We sat on a stone terrace overlooking Lake Michigan. The water, pale blue under a soft summer sky, lapped gently at the sand below us. A green canvas awning protected our faces. The May day was bright and clear, although the air was cool out of the direct light of the sun. I buttoned my green serge jacket up to my chin.
Claire Grafalk inspected the brass and teak trolley. I could see a bottle of Taittinger poking over the side of a silver ice bucket. Some salmon, something that looked like a duck sliced and reassembled, and a salad were the only items I could identify without peering too greedily.
“Thank you, Karen. We can take care of ourselves.” As the stocky maid disappeared up the path toward the house, Mrs. Grafalk deftly uncorked the champagne and poured it into a tulip glass.
“I don’t drink myself, but I enjoy serving champagne—I hope you like this.”
I muttered something appreciative. She poured water for herself and handed me a plate, creamy bone china with her initials on it twined in a green and gold wreath. She was wearing a gray shirtwaist dress with a scarf neck and a strand of heavy pearls. Her high cheekbones were covered with the circles of rouge which were doll-like yet somehow elegant and endearing.
She perched her head, birdlike, on one side, eyeing me questioningly but not talking until I had filled my plate. I sipped the champagne and ate a little cold duck. Both were excellent.
“Now, I must hear what happened. The papers gave only the sketchiest accounts. What happened to Niels’s boat?”
“There was an accident in the galley and the hull caught fire.” This was the answer I had given to the police and to Murray Ryerson and I wasn’t going to change it now.
Mrs. Grafalk shook her head vigorously. “No, my dear. That won’t do. Gordon Firth, the chairman of Ajax, came to visit me two days ago with a most extraordinary story about Niels. He had a young Englishman with him, Roger Ferrant. Mr. Ferrant says you and he discovered that Niels was running Grafalk Steamship at a loss and had cause to suspect him of blowing up Martin’s ship.”
I put the champagne glass down.
“And what do you want me to tell you?”
She looked at me sharply. “The truth. I still have to deal with this matter. I am still Niels’s chief heir; I shall have to dispose of the remaining assets of Grafalk Steamship somehow. Martin Bledsoe would be the ideal person to take over the company. He and I—were good friends a number of years ago and I still have a special spot for him. But I must know the whole story before I talk to him or to my lawyers.”
“I don’t have any proof—just a chain of suggestions. Surely you don’t want to hear a lot of unsubstantiated allegations. The police or the FBI or the Coast Guard may find proof of wrongdoing. But they may well not. Wouldn’t you prefer to let the dead bury the dead?”
“Miss Warshawski. I am going to tell you something that no one besides Karen knows. I expect you to respect my privacy—but if you don’t, it doesn’t matter that much. Niels and I have lived as two neighbors for over a decade.” She fluttered small, ring-covered hands. “We gradually grew apart. It happens that way, you know. Then he became more and more obsessed by Grafalk Steamship. He couldn’t think about anything else. He was bitterly disappointed that our son wasn’t interested in the steamship company: Peter is a cellist. Our daughter is a thoracic surgeon. When it became clear that no one of his name lived to care about Grafalk Steamship, Niels removed himself emotionally from the house.
“I have paid little attention to Niels in the last several years. Nevertheless, it became quite clear to me that he was growing more and more erratic over the past eight or nine months. I invited you up here for lunch because you struck me as clever and intelligent the day we talked. I think you can tell me what Niels was doing. You were not a social acquaintance of my husband’s. I don’t believe you were his mistress—”
She paused to look at me sharply. I couldn’t help laughing, but I shook my head.
“Yes. You don’t have the look about you. Now. I want to know why you were on Niels’s boat and how it came to burn up.”
I took another swallow of champagne. If anyone had the right to know, Claire Grafalk did. I told her the whole tale, beginning with Boom Boom’s death and ending with the icy waters of Lake Michigan. I glanced at it, involuntarily shivering.
“And how did you get out? Someone rescued you?”
“Another sailboat came up. They were attracted by the fire. I don’t remember it too clearly.”
“And the evidence of Clayton’s death?”
I shook my head. “I still have the plastic pouches with his hair and the carpet scraping. I think I keep them because they give some reality to the whole episode, not because I want to use them.”
Her head was still perched on one side. She reminded me of a robin or a sparrow—not cruel, just impersonal.