“Not to mention his parents.”
“Yeah. Not to mention. The grandmother—Diantha Atwood—always had a soft spot for Kerm, but she’s not saying a word, not interfering. Momma’s a cold-fish socialite, but that could be style, not substance. And Dad’s a respected, hard-nosed businessman who spent a lot of time on the road and in the office when his kids were little. There are,” she said, blowing smoke out her mouth and nose, “no innocents here.”
“But no secret lives, nothing we can latch onto to explain why a twenty-two-year-old kid had the shit beaten out of him the night before last?”
“If you want that explained,” Helen said, peering at him with a gravity he seldom witnessed in her, “you’re probably going to have to look at his world, not his parents’ world. Their world provided the victims, Jeremiah. Marcie Amerson, Lucy Baldwin, even Mollie Lavender. His world, I suspect, provided the goons.”
Jeremiah frowned at her. “You see why you’re a society columnist, Helen? You deal in gossip and supposition. If you deal in facts, you’ll see that I have to look wherever I’ll find the answers. His world, their world, the goddamned moon. Right now, it makes no difference to me.”
He was halfway to the door before she’d blown enough air out of her lungs to answer his insult. “Kiss my ass, Tabak,” she yelled. “I hope they seal off the building before you slither out of here.”
He winked at her, which further incensed her, and was down the corridor and out to the parking garage before his bosses could grab him by the short hairs and ask him what in hell he thought he was doing, up to his ears in a big story and not one word of it on the pages of the
Miami Tribune.
Spies everywhere, indeed. After she cooled off, Jeremiah would tell Helen he appreciated her warning.
There was something to be said for driving a vehicle not his own at such times. He waved to the guard at the garage, who recognized him too late, leaped out of his little cubicle of a building, and chased after him, on the alert for an errant reporter.
But by then, Leonardo Pascarelli’s little black Jaguar was well on its way to the on-ramp of 95 North.
16
M
ollie chose a dressy suit from her own closet and joined Deegan, Griffen, and Griffen’s small part-time staff on the terrace. Leonardo’s house and grounds were immaculate, designed for parties, and Griffen, with enviable calm, had whisked in food and drink, tossing brightly colored cloths over folding tables to make instant hors d’oeuvres tables and wine bars. She’d rearranged Leonardo’s pots, added more of her own, did up strings of dried flowers, and somehow, with very little apparent effort, made the terrace look festive.
George Marcotte’s security guard had posted himself at the gates, which he’d agreed to leave open for arriving guests. Mollie was unaccustomed to having security guards lurking. The guard was big and beefy and intimidating enough that if Mollie were a thief, she’d stay away from Leonardo Pascarelli’s house tonight.
The weather was perfect, warm and calm under a cloudless sky. A night for spontaneity and friends, she thought, feeling optimistic.
Jeremiah had called from the hospital. Croc was being released, still no charges filed against him. His parents had compromised, agreeing to let him stay in their guest house until he recuperated. Mollie wondered if Bobbi Tiernay really felt she knew her son after more than two years. She couldn’t imagine becoming that alienated from her own family. Why hadn’t Croc just stewed awhile, then gone home? Was that ever an option?
She found herself articulating her thoughts to Griffen, who was, she said, enjoying the lull before the storm. Guests hadn’t yet started to arrive. Griffen was uncorking wine bottles. “I’ve known kids like Kermit Tiernay my whole life,” she said, looking tired but not unduly so. “The poor little rich kid who’d practically commit murder to get his parents to acknowledge his existence. Or her. I don’t know if it’s worse with girls or not. People feel sympathy for poor kids with neglectful parents, but not rich kids, because they’ve got all the trimmings. The camps, the private schools, the lessons. But they still want the nights home watching TV or playing cards with their mums and dads. That’s only normal.”
“You’re not describing yourself, are you?” Mollie couldn’t contain her shock at the depth of Griffen’s emotion; she seemed personally outraged. “Is that what your upbringing was like?”
“Mine? No, no. I’ve got a great relationship with my parents.” She seemed a bit irritated, even offended, at Mollie’s misinterpretation. “Not all us rich kids are fucked up, you know.”
“Deegan doesn’t seem to have suffered his brother’s fate.”
“No.” She uncorked a bottle of cabernet sauvignon, calmer. “Some people are just naturally more resilient, I think. But imagine, Mollie. You’re the child of rich, selfish parents who think they adore you. I mean, they really believe they adore you. They believe you can do no wrong. That you’re perfect.”
