Two down.

by Nero Blanc.

1.

"Where's Jamaica?"

The question was posed by a self-confident male voice, and it raced upward to the second floor of the Pepper home by way of a curving staircase dominated by a s.p.a.cious Palladian window. All the trappings of wealth and power appeared framed by this window: the manicured gardens grown dusky silver in autumn's evening light, the impeccable view of the Ma.s.sachusetts coast, the sculpted trees and marble benches arranged artfully beside a reflecting pool. No lesser house, no distant light or neighborly noise disturbed this perfect scene.

The question was repeated. The male voice had become more insistent.

A woman responded from the second-floor master suite. "In the Caribbean where it's always been." There was an edginess to the tone that could have indicated either anxiety or anger, but it was quickly supplanted by a conciliatory: "Sorry, darling, I just couldn't resist. Jamaica must be still dressing... You know how we women are..."

"Indeed I do!" The first voice reverberated with smug robustness. "You wear half the clothes we males are forced to don for these events-and you still take twice as long."

"I thought you said we had plenty of time..." Although still attempting humor, the timbre had turned crisp.

"We did before you two started staring into your closets..."

"But c.o.c.ktails don't begin until seven-thirty-"

"Do you want to arrive at the same moment as every other guest and wait in an interminable line at the entry gate? You know what it's like getting into the club for this party..."

"I'm not going to be rushed... And you know Jamaica won't be..."

The words continued to collide mid-landing and mid-step caroming across the antique Persian carpet, the elegant English landscape paintings, the crystal sconces with their rose silk shades, and the chandelier that hung in their midst like a gigantic, multifaceted diamond.

In a chintz-swagged guest room, the person who had inspired this domestic unease smiled as she walked toward her half-open door. "I'll be down in five, dear ones," she sang out in a rich contralto, "ten minutes at the very most... Don't squabble now, darlings; you're my best friends in the entire universe, and we're going to have a perfectly glorious evening."

She smiled again, then caught her reflection in the mirror. For a split second the radiant expression froze, transforming itself into something neither pleasant nor happy. Then, as rapidly, the speaker resumed her buoyant facade and tone. "You don't know how much good it does me to be here with you both. I feel positively reborn. I'll never miss Los Angeles. Never. Never!"

"Say that after you experience one of our New England winters, Jamaica," the man's voice called back.

"Nothing you say can scare me. I'm here to stay. A new life. A new me!"

Jamaica Nevisson-or Ca.s.sandra Lovett, as she was better known to a legion of adoring fans addicted to the daytime drama Crescent Heights Crescent Heights-had spent thirteen years in the City of Angels creating, inhabiting, and eventually becoming the raven-haired, emerald-eyed, conniving femme fatale femme fatale of the show. Jamaica had been wearing Ca.s.sandra's jet-black wig and emerald-tinted contact lenses so long she'd almost forgotten what she looked like without them. of the show. Jamaica had been wearing Ca.s.sandra's jet-black wig and emerald-tinted contact lenses so long she'd almost forgotten what she looked like without them.

"I really should thank my lucky stars for that odious photographer," she continued. "I needed a catalyst. I needed to reexamine my priorities!"

"No more disembodied chat, Jamaica." The man called up the stairs again. "I have some very good champagne sitting in ice down here. Two more minutes alone, and I'll be forced to pop the cork."

"Aye aye, sir," was Jamaica's amused response. No sound came from the master suite.

Jamaica finished dressing by pushing a strand of her own short, sandy-brown locks beneath "Ca.s.sandra's" black wig. She shook her head slightly, giving the false hair a totally natural appearance, then strolled to a Louis XV dressing table surmounted by a matching mirror. "Forty-five," she murmured. "Almost forty-six." It wasn't a joyful sound.

She smoothed the flesh-colored lines of a skintight, floor-length sheath that had been constructed to appear as if only the random pattern of sequins concealed her body's secrets. From five feet away, Jamaica Nevisson might have been wearing nothing more than a spa.r.s.e and shiny bouquet. Then she applied a final coat of black mascara to her pale brown lashes, outlined her lips in the dense, carmine color for which "Ca.s.sandra Lovett" was famed. While working, she tossed around the words she'd heard moments before: "Where's Jamaica?", and her serene expression darkened into an angry glare.

