Twillyweed (29 page)

“Oh, I don't want to,” I complained. “I want to keep going this way.”

She gave me a curious look. “All right, easy, girl.” She laughed. “I've seen this before. It's that combination of fresh paint and antiques. You've hit the gold coast and it's gotten to you.” We both laughed. “You can let the dog out here if you like,” she told me. “There's no one here.” Gratefully, I let Jake stretch his legs up and down the rows of plants and seedlings. After she gave Jake a fresh bowl of water, she drew out a conglomeration of lefts and rights to follow while I succumbed to pots of well-started hollyhocks and foxglove and trailing geraniums. What? They're very hard to find. I lowered my backseat, loaded it up, and Jake and I climbed back in, on our way to being broke but immersed in the heady perfumes of fruits and flowers, curiously aware of being alive and well. And hungry. The road curled this way and that and it was well past lunchtime when I got to Locust Valley, a catch-your-breath-it's-so-pretty town. And the Inn! It was like a scene from a Bing Crosby movie, all charm and wonderland, hunched under a thicket of snowberry. I parked the car any old where in the shade, let Jake out for a quick walk, fed him a quarter of the apple pie, and told him to go to sleep. The restaurant door was wide open, airing out the place, and I walked into the cool dark. There was a bar on one side and the restaurant on the other. Midway between lunch and supper, the place was empty but for a crooked, ravaged old woman in exquisite pearls, who leaned, soused, from a stool at the bar. I saw Teddy right away. He was at work already, standing wiping glasses and chatting with the woman.

“Hi.” I smiled and raised my arm to him.

His face fell. He put the glass down and came out from behind the bar. “What happened?”

“No, nothing, Teddy,” I rushed to assure him, “I just wanted to talk to you. I was driving around out here and I remembered Paige said you worked here and I thought, let me stop in and say hello.”

He visibly relaxed. “I thought something else had happened.”

We gave each other a commiserating look, and suddenly I was ashamed of my shopping spree. What was wrong with me, splurging on niceties while Patsy Mooney lay murdered? I was glad I'd parked across the road so he wouldn't see my car piled high with frivolous bounty.

He led me over to a table and we sat down.

“It's some beautiful place,” I remarked.

“Hangout of the wealthy,” he quipped. “It's like a clubhouse for them. They're in and out like fashion. Have you eaten?”

I made a dummy face that said if I had I could surely go again.

He winked. “I'll be right back.” He hopped away into the kitchen and I noticed he was limping. When he came back in, he carried a tray of delicate bits of wild Alaskan salmon strewn over fancy salad and three fresh slices of light, mouthwatering bread.

“That looks wonderful! Teddy,” I said. “Why are you limping?”

“
Uch
. Football. Old injury. Every time I carry something heavy it acts up.” He poured me a glass of red wine. “Those beer deliveries kill me.”

“Mmm.” I took a sip. “What is it?”

“Cakebread, 2013.”

“Yikes. Delicious. Listen, my budget—”

He put his hand over my purse. “Don't even think about it, Claire. You're my guest.”

“Oh, come on, Teddy,” I protested, digging into the salad regardless. “I don't want you to have to pay for me.”

“My pleasure.” Teddy looked at me with that admiring yet respectful gaze we women of a certain age so treasure. “Anyway,” he whispered, leaning close, “it's been opened. Last night's happy remains.”

“Teddy.” I put my hand over his. “I'm sorry my niece is so, well, I'm sorry she—”

“Doesn't care for me? Never mind.”

I regarded him thoughtfully. He was young. He'd recover.

He refilled the dent in my glass. From the end of the bar the swank lady suddenly lurched erect and chirped,
“
Singing bell-bottom trousers and coats of navy blue; He'll climb the rigging like his daddy used to do!
”

Teddy and I exchanged looks. “Duty calls,” he said and hobbled down the bar to where she slumped, chin tucked in pigeonlike, contents of her Hermès purse sprawled across the bar in front of her. With the precision of a contestant in a game of pickup sticks, she managed to extricate a cigarette from the stuff. I heard Teddy try to convince her to let him call her a cab, but she wasn't having any of it. In an uncommon show of impatience, Teddy gathered up her things and literally threw them into her purse, then lit her cigarette with her gold Dunhill lighter. As bad luck would have it, the boss happened to walk in just then and he hauled Teddy off to the office to reprimand him. I hoped he wasn't going to fire him.

