Hide Yourself Away Page 7

  “No. Don’t.” The woman was surprisingly adamant.

  “Well, what can I do to help you? A glass of water?”

  Holding on to the doorjamb, the frail woman struggled to get to her feet while looking from side to side down the hallway. “I don’t want anyone to see me like this. I don’t suppose I could come inside for a minute?”

  Grace was not in the habit of having people she had never met come into her hotel room, but there was something in the expression on the woman’s careworn face that prompted her to escort the stranger in and steer her to the love seat at the side of the room. As the chambermaid sat down, Grace went into the bathroom, coming out again with a glass of water. “Here, take a sip of this.”

  As the woman obeyed, Grace noticed the boyishly short, feathery, gray hair. She recognized the new growth. That was just the way her mother’s hair had looked when it grew in again after chemotherapy.

  “I’m Grace Callahan.”

  “Izzie O’Malley,” the woman said softly.

  “Please, Izzie. Let me call down to the front desk. They can send someone up to check on you.”

  “No, thank you, Miss. That isn’t a good idea. I don’t want them thinking I can’t do my job.”

  Grace nodded with understanding. “All right, but maybe I could call a friend or relative to come pick you up.”

  Izzie shook her head. “No, I’ll be fine, if I can just sit here a minute longer.” She glanced at the linen slacks lying on top of the bed. “Go ahead and do what you were going to do, please. I’ll leave in just a little bit.”

  Grace glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. B.J. was probably already downstairs waiting for her. She plugged in the iron.

  “You’re here with the KEY people from New York?” Izzie asked, spotting the logo on the canvas tote bag parked on the chair by the desk.

  “Yes.”

  “That must be exciting.”

  “We’ll see. This is my first assignment out on the road and I’m trying to prove myself to them. So I’m a little nervous.” Grace didn’t feel it necessary to explain the whole internship situation, but she did think that Izzie could identify with needing to please one’s employer. “I have a lot riding on this. I want to impress my bosses.”

  As Grace slid the iron back and forth across the linen, Izzie rose from the love seat.

  “I’m all right now.”

  “You’re sure? Maybe my friend and I can drop you at home?”

  “No, Miss. You’ve been too kind already. Thank you very much.”

  Walking slowly back down the hallway to the elevator, Izzie felt better. There were nice people out there, and Grace Callahan was one of them. She hoped the young woman did well with that job of hers.

  By the time Izzie let herself into her small, shingled bungalow, she had come up with a tentative plan. If she decided to go public with what she knew, Grace Callahan was going to be the one she told.

  One good turn deserved another.

  CHAPTER

  22

  It was still light, the summer sun a good two hours from setting. Long trestle tables covered with red-and-white checkered cloths and festooned with clusters of red and blue balloons signaled that the Vickerses were prepared to serve over one hundred guests. The tables were clustered in the center of the spacious yard. A billowing white tent sheltered the portable dance floor laid down in front of the five-piece band tuning up beyond the clambake pit. At the corners of the property, stations were set up for entertainment. A face painter, a juggler, a palm reader, and even a booth offering henna tattoos.

  “Whoa,” exclaimed B.J. as he and Grace took in the scene. “This is something, all right.”

  “Well, you haven’t seen anything till you come to a party at my house,” Grace responded. “I’ll have to invite you next time. My father grills one mean hot dog on his little hibachi.”

  B.J. grinned, his brown eyes twinkling with amusement. “Come on. Let’s get a drink.”

  Grace didn’t recognize most of the faces they passed on their way to the bar. “All these people aren’t from KEY, are they?” she asked.

  B.J. shook his head. “Nope. I’ve never seen most of these people before. Joss told me that her parents were having the party for their friends anyway and suggested that she just go ahead and invite the KTA staff.”

  Must be nice, thought Grace, as she took a sip of ice-cold beer and surveyed the scene. It was nice to have the kind of money that allowed you to breezily add another forty or fifty people to your guest list with no regard for the cost.