How many times had some wandering-palmed director or overweight stage manager mangled the same phrase? How many predawn hours had she endured, dragging herself to that wretched studio in the G.o.dforsaken San Fernando Valley only to be greeted by a bevy of backbiting scriptwriters armed with clever clever quips about the stupidity of actors and the brilliance of their own art? And how many evenings had she finished taping at eight, or even nine o'clock at night-only to find twenty pages of new dialogue shoved toward her weary chest with a dismissive: "Let's try to get it right tomorrow, huh, babe? For a change- quips about the stupidity of actors and the brilliance of their own art? And how many evenings had she finished taping at eight, or even nine o'clock at night-only to find twenty pages of new dialogue shoved toward her weary chest with a dismissive: "Let's try to get it right tomorrow, huh, babe? For a change-Ca.s.sie, babe?"

Jamaica glowered at the mirror, shook her raven hair again, and attempted a more winsome pose, but her wrathful expression seemed permanently stuck. Embittered, middle-aged female, it all but shrieked. Stalled career, no permanent relationship, no true and loving home.

Jamaica's shoulders sagged, and her back, always held so proud and straight-and youthful-drooped in despair. Forty-five, she thought again, with all the wrinkles, lines, and blotchy skin to show it. Forty-five in an industry where twenty was considered "seasoned."

When had her age begun to betray her? she wondered, although she already knew the answer. It had been when one particular paparazzo paparazzo had decided to make her his moving target. Catching "Ca.s.sandra Lovett" with her proverbial pants down had become his obsession. Jamaica hadn't been able to shop at Neiman's or dine in a Santa Monica bistro without encountering this demon with a Leica. She hadn't been able to approach her home in Holmby Hills without finding him encamped by the gates-or lurking in the neighbor's bougainvillea-waiting for her to take her daily swim, then squeezing off a roll that had ended up as had decided to make her his moving target. Catching "Ca.s.sandra Lovett" with her proverbial pants down had become his obsession. Jamaica hadn't been able to shop at Neiman's or dine in a Santa Monica bistro without encountering this demon with a Leica. She hadn't been able to approach her home in Holmby Hills without finding him encamped by the gates-or lurking in the neighbor's bougainvillea-waiting for her to take her daily swim, then squeezing off a roll that had ended up as Ca.s.sANDRA BARES ALL Ca.s.sANDRA BARES ALL according to according to The Hollywood Globe The Hollywood Globe's salacious headline.

Reggie Flack was the cretin's name. On retainer with The Hollywood Globe, The Hollywood Globe, his main a.s.signment was to photograph Jamaica Nevisson in poses as revealing-and unkind-as possible. He'd stalked her obsessively, taking perverse pleasure in affixing bitingly sarcastic theatrical quotations to each published photo. his main a.s.signment was to photograph Jamaica Nevisson in poses as revealing-and unkind-as possible. He'd stalked her obsessively, taking perverse pleasure in affixing bitingly sarcastic theatrical quotations to each published photo.

The last straw had come several weeks earlier. Jamaica had sailed to Catalina Island on her Oceanis 352 with an "unidentified male friend"-as The Hollywood Globe The Hollywood Globe later trumpeted-and had opted to take advantage of a supposedly secluded cove for a topless frolic. How Flack had discovered the outing, she didn't know, but he'd followed the pair to the island, scaled a cactus-infested hillside, and managed to snap a good many unflattering photos, all of which appeared in a full-color center spread under the caption: later trumpeted-and had opted to take advantage of a supposedly secluded cove for a topless frolic. How Flack had discovered the outing, she didn't know, but he'd followed the pair to the island, scaled a cactus-infested hillside, and managed to snap a good many unflattering photos, all of which appeared in a full-color center spread under the caption: The Island of Jamaica-"the Bounded Waters Should Lift Their Bosoms Higher Than the Sh.o.r.es." The Island of Jamaica-"the Bounded Waters Should Lift Their Bosoms Higher Than the Sh.o.r.es."

