somewhere between London and Boston; his features were soft, generous, and pouchy. His loose skin was the color of canned salmon. Tufts of cornsilk circled a sun-browned dome. A white carnation graced his buttonhole.
Jeeves, out of central casting.. "Yes?"
"I'm Ramey, Dr. Delaware, just coming to get you, sir. Please forgive the inconvenience, sir."
"No problem. I guess the valets aren't equipped to deal with pedestrians."
We stepped over the crest. My eye was drawn toward the horizon. Toward a dozen peaks of green copper tile roof, three stories of white stucco and green shutters, columned porticoes, balustered balconies and verandas, arched doors and fanlight windows. A monumental wedding cake surrounded by acres of green icing.
Formal gardens fronted the mansion: gravel paths, more cypress, a maze of boxwood hedges, limestone fountains, reflecting pools, hundreds of beds of roses so bright they seemed fluorescent. Partygoers clutching long-stemmed glasses strolled the paths and admired the plantings. Admired themselves in the mirrored water of the pools.
The butler and I walked in silence, kicking up gravel. The sun beat down, thick and warm as melting butter. In the shadow of the tallest fountain sat a philharmonic-sized group of grim, formally dressed musicians. Their conductor, a young, long-haired Asian, lifted his baton, and the players broke into dutiful Bach.
The strings were augmented by tinkling glass and a ground bass of conversation. To the left of the gardens a huge flagstone patio was filled with round white tables shaded by yellow canvas umbrellas. On each table was a centerpiece of tiger lilies, purple irises, and white carnations. A yellow-and-white striped tent, large enough to
house a circus, sheltered a long white-lacquered bar manned by a dozen elbow-greased bartenders. Three hundred or so people sat at the tables and drank. Half that amount crowded the bar. Waiters circulated with trays of drinks and canapes.
"Yes, sir. Can I get you a drink, sir?"
Page 21
"Soda water would be fine."
"Excuse me, sir." Ramey widened his stride, walked ahead of me, disappeared into the bar throng, and emerged moments later with a frosty glass and a yellow linen napkin. He handed them to me just as I reached the patio.
"Here you are, sir. Sorry again for the inconvenience."
"No problem. Thanks."
"Would you care for anything to eat, sjr?"
"Nothing right now."
He gave a small bow and walked off. I stood alone, sipping my soda, scanning the crowd for a friendly face.
The crowd, it soon became obvious, was divided into two discrete groups, a sociologic split that echoed the double-filed cars.
Center stage was dominated by the big rich, an assemblage of swans. Deeply tanned and loose-limbed in conservative haute couture, they greeted each other with cheek-pecks, laughed softly and discreetly, drank steadily and not so discreetly, and made no notice of the ethnically diverse bunch sitting off to the side.
The University people were the magpies, intense, watchful, brimming with nervous chatter.
They'd congregated, reflexively, into tight little cliques, talking behind their hands while darting their eyes. Some were conspicuously sleek in off-the-rack suits and special-occasion party dresses; others had made a point of dressing down. A few still gaped at their surroundings, but most were content to observe the rituals of the swans with a mixture of raw hunger and analytic contempt.
I'd finished half my soda when a ripple spread through the patio—through both camps. Paul Kruse appeared in its wake, weaving his way adroitly through Town and Gown. A small, lovely-looking silver-blond woman in a strapless black dress and three-inch heels hung on his arm. She was in her early thirties but wore her hair like a prom queen—ruler-straight down to her waist, the ends puffed and curled extravagantly. The dress clung to her like a coat of pitch. Around her neck was a diamond choker. She kept her eyes fastened on
Jeeves, out of central casting.. "Yes?"
"I'm Ramey, Dr. Delaware, just coming to get you, sir. Please forgive the inconvenience, sir."
"No problem. I guess the valets aren't equipped to deal with pedestrians."
We stepped over the crest. My eye was drawn toward the horizon. Toward a dozen peaks of green copper tile roof, three stories of white stucco and green shutters, columned porticoes, balustered balconies and verandas, arched doors and fanlight windows. A monumental wedding cake surrounded by acres of green icing.
Formal gardens fronted the mansion: gravel paths, more cypress, a maze of boxwood hedges, limestone fountains, reflecting pools, hundreds of beds of roses so bright they seemed fluorescent. Partygoers clutching long-stemmed glasses strolled the paths and admired the plantings. Admired themselves in the mirrored water of the pools.
The butler and I walked in silence, kicking up gravel. The sun beat down, thick and warm as melting butter. In the shadow of the tallest fountain sat a philharmonic-sized group of grim, formally dressed musicians. Their conductor, a young, long-haired Asian, lifted his baton, and the players broke into dutiful Bach.
The strings were augmented by tinkling glass and a ground bass of conversation. To the left of the gardens a huge flagstone patio was filled with round white tables shaded by yellow canvas umbrellas. On each table was a centerpiece of tiger lilies, purple irises, and white carnations. A yellow-and-white striped tent, large enough to
house a circus, sheltered a long white-lacquered bar manned by a dozen elbow-greased bartenders. Three hundred or so people sat at the tables and drank. Half that amount crowded the bar. Waiters circulated with trays of drinks and canapes.
"Yes, sir. Can I get you a drink, sir?"
Page 21
"Soda water would be fine."
"Excuse me, sir." Ramey widened his stride, walked ahead of me, disappeared into the bar throng, and emerged moments later with a frosty glass and a yellow linen napkin. He handed them to me just as I reached the patio.
"Here you are, sir. Sorry again for the inconvenience."
"No problem. Thanks."
"Would you care for anything to eat, sjr?"
"Nothing right now."
He gave a small bow and walked off. I stood alone, sipping my soda, scanning the crowd for a friendly face.
The crowd, it soon became obvious, was divided into two discrete groups, a sociologic split that echoed the double-filed cars.
Center stage was dominated by the big rich, an assemblage of swans. Deeply tanned and loose-limbed in conservative haute couture, they greeted each other with cheek-pecks, laughed softly and discreetly, drank steadily and not so discreetly, and made no notice of the ethnically diverse bunch sitting off to the side.
The University people were the magpies, intense, watchful, brimming with nervous chatter.
They'd congregated, reflexively, into tight little cliques, talking behind their hands while darting their eyes. Some were conspicuously sleek in off-the-rack suits and special-occasion party dresses; others had made a point of dressing down. A few still gaped at their surroundings, but most were content to observe the rituals of the swans with a mixture of raw hunger and analytic contempt.
I'd finished half my soda when a ripple spread through the patio—through both camps. Paul Kruse appeared in its wake, weaving his way adroitly through Town and Gown. A small, lovely-looking silver-blond woman in a strapless black dress and three-inch heels hung on his arm. She was in her early thirties but wore her hair like a prom queen—ruler-straight down to her waist, the ends puffed and curled extravagantly. The dress clung to her like a coat of pitch. Around her neck was a diamond choker. She kept her eyes fastened on
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