Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
Less than three hours after Captain walked out of the front gate, six Pinkerton agents arrived in two vehicles.
They parked under the portico roof and entered the Bram carrying valises and larger metal cases full of supplies and equipment.
They were dressed in stylish dark suits, varied in size from medium height and weight to junior giants, but every one of them had the look of a PI in a movie and appeared capable of knocking the jujubes out of any thug who made the mistake of taking a swing at them or questioned the virtue of their mothers.
Two met with Loretta and Franklin in his study to be briefed on everything Captain had said during his visit.
The other four spread through the house to assess its vulnerability to invasion by psychopathic human oddities and the carnival pitchmen who buy them dirty magazines.
All the windows were of bronze with muntins that couldn’t be as easily broken as wood, and individual panes were far too small to admit an intruder if the glass was cut out.
Most operative windows were the casement type with two tall halves that could be opened from the inside only with a hand crank.
The handles were detachable so that no one could break a pane, reach inside, and laboriously crank the halves apart.
The thumb-turn latches on the double-hung windows were replaced with keyed locks.
All the exterior doors had mortise locks on the stile above the knob.
The agents drilled the butte stile to add a keyed deadbolt on that side as well.
Beginning tomorrow night, four agents would be stationed in the gardens, and six would patrol the interior of the Bram, although no trouble was expected until twenty-four hours later.
We hoped Captain and the boy would be located and detained for police before four o’clock Thursday, when he intended to phone with instructions as to where the hundred thousand dollars should be taken and whom he expected to deliver it.
If his whereabouts remained unknown at that time, things could get dicey.
When he learned that there had never been any intention of meeting his demand, that Franklin and Loretta had been buying time either to find or prepare for the cousin-murdering psychopath, that was the moment when I would be in real danger.
The crisis would escalate through the days ahead until Pinkerton could bring an end to it.
So this Tuesday night might be the last in which we would know peace and quiet for a few days or maybe weeks.
During the busy afternoon and evening, when my thoughts might be expected to remain focused almost entirely on metaphoric mantises and a boy who liked to bite the horse he rode, I nonetheless lost myself in Gertie’s manuscripts as I reread them with a critical eye.
Maybe my easy immersion was in part because I had spent so much of my life living inside fiction written by others that I’d come to feel more at home and safer in the worlds within those pages than in the real world with its plotless chaos and frightening momentum.
But it also—and perhaps primarily—was a testament to Gertie’s talent.
Because of all the activity in the house earlier, dinner had been a grab-what-you-can affair.
I had made a meal of only one of the sandwiches the Pinkerton crew enjoyed so much.
By 10:45, I was in need of further fortification, including a slab of that pecan-cherry pie.
I used the dimmer on the hallway and stair lights, so I didn’t have to go from the soft revelation of a reading lamp to a brightness that would sour the mood in which Gertie’s writing left me.
Passing by the open doors and doorless archways of dark rooms, I felt as safe as if I were aboard a luxury liner miles out on a gently rolling sea, far from the shores where robbers robbed and rapists raped and armies clashed by night.
When I pushed open the swinging door between the butler’s pantry and the kitchen, I was surprised to find Chef Lattuada wiping off the center island in bright light.
“Wow. You must have an amazing breakfast planned,” I said, “if you’re already starting to prepare it.”
“I cleaned up before nine o’clock, after I thought the last of the gumshoe guests had gone.
Wasn’t much debris. I was impressed that Pinkerton agents were neater than the ladies of the Community Aid Society when they visited for tea.
I went back to my apartment, but later, when I stepped out to smoke, I saw the kitchen lights were on. ”
“Smoke?” I pretended to be appalled. “No one has permission to smoke on the estate.”
“As I’m well aware. Did I say it was a cigarette?”
“A cigar would be worse.”
“It wasn’t a cigarette, cigar, or pipe.”
“Well, you clearly weren’t on fire yourself.”
“It was a peach.”
“A peach?”
“Yes. A lovely ripe peach.”
“And you smoked it.”