On the day the photo spread had appeared, Jamaica had marched bravely into the studio. She'd been determined to ignore the wretched press, but Phil Carney, the foulmouthed actor who played the show's patriarch, had goaded her unmercifully. "Philly" took delight in torturing the female performers, extras and leads alike, with a daily torrent of off-color comments-behavior the studio greeted with deaf ears.

His lewd remarks about Flack's photographs had pushed Jamaica over the edge. She'd slapped him across the face, stormed into the production office, told the head honcho to "take this job and shove it up your expletive deleted!", and slammed back to her dressing room. From there, she'd placed a call to her longtime friend Genevieve Pepper in Newcastle, Ma.s.sachusetts.

"Come back east!" Genie had laughed in response to her friend's woeful phone call. "We have plenty of room, and you know Tom adores having you visit... Besides, there's the Commodores' dinner dance at the Yacht Club on October first. You can shake up the musty old place, and find some fabulous guy with scads of money!... After that, you and I can charter a boat... sail to Nantucket... You'll forget California ever existed... And, yes, Jamaica, the guest rooms are are equipped with Jacuzzis and steam showers... We're not as primitive in Ma.s.sachusetts as you might imagine..." equipped with Jacuzzis and steam showers... We're not as primitive in Ma.s.sachusetts as you might imagine..."

Now, as she sat safely in one of those peaceful guest suites, there was no question in Jamaica's mind that leaving Crescent Heights Crescent Heights was the smartest thing she'd ever done. was the smartest thing she'd ever done.

Jamaica gave herself another wink, unconsciously replicating Ca.s.sandra's come-hither look, then scooped up her ermine stole from the settee, sailed down the stairway, and stepped into the Peppers' baronial living room.

"Ahhh... There she is. And, looking as luscious as ever... You're going to knock their socks off, Jamaica!"

Compliments came easily to Edison Pepper, or "Tom," as he was known to both the elite and humble of the city of Newcastle. Late forties with an athletic six-foot-four frame, eyes the color of sun-spattered steel, and perfectly tousled graying hair, Pepper had risen from humble origins to become a phenomenally successful investment banker whose newest venture, Global Outreach and Lender Development Fund, was proving an extraordinary boon to Newcastle's not-for-profit inst.i.tutions.

Investing their endowment capital with the G.O.L.D. Fund permitted the organizations an enormous return on their money. Everyone from the local historical society to the hospital's new multimillion-dollar children's wing was benefiting handily. With his easy charm and manicured good looks-accentuated this evening by a hand-tailored dinner jacket, watered-silk bow tie, and hefty diamond studs-Edison "Tom" Pepper, was Newcastle's hero.

"It's hard to believe you could look more lovely in person than you did on the set of Crescent Heights, Crescent Heights, but it's true. You're making my knees knock." Tom gave Jamaica a light kiss on the cheek and again called upstairs to his wife, "Genie, Jamaica won the battle... I'm off to the conservatory to fetch that bottle of champagne." He glanced at Jamaica. The smile he gave her was dazzling. "Why not? My driver is chauffeuring us tonight." but it's true. You're making my knees knock." Tom gave Jamaica a light kiss on the cheek and again called upstairs to his wife, "Genie, Jamaica won the battle... I'm off to the conservatory to fetch that bottle of champagne." He glanced at Jamaica. The smile he gave her was dazzling. "Why not? My driver is chauffeuring us tonight."

Genie entered the living room at the precise moment Tom was exiting. Although she was easily five years younger than Jamaica, it took only one glance at Tom to make her realize how potent were her friend's charms. "Two Peppers and one Nevisson, as per your request, sire," Genie said as she tossed her lithe body on a Sheraton sofa whose gold satin upholstery matched the color of her ball gown. Then she raised her voice and called toward the conservatory: "And I defy you to say I'm late."

"I didn't want us to miss the champagne," her husband's distant words replied.

"Thanks to your careful advance planning, we won't."

"Let's make this a festive affair, Genie," he called back. "Please."

The tone had a finality that made Genie grimace-a reaction she tried to hide by adding a quick, dismissive laugh. "I was going to say that if you don't walk away with a husband tonight, the men in this city need to have their heads examined... but now I'm not so certain a stuffy Yankee spouse is what you need."

"Who said I was in the market for a mate?"