Feeling myself watched, I looked up and was surprised to see Glinty in the mirror. He gave me quite a start, sitting there on the other side of the room. Glinty! What on earth was he doing out here? Realizing I'd recognized him, he came toward me with a face that looked as though he'd been busted. He didn't actually shake my hand or greet me, no, he just loomed in my vicinity to convey, I suppose, some sort of acknowledgment without actual greeting. “Here alone?” he asked, eyeing me skeptically.

“Yes. Jenny Rose is waiting for Wendell to get out of school, I think.”

He continued to hover.

At a loss, I rambled on to no one, the way you do when confronted with the socially inept. “I never knew anyone with as many jobs as Teddy,” I marveled. “He works so hard. You know, when things like this happen, with poor Patsy Mooney, it makes you wonder about, well, important things …” I hesitated. “I don't know why Oliver doesn't help Teddy out. Like, you'd think he'd just
give
Teddy some money. Especially when he knows he wants to be a teacher.”

Glinty sat down. “Oliver doesn't give him any because he doesn't have any. Anyway, Teddy will never be a teacher. He dropped his classes months ago. He didn't mention it? Doesn't surprise me; it suits his purposes to be thought of as a student.”

“Really? Oh. I'm sorry to hear that.” How embarrassed he must have been not to mention it. My heart went out to him. I murmured, “Teaching is a wonderful vocation.”

“You know what Teddy says about that? ‘Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach.'”

I pressed my lips together disapprovingly. “That doesn't sound like something Teddy would say.”

“Ask him.”

“I will.” I smirked, looking around for Teddy. “And if he did say that, it was most likely to defend him against your scornful attitude. Not everyone makes it through college.” My first impression of Glinty had been so right. He was a horrible person, selling out his friend like that. I said, “I think it's admirable just to have
tried
to get through school in this day and age.”

He began, to my horror, to pick from my plate. “Don't look at me,” he said with a shrug. “We all know I haven't spent a day in a classroom since I was fourteen.” He wiped his narrow hands down his pants thighs to clean them and his face relaxed into his everyday snarl. He said in his hard-to-understand, thick accent, “But don't you think it must be a little tiresome always being admirable? Did you not notice how everyone out here on the North Shore cries about how miserable life is? But where are they all?” He laughed. “Out sailing over to Shelter Island. I like that.” He looked away. “And by the way, Oliver really doesn't have any more money. If he had, Teddy'd get it one way or another.”

I sat back. “Well, if his money's tied up, he could always sell any one of his paintings. They're worth a lot.”

“Those paintings belonged to Noola, you know.”

“Really?” I looked up, surprised.

“Yes.” He spat a piece of spoiled fish into
my
napkin and tossed it under the table. “Oliver needs money himself.”

Appalled, I made a scoffing noise. “
Tch
. He has all the money in the world, if he wants it. He just has to cash
some
thing in.”

“No, he doesn't.”

“Of course he does. He's a financial adviser. God, this salmon is delicious. I'm assuming he'll pay for Patsy's funeral, won't he?”

He barked a laugh. “I don't think you understand. He wouldn't be able to keep that house open till next winter if Morgan didn't keep laying out money.”

It was my turn to laugh. “Morgan doesn't have any money.”

“Morgan? Morgan's worth millions.”

I shook my head. “You've got it all wrong. Morgan works in the boatyard, painting boats and things.” Why was I telling
him
this?

“Morgan doesn't
have
to work on the boats. He owns the boats. He's got the
Gnomon
, the
For Sail
, the
Corinthian
…”

“What? Stop it. Don't pretend that Morgan's rich.”

“Of course he is. Why do you think Paige is so desperate to marry him?”

“But … but it's the other way around.”

“No.” Glinty laughed, delighted. “You've got it all wrong. Morgan feels indebted. Responsible. They all grew up together. Paige and Oliver looked after his mom all the while he was in Scotland with me.”

I stopped eating and stared at him, stymied.

“And then later when we were in Bosnia.”

