Twilight was turning the lawns of Dogwood a sweet orange hue by the time they arrived home, and still nobody had said anything. Victor stopped the car in front of the house, and they all got out and started to walk toward it. Jones reached the first steps up to the front door, with Victor just behind him. She was almost there when Charlie grabbed her arm, spinning her around so she saw how fixedly he was staring at her.
“Ouch!” She returned his glare with an indignant grimace of her own, but he only dug his fingertips deeper into her flesh. For several seconds neither said a word, and his face got more stern and clouded. “What were you doing at the police station?” she asked eventually.
He let go of her arm, as though it disgusted him, and half turned away from her, snarling.
“Nothing. They got nothing on me. No body, nothing.”
“Well, if it was truly nothing, you should take that ugly mug off!” She was attempting her usual gay, breezy manner, but she could hear the strain in her voice and was sure he could, too. He had said body, which meant it was that man.
“They wanted to talk to me about Coyle Mink’s man, but they don’t care about him, not really.” Charlie’s eyes darted to the south. Someone was in the pool, splashing, but he seemed to make a quick calculation and determine that it was not a threat.
“They don’t?” Astrid dared a glance up and down Charlie’s back. “Well, that’s lucky, isn’t it?”
“They don’t want to hang me for murder; they want to get me for bootlegging, take down the whole operation.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Because it wasn’t just them policemen. It was the Feds in there, too, in their suits. They were all talking nonsense. They got nothing ’cept our reputation to go on.”
“Well, that’s wonderful, Charlie, let’s have a little drink and forget about this icky business.”
He kept facing away from her, his big back a broad rebuke. In the silence Astrid heard all the other noises of Dogwood and also the swimmer climbing out of the pool. It was Cordelia, she felt certain, dripping on the patio. That she was there, not so far away, was the only fact that Astrid could think of.
“But they did know things.”
Astrid’s stomach turned over. “What things?”
“They knew where the car went off the road, which it’s possible they discovered by poking around themselves, or maybe it was a lucky guess. They knew the man’s name, which they coulda got from gossip in Coyle Mink’s operation.” Charlie paused to light a cigarette. The smell of that cigarette intruding on the fragrant night air made her feel a little sick. Meanwhile, she could see the shadows of the boys moving around on the second floor. She wondered if Victor was there, and if he was thinking of her, and she wished that she could just close her eyes and fall against him. “The thing I can’t figure is how they knew what I said to you right before I shot that man.”
“What you said to me?” Astrid attempted a laugh. “Who can remember what anybody says in a moment like that?”
“You did. And you told somebody. And that somebody told the Feds. Maybe there’s one more somebody in the equation, or maybe there’s one less. Tell me, Mrs. Grey, have you ever talked to a federal agent?”
“No!” Astrid snorted.
“Then who’d you tell?”
“Who’d I tell what?” she snapped back.
“Who’d you tell how it happened, who said what to whom, right before that man ate it?”
“Nobody!” she screamed.
He brought his hand up and smacked her across the face. It wasn’t a hard slap, but he’d never touched her like that before, and the sting spread from her cheeks down to her chest.
“Oh!” she cried, and put her hand over the place he’d struck her.
His face contorted when he saw her pain. For a moment his eyes softened, and she knew he was confused and remorseful. That he loved her and regretted talking to her that way and wished he could undo the hurt. She looked up at him, trying to make her own eyes as wide and innocent as possible, hoping that his love would overcome him and he would forget his anger. But no such luck—in the next minute, his features had hardened.
“All right. Make it tough. But don’t think I won’t find out. In the meantime you speak to nobody but Cordelia or me. You don’t leave your room. You’re on house arrest, and I’m watching everything you do, you hear me?”
There was nothing to say. How could I help but hear you? she might have sassed, but her face was still sore. She stared back at him hatefully until she realized that Cordelia was there too—that she had come over from the pool and had been watching them for some time already.
“Take her to her room!” Charlie shouted, at neither girl in particular. Just loudly into the night.
