Broken Serenade (16 page)

   
Suddenly the air in the church became impossible to breath. Vivien got up slowly and slipped out. Her heart beating madly, as if threatening to break her rib cage, she hesitantly walked to her car. The panic strained her muscles, and her palms and underarms got wet with cold, uncomfortable sweat. She collapsed on the edge of the sidewalk in front of her Lexus and made an effort to control her crisis with yoga breathing exercises.

   
“Miss Hopkins, are you OK?”

   
Vivien registered detective Leonard’s voice like coming from a dream.

   
“I’m fine,” she responded, drained of energy.

   
She was as white as a sheet. The detective crouched and handed her a small bottle of water.

   
“Take a few sips. It helps.”

   
“Yes. Like massage for a wooden leg,” she grinned and bore it.

   
“I’m sorry you have to go through these panic attacks.”

   
“You know about it?”

   
“You’re the person who discovered Miss Morgan’s body. I had to run a check on you. I talked to your mother, among other people…” 

   
Vivien hung her head, her eyes fixed on the asphalt under her feet. Art Leonard set down beside her.

   
“This is not a reason to feel ashamed,” he said softly. “My grandmother suffers from panic attacks. She’s eighty-seven years old. When did yours start?”

   
“In my childhood. The neighbors’ dog attacked me. They were rare at first, maybe once or twice per year. As time went by, they became more and more frequent.”
Especially after Mademoiselle Lili’s suicide
, she wanted to add, but reconsidered. She had no doubt that the detective knew too much about her already.  

   
“I hope you feel better,” he said, playing nervously with his car keys. He threw a glance at her and was happy to observe that her face was regaining its normal color and brightness. “I’m sorry, Miss Hopkins, but I have more bad news.” 

   
Vivien studied him worriedly.

   
“Igor Schenk,” he said shortly. “Does that name sound familiar?”

   
“I know him from my childhood in Woodside. A talented painter. We were never close. He’s a few years older than I am.”  

   
“He’s in a coma right now, in critical condition. Two or three hours ago, around noon more precisely, he became the victim of a hit and run accident in Menlo Park, about a mile away from your house. No witnesses. A man found him. He was lying unconscious on the sidewalk.” 

   
“Oh, my God!” Vivien exclaimed, bursting into tears.

   
“We received only one tip, an anonymous phone call. The person oscillated between a car similar with yours and a silver Mercedes.”

   
“And you think I did it?” Vivien asked stupefied, her face flushed from crying.

   
“I’m sure you didn’t do it, Miss Hopkins,” the detective told her calmly. “But I thought you’d want to know about Igor.”

   
“Yes, of course I want to know about him,” she barely whispered.

   
“He’s only a few minutes from here, at Stanford Hospital. I can come with you, if you want to see him now.” 

   
Vivien accepted the invitation. She followed the detective in her car. They arrived at Stanford Hospital reception in no time. A young and heavily built black nurse accompanied them to Igor’s bed. Layers of bandages covered the man’s head, and a network of tubes was attached to his arms.  

   
“Most likely, the impact sent him on the sidewalk. He hit the phone booth with his head. Otherwise, he has only a few contusions, no broken bones or internal bleeding,” the nurse informed them benevolently. “What a pity!” she added, with a sympathetic glance. “He’s such a young and handsome man!”

   
Vivien stared at him with tearful eyes. Igor was not her type. She didn’t find him extremely attractive. But seeing him lying there hurt and unconscious, with no one by his side, made her feel so terribly sorry for him. The recent memory of his mournful face, as he cried like a child, devastated by the death of his girlfriend, only accentuated her unanticipated and warm affection for him.

   
The detective’s tough question startled her.

   
“Did you know that Igor and Miss Morgan were lovers?”

   
Vivien pondered the answer for a while. In the end, she concluded that she had no real motive to hide the truth.

   
“I found out a couple of days ago, after Arlene’s death. He told me.”

   
The detective’s cell phone started ringing, and that saved her from a more elaborated explanation. After half a dozen of repeated monosyllabic responses, Art Leonard announced her briefly that he needed to leave right away.

   
“Maybe I should stay with him for a while,” Vivien spoke softly, touching Igor’s needle poked arm with excessive finesse.

   
“I don’t see why. Considering the doctors’ opinion, it’s very possible that he would remain in this state for days or weeks maybe. That of course, if he will ever wake up. I’ll see you to your car, Miss Hopkins.”

   
Vivien did not insist. She allowed him to escort her out of Igor’s room. They walked silently on those long, highly illuminated corridors that smelled of medications, rubbing alcohol, and sick people. When they reached the hospital courtyard, she was anxious to breath in the outside fresh air.  

   
The detective’s old Toyota turned left at the first intersection. Vivien turned right, but on second thought, she decided not to go home yet. She headed toward Menlo Avenue. A few minutes later, she was casting discreet glances toward
Vernisaj
art studio.  

   
Igor’s tall and feeble lady colleague was right in front of the entrance, gesticulating nervously and explaining something to a couple of heavily armed police officers. Vivien parked across the street, behind the sportswear shop. She came inside the store and acted as if she were interested in buying cycling gear. However, from that angle, she had the perfect view of the devastated windows of
Vernisaj
painting studio.  

   
The cops left shortly after Vivien’s arrival. Igor’s skinny colleague wiped her tears with her orange knitted scarf wrapped up negligently around her long and thin neck. She walked hesitantly toward the parking lot. Vivien exited the sportswear store and followed her. 

