Part 5 (1/2)

Hamilton gazed around in comic distaste as we moved into what was presumably a family room, decorated in primary colors that made the room look like a nursery school cla.s.sroom.

”Unusual?” Bethany repeated sharply. ”What do you mean?”

”Something strange happened in our house,” Peck explained, deliberately sounding mysterious. ”And we thought you might have seen something that would help us figure it out.”

Bethany gave her a look. ”Well, what what was it?” was it?”

”Something was stolen stolen,” Peck intoned, cheerfully playing a role she'd seen on television. Bethany shook her head, the sheaves of hair hardly moving. She seemed unable to decide whether she wanted to be Peck's best friend or run in the other direction. Insecure people often had this reaction to my sister. ”I went home early, remember?”

Peck, of course, wouldn't have willfully remembered anything about Bethany Samuels, but she nodded as though she had. ”Maybe you saw something once you got home home? Through the window?” Bethany Samuels was hardly the type of woman she would aspire to befriend, and it was becoming clear that Bethany was starting to think the same of her.

”We don't don't. Look. Out. The window.” Bethany seemed to resent the implication in Peck's words, but she sounded guilty. Peck was probably right about her spying down on us from the third floor.

We'd moved on to the kitchen, where the walls and backsplash were covered in patterned tile of yellow and blue and green. ”Emmet has outdone himself,” Hamilton said to Bethany.

”Oh, do you know know him?” she crowed, happy to ignore Peck, who was sounding more and more like an interrogator. ”Isn't he genius?” him?” she crowed, happy to ignore Peck, who was sounding more and more like an interrogator. ”Isn't he genius?”

Hamilton was nodding, wearing a baffled look. ”He's genius, all right.”

”What was stolen?” Bethany asked me. She'd clearly decided I was the good cop to Peck's bad.

”A painting,” I explained. ”About two by three feet, easy enough to slip under an arm.”

”It was an abstract,” Peck chimed in, as though she were in the habit of talking about art. ”Modern.”

Bethany Samuels made a face. ”I know nothing about modern art,” she stated with pride, as though she'd made a decision just then and there about Peck. Peck was what she might call ”out there” or ”artsy,” as in ”not the kind of person who could help me get into a country club.”

”It was the one that was hanging above the mantel,” I said. ”In the living room.”

”I've never gone gone into the living room,” she said, in pointed fas.h.i.+on. ”I've never even been inside the house.” It was hard to tell if she was offended or hurt not to have received a more intimate invitation from either Lydia or us. into the living room,” she said, in pointed fas.h.i.+on. ”I've never even been inside the house.” It was hard to tell if she was offended or hurt not to have received a more intimate invitation from either Lydia or us.

When we finished up the tour Bethany tried to interest us in some ”cheap and cheerful” c.o.c.ktail rings before we said our good-byes and she moved on to a much more likely customer, a very tall, very pretty woman-”Now that's a trophy wife,” Peck whispered to me-in white jeans, gazing adoringly at herself in the mirror as she a.s.sessed what looked like chandeliers hanging from her ears. According to Bethany, these too were ”must-haves.”

”Oh, look, there's Laurie Poplin,” Hamilton cried out with enthusiasm as we walked back down the Samuels driveway. He waved his fan at a horse-faced woman in a minuscule tennis skirt that highlighted a G.o.d-given gift of impossibly long, shapely legs.

Laurie Poplin was a Rockette. Or had been. She was one of those tall-drink-of-water types who'd made a living off her legs. Now she was divorced and still using the legs, selling real estate, the kind of broker who advertises with photographs of their various listings in local magazines. Her ads included an image of herself, taken a good ten years ago, in a predictably tiny baby-doll dress. The headline on her double-page spread claimed LAURIE POPLIN IS THE HAMPTONS.

”This is the real estate broker,” Hamilton said as she drew closer to us.

She looked both Peck and me up and down in a compet.i.tive manner and appeared to determine she came out favorably. This decision allowed her to be friendly, and she waved one well-tended hand in our direction. Her hair was dyed an ash-blonde that might have been called ”champagne,” and the tapered nails were painted solid pink to match her plastic-looking pink shoes. and the tapered nails were painted solid pink to match her plastic-looking pink shoes.

”Laurie Poplin is here to help,” she exclaimed. We were to learn that she would often refer to herself in the third person with her full name. ”If anyone can sell your place, Laurie Poplin can.”

Hamilton invited Laurie to come back to Fool's House with us and take a look around, and she nodded vigorously. ”I was just going to pop in here for a minute. And then I'm meeting Finn Killian. You know Finn, don't you? For tennis and then lunch.”

A sudden wave of jealousy washed over me as she kept talking. What was Finn doing playing tennis and having lunch with such a woman, a woman with the plastic pink purse and shoes that matched her nail polish? ”I can come back here later,” she was saying, as I quickly dismissed any thoughts of Finn. I wasn't at all interested in him, I reminded myself. And even if I was, well, I wasn't. End of story.

Laurie chattered away about all the houses she'd sold recently in our neighborhood, including the one now belonging to the Samuelses, as we walked back to Fool's House, where Biggsy was diligently mopping the porch floor. Laurie extended her hand to him with a huge, ready smile that appeared to have many more large teeth than the average person's.