“That would be a hard way to live. Nobody’s perfect. Everybody makes mistakes.”
She set the wine bottle down, a slight tremble to her long, thin hands. “Yes, exactly. So you have these adoring parents, and they never ask you to do anything hard in your life. In fact, they make sure you never do anything hard, which makes you wonder if they really
do
believe in you—if all that adoration is just an excuse for them to ignore you. If you’re perfect, you don’t need attention. If you can do no wrong, you don’t need attention. If you never have to do anything hard, you don’t need attention. They get to congratulate themselves for the wonderful life they’ve given you.”
“And you end up perpetuating the illusion that you’re perfect, because that’s what’s expected of you.”
“But you grow up craving your parents’ attention, only you’re cocky and you’re fun to be around and you’ve never, ever had to face the consequences of your actions.”
“That would be tough,” Mollie said carefully, wondering if Griffen was trying to tell her more than was on the surface, but she could hear Jeremiah warning her against speculating. “At some point, you
will
make a mistake. You’ll shatter the illusion.”
“It’d take a lot to shatter that kind of illusion.”
Mollie felt a chill despite the warm temperature. “I suppose you could also grow up and realize your parents are what they are and there’s no changing them.”
“Yeah. I suppose. But how many people accept their parents’ shortcomings before they’ve acted out against them?” She grinned suddenly, but there was no humor, no pleasure, in her dark eyes. “God, I’m sounding like a therapist. Not to worry. I’m just a Palm Beach girl who knows how to cook.”
“Griffen, are we talking about Deegan here? Or are you getting theoretical? Where is he, anyway?”
“He’s out front meeting guests.” She grabbed another bottle of wine, shoved in the corkscrew. “If I give everyone food poisoning, I guess I can always become a shrink. Here comes Chet Farnsworth. The guests must be arriving. I’d better concentrate or I
will
poison the guests.” She spun around, her cheeks rosy with exertion, a touch of embarrassment. But she was being evasive, and Mollie knew it. “Look, what I said—forget it, okay? It’s bullshit. I’ve been working too hard. It’s my busy season, and I just…I’ve just been thinking too much, I guess. You won’t mention this conversation to Tabak, will you? Reporters. You know what hounds they are. And he was born suspicious. God knows what he’ll read into this, and then he’ll have to know.”
“I understand, Griffen. I don’t need to tell anyone about our conversation, unless you know something that the police—”
“No!” She paled, horrified. “No, of course not. God. I’d better get to work or there go both our reputations.”
She breezed off into the kitchen of the main house, which was brightly lit, almost looking lived in. Mollie greeted Chet and his wife, still feeling vaguely uneasy. But she pushed back her questions and concentrated on her guests and her party.
“You’re okay?” Chet asked, concerned. He was a man who missed nothing, a good thing, Mollie supposed, in both an astronaut and a pianist.
“Just a little nervous. I’ve never done this kind of party.”
“Relax. It’ll be fun.” He winked at her. “If things start dragging, I’ll pull everybody inside and play the piano. Pascarelli has one, I assume?”
“A grand piano in the front room. He likes to play it and sing drinking songs with his friends.”
Chet laughed. “I think I’m going to like this guy when I finally meet him.”
He and his wife drifted off to the hors d’oeuvres and wine, and Mollie moved to greet the Tiernays and Diantha Atwood as they came down the brick walk. They were simply but elegantly dressed, and only if one were looking—and Mollie was—would one see the strain of the past forty-eight hours. What a horrible way, she thought, to have a long-lost son reenter their lives.
Before she could welcome them, Deegan materialized behind his parents and grandmother with, incongruously, Jeremiah at his side. Mollie’s breath caught. Jeremiah wore a dark, casual suit that fit his frame perfectly, emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his legs.
Mollie smiled, “Welcome—thank you for coming.”
“Our pleasure,” Bobbi Tiernay said, taking her hand briefly. “What a wonderful setting, Mollie. Deegan told us you’d considered canceling after what happened. I’m so glad you didn’t. We brought Kermit home late this afternoon.”
No mention of shoving him in the guest house. “Are the police any closer to finding out who attacked him?”
“No,” Michael Tiernay said, his wife visibly uncomfortable beside him, “and I’m afraid Kermit’s not able to be of much help. The attack happened fast, and it was dark.”
