As the week progressed, Crawford noticed a steadily increasing flow of caterers delivering things to his neighbor's house, evidently in preparation for one of his notorious parties. With them came crates of oranges and lemons, several hundred feet of canvas, and enough lights to make a Christmas tree of Fell's impressive garden. The buffet tables were lined with spiced ham that nestled against salads of harlequin design, along with pastry pigs and turkeys cursed to a dark gold. The collection of wines consisted to Manzaneque Chardonnay, Manzaneque Finca Elez, Gran Juvé, Reserve Vintage Brut, Chianti, Amarone, and Chateau d'Yquem.
By seven o'clock on Friday evening, the orchestra arrived. Not merely a quartet, but a whole arrangement of oboes, trombones, saxophones, viols, cornets, piccolos, low and high drums, and of course, the classic strings. Not fifteen minutes after the initial tuning did the first guest arrived, and from then onward, the steady flow of people could not be stopped.
When Crawford himself arrived, he decidedly made an astute observation. In studying the other attendees, he noted from rumors of this man Fell, that this was not the type of people he would readily welcome. He believed he was one of the guests that carried an actual invitation. This, naturally, was curious on its own accord. After all, since his arrival on Long Island, Dr. Fell had not extended the offer to make his formal introduction. The invitation was the first suggestion of immediate contact he had received from his neighbor.
It was that morning when the chauffer in a uniform crossed his lawn with a surprisingly formal note from his employer. Stating that the honor would be entirely his if Crawford would attend his so-called 'little party' in the evening. Fell noted that he had seen him several times and regrettably couldn't find the time. Signed Arthur Fell, MD in a majestically beautiful script.
Now at the party, Crawford wished he had a better idea who to look for. His intention here was to make a formal introduction with his neighbor, a task made no less difficult by the man's mysterious social habits at his very own parties.
Crawford was singularly grateful to see Ardelia Mapp among the other guests.
"Hello!" he screamed as he advanced toward her. She had just emerged with a crowd of others from the main house and had a brand of indistinguishable wine in hand.
Similarly, she appeared to be glad to see him, though she wouldn't say it in too many words, or reveal it through alternative tones of her voice. "I thought you might be here," she remarked. "I remembered you lived next door to Dr. Fell. Wondered if you'd find yourself over here at one of his parties."
Crawford presented her with the invitation, suddenly compelled to differentiate himself from the other guests. "Ah, but I was invited," he observed.
However, Mapp was no longer paying attention. A girl had bumped into her from the dance floor, and they were enjoying a casual reminiscence of the last party they attended together. Crawford frowned at the sudden abandonment, even when his eyes met Mapp's and she nodded her encouragement for him to keep up.
"Candice, you've died your hair since the last time I saw you," she was telling this girl.
"Yeah." The unfamiliar face reached to stroke her vibrantly colored purple hair. "I figured conformism shades were too flattering to your parents."
Mapp tossed an airy glance to Crawford, which he matched to the best of his ability. "Do you come to these parties often?" she asked Candice.
"I like to come," she replied. "I never care what I do, so I always have a good time. When I was here last I tore my dress on a chair, and he asked me my name and address."
"Excuse me," Crawford interrupted, eyes widened in a sudden peak of interest. "Who did?"
"Dr. Fell, of course," came the dry response. "And by the next week, I got a package from Croirier's with a new dress in it."
Both Mapp and Crawford blinked their disbelief.
"Did you keep it?" Mapp asked.
"Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but I had to alter the hem line." Candice glanced about excitedly. "Boy oh BOY, and was it a dress! Gas blue with lavender beads. That man has exquisite taste."
With a confirmative shake of her head, Mapp turned to Crawford and whispered, "There's something funny about a fellow that'll do a thing like that. He must not want any trouble with anyone."
Candice, having not retracted her ears from the conversation, eagerly jumped forward again. "He doesn't!" she exclaimed. "Somebody told me—"
With an understanding pause, the narrator motioned for the party of three to bunch together, as though they were going to discuss top-secret governmental programs, or other issues that required the utmost confidence.
"Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once."
Mapp wasn't easily bought. "I don't think it's so much *that*," she sneered. "But I do think that he has ties with the Black Market."
A quick look to Candice quickly confirmed her disagreement. Crawford thought it best to hold his tongue, especially since he knew nothing about Fell to begin with.