"Ah, 'my dear Lady Disdain, are you yet living?'" Genie laughed more freely, all tension suddenly gone. "You were marvelous as Beatrice in Much Ado Much Ado... When was that? Three years ago? Four?"

Jamaica sidestepped the issue of years, instead answering with an airy: "'Done to death by slanderous tongues... '"

"That's not true! You got fabulous reviews. Even in New York."

"And you, Genevieve, should never have left the stage."

"Thanks for the compliment, but that was a long, long time ago."

Jamaica forced a smile. "Don't remind me... A youthful summer playing everything from Shakespeare to O'Neill-"

"And who was always cast as a lead?"

"Supporting players are just as important as the show's star."

Genie grinned. "But they don't get offers from Hollywood studios... Anyway, you look absolutely stunning. I wish I could get away with wearing risque evening gowns, but Tom is always harping about 'appropriate dress'... I'm afraid I'm in serious danger of becoming a dowdy old wife."

Jamaica managed another thin smile. "You, old? Never."

"Next year, I'll be pushing forty."

"My heart bleeds."

The explosive sound of the champagne cork interrupted them.

"The dowdy woman's husband doth call," Jamaica said.

"I'm so glad you decided to leave L.A.," Genie answered as they crossed the marble foyer to join Tom. Their high satin heels clicked over the polished stone. "... happy you called us..."

"I didn't realize how much I needed to escape until Tom picked me up at the airport yesterday. I feel as if I've been granted a reprieve... And I'm so looking forward to leaving for Nantucket tomorrow... A week of total privacy... Promise me you'll never mention Hollywood."

"I promise."

"Or Beverly Hills... or Wilshire Boulevard-or Catalina Island!"

"I swear!" Genie was beaming. "Scout's honor." Then she changed tack by focusing on the planned cruise. Her demeanor became all business. "Of course, I would have preferred to take my own boat, but it's been stripped to the bones for racing... However, the yacht broker a.s.sured me the Orion 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-" 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 gla.s.s, 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 gla.s.s. "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 d.a.m.n boat in Nantucket, and you and your buddy can hole up in that spa they have... I'll hire someone to sail the Orion Orion back to Newcastle. This is your holiday, remember." 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 gla.s.s in homage. "To Tom and Genie Pepper, who saved my life... Don't laugh, you two; I mean that!... No more Crescent Heights 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, c.u.mmerbunds, 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 decla.s.se decla.s.se as to wear a clip-on bow tie." 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 a.s.sured 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. Ma.s.s. grads just couldn't compete with Harvard alums when it came to this kind of elaborate getup. Those rarefied types could probably tie bow ties in their sleep-and they'd probably inherited the neckties from their fathers' fathers. On the other hand, Rosco's dad had been a commercial fisherman; he'd pa.s.sed away when Rosco was a kid. Patent-leather shoes and puckery shirts requiring little gold b.u.t.tons hadn't been among his possessions. Neither had self-tie bow ties.

"Okay, just like shoes," Rosco muttered as he stood before his bathroom mirror, fiddling with a few fractious inches of glossy black satin. As he struggled, his mind skimmed over the events that had garnered this coveted invitation and resultant necktie battle. Two and a half months earlier, Mrs. Briephs' son, the much-lauded crossword editor at the Newcastle Herald, Newcastle Herald, had been murdered. It had been a complex case, involving more than a few prime suspects and a series of bizarre crossword puzzles. had been murdered. It had been a complex case, involving more than a few prime suspects and a series of bizarre crossword puzzles.

Rosco had finally apprehended the culprit; in doing so, he'd endeared himself to the elderly Mrs. Briephs. All spit and polish, with a personality that defied her eighty-some years, she'd found Rosco's youthful vitality, casual demeanor, and rugged good looks welcomely refreshing in her otherwise constrained world.

"Dang it." Rosco tugged at the ends of the tie and started from the beginning. "Okay... just like shoes... but backward."

For all the ugliness of the Briephs' case, there had been three very positive outcomes. One, Rosco had formed a lasting friendship with the redoubtable Sara. Two, the killer had been brought to justice. Three-and possibly the most important-Rosco had met Annabella Graham, the young crossword editor of Newcastle's other daily newspaper, the Evening Crier Evening Crier.