Diantha Atwood smiled politely. “There’s so much confusion right now. We’re just delighted to have an evening free to meet some of the people Deegan has been working with. I see Chet Farnsworth.” And she subtly moved in his direction, her daughter and son-in-law following her lead.
Deegan, looking sheepish, said with just a hint of sarcasm, “Gran’s the expert at coping with the socially awkward moment.”
Mollie grimaced. “I should learn to keep my big mouth shut.”
“You’re just direct,” he said. “Be glad. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go give Griffen a hand.”
“By all means.”
Mollie turned to Jeremiah, who, she knew, had been watching and listening with interest, if not objectivity. “Anything new?”
He shook his head. “Croc has no idea how the necklace ended up in his back pocket. None. Zip. Or so he says. I think he has
ideas
—Croc always has ideas—but I’ve been on his case for two years about sticking to the facts.”
“What’s his mood like?”
“Contemplative. When he has something to say, he’ll say it. That’s one thing, anyway, he and his Kermit Tiernay alter ego have in common.”
Mollie could sense Jeremiah’s confusion, his sense of betrayal mixed in with his loyalty, his affection, for a troubled young man. “Have you had a chance to speak with him alone, or are his parents always hovering?”
He smiled thinly. “Trust me, Mollie, the Tiernays don’t hover. Michael’s trying, and maybe in her own way so is Bobbi. But, Jesus, could you be here tonight? Sure, they want to support Deegan, but he’s right—they’re also running up the flag, demonstrating that their older son might be a suspected jewel thief, but they’re from strong stock, they’ll carry on.”
“Where would you be if you were in their shoes?” Mollie asked.
“We’d all be with Croc.” His eyes darkened, lost in the shifting shadows of the pool lights, Griffen’s candles. Mollie could feel his somber mood. “The parents, the grandmother, the brother. I’d have told him his publicist boss could throw a cocktail party without him.”
“Which I did tell him.”
“I know you did. I’m not criticizing them, him, you. Look, you’ve got guests,” he said. “See to them. Have fun tonight.”
She sighed, felt a little breathless, asked abruptly, “Do you think the real jewel thief will show?”
He went still. “Mollie…”
“It’s not Croc. You know it’s not. And it’s not me.”
It was as if a mask had dropped over his face. “This isn’t the time. I think your mutt owner has just arrived.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll go mingle.”
She watched him saunter off to the wine bar, couldn’t stop herself from imagining more parties, all different kinds of parties, with him at her side. His was a commanding presence, mitigated by his dark good looks and easy humor. Like herself, he was accustomed to going it alone, forging his own way, yet he was also surprisingly good with people, at ease with them, tolerant if opinionated.
He wandered among the crowd, saying little, and she could see that a Palm Beach cocktail party just wasn’t his thing, that where he was most comfortable, most himself, was when he was working a story. And that knowledge slammed her fantasies up against the hard wall of reality. Resolving mysteries, unraveling intricacies.
Those
were what made Jeremiah Tabak get up in the morning. And once he had things sorted out in his mind, resolved and unraveled, finished, he was on to his next mystery, his next set of intricacies.
And no matter how good his intentions, how much he believed he wanted to be with her now, his attention span for her just might not extend beyond figuring out who’d ripped the necklace off her neck Friday night, and why, and how all the pieces fit together.
He joined her at the wine bar. “You’re looking restless,” he said.
She managed a smile. “I was just thinking the same about you.”
“I
am
restless. Have you noticed Griffen and Deegan? They seem to be on the skids to me. I’m wondering if they know more than they’re saying.”
“Me, too.” She inhaled, thoughts and images swarming over her, snippets of conversations flooding her brain. “Jeremiah—”
He stiffened. “What is it?”
“I haven’t thought of this before, but it’s been sifting around since I talked to Griffen a little while ago. It’s possible—they could be another common denominator.”
“Griffen and Deegan?”
She nodded. “I’m not positive. She said something to me earlier, and it’s been eating at me…” She paused, pushing through her uncertainties about him, about what she was saying. “I could never testify to it—and maybe it’s just the wine and the stresses of the past few days—but I wouldn’t be surprised if they made some kind of appearance at every event the thief hit. They might just stop in for a few minutes, like they did on Friday, or Griffen would be catering—”