The Weekend Visitor Read online

  The Weekend Visitor

  Jessica Thomas

  Chapter 1

  The minute I got home, my partner let me know in no uncertain terms that I was in deep trouble. Having been alone in the house for about five hours, he was threatening to report me for cruel and unusual punishment. He'd had food, water, toys and air conditioning, but he hadn't had me, and he hadn't had out. He was complaining loudly as he now ran around the backyard, keening, nose an inch above the ground, checking what trespassing squirrels and cats might have taken advantage of his imprisonment to frolic on his lawn.

  Oh, in case you haven't met, my partner is Fargo, a ninety-pound black Labrador retriever who has never quite grasped the meaning of the phrase, "You can't go with me." But he has other, more positive qualities. He has a sleek, muscular body, a beautiful deep bell of a bark and a heart the size of New Jersey. He is ever (well, nearly ever) by my side—alert and businesslike—and only a fool would raise a hand in my direction.

  There is one minor fault we keep strictly entre nous. When confronted by an upsetting situation, like the time the little cocker spaniel bitch found his attentions too intrusive and bit his ear, or the time a duck hunter fired off both barrels when we were nearby on the beach, Fargo forgets he is not a twenty-pound puppy and leaps into the safety of my arms. This results in my landing flat on my back with Fargo on top of me and both of us highly embarrassed. So I have learned to do a fast sidestep as I grab his collar and yell, "No, Fargo, no attack, boy!" He has no idea what this means, but I think it impresses anyone nearby.

  Anyway, he loves me and I love him. I don't comment on his penchant for rolling in strange dead things on the beach. And he has never, ever asked me if I am really going to wear that shirt out of the house. Great unions have been built on less.

  My telephone message machine wasn't in the best humor, either. Its bleary little red eye was going blink-blink-blink pause blink-blink-blink, telling me I had three messages waiting-waiting-waiting. I was not in a conversational mood. I was tired. I was hot. I still had a lot to do today. You know how it goes. Feast or famine. Today was feast.

  Early this morning I'd flown from Provincetown to Boston to testify in court for an insurance company that pays me to check out possible fraudulent injury claims. Me? I'm Alex Peres. My real first name is Alexandra, but unless you are a close relative at least fifty years in age, you will be wise to call me Alex. I'm a Private Investigator retained by several insurance companies to look after their interests in Provincetown. Tourist towns are always happy hunting grounds for those who feel a fortuitous slip or a fall or a nudge by a slowly moving car is a great way to fill the family coffers while enjoying a bit of sun and sea. I try to separate the likely claims from the absurd.

  From time to time, I also check out a potential employee for a local business, trace down an heir, look for runaways whose parents think, or at least hope, their kid may have headed here, and when my coffers are low, I do my least favorite work: I investigate a spouse who is thought to be grazing in forbidden pastures. I've even looked into a murder or two, but unfortunately have never been the kind of slick TV sleuth who can toss off the third martini, cuddle up to a statuesque blonde and say, "Your place or mine, kiddo?" and not have the fourth martini poured in my ear.

  This morning's insurance case had been pretty simple. A few weeks back, a woman had taken a fall over a tricycle left on the walkway of the B&B where she had been staying here in Provincetown. She was carted, groaning, to our nearby clinic, where doctors found nothing obviously wrong but would not commit themselves regarding a back injury. She hobbled around town for a couple of days, walking laboriously with a cane. But late one evening, she and her husband headed quietly for a local club, where I took several very clear photos of them enjoying a rather athletic salsa. I presented the date-stamped photos in court this morning. And once again, justice triumphed! Or at least fraud lost.

  That chore complete, I hied it back to Logan Airport, where my friend Cassie was waiting. Cassie is president, pilot, mechanic and receptionist of Outer Cape Charter, whose fleet includes a small twin-engine Beechcraft . . . period. She is a consummate pilot, a pal to cherish, and I'd have taken off for Timbuktu with her in a heartbeat. When I needed to get somewhere in a hurry she was always there, and charged me airline—not charter—rates, so I could legitimately pass the expenses along to my clients.