"Oh no," Candice said. "It couldn't be that. The police have investigated him, or so I've heard, at least for illegal ties to his money. But you *look* at him. You look at him sometimes when he thinks nobody's looking at him. I bet he killed a man."
Shaking her head in firm disagreement, Mapp turned to Crawford, her eyes aligned with decision. At the speed of lightening, she had discarded her conversation with Candice and come to some radical epiphany that she thought should include him. "Let's get out of here. This party's too polite, for my liking."
"Where is there to go?" Crawford retorted. "And I still haven't met this Fell character."
"Are you sure you want to? Even if he killed a man?"
"I thought you didn't believe that."
Mapp shook her head once more. "Oh, I don't. Not at all, as a matter of fact. But a man with such rumors running about him can't really be anyone but trouble, don't you think? Besides, the liquor here is much too light. Let's leave."
As she tried to brush passed him, Crawford took a firm grasp of her arm. This was surprising for both, as he found he was not a confrontational person, nor did he strive to be. On the other hand, Mapp apparently appreciated the force, and he found himself closer still to her and her marinating perfume.
"We haven't had supper yet," he noted. "And I'd like to get the best of my invitation. Besides, Dr. Fell can't be too horribly bad, or people wouldn't come to his parties."
It took very little to convince her this was the best plan. Mapp, as he figured, was up for anything as long as it dealt with socializing or intimacy. With the knowledge that Crawford's interests were not in anyone's bed tonight, she seemed more agreeable. "All right. To sit, then."
"To sit," he agreed.
This, also, proved in vain.
Once situated, Crawford again found himself in the middle of an already-heated discussion, the topic of which was no different than the one he and Mapp had collectively decided to drop. The speculation around this Fell figure was exquisitely enticing, like a bad soap opera. Though Crawford knew better than to believe everything he heard, some of the rumors were too radically delicious to ignore.
To apply everything, he heard further commentary of the man's alleged overseas connections. How could one person be the cousin (a title which had now extended to brother by some conversationalists) of Tony Blair, involved in numerous Black Market scandals, a popular supplier of drugs, and guilty if at least one account of murder without attracting an inkling of attention from the authorities, whom apparently were actively investigating him for any illegal actions?
Still, it was a delight to believe. Crawford felt the thrill of contention, and his desire to meet the man likewise suffered a drastic elevation.
Perhaps after an hour into the variety of debates and assorted gossip of their mysterious host, Mapp turned to him, thrusting her empty glass into his face. "Jack!" she giggled, thoroughly intoxicated. "Jack, be a dear and invigorate my wine. You don't mind, do you?" The slurred speech incorporated with words she could arguably spell was amusing, and he decided not to dwell on the placement of verbs in the incoherent sentences of his drunken companion.
Gentlemanly, Crawford recognized that Mapp could barely maintain her seat, much less walk and perform any functional duties. With a smile, he nodded and accepted the glass, hurrying to his feet.
As he neared the refreshment table, he turned again to examine Mapp, frowned, and made a quick decision. It wouldn't do his reputation any good if he allowed the woman he had notably spent the most time with this evening to become acutely wasted, even if it was too late. Nevertheless, encouraging overdrinking was no better than supplying the liquor himself, and instead of approaching the waiting butler; he altered direction and targeted the punch bowl.
A man stood there, his back to him, fiddling with the ladle. Clearing his throat to announce his presence, Crawford took station next to the attendant and waited for him to find peace with the punch.
The wait was not long. As soon as he stilled, the man turned to him, flashing a kind though particularly deceptive smile.
"Good evening," greeted the man in a soft, metallic voice that seemed to make Crawford's blood hum.
"Hello," he replied in kind.
The man took a sip of his wine, indicating with a nod to the punch. "I wouldn't advise you draw any into your cup if your intention is to remain sober," he reported. "I'm afraid some ill-mannered guests have determined every beverage here should contain alcohol."
Crawford paused in his reach for the ladle to smile his understanding. "I see," he remarked. "Have you tasted it?"
"Hardly. The air carries the telltale scent of bad brandy mixed with good punch. I apologize for the inconvenience." For a minute, and only a minute, Crawford wondered if the man might be wasted himself, as the art of smelling tainted drinks seemed a bit farfetched. However, once their eyes locked, he noted this person was of sound mind, or alert enough to perceive it as such.