Astrid turned toward Cordelia expectantly, but she wasn’t looking at Astrid the way she usually did. Not with the usual friendliness—she gazed at Astrid as though at a stranger. She hesitated on the grass, her wet hair tucked behind her ears, taking in the scene. It was as though she’d been watching Astrid a while already, fierce as a hawk. Her eyes had none of the heat of Charlie’s, but they frightened Astrid anyway, because they seemed capable of clear vision.
Cordelia glanced at Charlie, and then her eyes rolled back to Astrid. “All right,” she said, sounding like herself again as she came and put an arm around Astrid’s waist.
In those seconds she felt that Cordelia had gleaned all that had passed between her and Victor, every word exchanged. What else could cause her to regard Astrid with such cold distance? And with a drop of her stomach, Astrid knew that her friend was deciding whose side to take.
21
TWO DAYS BEFORE THE LARAMIE–DARBY RACE, AND no one was fooled by the official line that it was “a friendly exhibition of skill between respectful fellow aviators.” Bets were being placed all over Long Island, with the odds in Max’s favor—although not so heavily as one might think, given his wider celebrity and greater experience as a pilot. Everyone had a proclaimed favorite, which often revealed a person’s true feelings about the modern world. But Max, for one, did not seem perturbed in the least by all the talk. In fact, he seemed to thrive on it—he had been uniquely focused over the last few days—and Cordelia, lying on the patchy grass on the far side of the airfield with her head in his lap, felt briefly calm as well.
“You think this weather will hold?” she asked, idly tapping the toes of her brown oxfords together. Streaky clouds obscured the blue sky, but there had been no rain since early yesterday.
Max, who had been scribbling in a notebook, paused and sniffed the air. “The newspaper said it might not, but I don’t believe it. I think it’s going to be clear and fine by race day.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Cordelia replied, for she’d sworn off reading newspapers. They were full of bile about Max and his mother, which only made her angry, and she was additionally frightened that she’d come across some story about one of Coyle Mink’s former associates who’d been found floating in the river without his face. One way or another, trouble was coming to her family—she’d realized as much last night when she came up from the pool and saw Charlie and Astrid standing there looking so wrecked. But she’d have to leave the airfield soon enough—she could think about all those messes then.
“After you beat Laramie, I’m taking you for oysters at the St. Regis, and you’re going to ask me to dance in public.” She had spun this fantasy mostly to herself, but when he didn’t answer she sat up and faced him. “Max?”
“What?”
When she saw that he’d been contemplating the patterns in the sky and hadn’t really heard her, she slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Is my hour up?” she asked, smiling.
Gently he placed his fingers around her wrist. “I don’t want you to go.”
“But you had better get back to work. I know when your mind is elsewhere, Mr. Darby.”
“I’m sorry, Cord, I—”
“Don’t be silly! I know what
you’re thinking about, and I don’t blame you, and after you win the race we will have lots of time to talk about whatever I like. But just now I’ll go and let you concentrate.” She stood up and began to stuff the remnants of their lunch—wax-paper wrappers and the crusts of sandwiches—into their empty potato chip bag. But Max took them from her and pulled her to him by the waist with unexpected strength.
“What was that for?” she asked, smiling, when the kiss was over. He took her chin with his hand and gazed at her as though he were trying to memorize the architecture of her face.
“Just because.” With his arm still on her waist they began to amble toward the place near the hangar where Anthony had parked the Daimler and remained waiting at a respectful distance. As they approached, she could hear the blare of a radio, discussing the upcoming race, and couldn’t help but feel excited for Max, who seemed so sure that once he won nobody would ever question his capabilities as a pilot again.
“You know what I think would make an even better story?” she said, resting her head against his shoulder.
“What?”
“If you brought me with you. In the airplane, I mean. I’d be very good and quiet, and when we landed I’d—”
“No!” His answer was so forceful that it felt like a rebuke, and she had to step away from him.
“I’m sorry.” She blinked and glanced down at her shoes. “It was only an idea.”
