Deadly Summer Nights Read online

  I grinned at her. My aunt has always called me her little swallow. “That’s what I like to hear.”

  “I heard some talk earlier, O,” Tatiana said. “People are talking about that comedian from New York. They are saying they won’t allow their daughters to attend.”

  Tatiana refused to use her sister’s stage name; she thought it an insult to their parents. My mother refused to react to her birth name; she thought it too common, not to mention too Russian. So they compromised, and most of the time Tatiana simply called her O.

  “Maybe booking him wasn’t a good idea,” I said. “Not if people are going to be offended.”

  “One thing you need to learn about show business, Elizabeth,” Olivia said, “is that people love to be offended. Gives them something to get excited about. They might not let their daughters go to the show, but you can be sure they’ll be there themselves. All ready and eager to be shocked—shocked!—and offended. I’ve asked Rosemary to print a sign to put by the ballroom entrance saying the show is not recommended for everyone.”

  “That’ll have them breaking down the doors,” Aunt Tatiana said. “Come, Winston. Time to go home.” She clicked her fingers.

  Winston yawned. I gave him a tiny nudge with my toe. He groaned, stretched, stood up, and waddled after Tatiana.

  “It’s almost five o’clock,” Olivia said. “If I’m going to soothe the ruffled feelings of the Carletons, I’ll have to dress appropriately.”

  Somedays Olivia could dress as though it were a costume change between scenes. Sometimes it could take an hour or more. Cocktail hour begins at six, and we have a strict dress code at Haggerman’s. Women are required to wear dresses and men suits in the evenings.

  I picked up the folder containing the checks. “I’ll get these to the post drop now so George can take them into town first thing tomorrow. I’ll pop into the kitchen and check on dinner preparation, and then I need to come back here and rest. I was up early, and I want to catch that comedian you arranged. If he really does offend anyone, I need to know. Do you want me to get the kitchen to send you something?”

  “I’ll eat at the cocktail hour. That will give me something to do while Mrs. Carleton drones on and pretends not to see her husband constantly popping up and down to get a refill of his whiskey glass. I think the purple satin would be suitable for this evening, don’t you, Elizabeth?” She went into her bedroom without waiting for me to reply.

  Chapter 3

  It was after six by the time I left the main building. One of my responsibilities here is to listen to my department heads complain. The delivery truck wouldn’t start, and George, from maintenance, made sure I was aware that the American vehicle industry had let standards slip since the war. Not one but two gardeners had quit this morning, lured away by nearby Kennelwood Hotel, and Mario, the head groundskeeper, told me we needed to pay more to get and keep qualified staff. We didn’t need qualified gardeners, I told him. We needed someone to cut the lawn and dig up weeds. Wasn’t that what local kids were for?

  In the kitchen, I found that my threats to the delinquent supplier having failed, a big meat order hadn’t arrived.

  “We can’t not have roast beef on tomorrow’s menu,” the head chef wailed.

  Rosemary Sullivan, who managed food service and restaurant staff other than the saladman, the chef, and their helpers, rolled her eyes at me from behind his back. Our head chef was notoriously bad-tempered. When he wasn’t working he always seemed as gentle as a pussycat. I assumed he put on the temperamental-chef act because he thought it was expected of him.

  “Chef Leonardo,” I said, “I know you’ll do your absolute best with what’s provided. First thing tomorrow, I’ll call them again and threaten to change butchers if your order isn’t here by noon.”

  He huffed and turned quickly around, almost colliding with a dishwasher passing with a load of pots. Chef Leonardo—real name Leon Lebowski—threw up his hands and began berating the boy. Although he wasn’t really a boy. Late twenties, perhaps, small and nervous, with eyes as frightened as a rabbit cornered by Winston. The poor dishwasher looked as though he was about to burst into tears, and his entire body trembled. The pile of pots tottered dangerously.

  Rosemary grabbed one off the top. “You’re carrying too much, Francis. I’ve told you to be careful. Don’t just stand there, get these out of the way.”