  “Grace, I don’t want you to think that I’m all work and no play, but I was thinking that we could schmooze around here tonight and see if we can find anyone who could help us with our Charlotte Sloane story. You know, what Dominick said we needed. People who were in Newport at the time, people who knew her?”

  “Did you bring your camera?”

  “Yeah, it’s in the trunk. But I wasn’t thinking so much about getting video. I was only thinking about getting background stuff and maybe getting them to talk for the camera later if we need them.”

  Grace nodded, wanting to seem game for B.J.’s benefit. The fact was, she would have been just as glad to relax tonight. It had been a long day, starting very early to catch the morning train, followed by the emotion of letting Lucy go off to her father and new stepmother. Grace hadn’t had a moment to breathe since she had arrived in Newport and the prospect of kicking back tonight had been an attractive one. But she wasn’t about to say that to B.J.

  “Sure. Great.”

  “Want to split up?” B.J. suggested. “We can talk to more people that way.”

  Grace took another drink of beer. What was she going to say to that? No? I want to stick with you? I don’t really feel confident going out on my own? I was hoping that you and I could hang out together tonight?

  “Fine,” she said, without enthusiasm.

  Grace moved around the perimeter of the yard, stopping to view the juggler work his balancing act with his multicolored spheres. As she watched, a balding, aristocratic-looking man walked up and stopped beside her. Though attired casually, he had dressed with care. White slacks, finely creased, an open-necked blue oxford shirt with the sleeves precisely rolled up over his tan forearms, and brown leather boat shoes, no socks.

  “Are you a friend of the Vickerses or one of these TV people?” The distinguished-looking man seemed to sniff at the second choice.

  “Well, maybe both,” Grace answered. “I am with KEY News. I’m interning this summer with Joss Vickers.”

  Grace felt the man appraising her, sensed he was thinking she looked too old to be an intern. She decided to volunteer the information before he asked.

  “I’ve gotten a late start. I’m just finishing college now.”

  “I see.”

  Grace chose to ignore the condescension in his tone. She wasn’t going to get anywhere if her skin was too thin.

  “My name is Grace Callahan.” She switched her drink to her left hand and extended the other one to the man.

  “Kyle Seaton.”

  Grace was familiar with the name she had seen on the shooting notes for the week.

  “Oh, yes. You’re the scrimshander, aren’t you?”

  Kyle nodded, pleased at the recognition. He immediately pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and held it toward her. “Scrimshander, scrimshaw dealer, and collector.”

  “I can truthfully say I have never met anyone in your line of work before,” said Grace, taking the card. “It’s very interesting. I’ve done a little research on it for the broadcast this week.”

  “Ah, yes. KEY to America comes to Newport and interviews the local color,” Kyle said with a trace of sarcasm. “I’m already wondering if I’ll live to regret my decision to have you people come to my shop.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have been the dealer of record to discerning scrimshaw collectors for the past two decades, and I don’t want to tarnish my r
eputation by appealing to the masses now.”

  “Then why did you agree?” asked Grace, genuinely interested.

  Kyle shrugged. “Foolish vanity, I suppose. What is it about being on television that makes otherwise sane people expose themselves like that?”

  Grace wasn’t sure of the answer, but she had often asked herself the same thing as she watched people reveal the most personal information, and do the most embarrassing things, for a television audience. Tummy tucks and liposuctions and facelifts in cosmetic makeovers for the public to gawk at. Proclamations of undying love and devotion followed by the humiliation of rejection in dating contests for home viewers to cluck at. Swallowing insects and worms in survival challenges designed to make the audience gasp and groan. But the television producers didn’t seem to be hurting for subjects willing to do anything for their fifteen minutes of fame.

  Grace decided to steer clear of the uncomfortable topic lest she somehow influence Kyle Seaton away from his commitment to KTA. “So you’ve been a Newporter for a long time?”

  “A true Newporter has been here all his life,” Kyle declared. “I am a true Newporter.”

  “I see,” said Grace. “Then you were here when Charlotte Sloane disappeared.”