“Essentially, yes.”
As there was not much I liked better than fencing with Chef in this fashion until one of us could no longer keep a straight face, I said, “I’m curious. When one wishes to smoke a ripe peach before bed, how does one light it and keep it burning, considering its juiciness?”
“I chose the wrong word. I should have said I stepped outside to flambé a peach before bed.”
“How inconvenient. You’d have to bring with you not just the doomed peach but also a flambéing pan, a bottle of brandy, a source of flame, and whatever other ingredients make your peach flambé as unique as I’m sure you’d want. Why not do it in your kitchen?”
“It’s no trouble outside. Anyhow, it’s a sacred tradition.”
“Flambéing a peach outside before bed is a family tradition?”
“Not just family. It’s a national tradition.”
“That would be Italy?”
“Yes. Precisely. We are a peach-loving people.”
“You’re telling me everyone in Italy steps outside before bed and flambés a peach?”
“Not everyone. Perhaps eighty percent of our people. There are always those who rebel against tradition. Communists and the like.”
“You’ll excuse me if I find this hard to believe.”
“Is that so? Have you ever been to Italy?”
“I’m of half a mind to go there tomorrow.”
“I suggest you wait until Mussolini and his ilk are thrown out of office, Addie. Then you and I can go together to the annual Festa del Pesca, the Festival of the Peach. Tens of thousands gather in plazas and parks to simultaneously flambé peaches. It is a beautiful and moving sight. The golden light of myriad brandy flames dances over the facades of the buildings and glows in the smiling faces of the celebrants, as the fragrance of all those warm peaches fills the night. It is the experience of a lifetime.”
I surrendered and laughed. “I’m so glad you’ve never quite grown up.”
“That is a fate I have tried to strenuously avoid.”
“So, I came all this way for an enormous piece of the pecan-cherry pie that I should have had with dinner. Don’t tell me some hungry hawkshaw got his mitts on it, so now I’ll have to settle for a smoked peach.”
Chef gave me two thumbs up. “I was prepared for the equivalent of a plague of locusts. I made four pies. The fourth remains safe in the third Frigidaire. If you wish, indulge yourself until you fall violently ill. For whatever reason, the malingering sleuth rummaged through two Frigidaires but not the last one.”
“Rummaged?”
“As you know, I keep the contents of my refrigerators better organized than a lawyer’s files. Everything was where it shouldn’t be. He sat at the center island to eat and left a mess.”
“If anyone in this family left a mess,” I said, “they’d have to answer for it. They’d clean up after themselves because they’d know what the punishment is for slacking off.”
“And to think, starting tomorrow night, there will be even more Pinkertons pinking around than there were today.”
“Tell Lynette about this. She would have had to let him out, the hungry malingerer, so she’ll know which one he was.”
Chef Lattuada shrugged. “They’re here to keep you all safe. I don’t want to make them feel unwelcome—not even if one of them is a sloppy slacker.” He opened the third Frigidaire and withdrew a pie. “I can give you the whole thing and a fork to take to your room.”
“You’re a gentleman, a true friend. But if you’d just cut a piece for me, I’ll pour a glass of milk.
I’ll eat at the island and clean up after myself.
You need to go back to your place and get a good night’s rest. You’ll have a lot of cooking to do.
If some of the same agents come back, you’ve raised their expectations just like you’ve raised all of ours over and over again. ”
He smiled. “You are a charmer, Addie.”
“Thanks. I’ve been called worse. I’ll let you out.”
“No need. I’ve got my old key for the old locks and my new key for the new locks. I hope that’s the end of more keys. My dad had so many responsibilities, fourteen keys on his key ring, way too much to think about. The fewer keys, the clearer your mind, the better your life. Good night, Addie.”
“Good night, Luigi. I won’t forget that promise to take me to the Festa del Pesca when Mussolini’s gone.”
With his hand, he drew a cross over his heart. He left by the kitchen door, locked both deadbolts, waved at me through the French panes, and followed the lamplit garden path to his apartment.