  He bolted beneath his stack of wavering pots.

  “I’ll get out of your hair,” I said. “Looks like everything’s under control.”

  “Ha!” Chef Leonardo roared. “Onions! Who has the onions?”

  The kitchen was in full chaos mode. Dinner preparation for 350 famished guests plus another meal for live-in staff was underway, the extra desserts that would be provided at the buffet served during the late-night entertainment were being assembled, and finishing touches were being put on the canapés for the cocktail party.

  Rosemary put the dirty pot on the counter, and she and I slipped into the empty dining room to finish talking.

  A group of waiters came in, heading for the kitchen to get their evening’s instructions. Several of them nodded politely to us and mumbled, “Good evening, Miss Sullivan, Mrs. Grady.” One, a tall young man in his early twenties, face all sharp angles and deep-set eyes, gave me an insolent wink. He would have been moderately good-looking if not for the weak chin and curl of his lip. I returned the wink with a glare. He smirked and carried on his way.

  The cold canapés had been arranged on serving trays and put into the empty dining room, to get them out of the way in the main kitchen before being ferried upstairs to the small kitchen off the ballroom. “Those look good,” I said to Rosemary. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble. Thank you for that.”

  She smiled at me. Rosemary wouldn’t have done the cooking, but she prepared the cocktail hour menu in consultation with the saladman and Olivia. Olivia didn’t concern herself with what was served at regular meals, but to her a cocktail party was a special thing and the food and drinks had to be special. She wanted food that would be the perfect accompaniment to cocktails, small and compact yet delicious items our guests could serve themselves to munch on before dinner. Silver trays held deviled eggs, smoked oysters, deviled ham on toast, and oranges pierced with toothpicks bristling with olives. A platter held small tomatoes that had been hollowed out, filled with mayonnaise, and a plump shrimp placed on top. Guests would also be offered pigs in blankets, crab cakes, a variety of melons cut into squares and skewered, an overflowing pickle tray, and celery sticks stuffed with the newest thing in American food: Cheez Whiz. The centerpiece was a fresh pineapple with perfectly cut squares of yellow and orange cheese attached to it with more skewers.

  At Haggerman’s, as at all the Catskills resorts, food was included in the weekly rate. Our guests were determined to get their money’s worth, and we were determined no one would have cause to complain they were ever hungry.

  “I’m hoping to get home and put my feet up,” I said. “I’d better get going before another disaster strikes.”

  At that moment a man’s shout came from the kitchen. “Francis, watch out!” followed by the sounds of crashing pots, shattering china and glassware, and a lot of swearing.

  “Dishwasher not working out so well?” I said to Rosemary.

  She sighed. “That’s an understatement. Francis Monahan. He’s a local boy and, dare I say, not terribly bright. Yesterday he dropped a tray containing a room-service order he was delivering to a cabin, and he fled without so much as apologizing or cleaning up, leaving the guest standing in the doorway wondering what was going on. Francis said he felt sick, and he had to go home. He works hard and he means well, and I really, really would hate it if I had to let him go.”

  “Do what you have to,” I said.

  Two waiters ran out of the kitchen, laughing, slapping each other on the back. “Oh boy! You’ve got a heck of a mess in t
here, Miss Sullivan.”

  “Then get back in there and help clean it up!” Rosemary yelled.

  I made my escape before anything else could go wrong. The dining room was being laid for dinner. The waiters were all boys, mostly college students from the city mixed with a handful of locals who’d worked here for a few seasons before being promoted to the big-tip jobs.

  I left the dining room and entered the spacious lobby. The long mahogany reception counter filled one side of the room; numbered pigeonholes dotted the wall behind it. The carpeting was brown, and chairs and sofas upholstered in shades of oranges and browns were strategically placed around low tables to allow for conversation. The front wall was mostly glass, giving a magnificent view over the curving driveway, across the lawn and flower beds, past the pool, and to the beach and the lake beyond. On the far side of the reception counter, a wide staircase with a deep red carpet and imitation white marble banisters curved up to the second floor, where the main ballroom was located.