”Laura,” Peck said, because she insisted on doing that, eliminating nicknames in an attempt to be charmingly old-fas.h.i.+oned. ”This is Biggs. The current Fool-in-Residence.”

The Rockette was grinning at Biggsy, still holding on to his hand. ”It's Laurie Laurie, not Laura. Laura. And I've met And I've met you you before.” She gave him an appraising look, like a cougar eyeing her prey. before.” She gave him an appraising look, like a cougar eyeing her prey.

”Did we date?” He smiled charmingly back at her. He was kidding, of course, but she appeared to consider the possibility. One got the impression Laurie Poplin had been on a great many unsuccessful dates. There was something poignant about her eagerness and her plastic shoes and the truly spectacular legs, as though she thought that if only circ.u.mstances had been slightly slightly different, her life might have been a success. But she lived in Southampton because it was cheaper than Manhattan and there was a decent public school for her daughter, and not, as she would go on to claim repeatedly, because she different, her life might have been a success. But she lived in Southampton because it was cheaper than Manhattan and there was a decent public school for her daughter, and not, as she would go on to claim repeatedly, because she loved loved the beach. And etched on her face was the unfulfilled potential and the many small disappointments that had led her to this place where she was forced by virtue of her own personality to pretend it had all gone exactly according to plan. the beach. And etched on her face was the unfulfilled potential and the many small disappointments that had led her to this place where she was forced by virtue of her own personality to pretend it had all gone exactly according to plan.

”Biggsy is a piece of art,” Peck called over her shoulder as she moved toward the front door ahead of the rest of us. ”He's interactive interactive.”

Laurie was looking understandably confused as Biggsy shook his head. ”I'm just an artist.” He'd told us he became an artist so he wouldn't become a criminal criminal. His work was about the search for ident.i.ty, he said, how we find a sense of self without the benefit of context. He was most well-known in the gallery world as a video artist, he told us, although I suspected he was well-known well-known in the same way that the previous inhabitants of the studio, d.i.c.k Montpelier and his unread novel and Rusty Cohen and his six nude masterpieces, were in the same way that the previous inhabitants of the studio, d.i.c.k Montpelier and his unread novel and Rusty Cohen and his six nude masterpieces, were famous famous.

Peck led all of us through the house, giving Laurie Poplin the tour, while the real estate broker took notes with a dubious pursing of her pink-glossed lips. Hamilton added in a few comments of his own.

”You can't sell this house to anyone who will tear it down,” Biggsy said to her as we traipsed back down to the living room, where the hook above the mantel served as a reminder of the missing painting. ”n.o.body appreciates architectural integrity any more.”

”Lydia wanted the house sold,” Hamilton added, repeating what he'd told us earlier. ”She'd been wanting to sell it for the past two years.”

Biggsy looked horrified. ”That can't be true. She never said anything to me me.”

Laurie Poplin gave a nervous giggle and then said she had a couple who were perfect candidates to buy the house. ”Old money as opposed to new,” she explained, seemingly enjoying her sense of herself as astute master of social nuances. ”Old money likes a place with a sense of history. They don't want to spend too much and they can't buy new. It has to have a pedigree.”

We started to talk about price, which made Biggsy roll his eyes in disgust and leave the room. ”Pricing should be very aggressive,” Laurie said. ”That's the only option, if you absolutely have to sell.”

”We don't absolutely have to sell,” Peck said. ”Who says we absolutely absolutely have to sell?” have to sell?”

”Darling,” Hamilton intoned. ”You do have to sell this house. It's all right.”

Laurie Poplin was used to this kind of reaction. ”It's going to have to be a rock-bottom, too-good-to-be-true estate-sale price to get any action.”

This prompted Peck to cry out, ”What am I, an aging hooker, that I need action action?”

”I was under the impression . . .” Laurie said, drawing on her reserves of patience. This is why estate sales were such a pain in the a.s.s, she seemed to be thinking. ”Just to clarify? That we were trying to get this done as quickly as possible. That's usually how it is when it's a question of settling an estate.”

”We are,” I told her. ”Thank you very much.”

She turned to me. ”Well, this couple I have in mind, they know what they want. They're in a position to move quickly. They love the location already. Location. Location. Loca-”

”Bring them by any time,” I said, interrupting her.

”Not any any time,” Peck quickly protested. ”What if we're sleeping? What if we're entertaining? What if we have time,” Peck quickly protested. ”What if we're sleeping? What if we're entertaining? What if we have gentlemen callers gentlemen callers?”

”They'll be out here all week,” Laurie exclaimed with the glee normally a.s.sociated with an Oscar nomination. There were quite a lot of teeth involved. ”They're houseguesting houseguesting.”

”Everyone has houseguests,” Peck complained to me. ”We should have houseguests.” should have houseguests.”

When I didn't respond she told me what my problem was. She was fond of telling me what my problem was. ”You're a terrible sn.o.b,” she would say. Inevitably Trimalchio would look up at me, as he did now, as if to say, ”Me too, I'm a terrible sn.o.b. Although I prefer discerning. discerning.”

Now, apparently, my problem was that I was immature. ”Literally,” she cried out. ”You're a fetus fetus.”