outfits this afternoon. Our coats are whisked away. The Head is clipped and almost military, compact and square shouldered in his double-breasted blue blazer and yellow Bexter tie. Gray slacks match his gray temples.
As the Head leads us into a cozy living room, all firelight and candles and buzzing with low-key chat, it looks as if every other man is dressed almost identically. What’s more, someone must have sent the women a twin-set-and-pearls e-mail. I adjust the collar of my black turtleneck dress. Close enough.
“Biscuits and brandy, of course, for you both. Our little tradition.” The Head gestures to a gleaming array of silver trays and cut-glass decanters matching crystal glasses. “Then do look around the cottage, my dear.”
Very lord of the manor. I don’t sense any hesitation or nervousness. I guess he assumes Josh didn’t tell me the Bexter secret. He’s quite an actor.
“You’ll see I’m a history buff. As your Josh will explain. Our meeting starts in just a few moments.”
The Head strides away, leaving the faintest scent of—scotch? Josh pours brandy. Which I couldn’t possibly drink at this hour.
“‘Cottage,’ did he say? History buff?” I ask softly, close to Josh’s ear. His living room is twice as big as what I’d consider a cottage, and twice as elaborate. Handsomely patterned rugs. Majestic fireplace. Mahogany paneling. Elaborate ship models, sails full. Swords, betasseled and polished. Glowing sconces. I steal a closeup look at a framed parchment document, elaborate and unreadable, then at a stand holding an open leather-bound book, pages yellowing and brown edged. “Looks like a Revolutionary War museum in here. How does he affordall this valuable stuff on a school administrator’s salary? Or is that a lot higher than I’d imagined?”
A tweedy couple, her scarf recognizably expensive and his tie yellow, both holding brandy glasses in hand, pass by us with polite party smiles. I see the woman do a fleeting double take. I’ve seen that look many times before. She’s realized who I am.
“One Bexter Academy Drive is endowed, so it’s rent free,” Josh whispers after they’re out of earshot. “Plus, he’s single. Uses all his salary on his colonial history obsession. That book on the stand is his latest treasure, scuttlebutt is he outbid some museum for it. But there’s nothing old-fashioned about his alarm system. He showed me once. It’s state of the art.”
“Who’s that? In the Hermès scarf?” I ask. I tuck myself behind Josh, scanning the room. I hide my brandy snifter behind a massive white poinsettia. “Dorothy Wirt is here, right? Where? Who’s the guy with the—”
Someone claps for attention, instantly silencing the cocktail-time chatter and the beginnings of my detective work.
Josh shoots me a “you’re not fooling me” look. “Tell you later,” he says.
The Head is the center of attention.
“Welcome all, to our annual gathering. New parents, tonight we’ll discuss rules and regulations. Responsibilities. And of course, my favorite topic and yours, fundraising.”
My brain clicks off a bit, scanning faces in the crowd, as the Head natters on in the plummy voice Josh imitated so perfectly. Luckily, I manage to hear my name and look attentive again before it’s too late.
“…and we’d like to extend a true Bexter welcome as she enters our little community. Now we have our own in-house investigative reporter.” He raises a glass in my direction.
Dear Miss Manners.
“Always looking for a good story, Headmaster,” I say. My most congenial. I went to Chicago’s Public School 11, and I may not ever be comfortable calling someone “Headmaster,” but here I am in Rome.
There’s a smattering of applause as the formal part of the evening ends. I grab Josh’s arm, pull him to a corner. “Show me everyone,” I demand.
Josh looks perplexed. “Everyone who?”
“You know. The people you said know about the calls.”
Josh’s arm
As the Head leads us into a cozy living room, all firelight and candles and buzzing with low-key chat, it looks as if every other man is dressed almost identically. What’s more, someone must have sent the women a twin-set-and-pearls e-mail. I adjust the collar of my black turtleneck dress. Close enough.
“Biscuits and brandy, of course, for you both. Our little tradition.” The Head gestures to a gleaming array of silver trays and cut-glass decanters matching crystal glasses. “Then do look around the cottage, my dear.”
Very lord of the manor. I don’t sense any hesitation or nervousness. I guess he assumes Josh didn’t tell me the Bexter secret. He’s quite an actor.
“You’ll see I’m a history buff. As your Josh will explain. Our meeting starts in just a few moments.”
The Head strides away, leaving the faintest scent of—scotch? Josh pours brandy. Which I couldn’t possibly drink at this hour.
“‘Cottage,’ did he say? History buff?” I ask softly, close to Josh’s ear. His living room is twice as big as what I’d consider a cottage, and twice as elaborate. Handsomely patterned rugs. Majestic fireplace. Mahogany paneling. Elaborate ship models, sails full. Swords, betasseled and polished. Glowing sconces. I steal a closeup look at a framed parchment document, elaborate and unreadable, then at a stand holding an open leather-bound book, pages yellowing and brown edged. “Looks like a Revolutionary War museum in here. How does he affordall this valuable stuff on a school administrator’s salary? Or is that a lot higher than I’d imagined?”
A tweedy couple, her scarf recognizably expensive and his tie yellow, both holding brandy glasses in hand, pass by us with polite party smiles. I see the woman do a fleeting double take. I’ve seen that look many times before. She’s realized who I am.
“One Bexter Academy Drive is endowed, so it’s rent free,” Josh whispers after they’re out of earshot. “Plus, he’s single. Uses all his salary on his colonial history obsession. That book on the stand is his latest treasure, scuttlebutt is he outbid some museum for it. But there’s nothing old-fashioned about his alarm system. He showed me once. It’s state of the art.”
“Who’s that? In the Hermès scarf?” I ask. I tuck myself behind Josh, scanning the room. I hide my brandy snifter behind a massive white poinsettia. “Dorothy Wirt is here, right? Where? Who’s the guy with the—”
Someone claps for attention, instantly silencing the cocktail-time chatter and the beginnings of my detective work.
Josh shoots me a “you’re not fooling me” look. “Tell you later,” he says.
The Head is the center of attention.
“Welcome all, to our annual gathering. New parents, tonight we’ll discuss rules and regulations. Responsibilities. And of course, my favorite topic and yours, fundraising.”
My brain clicks off a bit, scanning faces in the crowd, as the Head natters on in the plummy voice Josh imitated so perfectly. Luckily, I manage to hear my name and look attentive again before it’s too late.
“…and we’d like to extend a true Bexter welcome as she enters our little community. Now we have our own in-house investigative reporter.” He raises a glass in my direction.
Dear Miss Manners.
“Always looking for a good story, Headmaster,” I say. My most congenial. I went to Chicago’s Public School 11, and I may not ever be comfortable calling someone “Headmaster,” but here I am in Rome.
There’s a smattering of applause as the formal part of the evening ends. I grab Josh’s arm, pull him to a corner. “Show me everyone,” I demand.
Josh looks perplexed. “Everyone who?”
“You know. The people you said know about the calls.”
Josh’s arm
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