“I can’t have you with me,” Max replied in a softer tone. “It might be dangerous, and I know Charlie won’t allow that.”
“When did you ever care what Charlie said! Anyway, you yourself said you’ve done this flight a dozen times, and it will only go to show how little Eddie Laramie knows about aviation. Didn’t you?”
“Yes, but…” Max trailed off and turned toward the south. “This flight—I just can’t take you on this flight, all right?”
“All right.” He was still looking away from her, so she drifted toward the car, feeling confused and hurt for reasons she couldn’t quite figure. When Anthony saw her, he came around and opened the back door.
“Cord!” She turned to Max. The arc of his shoulders was rigid under his white T-shirt, and his hands were balled into fists at his olive work pants. His brow was tensed, and she realized that he must be nervous about the race after all. “Will you come bring me lunch tomorrow, too?”
“I guess you’ll have to just wait and see,” she replied with a wink. His shoulders relaxed a little when he heard the lightness in her voice. Then he returned her wink and headed in the direction of his airplane, just outside the yawning door of the hangar. By the time she was situated in the backseat, however, her sense of lightness had vanished, and she was instead beset with the notion that a heavy thing had gone unsaid between them.
The way to Dogwood was blocked by another vehicle; when Cordelia thought of all the things this might mean, her heart skidded. But then she recognized the driver—he was one of the caterers from the days when Darius was alive and threw parties—and saw that the bed of his truck was full of crates of oranges and lemons. He waved and drove ahead of them through the gates, up the gravel path that was lined on either side with lindens. In fact, the workers moving busily about the lawn on the south side of the house seemed to be in the process of re-creating Dogwood as she had first glimpsed it—they were erecting a white tent, the kind under which an epic summer party might be held.
“What’s all this?” she demanded of the guard who was standing at a remove, watching the goings-on with a rifle slung over his shoulder. He turned, and she saw it was Victor and remembered what she had seen in his face that night at the St. Regis.
“Preparations for Mrs. Grey’s birthday party.” The skin under his eyes was bruised, as though he hadn’t slept very much, and she disliked the way he’d said Mrs. Grey—it sounded strange, and she realized she’d never heard him, or anyone at Dogwood, call her that before.
“Does Charlie know about this?”
“It was Charlie’s idea.”
“You can’t be serious.”
Victor’s eyes flickered in her direction and away. “Afraid so. It’s a bad idea, if you ask me—”
“But I didn’t ask you,” she snapped.
“My mistake.” He didn’t meet her eye, but neither did he sound contrite, which only made her angrier. Until just that moment, she had been thinking of him rather pityingly as a lovesick boy who was going to learn sooner or later that the object of his desire was dangerous. But when she thought of him, standing there in the hotel room of the St. Regis, holding a vase of peonies while he gazed adoringly at Astrid, she remembered something else, which was what Astrid had been saying as he walked in.
Cordelia stepped decisively in his direction. “It was you who told the police.”
“What?” His head swiveled in her direction, and his eyes narrowed.
“Or maybe you told the Feds. What Charlie said right before he killed Coyle Mink’s man. You overhead her telling us at the St. Regis, and you passed it on.”
He turned so that he was facing her straight on and fixed his gaze on her.
“Who are you?” she demanded with what shallow breath she could summon. “What kind of make-believe have you been filling Astrid’s head with?”
At first he didn’t say anything, only scanned the surrounding area to make sure there was no one within earshot. “You know it’s a lunatic idea, to throw a big party right now.”
“That’s not what I asked, is it?” Cordelia crossed her arms over her chest. “Who are you?”
He sighed and after a long while said: “I’m not going to tell you that. It’s better this way. All you need to know is this: I love your friend, she loves me, and I can keep her safe. She’s already seen too much. The attention this party will bring, and the strangers it will allow onto the property—that’s not good for any of us. It’s going to blow up, Cordelia. Talk Charlie out of it. You can do that. If you don’t, well—he’s a bomb that’s going to go off sooner or later.”