  Back at Ptown Airport, we parted quickly, without our usual coffee or beer. We both had to be spiffed up and shining at the same place in about two hours: namely, Fishermen's Bank.

  The bank was having a dual celebration late this afternoon. For one thing it had just finished a lavish and long overdue interior redecoration of its 1870's building, including, of course, its two main conference rooms. The larger would feature original art by several of Ptown's most accomplished painters. The smaller would be hung with no less than seven of my black-and-white photos! Nature photography has long been a hobby, avocation, second career . . . whatever . . . for me. My work appears in several local galleries and brings in a fair amount of money. But this ... this was not only a helluva sale, but also an honor.

  The second half of Fishermen's gala was to mark the opening of their Financial Services Center, of which the Chief Financial Planner was my lover, Cindy. So I figured I'd better get my tail down there before too long because, one, I'd do well to make nice with the Board of Directors and, two, Cindy would kill me if I didn't show up.

  But before I headed for the shower, I punched the play button on the answering machine. When the tape finished playing, I was less thrilled than ever and was thoroughly confused as well. The first call was from my brother, Sonny. He wanted to ask me a small favor regarding Mary Sloan. The second call was from John Frost, a local attorney who sent most of his investigatory work my way. He wanted to see me regarding a possible case that had been referred to him by Mary Sloan. The third was from Mary Sloan, who wanted me to call her regarding an important matter.

  I don't know Mary Sloan very well, and I don't like her very well, either. She's a rather small woman with curly, sandy hair, still this side of forty, but not by much. She works for the phone company, apparently a valued, long-time installation/repair person, and she lives down in the east end of town in a small, immaculately kept house with a small, immaculately kept yard and an immaculately kept tan SUV. As far as I knew, the SUV got briefly dirty twice a year . .. when she put her immaculately kept boat into the water, and when she took it out again.

  For these two tasks, Mary needed help. She called on various people, seemingly at random, not with a request for aid, but a statement of when and where you were to appear. You'd figure that, after the wet, messy chore was completed, Mary would invite you back for coffee or a drink or, if you were walking, at least give you a ride home. Not so. A stingy word of thanks about did it, and you were left to squish your way home, or to the nearest bar, or first aid station, as you saw fit.

  I'd been her victim last fall. We finally got her boat out of the water and onto the trailer, just as it started to pour rain. Reluctantly, Mary gave me a ride downtown, where she said she had a dental appointment, and left me to walk home in the rain, nursing a badly scraped shin. The spring before my misadventure, she'd abandoned a friend of mine who'd stepped in a hole and hurt his ankle while getting her boat into the water. Poor Wolf had had to hobble to the nearest phone and get his lover to come rescue him. Another time, one of the local cops had fallen casualty by helping push Mary's vehicle when she got it stuck in the sand. They got it rolling. She roared away trailing rooster feathers of water and sand and leaving Mitch standing in eight inches of water, looking as if he'd been sprayed with stucco.

  This general attitude may have been why Mary seeme
d terminally single. She wasn't bad looking, and she fell in love easily. The minute the affair was consummated, she wanted the other woman to move right in and start their life together. Unfortunately, when the move was consummated, the new lover usually found most of her belongings exiled to Mary's garage because "there just wasn't room" in the house, and discovered her weekends devoted to housecleaning, which found Mary dusting and "picking up," while the lover mopped the kitchen and cleaned the bathroom.

  One of her recent exes had cornered me in the Wharf Rat Bar shortly after their breakup. It was a dismal day and Dee was fertilizing her depression with a heavy treatment of scotch. With every sip she felt compelled to tell me more about their short-lived romance. She knew it would go no further.

  That's both an advantage and a disadvantage to being a private investigator. People know a PI may have big ears, but they also know you won't be in business long if you have a big mouth. So you become the vault for many strange confessions, most of which you'd rather not hear and try to forget, but occasionally for information that is, or later becomes, quite valuable. I had no reason to think Dee's screed was of any potential value, but I couldn't shut her up, either, so I had simply let the words flow.