Firstly, the eyes were a color Crawford had never before seen. The hint of red seemed to bore into him like a drill, though the affect was not threatening. Perhaps foolishly, Crawford reflected no peril at their seemingly dangerous proximity, noting, however, the trickery and mischief cast into this man's pupils.
There was something else, too.
"Forgive me for making an observation," the man said, turning to offer his attention in its entirety, "but your face is terribly familiar. Ah, no, don't tell me. The Behavioral Science Department of the FBI, am I right?"
Crawford blinked his disbelief. Though he hardly seemed familiar, at closer inspection, he conceded the man might be one he formerly knew, but that could easily be a reflex of the power of suggestion. Still, there was no sense in denying him an owed answer. "Yes," he replied lowly. "My apologies, but I don't seem to remember you."
The man chuckled lightly, and the lights of the garden reflected on his small white teeth. "No, I don't imagine so. We've never met, I assure you, but I do know who you are." Before allowing Crawford the chance for rebuttal, he turned to face the crowd. "Lively crew, eh? The crowd never ceases to amaze me."
The conversation had the promise of continuance, had Ardelia Mapp not sickened of waiting for her drink. As Crawford started to form a reply, she stumbled into view.
"Are you having a good time?" she asked, evidently forgetting the implied notion to be stern with tardiness. She grasped her drink and filled it with punch without raising a comment from Crawford's new acquaintance.
"Much better," he confirmed with a nod, turning once more to the man. "This is an unusual party for me. I haven't even seen the host. I live over there." Crawford waved his hand in the direction of his humble abode without checking for accuracy at his aim. "This morning, this man Fell sent over his chauffer with an invitation."
In the seconds that followed, in which Crawford anticipated similar disbelief or sympathy at the convey of confusion, the only answer granted was a blank stare as though suffering a failure of comprehension.
"I'm Dr. Fell," he said suddenly.
Crawford blinked, then flushed. "What!" he exclaimed. "Oh, I beg your pardon."
However, the issue of mistaken identity didn't appear to weigh much with him, and the matter was dismissed with a casual shake of the head. "I thought you knew, old sport. I'm afraid I'm not a very good host."
Dr. Fell smiled, and as all would come to understand, whatever misinterpretation from either party was discarded. It was a rare smile, one that seemed to radiate eternal reassurances, as well as the promise of good manners, to concentrate on the targeted recipient with an irresistible prejudice in their favor.
Almost the moment Dr. Fell identified himself, a butler hurried toward him with information that Chicago was holding an important phone call. Nodding his understanding, he turned to both Crawford and Mapp apologetically; excusing himself with a small bow that included both of them in turn.
"If you want anything, just ask for it," he encouraged Crawford. "Excuse me. I will rejoin you later."
When he was gone, Crawford turned immediately to Mapp, eyes widened with the initial desire to constrain his surprise, but he found himself unable of anything other than to ask in a fresh foray of questioning, "Who is he? Do you even know?"
Mapp shrugged simply, stumbling a bit as she drank the tampered punch. "He's just a man named Fell. We can't be sure, can we?"
This seemed like quite the revelation from just an hour or so before. Perhaps alcohol had the alternate affect on people; made them think under rational instead of accusatory light.
Despite this, Crawford was determined to get answers – real answers. "Where is he from, I mean? And what does he do, if he has to cover something up on the Black Market?"
With a chuckle, Mapp shook her head. "Now *you're* started on the subject. Well, he told me once he was an Oxford man." She took another drink, draining the glass clean, and set it on the table. Apparently struggling with the temptation of a refill, she seemed to dismiss the option as for now, engrossed in conversation. "But, I don't believe it," she added a minute later.
"Why not?"
"I dunno," she slurred with a shrug. "You look at him. Oxford? No…I don't think so. And he said…he said it funny…dunno…just dunno."
There was a moment of silence, uncomfortable, perhaps, on with the hint of the company they were in. This man who stole the evening without needing to show his face to any guest.
Mapp, of course, knew how to break up awkward moments, and again shrugged, evidently deciding the punch deserved her extended attention after all. "But he gives great parties," she said. "And I love big parties. They're so intimate. At small parties, there just isn't any privacy."
Food for thought. He had to chew on that to decide if he found its flavor agreeable.
There was a sudden boom from a bass drum, and the voice of the orchestra conductor rang out over the garden so quickly that Crawford barely scampered the time to feign surprise at the interruption.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he bellowed. "At the request of Dr. Fell we are going to play a selection by Bach. Goldberg Variations."