She turned her chin at a sharp angle. “How do you know it will blow up?” she demanded.
His sigh was heavier this time, and without any denials he stepped back from her and turned his eyes on the busy scene under the tent. “Talk to Charlie.”
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” she replied hotly. As she moved toward the house she passed him too close, letting her shoulder knock into his without apology. By the time she reached the verandah, she was mouthing angry words to herself. Who was this person who had wormed his way into her family’s house and told lies and spilled their secrets and seduced her brother’s girl? Her anger had reached such a pitch that when Charlie came through the ballroom at a fierce gait she almost didn’t recognize him. “Charlie!” she exclaimed.
“What?” he shot back as he passed her by.
“Charlie,” she went on, twirling so that she could follow after him. “This is no time for a party! What’s gotten into you?”
“Why not?” He was almost shouting, and when he paused on the lowest step and turned around to look at her she saw that the whites of his eyes were tinged with red, as though he’d drank too much coffee and stayed up two nights in a row.
There were about ten reasons that she could think of why not, but the most obvious reason, the neatest one, was that Victor—who was new to the operation but nonetheless knew plenty—was working for someone else. But the mania in his face recalled Victor’s words—her brother was a bomb, and sooner or later he was going to go off.
“Have you had a conversation with Astrid recently?” Cordelia asked softly. “I don’t think she’s in any mood for a birthday party.”
“If you think that, you don’t know Astrid very well,” Charlie shot back.
Then he spat on the grass and strode off in the direction of the tent, leaving Cordelia standing on the top step by herself. A wind picked up, pressing her skirt against her legs and sending an anxious current up her spine. For a while she remained there, wondering
why she hadn’t told Charlie what she suspected about Victor. Maybe it was because of the sincerity with which he’d said he loved Astrid and that Astrid loved him. Still, she wasn’t sure she could trust Victor—but if she exposed him, it would be the end of Astrid, and as she turned back to the house she knew she couldn’t tell her brother about his duplicity. Not yet.
22
LETTY HEARD SOPHIA A WHILE BEFORE SHE SAW HER, but the sound caused no immediate distress. She and Valentine had filmed all day, and she was blissfully lounging in her dressing room at the studio, on a pink suede couch, gazing at the costume she’d worn for Marie’s final scenes. A good deal more had to be shot to finish the picture, but her part was complete. The eye mask she had been napping in was pushed back on her forehead. Lucien Branch himself had said that her reading of Marie was the most promising he had ever seen, and Letty knew from the way Valentine watched her, from the steady light in his eyes, that he was impressed by everything she did.
“Where is she?” Sophia’s voice was closer now, just outside the door. “Where is the little brat?”
Letty ripped the eye mask from her face when she realized that Sophia’s yelling was not benign at all and had everything to do with her. The reality of what she’d done, and all the ways that it should make her feel ashamed rather than proud, rushed over her. She was wearing a terry-cloth robe belted at the waist, which somehow enhanced her guiltiness. Furtively she moved back and forth across the room, without any clear idea of what she should do. The vanity mirror caught her reflection, and this gave her some confidence. The heavy makeup they had put on for filming was still highlighting her best features; she looked like a movie star now herself.
“Narcissus at his pond.” Sophia’s words were quieter now, but no less wrathful. When the door slammed shut behind her, Letty stiffened and waited. But Sophia didn’t say anything for several seconds, and the tension in the room became stifling.
“He told you, then?” Letty, who sang with such power, could barely give breath to these words as she slowly revolved to face the woman who had taught her how to pose on a red carpet. Sophia was still wearing her trench coat—the belt was undone, as though she’d begun to take it off but had been too overcome with fury to finish the job. Her cheeks were gaunter now than before she had gone away, but this somehow detracted from her prettiness. For the first time, Letty saw the flaws in her mentor’s beauty. That nose, which was so adorable on a child star, looked piggish on the face of a woman; and her eyes, which had winked adorably in her early pictures, were too small to convey real emotion.