  Guests were streaming in for the cocktail party. Everyone was dressed to the nines, chatting excitedly. Jewelry, both genuine and costume, flashed. The scent of tobacco, perfume, aftershave, and far too much hair spray filled the air.

  I nodded politely to our guests, wished them all a good evening, and walked rapidly through the lobby. The bellhop opened the door for me with the slightest of polite bows, and I stepped outside.

  On the veranda, the bridge players were packing up and others were taking their places for the regular six thirty canasta game. Children were being called out of the lake and the pool, while mothers gathered up their beach bags. Paddleboats headed for shore, and rowboats carried fishermen out to try their luck. At the tennis courts an intense game was underway by four women in their seventies who didn’t let age dampen their enthusiasm for the game. Two elderly men had set up a chessboard on a bench next to the court.

  “I tell you, Morty, McCarthy’s on to something.” The player moved his knight as I passed.

  “Reds under the beds. You’re a bunch of frightened children,” his partner growled. His bishop slid across the board.

  “People like you are getting soft. You’ve forgotten how dangerous they can be. My brother’s grandson’s in Korea.”

  “This isn’t Korea, this is America, and in America McCarthy’s more dangerous than any communist. Check.”

  “And checkmate to you.” The first man swept the white king off the board with a chuckle of triumph, while on the tennis court the women shook hands over the net.

  I walked down the lakefront path, heading for home. Six thirty in New York State in late June meant it was still daylight, but some of the heat of the day had passed, and the air was clear and fresh. I heard children playing on the swings, and mothers calling them in to get ready for dinner. A group of preteen girls, bare arms and bare legs, screaming with laughter, ran past me, and a handful of older couples were enjoying a stroll before dinner. Porch swings squeaked, and screen doors slammed.

  Where the public path ended, a man stood at the edge of the lake watching the small waves wash over the rocks and gravel. He was nicely dressed in a dark suit, and there was something about the way he stood, so quiet and so still, that had me stopping to watch him for a moment. The end of his cigarette glowed in the shadows cast by the big willow he stood beneath. Aware I was intruding on his privacy, I stepped back. A branch cracked under my foot, and the man swung swiftly around; his shoulders snapped to attention, and his hands tightened at his sides. His eyes were sharp and fully focused on me.

  “Sorry to bother you,” I said. “I’m Elizabeth Grady, the resort manager. I hope everything’s okay?”

  His face relaxed, and some of the tension left his body. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and gave me a polite smile. “Perfectly okay, thank you.” He was tall and lean, in his early fifties, perhaps, with thick silver hair slicked to one side, a neatly groomed black-and-silver mustache, and startling blue eyes under black-framed glasses. “I’m enjoying the evening. The nicest time of day, I’ve always found. So peaceful and so quiet.”

  Behind us a teenage girl screamed in fake fear, and strong, young footsteps crashed through the trees.

  The edges of the man’s mouth turned up. “Some of the time, anyway. This is a beautiful place you have here.”

  “We think so. Will you be staying with us for long, sir?”

  He breathed out smoke. “I’ve taken cabin nineteen until the end of July. Five weeks.”

  “I’ll leave you to it,” I said. “Good evening.”

  “Good evening, Miss Grady.”

  Chapter 4

  When I got home, Olivia had left for the cocktail reception. I phoned the kitchen to ask them to send me dinner at eight fifteen, kicked off my shoes, and pulled off my girdle and stockings, and then I lay down on the couch and propped pillows behind me, intending to close my eyes for a blissful hour.

  I was woken by loud banging. I groaned, called, “Be right there,” and rolled off the couch.

  Francis, the dishwasher, stood at the screen door, peering in, his face pink with shyness. I held the door for him, and he carried in a tray containing a mug of coffee, cutlery and a pressed white napkin, and a dish covered with a silver cloche.

  “Thanks, you can put it on the table.”

  He did so, and then he backed out of the room. He caught sight of my undergarments, tossed on the floor by the sofa, and the pink face turned into a furious red. He left without having said a word. I lifted the cloche to see what they’d sent me. Fish in white sauce. I hate fish.

