Toured to Death (24 page)

“No, thanks. She won't be using the Volvo today. She told me as much.”

“Then go ask her for it,” said Fanny. Then she saw Marcus's expression and understood. “Oh. Are we up to something Amy would disapprove of?”

“Absolutely.”

“Wait a minute.” She put the cup away and crossed to the stairwell. “Amy! I'm taking the car. Aunt Emily is leaving Uncle Joe again, and she needs to move a few things to Aunt Frieda's.”

“Fine.” Amy's voice echoed down the stairs. “Wish I could help, but I'm busy.”

“Thanks, anyway.” Fanny strolled back into the kitchen and unhooked a key from a row of nails above the stove. “So, when do we head out?”

“
We?
No, I'm sorry. This is more of a solo gig.”

“Oh, I see.” Fanny fingered the key. “No, I don't see. Why not? Are you meeting someone? I'm short, you know. I can squeeze under the dash, and they'll never see me.”

Marcus gently pried the key ring from her fingers. “I would love having you along. But I need to have someone on the outside. In case things go wrong.” Fanny stood there frowning, unconvinced. “Of course, you'll have to know exactly what I'm up to,” he continued. “Do you mind if I tell you?”

Fanny brightened. “Try getting out of here without telling me. Just try.”

“Y
ou ever think about how much of life is maintenance? You know, cleaning stuff that just gets dirty. Cooking food that fills you up and just comes out the other end? I mean, I love cooking. Don't get me wrong. Raking leaves, there's an example. You can never rake them all. Even if you do, they're just gonna fall next year. Well, different leaves, but you know. All this work to stay one step ahead of decay.”

“Maintenance is important,” Marcus said, hoping to sound sympathetic. “Probably more important than building from scratch—maintaining what you have.”

Vinny Mrozek stopped raking. He used a work glove to push back his hair. “I'm just a little down. No reason.”

Marcus had taken a chance on catching the Mrozeks at home. When no one answered the bell, he performed the cautionary ritual of checking the yard. For once it paid off. Vinny had been by the back fence of his half acre, raking little piles of dead leaves into big piles. He seemed happy to see Marcus and didn't question his unexpected arrival.

“So, how's it going?”

“Fine.” The day was overcast; the air moist and still. “Do you need some help? Plastic bags?”

Vinny set aside the rake. “Nah. It's illegal to burn, but . . .” He had already grabbed an armful of leaves and twigs and pinecones and was dropping them into the blackened mouth of a large steel drum. “What's autumn without the smell of burning leaves? The boys used to love this—before they figured out it was a chore.”

“The boys are in school?”

He nodded. “And Jolynn's over at a neighbor's. I'll give her a call.”

“Don't bother,” Marcus said. This already felt like a bad idea. He had somehow expected to find the whole family here and to treat it as a social call. Now it didn't feel very social.

Vinny went back for another armful. “I hear Amy has abandoned the cause. Not that much is happening.”

“Amy and I are just taking a break.”

“I see.” Vinny stood there, a silhouette between Marcus and the morning sun, cradling a bushel or more of leaves. “So what's up? She not really your type?”

Marcus nodded. “I don't think it's working out.”

Vinny just stood there with his leaves. “Relationships are hard. Of course, a good-looking guy like yourself . . . You can have your pick.”

“It's hard not having someone to talk to.”

“You can talk to me,” Vinny said. “Strictly confidential.”

And without really thinking, he said it. “Look, Vinny, I think I've come up with an angle the police haven't considered.”

“A new angle? Good for you.” Vinny walked past him, then pushed the last of the leaves down into the steel drum and felt his pockets for a matchbook. “You know, Jolynn and I want to help.”

“I do have a food question.”

“Food question? You should have just called.”

“I was impressed the other day by your memory for recipes.”

Vinny chuckled modestly as he struck a match, used it to light the others, then tossed the matchbook and its sputtering flame into the drum. “It's a simple skill.” The leaves crackled and blazed, giving off an almost immediate rush of heat. Vinny turned his back on the fire and made his way toward the kitchen door. “We'll keep an eye on it from the window.”

Marcus followed. “Was there milk in the scallop dish? In Monte Carlo?”

“No. There was a touch of milk in the fish stock. But the coquilles Saint-Jacques had cream. Cream and butter. What's the deal with milk? Is this your new angle?”

“Believe it or not. Fabian Carvel had severe milk allergies. But he was served cream and butter in the scallops. I think that's what Georgina remembered.”