With an expertise in cryptics and a stubborn streak that had insisted insisted the puzzles were connected to the crime, Belle had not only identified Briephs' killer, she'd also snared Rosco's respect, admiration, and deep affection. Fighting their mutual attraction had proven difficult from the beginning. Now most of Newcastle was of the opinion that Rosco and Belle had become "an item." the puzzles were connected to the crime, Belle had not only identified Briephs' killer, she'd also snared Rosco's respect, admiration, and deep affection. Fighting their mutual attraction had proven difficult from the beginning. Now most of Newcastle was of the opinion that Rosco and Belle had become "an item."

"Aghhh." He yanked the tie loose once more and pressed the ends flat to his chest. "All right, bucko, concentrate. It's the same as tying..." He looked down at his shoes as if to gain inspiration from their knotted laces, but realized he'd already slipped into a pair of rented patent-leather dancing pumps with tidy grosgrain bows. His feet looked as if they'd been clad in an oversized version of a little girl's party shoes. He sighed again and continued to grapple with the tie, thinking of Belle as a sappy smile spread across his face.

The Yacht Club dinner dance would be the first opportunity for Sara and Belle to meet. And although Rosco didn't particularly relish the idea of spending an evening dressed like a gigantic penguin, he was eager to ensure that the women's relationship developed well. Belle was more than capable of holding her own, but Sara could intimidate a striking cobra if she put her mind to it. If the grande dame grande dame took it upon herself to be took it upon herself to be displeased displeased with a person, it could take that individual a lifetime to elicit even the frostiest smile. Rosco's fondness for both ladies made him acutely aware of the pressure he was facing. He had to make this dinner dance a success. with a person, it could take that individual a lifetime to elicit even the frostiest smile. Rosco's fondness for both ladies made him acutely aware of the pressure he was facing. He had to make this dinner dance a success.

He glanced at his watch: six-thirty. The hour he'd set aside for tie tying had somehow managed to evaporate. He'd told Belle he'd pick her up at six forty-five, then Sara at seven, and deliver everyone to the Yacht Club by seven-thirty for c.o.c.ktails and chitchat and whatever else they did in the halls of power, prestige, and nautical lore. He looked back into the mirror one last time and decided that although not perfect, perfect, the bow tie was the bow tie was acceptable acceptable. He grabbed his keys, ducked out of his apartment, and trotted over to his waiting chariot: a canvas-topped, four-wheel-drive red Jeep that predated the Sahara and Laredo models designed to attract the urban cowboys.

October 1 in Ma.s.sachusetts was often heralded by the crisp signs of a New England autumn: scarlet-hued leaves, the cold blue of the bay, and scudding whitecaps that looked as clean and frothy as fresh snow. But this evening was unseasonably mild, and the sinking sun had left a mellow pink-orange streak in the sky. The bigwigs at the Patriot Yacht Club party couldn't have asked for a better night.

Rosco seriously considered removing the Jeep's canvas top for one final summery ride, but decided against it. Instead, he slipped a ca.s.sette of an early Ella Fitzgerald recording into his antiquated tape player and eased into traffic. He arrived at Belle's front door fifteen minutes later.

Annabella Graham lived on Captain's Walk in the oldest section of Newcastle north of the original piers along the river that bore the city's name. The tiny houses were first built and owned by seafarers in the early eighteenth century. Two centuries of Ma.s.sachusetts' snow and ice, and an increasing exodus of city dwellers had left the places vacant and in gross disrepair, but a dozen years prior, a number of adventurous souls had purchased the derelict properties and returned them to their original charm. Belle's former husband, Garet Burke, had been part of this vanguard group. Garet was an Egyptologist who'd discovered he had more interest in tombs and mummies than he had in his wife-a concept Rosco found hard to fathom.

Rosco, the semitough ex-cop, had fallen for the erudite (and often quixotic) Belle hook, line, and sinker. He considered her the best thing that had ever happened to him-a thought that had lodged in his mind at the exact moment she opened the door in greeting.

"Rosco, look at you!" Her beaming smile indicated she was as stuck on him as he on her. "You're absolutely gorgeous!"

"Me... ? What about... you?"