  Actually, I only remembered one small section of the monologue, and that because it struck me funny. According to Dee, Mary was not especially physically motivated, but was extremely romantically motivated—at least verbally. Dee said it was like being trapped in an old movie rerun with breathy comments like, "Take me, my darling, I'm yours," "You fill me with mad desire," "Do what you will, I am helpless in your arms," and other remarks that would have sent me scampering down the street, still pulling on my clothes.

  Now I didn't say any of this information was nice. But it comprised my mental file on Mary Sloan, and you can understand it did not brighten my day that Mary had appeared, as it were, three times on my horizon.

  A shower didn't give me any inspiration. Nor did putting on makeup and getting dressed in my "other" good summer outfit. I donned the navy slacks and white blouse. I'd add the blue-and-white striped blazer when I got to the bank. For now, I walked into the kitchen, wishing for a beer and settling for iced tea. My partner approached, looking sad. He knew that the "good" clothes probably meant he wasn't invited. Again.

  I looked into those intelligent, warm brown eyes and explained, "There's a party at the bank. I have to go." He gave half a tail wag. If there was a party, why was he being left behind? "It's business." Yeah? "Lots of people." So? "Forget it." Sigh.

  "Now, Fargo, what do you think of the Mary Sloan tapes?" He slumped morosely to the floor, possibly because Mary was not one of his favorite people either. "I know," I said. "I'm not fond of her myself, but I wonder what on earth is going on." I sat at the table and lit a cigarette. It was my fifth of the day... all I allowed myself. If I had another one, I would lecture myself quite sternly. I checked my watch. I still had a little time.

  I picked up the phone. I'd start with my brother.

  I dialed his number and the answer was almost immediate. A woman's voice said, "Provincetown Police Department, may I help you?"

  "Hi, Jeanine. It's Alex. Is Sonny handy?" She thought so and would ring his office. My brother Sonny is known more officially as Detective Lieutenant Edward J. Peres of the Provincetown Police Department. He's a good cop, and will someday make a good chief. Right now he was my big brother sounding oily, like he wanted something.

  "Hey, Alex! Thanks for calling. I know you've got a busy day. Really appreciate it. How's Fargo?"

  "Yes, I do, Fargo is fine, what do you want?" I sipped my tea, careful of spills.

  "Gee, Alex, it's good to talk to you, too. Nothing big. Trish just bought a little runabout up in Eastham. My SUV can pull it okay, but there's no boat trailer available. I thought maybe you could borrow Mary Sloan's. I know she owes you a favor or two. It would save Trish renting one. We'd like to get it in the water this weekend."

  I took a drag on number five and thought for a moment. Trish was Sonny's latest girlfriend. She was a nice young woman lawyer, and John Frost's assistant. And now she wanted a favor from Mary Sloan. All happenstance? "Sonny," I asked, "Have you already talked to Mary?"

  "No. I thought it would be simpler if you handled it. Why?"

  Simpler for him, maybe. "I don't know. When I got home, I had three phone messages. Yours, one from Mary Sloan and one from John Frost about Mary Sloan. That's an awful lot of Mary for one day."

  I could sense him shrugging at the phone. "No idea. But I'm sure it's not about the boat... just coincidence."

  He was wrong. It would be an event-filled summer, but you couldn't really say any of it was coincidental.

  Chapter 2

  I got one of the last spaces in the bank parking lot, which told me the party must be well underway. I walked through the little pocket park, past the fountain and approached the big, heavy double glass doors set between their towering guardians of granite pillars. A uniformed guard took my invitation and opened the door for me. How very Hollywood!

  I walked inside to find my eyes drawn irresistibly upward by a giant, radiant crystal chandelier, reaching all the way to the third floor ceiling, its thousands of facets reflecting golden daggers off the tellers' brass grilles and the brass bars protecting the open vault, where I was certain one could still find small chests of escudos and louis d'or and golden guineas among the grimy canvas bags of current base metal coins and grubby paper bills.