  Kyle’s solemn face darkened further. “Yes. I was. In fact, I knew Charlotte since we were young children. Our families had adjoining cabanas at Bailey’s Beach.”

  Pay dirt.

  “Do you have any theories, then, on what happened to Charlotte?” Grace asked.

  “No, I don’t. Though you’ve heard, of course, the whole town thinks her husband had something to do with it. Sad sort, Oliver. But I’ll say this for him: he has quite a marvelous scrimshaw collection. He had been a wonderful customer over the years. Charlotte was, too, before she disappeared. Always buying some special piece for his birthdays and their anniversaries. But with Charlotte gone, and all the talk, I thought it best to discourage Oliver from coming to my shop.”

  “I understand it was on their wedding anniversary that Charlotte disappeared,” Grace led.

  “Yes, I think you’re right, though the party that night wasn’t an anniversary party but a fund-raiser for the endangered birds that Charlotte and Elsa Gravell were so worried about. I was there. I heard that Charlotte left the club by herself, in tears, that evening, but I didn’t see that myself.”

  “What do you think that was all about?”

  Kyle looked down at her sharply. “That’s really none of my business.” Left unsaid but clearly implied was It’s none of yours either, Ms. Callahan.

  “Hey, Grace, come on over here,” the voice slurred, with a pronounced twang.

  Sam Watkins, the intern from Oklahoma, waved at Grace, beckoning her to join the other interns who were clustered around the tattoo artist’s entertainment station. Joss and Zoe Quigley, the student who had come all the way from England to intern at KEY News, were watching as an eagle was drawn on Sam’s hairless chest.

  “It’s patriotic, don’t you think, Gracie?” asked Sam, his head bent downward trying to view the handiwork. “Rusty here is doing a right fine job.”

  “We’re losing the light. I want to get this done before sundown. Hold still,” commanded the tattoo artist, squeezing a bit more brown color from a toothpaste-like tube and giving a final dab to the eagle with his brush. “Now wait till it dries and pick it off somewhere safe. Outside or over the sink.” The artist sat back to admire his creation.

  “How long will it last?” asked Zoe, mesmerized.

  “Just a few days to a week,” said Rusty. “It depends on how much you rub it or how much you use soap and water on it.”

  Fun, painless, temporary henna tattoos. No lifetime commitment to a design carved into the skin. Grace thought of Madeleine’s angel tattoo and the pain that must have been associated with its engraving, the real desire to commemorate her lost mother with a symbol she would see every day for the rest of her life. The idea was growing on Grace, but she didn’t quite have the guts to get one of her own. But here was a chance to try it out without reaching a point of no return.

  “Do you have time to do a small one on me?” she asked.

  Rusty looked at his watch and glanced at the darkening sky. Why not? He was getting paid by the hour.

  “Okay, if we hurry. What’ll it be?”

  “Can you do an ivy leaf?”

  “Sure, that’s no big deal. Where do you want it?”

  “On my foot.”

  Rusty shrugged. It wasn’t, by a long shot, the worst place he had ever been asked to do a tattoo.

  Grace began to slip off her sandal.

  “Leave it on,” said Rusty. “I’ll do it right above the strap line, so you can still wear your shoes while it dries.”

  Grace watched as the swirling lines of henna swept across the top of her right foot. But the fascination was over for Sam, Joss, and Zoe, who moved on toward the bar.

  “Actually, this tattoo might last a little longer than your friend’s,” volunteered Rusty as he worked. “The skin on the hands and feet is more porous, and the henna sets in better.”

  “I’ve just begun thinking about getting a permanent tattoo,” Grace mused.

  “I can do that for you,” said Rusty. “That’s my main business. This is just a sideline, to make some extra money. Come down to my place on Broadway and I can give you whatever you want. But let me warn you. It will hurt like hell if you have a real tattoo done on your foot. The needle will be pushing right against the bones.”

  Grace bent over to inspect the finished product.

  “Why’d ya pick an ivy leaf?” asked Rusty, capping the henna tube.