   
“Miss,” she called out, just as the crying young woman was finding privacy in her small Red Bug car. 

   
Clair turned her head and fixed Vivien with her red and puffy eyes.

   
“Some miserable gang of jerks destroyed his most beautiful paintings,” she exploded, sobbing and muttering the most colorful expletives that Vivien had ever heard coming out of a woman’s mouth. “He’s almost dead, lying on the hospital bed! You know that?”   

   
“I know, and I’m so sorry,” Vivien said kindly, patting her bonny shoulder. “I am Vivien, do you remember me?”  

   
“I gave you Avon samples. Are you from the police too?” she inquired.

   
“No, I’m Igor’s childhood friend,” Vivien stated boldly and hoped she wouldn’t blush.

   
“I don’t know if Ig ever mentioned that to you. I’m a painter too actually. The creams business is for extra cash, if it happens… Not nearly as often as I need it, if you ask. Ig and me rented the studio together. Actually, he pays the rent.” She broke down again. “He’s such a wonderful man. I hope he wakes up from this coma, so I can have the chance to tell him how much I love him.”  

   
“Clair, have you met Igor’s other close friends? Does he have any?”

   
The young woman flashed a rueful smile.

   
“Ig has a lot of friends. Men and women. American, French, Spanish, Italian – you name it! Artists mostly. Close friends? I don’t think so. Why do you think he listed me as the only person to contact in case of an emergency? That says it all, to me at least…”  

   
Biting and chewing her cheek and lower lip, Clair treated her with a long, wide-eyed gaze, as if she were trying to make an important decision regarding Vivien’s presence there. The silence seemed like it would never end. Finally, she spoke. 

   
“He left a package for you Tuesday night. He seemed nervous. It was the last time he came to the studio. I was just leaving the place, and I didn’t want to go back inside. I put it in my car. That’s why you stopped by today. Right?”  

   
“Yes, he called me and told me that I would find it with you,” Vivien lied.

   
Clair bent down and fished a small carton box from under the driver’s seat. Not particularly enthusiastic, she handed it to Vivien. 

   
“Good thing I forgot about it. It would’ve been gone if left in the studio, you can bet on that! The hooligans didn’t leave an inch of that room unchecked. Stupid jerks!” she cursed again.    

   
Vivien took the box and thanked Clair for keeping it safe. Intuition pressed her to believe that, inside the small box, Igor had put that secret tape he had promised to bring at Whole Foods earlier that week. She rushed to her car and then straight home.  

   
Vivien was so anxious to see what the tape revealed, that she inserted it into her VCR the minute she locked the door behind her.  

   
Igor’s short film presented Nadine and Mademoiselle Lili playing on a beach and having sex together in that majestic wilderness. It commenced with both of them in a warrior-like position, releasing arrows from their bows far into the ocean. The round, perfect full moon mirrored fluidly on the dancing waters. In its generous light, Vivien clearly recognized the two women’s beautiful features. However, she had difficulties identifying the person in the dark, efficiently masked by the large hood of a black jacket.      

   
The poisonous worm of suspicion started tormenting Vivien again. It fed on her sanity with a malevolent appetite. She rewound the tape a few times and carefully studied that person. It appeared to be a man. He sneaked like the shadow of death between the picturesque cliffs washed rhythmically by high, foamy waves. The women’s young and fit bodies glowed in the moonlight like bronze statues wrapped up in yellow silk scarves unable to conceal their nakedness. Their colorful laughter enhanced the beauty of the ocean’s melodious capriccio with joyful notes. From his secluded vantage point, it was obvious that the obsessive observer savored the view through his binoculars. He was touching himself. Igor did not have any idea who the mysterious voyeur was, but Vivien remembered sadly well who had been wearing a jacket like that back then. The golden inserts in its large sleeves caught the moon’s rays from time to time. Wounded and in love, Vivien’s heart cried silently…      

CHAPTER 12

     
 
A
soft knock on his office door made Timothy raise his head from his laid out project.

   
“Mr. Leigh, I apologize for the interruption. Miss Hopkins just called,” his secretary informed him, popping her big head inside.

   
The architect’s face lighted up, and he rushed to the phone on his desk.

   
“Thank you, Miss LaFontain!” he said excitedly.

   
“Sir, she’s not on the phone right now. She only called to let you know that some unexpected events force her to delay the tonight’s meeting with you by two hours.”   

   
“Ok,” Timothy sighed disappointed, still holding the receiver.

   
He would have liked to hear her voice. He missed her. Every day he counted the hours until they met again. It was heaven around her. That hour with her, it was like taking his daily pill of happiness. And it was highly addictive!    

   
The secretary was slowly closing the door. Timothy felt an acute desire to talk to someone about his new Vee.

   
“Miss LaFontain,” he called out. “How could I tempt you to a few minutes of gossip? I know that you don’t usually approve of that. But I also don’t escape the fact that you’re most likely well informed about the lives of at least half of this town’s population. So?” he asked with a waggish smile.

   
Miss LaFontain’s thin lips reduced to a slim burgundy line.

   
“A glass of whiskey on the rocks would be enough,” the woman consented with a reserved style. She pushed an invisible strand of her very short hair behind her ear and opened the only button of her manly cut off coat. “But it’s my turn to warn you that it won’t be a second time if a single word leaves this room,” she specified convincingly.