebrow if Mrs. Potter needed Teresa to bring more boiling water. As the guests recircled the table and the room grew more crowded, he deftly shepherded those on the outer rim back out through the hall and into the parlor with freshly filled teacups.

“I don’t know when I’ve had such a good time!” he said, beaming. His impeccably cut navy flannel blazer showed a discreet flash of its foulard-patterned lining at its back vent as he whirled back to the tea table, triumphant from a skillful maneuver of guests from dining room to parlor. The layout of the house, including the return shortcut by way of the back hall, was as familiar to him as to most of the guests. His step was quick and precise, his cheeks were pink in faint reflection of the crimson stripe of his neatly folded ascot.

It interested Mrs. Potter to observe that Lolly Latham was being a willing but slightly awkward aide at the tea table as well, taking cups and plates back to the kitchen as they were abandoned on the sideboard. Beth’s undoubtedly right, she thought. We’ve underestimated Lolly, even considered her a bit slow-witted when she may be merely shy. Perhaps she’s coming out of it at last.

Ted’s unexpected boyish delight and his unassuming ease at the tea table were mildly contagious. None of Gussie’s well-mannered guests showed any sign of obvious surprise to find the guest of honor pouring tea, and none inquired the way to the bar. All accepted a teacup with some expression of pleasure. The women nibbled token sandwiches, the men not a great many more. The party was decorous, too well brought up to show surprise. Everyone asked about Mrs. Potter’s
health and that of her offspring. Everyone smiled. And smiled and smiled.

To everyone but Ted, she thought, this is a very dull party, and for myself I can’t get over the dreadful feeling that something is wrong somewhere. Yet one good thing about it—Les Girls are able to observe their no-drinking diets, although so far Count Ferencz hasn’t arrived to award any gold stars. Beside that, she told herself, there are people here who will enjoy their later dinners more than if they had drunk several cocktails and eaten too many hors d’oeuvres. There are people who will later rejoice that they did not talk too much, did not tell a dubious joke or betray an indiscreet confidence. There are people who will sleep better, wake up happier. But there are people here, maybe all of them except Ted (and that included herself), who would have found this party more festive with, say, at least one small glass of sherry in hand, deplorable as she knew this to be.

Then there was sudden excitement in the front hallway, out of her vision beyond the library door; the atmosphere was charged with new tension as Tony Ferencz strode into the dining room. Gussie, following, watched his progress with smiling eyes.

As he bowed and kissed Mrs. Potter’s hand as she sat at the tea table, she felt again the hidden challenge of their earlier meeting. She was aware of the heightened vivacity of the women in the room. Count Ferencz made his sweeping rounds, kissing each hand, bowing his tall head courteously to Ted and the few men, who now, she noticed, began to slide away toward the parlor side of the house.

The count declined tea, but he stood for a moment at Mrs. Potter’s side, saying that he hoped Gussie’s dear Eugenie was having a happy return to the island, saying that he regretted that he had, of necessity, had to be away during the first few days of her visit. His gray eyes held hers briefly, then those in turn, with slow regard, of each of the women around the tea table. Leah and Helen, who had previously taken tea and then moved to the parlors, now returned.

Gussie, flushed and happy, spoke from the library doorway.
“Peter’s going to be here any minute, Tony says,” she announced, “and Beth just came in at last. I asked her to take your place at the table, Genia, to let you circulate for a bit.”

Mrs. Potter peered questioningly into the pot in front of her.

“Need some more? Let me get it,” Beth offered quickly as she came into the dining room. Mrs. Potter saw that her usually rosy face was pale, despite the Christmas red of her wool suit, and that her eyes were underlined with purple shadows. “I see Teresa’s busy at the moment . . .” Beth’s gaze followed Teresa’s measured progress with a white birch log for the library fire, her wood basket making evident her intent to continue to the twin marble fireplaces of the parlors. “I’ll find it, Gussie, don’t bother. I know my way around your kitchen.”

From the front door, now unattended, came a genial shout. “Hey, guys! Anybody home around here?” the voice inquired loudly and unnecessarily to a houseful of amiably twittering guests. “Potter, wherever you are, come see what I brought to your tea party!”

Gussie’s dash to the front door was followed by a press of others, Mrs. Potter among them. Peter Benson stood in the open doorway, bringing with him a rush of cold fresh air from the north.

“Look what I brung you,” he repeated, this time to Gussie. “Just what every tea party needs at this stage of the game. A barrel of oysters and a keg of beer!”

Under the streetlight in front of the house was a long station wagon with
SCRIMSHAW INN
lettered on its sleek, wood-patterned side. There was a flash of bright smile from the driver’s seat, and in back, Jadine, her well-blonded curls bobbing, waved vigorously.

“Okay, you two drive around to the side and unload at the kitchen porch door,” Peter called to them. “Anybody in the kitchen to let them in?” he asked Gussie, almost in the-same breath. “Don’t look so scared. This part of the party is all under control. You don’t have to do a thing except relax and have fun. We’re going to have
frogs!”

The word was repeated, blankly, by those of the guests nearest the front door, as Peter swept into the hall, exuberantly hugging each one in turn, men and women alike.

“I suppose you mean frogs’ legs, Peter,” someone said doubtfully. “Didn’t we have those at the Scrim not long ago, dear?” the man asked his wife, whose smile did not quite cancel out the slight shudder glimpsed in her eye blink.

“Did he say frogs?” Victor Sandys queried with an unconcealed grimace. “I can’t stand the little beasts. What’s come over Benson, playing a schoolboy trick like bringing frogs to a party?”

“Do we
play
frogs, or hunt them, or eat them, or what?” Gussie asked. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Peter, or what oysters or beer have to do with it, but let’s all go to the kitchen and let Jadine and your friend in, and maybe we’ll all find out.”

Those in the hallway crowded through the library and dining room to the kitchen, following Peter and Gussie. Those in the dining room who had not yet heard Peter’s frog announcement, yet sensing the excitement, were following closely. Ted and Mrs. Potter alone remained at the tea table, where Beth was about to seat herself in the big armchair.

“At least you can pour yourself a cup of tea, even if the party seems to be deserting you,” Mrs. Potter said. “I’m sure they’ll all be back in a minute.”

“Half a second,” Beth said apologetically. “I left my basket in the kitchen when I got the fresh tea and I want my diet sweetener pills. After that, I think Ted looks as if he’d take a second cup with me.” (Second, nothing, Mrs. Potter thought. This will be Ted’s fourth cup at the very least. The man’s not a lush, he’s a tea hound.)

Slipping tack through the press in the kitchen doorway, Beth seated herself. Making a visible effort to look up at Ted with a smile, she opened the lid of the basket on her lap, but her attention was centered on Ted and the teapot. Mrs. Potter stood idly watching as Beth poured a little of the dark amber tea essence into the thin china cup and was reaching carefully for the pot holding the hot water to dilute it. Seeing
herself no longer needed, she decided to move toward the kitchen door with the rest, where Victor Sandys was bringing up the rear.