The piece was one Crawford didn't know by title or score, though he found himself oddly enjoying it. His eyes wandered over the crowd of people, some making unpleasant remarks about the older musical sound. Unlike its predecessors of that evening, it had the resonance of a true orchestral number, and wasn't particularly anything anyone could successfully dance to. When Crawford's eyes landed on Dr. Fell, standing alone at the marble steps, he stopped to simply watch the man, catching him, perhaps, at one of those rumored time when he thought no one was looking. However, there was nothing monstrous about his appearance, even suspended in a minute of inactivity. Still, from a distance, he appeared to be an epitome of good manners, and Crawford knew instantly that what he saw was not for show.
Crawford was truly enamored with Bach, and Mapp seemed to share his enthusiasm, even if the music was not something she would regularly enjoy. She had even gone as far as to invent some rather questionable dance steps when Fell's butler approached.
"Ms. Mapp?" he asked, tapping on her shoulder and causing her to flip to newfound soberness, as though on cue. "I beg your pardon, but Dr. Fell would like to speak to you alone."
"With me?"
"Yes, madam."
Mapp flashed a cynical look to Crawford, her mouth forming the word 'madam' in silent disbelief, before turning to follow the man inside.
A significant period of time had passed before she emerged. The party, however, emanated no signs of dying before dawn.
"I've just heard the most amazing thing!" Mapp announced when she returned, breath short and eyes dancing with the thrill of discovery. From behind, Crawford saw Dr. Fell walk out, his eyes straying in their direction briefly before he turned to tend to other guests. "How long were we in there?"
Crawford estimated without checking his watch. "Oh, about an hour."
But time, evidently, was irrelevant to Mapp. She shook it off without another thought. "It was…simply amazing," she repeated. Then, likewise, her eyes dimmed and some of the excitement drained. "But I swore I wouldn't tell it and here I am tantalizing you." With a yawn, she stretched, as though the effect of her secrecy purchased with it the unexpected element of sleep. "Please come and see me…" she offered, farewell evident in her tone without needing to be suggested with words.
Then she was gone, and as if she were the life of the party, others, one by one, realized they were not born on the Fell lawn, and knew it was time to return.
Such symbolism reminded Crawford of his own impending schedule, and he was grateful that the journey home was nothing more than a scamper across lawns. However, he felt compelled to chat with Dr. Fell again, not knowing if this would be the extent of their dialogue. An occasional glance at parties, perhaps a conversation here and there. Other than that, relying on rumors for knowledge, for people who – by chance – knew other people to get his information.
Crawford was grateful to see Dr. Fell. He wanted to thank him, at least, should this be the closing of their acquaintance until the next social gathering. Without hesitating, he made the approach.
"Thanks for the invitation, Doctor," he said as they shook hands. "And again, my apologies for the confusion in the garden."
"Don't mention it," Dr. Fell excused. "Don't give it another thought. Why don't you join me for lunch tomorrow, old sport? After all, we are neighbors. It would be a crime not to get to know each other, wouldn't you say?" He flashed another one his smiles. "Is that convenient?"
"Very." Crawford nodded with a smile that failed to hide his enthusiasm. It was dangerous, associating with crowds of bad reputation, but that hardly put cease to the arguably hundreds that attended his massive parties. "What time?"
"That depends on what is agreeable for you. I'll phone you around nine o'clock, is that all right?"
"Perfectly."
"Terrific." Then a butler was behind him, tapping insistently on his shoulder.
"Philadelphia wants you on the telephone, sir."
Dr. Fell masked annoyance well, if he had any at all. Perhaps it was Crawford's own bias, but he was under the vague impression that being called to the phone from various cities would grow tiresome. "All right. I'll be right there." He was presented again with the calm, impassive face of the doctor, and none of this conveyed behind the mystique of his eyes. "Good night, Mr. Crawford."
"Good night."
Then, before hurrying to answer his call, Dr. Fell smiled. To Crawford, there seemed to be a pleasant significance in being among the last to leave.
And as he turned his back to the Fell Manor, he could still feel the lights from the gardens shining onto his back. Similarly, a cold air seemed to overtake him as the trees shadowed the warmth, and he made the dreary walk to his home. For the first time since his arrival, Crawford found the taste of darkness discomfiting.
* * *
