Philomena Skeps’s residence was at the end of a lane whose post-and-rail fences would be smothered in rambling roses by July. It was a traditional Cape Cod colonial in silvered cedar, with its share of rose trellises and enough land to say that the property was extremely valuable. It went down to the placid water of the sheltered side and had its own jetty and boathouse; someone liked messing around in boats. On the side wall of the house toward the front was a fuel oil outlet that said the tenant lived here all year round. Gazing about in delight, Carmine trod up the crunchy pebbled path to the front door.
Mrs. Skeps answered it herself. Hers was a dusky beauty, of thick black hair that curled, dark skin, black brows and lashes, dark green eyes.
“Come in, Captain,” she said, leading him down a long hall to the back of the house, where an English-style conservatory had been added, all glass joined by graceful Art Nouveau iron struts painted white. It was stuffed with plants, some of them touching the transparent roof, but space enough had been left for a white-painted table and chairs and, in a different spot, two small white-padded settees. The pots, he noticed, were all painted white; Mrs. Skeps was a perfectionist. Green shall be the color of the room’s glory, white shall all else be.
She had provided him with pastries. As he hadn’t stopped on the road for breakfast, he made short work of the dainty goodies along with several cups (no mugs!) of coffee. Only when he was done did he lead the conversation away from pleasantries.
“You never remarried, did you?” he asked.
“No. Desmond was my only love,” she said, giving Skeps his full name as if she never did otherwise. Then she dropped her bombshell, voice tranquil. “We were reconciling.”
His startled eyes rested on her face, which remained smooth and impassive. “You were? After so long?”
“Yes, for young Desmond’s sake. I contacted Desmond over four months ago, and we’ve been having a series of discussions ever since. There is another woman, you know.”
“If there is, Mrs. Skeps, we haven’t found a trace of her.”
“It’s Erica Davenport, of course.”
“She denied it emphatically, ma’am.”
“Naturally! It wasn’t a great love affair, to be sure. On either side. Nevertheless, Captain, that Desmond should dispense with her services was one of my conditions.”
“And did he dispense with her services?”
“Yes, shortly after I first contacted him.”
“Did he give her a farewell gift of diamond earrings and a diamond pendant?” Carmine asked, curious. Well, according to the selfsame Erica Davenport, curiosity was his besetting sin.
Mrs. Skeps laughed, genuinely amused. “Who, Desmond? No! He may be one of America’s richest men, but he’s a miser.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, dear, it’s so hard to speak—or think!—of Desmond in the past tense. No, what Desmond gave Erica was infinitely more valuable than diamonds, though it cost him nothing.”
“A seat on the Board, among other things.”
“Quite so. I didn’t mind her at all. While she was with Desmond, he didn’t plague me.”
“You’re well educated.”
“Yes, mostly from reading.”
“The sheepskin’s fine, but it’s the extracurricular reading that really educates. But why, Mrs. Skeps, did you make your overtures of reconciliation? Your husband’s jealousy ruined your marriage.”
“I told you, because of young Desmond.”
“Isn’t he better off without the horrors his father used to put you through? I’ve had to read all the divorce material, so I know.”
“I made him give me his word that he’d never repeat that kind of conduct,” said Mrs. Skeps. “His word was sacred to Desmond. You see, young Desmond is moving into his teens, and a boy of that age needs a father, no matter how inadequate. I would die for my child, Captain! I also believe that, having given his word, Desmond would have kept it.”
“And now all your plans have collapsed.”
“Yes, but at least I tried, and young Desmond knows that I tried. With his father gone, my own brothers can step in—they didn’t dare while Desmond was alive. He threatened them with hired killers, and he meant the threat. He said anyone could buy a killer if they knew where to go.”
I wonder, who else knows where to buy a hired killer? Dr. Erica Davenport, maybe? Philip Smith? Frederick Collins? Gus Purvey, even if I do like the man? Carmine thought. Aloud he asked, “How is your son?”
“Recovering slowly. He had such a terrible bout of what I’d always dismissed as a benign children’s complaint—chicken pox. He had the sores right down inside his throat—everywhere! The worst is that he’s going to have to repeat his school year.”