  The old steel and tile counters where customers could write checks or fill in slips had been exchanged for stands made from single pieces of polished marble that somehow looked light and airy and had bases that traced the upward sweep of the powerful marble support columns. The old bank had become a bright and welcoming place of business while retaining its dignified message that you were in a place where serious transactions took place, involving . . . money. It looked and felt and smelled like a bank, as opposed to so many banks today, which remind you of a somewhat sleazy real estate office. I loved it.

  Brilliant crimson paths of carpeting led you wherever you wished to go. Right now, I wanted to go to a young woman some twenty feet away, bidding a smiling farewell to a middle-aged couple. The young woman had short, dark curly hair, never entirely under control, rich brown eyes and a slightly Mediterranean complexion that made her tan beautifully. Her wide mouth smiled easily and her nose just missed being Roman. She wore an off-white dress with a scooped neck and a slightly draped hemline. Except for a slim gold wristwatch, her only jewelry was a gold chain holding a fairly sizeable ruby that made her somehow an integral part of this elegant building, and which I recognized as belonging to my mother. Obviously it was on loan for the occasion.

  As the couple moved away, I approached. Cindy turned to me and smiled, and I felt a warmth that was far more than physical. I touched my fingertips lightly to her cheek for a moment. "You are simply stunning."

  She ran her hand along my jacket sleeve. "We make a stunning pair. Blue is definitely your color. I'm so glad you made it. I was afraid you might get tied up. But I saw Cassie come in a minute ago, so I figured you'd be along."

  A waiter approached with a tray of filled champagne glasses. I took one gratefully. Cindy shook her head regretfully. "Later," she sighed, "Much later."

  I laughed. "The price of glory. When do you think you'll get out of here? Do you want to go out to dinner or what?"

  "I'll be lucky to be out by seven. You know these things drag on. By then I doubt if either one of us will want to go out. You must be tired already. Why don't you just get some takeout, and that way if you get hungry, you can eat."

  "Okay." I was about to add that I'd wait dinner for her, when I saw my nemesis du jour approaching, already too close for me to make an escape, and bearing down on us with the all-cylinder dedication of a Hummer traversing deep mud. "Hello, Mary, how are you?"

  For some reason, she shook my hand. "Hello, Alex." She turned with a slight bow. "And you must be Cindy?" Be
fore Cindy could answer, Mary carried on. "I'm Mary Sloan and I'd like you both to meet Maureen Delaney."

  Amid handshakes and hellos, I looked closely at the girl, for girl she was. I put her at about nineteen and wondered who on earth she could be. A young cousin? A niece? Surely not a lover? Although she would certainly make an attractive one. Red hair, blue eyes, creamy skin . . . Irish to the core. She had a sweet smile and seemed rather shy, yet when she shook hands, her clasp was warm and firm. And when she spoke, there was the slight, appealing lilt that confirmed my earlier thought.

  As usual, Mary came right to the point. "Alex, did you get my call?" At my nod, she continued. "Good. When can we get together?"

  I thought swiftly. I wanted to see, or at least talk to, John Frost before I talked to Mary. "Well, uh, I have an appointment in the morning. How about tomorrow afternoon?"

  "Fine. I get off at three. I'll see you at my house a little after that." She turned to Cindy. "Now, Cindy, we need to talk to you about investments, especially one of those funds where you get a tax break on money saved for a child's college expenses, and also how we can set up a Roth plan when there's a company pension."

  Cindy looked a little dazed, but swung manfully into her professional song and dance. She wasn't the only one confused. Why would Mary be interested in college plans? She had no children that I knew of, and if Maureen were indeed a relative Mary was helping through school, she would need money now, not ten or fifteen years from now. Before I could think further down these lines, Mary turned to me and said, "So I'll see you tomorrow, right, Alex?"

  I had been dismissed. I smiled weakly, muttered something and turned away, resisting a strong impulse to come to attention and salute. I found a waiter, traded my empty for a full glass and started upstairs toward the conference rooms to regroup. I was irritated at myself for being so spineless. It was Mary who was out of line, not me. This was a social occasion, not a time for intimate financial discussions. She might have advised Cindy she'd like to talk with her, but not started into details. And she had obviously embarrassed Maureen. I should have stepped on Mary's toes.