Beautiful Little Fools(32)

I felt his body hit the mattress next to me, and the bourbon smell was so strong, I swallowed back a swell of nausea. Then I heard the almost immediate soft sound of his snore.

But I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned for hours.



* * *



A WEEK LATER, I’d almost forgotten all about that sleepless night. Tom and I had settled into a new routine in Santa Barbara—time apart and time together, too. I went to watch Jordie golf, and he went to play with his ponies. We both met Jordan at the beach on Sunday, and the afternoon sun had bathed me with an overwhelming feeling of bliss. I imagined this would be the way much of our real married lives would stretch on out from here.

We’d spent all yesterday afternoon much the way we’d spent our time in the South Seas, naked and restless and clinging to each other. I’d fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep last night, and then when I’d awoken this morning I felt that glow of happiness again, even though Tom had already left for polo practice and I was in our suite all alone.

I put on my robe and called down for breakfast. While I waited, I opened the shutters, and smiled at the blue glow of the water in the distance.

Breakfast arrived and I took the tray in bed and started with my coffee. The smell of it assaulted my nose as I picked up my cup, and when I took a sip it tasted absolutely vile. I nearly spit it back into the cup. But I swallowed, like a lady, feeling nausea rise up in my chest. I went to reach for the telephone to call down and complain. But just as my hand touched it, it began to ring. The sound surprised me, and I jumped.

“Mrs. Buchanan?” A slightly familiar man’s voice on the line. “This is Mr. Hapford, the hotel manager.”

“Yes,” I said. “I was just about to call down, about the coffee—”

“Mrs. Buchanan,” he cut me off. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

“An accident?” I repeated his words, suddenly breathless. An accident. I thought of Rose and Daddy, and the train. Jordan had left on a train yesterday. My mouth felt dry, my tongue too thick. It felt impossibly hard to swallow.

“Everyone’s all right. It’s just… Mr. Buchanan and Miss Wilde had a small bang-up in the car. They were taken to the hospital and Mr. Buchanan has a little bump on the head, that’s all. But Miss Wilde broke her arm.”

“Miss Wilde?” I repeated back the unfamiliar name, confused. Why was Tom driving to polo when it was close enough to walk? And I was certain I would have heard of a woman polo player. “There must be some mistake.”

Mr. Hapford didn’t say anything for a moment, but I heard him still breathing on the line. Finally, he said, “Mrs. Buchanan, I’m very sorry, but there isn’t any mistake. Miss Wilde is one of our chambermaids, and I saw them walk out to the car together myself.” He paused. And I tried to comprehend all the words he was saying that still didn’t make sense. Chambermaid. Tom. Walking out together, to a car? “We were hoping to keep this out of the papers.” Mr. Hapford was still talking. “But a reporter from the Dispatch has already called me asking for a quote. So I thought I’d better call up and let you hear about it from me, first.” His voice sounded more timid now, apologetic even.

“I don’t understand,” I murmured, still trying to make sense of it. “Why was Tom… with the chambermaid?” But even as those words escaped my lips I suddenly understood their meaning perfectly.

I inhaled sharply and hung up on Mr. Hapford without even a good-bye. I wasn’t trying to be rude, but bile rose in my throat so fast and I knew I was going to vomit.

I ran to the toilet and made it just in time, retching into the bowl. I sat on the cool tile floor and rested my head against the porcelain, too listless to move for a long while.





Detective Frank Charles September 1922

ROCKVALE, ILLINOIS




THE MCCOYS’ FARM IN ROCKVALE was a whole different kind of sprawling than the Buchanan estate in Minneapolis. Grazing pastures as far as Frank’s eyes could see, expansive enough to swallow the tiny redbrick farmhouse that sat off to the side, down a long dirt road.

He’d checked in with Dolores before he’d left Minnesota three days ago, and she said she was getting along just fine in Brooklyn without him. He hated extending his trip, but it felt worse for him to have come all this way for nothing. Rockvale wasn’t too far out of the way home, and interviewing Daisy in person had given him nothing but more questions and a pressure ache just above his eyes. He didn’t know if he’d get much more from Catherine McCoy, either, but he’d come this far. He had to at least try.

He’d gotten a taxi at the train station and had it drop him off at the end of the dirt road, figuring the fresh farm air might clear his head. But as he walked down the road now, he realized it was longer than he’d thought. The air was warmer here than in Minnesota, the summer humidity hanging on, even though it was the middle of September. By the time he reached the farmhouse, he had to take his handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and dab the sweat from his forehead.

“You?” Catherine’s voice came through the screen, before he even reached up his hand to knock. Behind her a small dog barked. “Duke, hush,” she said, turning to the dog. But Duke kept at it.

He folded his handkerchief and put it away, wondering if she’d been watching him walk up the long winding dirt road, seething. She didn’t sound very happy to see him. People often weren’t. It was all part of the job, albeit a part he’d never quite gotten used to.