  “Ivy was my mother’s name.”

  “That’s funny. I had another girl come in recently and have a tattoo on her foot for her mother.”

  “Was it Madeleine Sloane?” asked Grace.

  “As a matter of fact, it was.” Rusty looked at Grace quizzically. “You know Madeleine?”

  “I just met her today. I saw her tattoo. That’s what gave me the idea,” Grace said.

  “Sad about her mother, huh?” Rusty tossed the henna tube into his paint box.

  “Yes. Very sad.”

  “I was kinda surprised to see her here tonight, after the news I heard on the radio today,” said Rusty.

  Grace looked around. “Madeleine’s here?”

  “Yeah, I saw her before with some older lady with birds all over her blouse. I was thinking those birds could sure make great tattoo designs.”

  After Grace left, Rusty packed up his tattoo supplies, relieved to be getting away from all these highfalutin folk. This wasn’t a world that he was comfortable in. All the posturing and putting on airs weren’t for him. They never had been.

  Even back when he was a twenty-one-year-old sailor stationed at the naval base, he was always nervous with his assignment as the admiral’s driver. He’d have preferred to be just one of the other enlisted guys instead of chauffeuring the brass around in his dress whites.

  Seaman Alberto S. Texiera, nicknamed Rusty for his head of thick, russet hair, saw grand ballrooms and elegant parlors as he escorted the admiral to the many functions and meetings around Newport, but he never grew to feel any ease in the upper-crust environments. To this day, he was more at home in the dimness of a local bar throwing back a few beers than at a shindig like this, even though he supposed the Vickerses would consider this an informal party.

  These people all have agendas, thought Rusty. He had only a few ambitions and just wanted to stay to himself. Live and let live.

  So far he had been able to do just that. When he’d finished his stint in the navy, he’d gone to work for the guy who ran the place where he and his pals had gotten their tattoos. The owner had catered to the base personnel, and the tattoo parlor was a no-frills affair. But Rusty had noticed that every so often, a curious civilian would wander in and ask about getting a small tattoo in a discreet spot. On the shoulder, at the top of the thigh, low on the back. Sometimes
they were kids, clearly lying about being over the age of consent, but more and more the customers who came through the door were middle-class women wanting to spice things up a bit.

  Rusty worked on his designs, and word of mouth spread. He became the artist customers asked for. When the owner decided to pack it in and move to Florida, Rusty applied for a small business loan and bought Broadway Tattoos from him. All had gone well for a while. But as the appetite for tattoos increased, so had the competition. Where Rusty’s parlor had once been the only game in town, now there were three other places that offered tattoos. “Body art salons” they billed themselves, offering facials, treatments, and massages as well—and in an atmosphere far more posh than Rusty’s. Those soccer moms in their SUVs were walking their pedicured feet through his competitors’ doors now.

  That was one of the reasons Rusty had been so glad when Madeleine Sloane came in last month. Though he hadn’t recognized her until he saw the name she signed on her credit card receipt, he could tell when she entered the shop that she was from the right side of the tracks.

  He did his very best work on her angel, explaining in advance that it would hurt like the dickens and apologizing profusely for it. As he concentrated on his artwork, his head over her foot, she told him why she was having it done. To honor her mother. Rusty had presumed that her mother had simply died, if dying was ever simple. It wasn’t until he saw Madeleine’s name when she pulled out her credit card that he’d put it all together.

  Sloane.

  This was Charlotte Sloane’s daughter, the little girl, now grown up, whom Charlotte had spoken about the night Rusty had given Charlotte a lift, the night Rusty had been waiting outside the country club for the admiral, the night Charlotte had run out crying, the night Charlotte had disappeared.

  Rusty had been tempted to tell Madeleine that day she came into the shop, but he couldn’t speak of it, even now. Just as he had never told the police that he had given Charlotte a ride to Shepherd’s Point that night. Just as he had kept it from his boss, returning to the country club before the admiral ever knew he had gone.