  Outside, a strong young voice said, “Hey, Francis, I hope you’re not sneaking around, peeping into windows. I wouldn’t want to have to report you.” A burst of male laughter and all was quiet again.

  I ate my dinner quickly and then went into the bedroom to get changed. If we had a dress code for the guests, I had to abide by it. I’d bought a new dress for this season. It was a soft green that, I hoped, went some way toward taking the red out of my hair, with a tight bodice, thin straps, and a swing skirt that flared around my knees. I had a quick bath and tried to rearrange my hair, cursing as always at my frizzy curls. I’d recently had it done in a poodle cut, gathered at the sides and swept up into a roll above my forehead, like Lucille Ball. It looked better on Miss Ball than it ever did on me, but at least it was fashionable. I added a touch of pink lipstick and some rouge to my lips and face.

  The screen door squeaked and then slammed. “Is that you, Olivia?” I called.

  “Home from doing my duty. My goodness but the Carletons are bores. The both of them.”

  “Olivia, please remember the walls of this house are not soundproof.”

  “Oh, good, dinner’s been brought up. So thoughtful of you. I didn’t have anything at the party. I had a couple of cocktails, though. The new bartender is quite good, and he knows how to make all the newest drinks.” The plate clattered as the cloche was lifted. “You ate it.”

  “Yes, I ate it. It was my dinner, not yours.” I wiggled my hips into the hated girdle, sat on the edge of the bed to pull on my stockings and clip them to the garters, and then I got my dress out of the closet and slipped it on over my head and zipped it up. Lastly, I opened my tiny jewelry box. My wedding ring lay inside, framed by the green velvet lining. I reached out and picked it up. I rubbed the soft gold between my fingers and briefly thought of what had never been. I put the ring back and selected a pair of earrings containing stones of green glass and a matching necklace and put them on. I then slammed the lid on the jewelry box, hoping to trap the unwelcome memories inside. Last of all, I slipped my feet into black pumps with a thin strap and one-inch heels. I studied myself in the mirror.

  Not a Broadway star, but I’d do.

  I went into the living room to join the real Broadway star.

  Olivia wore a dress I hadn’t seen before. It had a cap-sleeved black lace top th
at fell to the top of her breasts where it joined luxurious purple satin. The dress clung to every angle of her body down to her hips, and from there it flared to the floor. Black gloves reached above her elbows, and the tips of open-toed black shoes peeked from beneath the hem of the dress. Her earrings and necklace were not made of gold and diamonds, but they’d fool anyone who wasn’t a jeweler. She’d styled her hair into a loose black chignon, and her makeup was heavy and dramatic, her eyes rimmed with kohl, her mouth a deep red slash. She was overdressed for cocktail hour, but Olivia believed in making an impression everywhere she went. She certainly would have this evening.

  “You look,” I said, “absolutely amazing.”

  “I know,” she replied. Modesty isn’t one of my mother’s virtues. “Do you think that particular shade of green is entirely suitable for your distinctive coloring, dear?”

  “Yes, I do. Which is why I bought this dress. Velvet helped me pick it out.”

  “It’ll do, then.” My mother trusts my friend’s taste better than she does mine. It doesn’t bother me. I trust Velvet’s taste better than I do mine.

  “It’s quarter to nine,” I said. “The cocktail reception ended at seven fifteen and you didn’t go to dinner. Where have you been all this time?”

  “I’d like to say I met a handsome young man and he whisked me, along with a plate of oysters and a bottle of champagne, to his cabin, but sadly, I cannot. I paid a call on Tatiana.”

  “Are you coming to see the show?”

  “No. I feel like an early night.” The lines of pain etched into her face were prominent tonight, and the faint smell of Aunt Tatiana’s special muscle cream mingled with my mother’s perfume.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” I said. “I hope this comedian is as good as you say he is.”

  “As good as I’ve been told,” Olivia corrected me. “I’ve never seen him perform.”