“But … But … Look at all Oliver's fancy vintage cars.”

“Vintage? Those old pieces of junk? Those cars are from when times were good. They're held together with spit and rubber bands. Wouldn't make it into Glen Head without Mr. Piet's mechanical ability. He's always got one of them up on the hydraulic lift. Calls it his ‘Emergency Room.'”

“But then why does Mr. Piet stay there at all?”

Glinty shrugged. “Radiance is nearby. He likes to keep an eye on her. As you're discovering, it's not the worst place in the world to live. He practically keeps the lot of us fed with all the fish he catches. Fixes half the village's cars and lorries with that hydraulic lift that was put in years ago and him the only one knows how to use it. He's probably in the best financial shape of all of us, Mr. Piet is. No room or board. No vices.” He gave me an arch look. “Of course he was busted for carrying reefer in from Guadeloupe, years ago. But he did his time. Now, he just keeps socking away any money he makes. I'm sure he has a tidy pile himself.”

“And you mean Paige is not … She has no money either?”

“Poor as a church mouse. Why do you think she works as a real estate agent? For fun? Prestige? It's damned hard work. Once in a while she has a windfall—that keeps them going for a while—but never near enough to run a house like Twillyweed. Can you imagine the taxes? And then of course she pulls a small salary from her fund-raising, that's all.”

If this was true … “But, but … they serve all those fabulous wines,” I protested.

Glinty gave a harsh laugh. “Remains of the good old days. The only reason there's any of that left is Oliver prefers malt whisky. You must have noticed he drinks like a fish.”

“But how could this happen?”

“Come on. You really didn't know?”

“Wow. No, I did not. But the paintings …”

“All belong to Morgan,” he finished for me. “Now that Noola's gone, they belong to him. Noola never wanted to move from the Great White. She loved it there in that wee cottage, which I was hoping to live in when I heard she'd died.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “But never mind about that. She had Oliver keep the paintings at Twillyweed because she knew they'd be safe and appreciated there. They're all insured.”

“But where did she get them?”

“She bought them. Collected them, over the years.”

“Hang on a minute while I digest this.”

He went on, “Two generations ago the Cupsands were one of the most prosperous families in the Northeast. You want to know the straw that really broke the camel's back?”

“Of course.”

“Oliver's gambling. It's in his blood. Whenever things start to go right, the minute he gets his hands on a little money, he drives down to Atlantic City or the track and pisses it away. And he loves the ponies.”

“Oh, I know that game,” I broke in. “My ex-husband is the same way!” I heard my voice rise and sat back self-consciously. The wine had gone to my head. Suddenly I was glad Johnny and Portia were getting married. She could have him.

“Annabel couldn't take his gambling, see?”

“But how could she have left Wendell?”

“She didn't leave Wendell. She left Oliver.” For a moment he looked at me blankly. Then he said, “I keep thinking she'll come back for Wendell.”

I shook myself. “I can't get over it. So Morgan is rich. I can't believe it. I had him set in my mind as a … as a—”

“Hard luck case? That's pretty funny.”

“But he
acts
so subservient.”

“Morgan? Nah, he feels bad for them. He's very kind, Morgan is. He's only one of the most eligible bachelors on the North Shore. No relatives now but the father back home in Invergowrie. Another nut, he is. Lives like a Spartan on marmalade and sheep's cheese and molasses bread. Spends his time puttering on clocks and making lures for fishhooks and boiling up his own marmalade. Won't take a penny from Morgan.”

I sat there with my mouth open. “Whereas, Oliver …”

“Oliver's all right. Nobody like him. Top-notch sailor.”

My mind was racing. If Morgan was rich, he wouldn't have to hit an old priest on the head to get what he wanted, he'd simply buy it. I stared, stupefied, at this slinky, cocky fellow my niece was so taken with and I got the feeling he was enjoying this, categorizing everyone for me, the newcomer.

He went on, “All right, he's a little disappointing … acting like he's a financial adviser when he can't keep hold of any loot himself, but he's not a bad person. He's just broke. Living on past glory. I suppose he could always teach sailing at the club if things get any worse.” He gave me a sort of leer. “You know, in the old days he was what you'd call a catch.”