Two down - By Nero Blanc Page 0,3

racing . . . However, the yacht broker assured me the Orion is brand-new, besides being ‘extremely manageable for two gals’—his words.” Genie began imitating the broker’s condescending delivery. “ ‘No backstay, Mrs. Pepper . . . a walk-through transom . . . nice taffrail seats. You two gals should have a blast out there . . .’ However, I’m still concerned we’re—”

“Are you two yammering about spinnakers and tidal charts again?” Tom handed each woman a flute of champagne. “Cheers! Here’s to good friends.” He raised his glass, then draped a long arm over his wife’s shoulders. “Stop worrying, Genie. It’s the first of October. Don’t most of the experienced sailors hereabouts continue to ply these waters until Thanksgiving?”

“Of course they do,” was Jamaica’s pleasant rejoinder. “Nantucket’s a piece of cake. Thirty miles from Hyannis . . . And an extra thirty or so from here—”

“I still feel we should practice on a day sail before attempting a longer cruise,” Genie continued. “Just to get a feel for the way the boat handles—”

“Genie . . . Genie . . . listen to your old pal . . . ‘piece of cake’ like the lady says.” His tone had become perceptibly less patient.

Genie’s body stiffened immediately. “Perhaps Jamaica’s a better sailor than I, Tom.”

“Maybe she’s just got bigger—”

“Hey, hey, you two! Break it up! I didn’t come east to witness marital feuds. Besides, you’d better not get on this lady’s bad side, Tom. Remember what the Bard said: a ‘tiger’s heart wrapped in a woman’s hide.’ ”

Pepper drained his glass. “That’s my little wife, all right. She’s quite a determined package—although you might not know it to look at her.” He bent down to kiss her, and for a moment they were so consumed with each other, their guest might not have existed. “Listen, darling,” Tom finally murmured, “if you get bored with your cruise, you can always head home. Or, hey, ditch the damn boat in Nantucket, and you and your buddy can hole up in that spa they have . . . I’ll hire someone to sail the Orion back to Newcastle. This is your holiday, remember.”

“Why don’t you join our little trip, Mistah Peppah, honey?” Jamaica’s voice had been transformed by an accent as soft and creamy as magnolia flowers. “Fo’get about the elk or moose or whatevah it is you gonna be shootin’ up theah in the no’thlands of Maine.”

Tom laughed heartily. “You know I wouldn’t set foot on a boat if it was Noah’s Ark and I was the last man on the planet! I’ll spend my mini-vacation in a warm cabin on dry land rather that heaving my cookies on the high seas, thank you very much.”

“Come with us, Tom darling,” Genie added, continuing to nestle close to her husband.

She exuded such wedded bliss that Jamaica found herself sighing in envy. “You’re a fortunate woman, Genie. And you’re right. I have to find one of these for myself.” Then she shook her black mane and raised her glass in homage. “To Tom and Genie Pepper, who saved my life . . . Don’t laugh, you two; I mean that! . . . No more Crescent Heights . . . no more Reggie Flack . . . no more pea-brained ingenues . . . Here’s to good friends, and the glories of life in Newcastle.”

2

Rosco Polycrates had not been placed in this world to wear dinner jackets, frilly white shirts, cummerbunds, mother-of-pearl cuff links and studs, patent-leather shoes, and do-it-yourself bow ties. But when Sara Crane Briephs, the reigning dowager empress of Newcastle’s social set, had asked him to attend the Commodores’ dinner dance at the city’s exclusive Patriot Yacht Club, the invitation had come with one simple request: “Please, Rosco, don’t be so déclassé as to wear a clip-on bow tie.”

A third-generation Greek American and former Newcastle police detective turned private investigator, Rosco’s time on earth had made him more than savvy enough to know that a situation involving “self-tie bow ties” required a good deal of advanced planning—even though the salesman at Best Man Tuxedo Rentals had assured him that tying a formal necktie was no more difficult than lacing one’s shoes. “Once you get the hang of it,” the man had said.

Rosco had opted to allocate a full hour to accomplish the complicated task. It was an activity that made him regret his lack of a fancy Ivy League education. U. Mass. grads just couldn’t compete with Harvard alums when it came