Vinny mulled this over as they entered the house. He crossed to the open window above the sink and glanced out between the yellow flowered curtains at the flaring drum. “That's weird,” he said and lowered the window with a single, firm shove. “In his own home? Maybe his cook didn't know.”

“She'd been with him for decades.”

“So she used dairy substitutes.”

“She probably intended to. But her son was visiting. And I'm pretty sure he slipped in the real thing. That's why Fabian left the table—I think.”

Vinny tugged at the left corner of his mustache, pulling his lip into a half frown. “A practical joke?”

“Or something more malicious. We won't know until we track down this son.”

“You think you'll be able to find him?” Outside, the sun peeped through a thin spot in the cloud cover. Vinny squinted, then threw out a hand and pulled shut the field of yellow flowers.

Marcus felt suddenly cut off. “Maybe.”

“Sounds like a long shot. You have any idea where this guy is?”

“I have an idea,” said Marcus and instantly regretted it.

“Have you told anyone?”

Marcus found himself stepping to one side, placing the kitchen island between himself and Vinny. Could he have miscalculated the danger? He tried not to look as nervous as he felt. “We . . . uh, I, not we. Amy's no longer on the case. I really haven't discussed this with her.” He fought his growing unease.

Vinny was edging toward him now. “So, this son of the cook? What did you say his name was?”

“He's not using his real name. I traced him to a hospital about four years ago.” Marcus hadn't done any such thing, but it sounded good and it was logical, given what he'd seen in the Rome photograph. “But I lost him.”

“Four years is a long time.” Vinny was shuffling slowly around the marble-topped island. Marcus backed away. He tried to gauge the chef's size and heft and skill. “But this isn't what you came to see me about.”

“I came to see you about the cream. I wanted an expert opinion.”

“And that's all you wanted?” There was a strange expression on his face.

“Well, since I don't have Amy to talk this over with . . .”

“That's what I thought.” Vinny was around the second edge surprisingly quick. His sizable right hand fell on Marcus's shoulder, swallowing it in a loose grip.

“Vinny!”

“That's not why you came.” With his left hand he grabbed Marcus's arm.

Marcus tried to brush him off, but the grip had hardened. The man's intensity had been unexpected and Marcus felt paralyzed. Could he bluff his way out? Would he need a weapon? His eyes darted around the room. Where was the nearest door? The nearest knife?

And then his eyes settled on Vinny Mrozek's face and his narrowing gaze. It was a soft, embarrassed, vulnerable gaze. “Oh, Vinny!” He had to stop himself from laughing with relief. “That's not why I came.”

“I'm up for it if you are.” His tone was soft and pleading. “What do you say?”

“What the hell is this?” He tried to say it lightly. The grip had relaxed, and Marcus shrugged himself loose.

“I don't exactly know,” said Vinny. “I've never done it with a guy.”

“Me neither,” said Marcus. “Believe me.”

“I thought you were bi.”

“I'm not gay, and I'm not bi.”

“I have nothing against it,” said Vinny. “It's just sex. Just human affection. I thought, you know, after our talk the other day . . . And then you come all the way out here, telling me about your breakup.... What was I supposed to think?”

“What about Jolynn?”

“You don't know what she's like.” Vinny turned away. “Always so angry and cold. When we do have sex, it's always in the dark. And it's always the same way. I figured gay guys have more fun.”

“Vinny, please. Even if I was gay and you didn't have a wife . . . Believe me, I'm not in the mood.”

 

“You said you'd call by noon,” Fanny scolded. “I was worried sick.”

Marcus checked the dashboard. “What are you talking about? It's eleven fifty-two.”

“I know. But if noon is the outside limit, then eleven thirty is normal. So, when eleven forty rolled around . . . what was I to think?”

“Right.” Marcus was doing three things at once, driving, talking, and glancing down at the wrinkled set of directions Vinny had e-mailed Amy a few days ago. Four things, if you counted the translation of the directions from Manhattan–New Jersey to New Jersey–Manhattan.
Take Hawthorne Street, then a right to Alice Avenue. No, Alice to Hawthorne. Then a left . . .

He put the phone down for a few seconds and pulled onto the shoulder of a suburban driveway.

“Hello?” Fanny's voice sounded anxious. “Are you all right?”

“Just a bit distracted. Sorry.”

“Are you being held prisoner? Marcus, if you're being forced to make this call, work the word
cow
into a sentence.”

“What?” He laughed and almost said the word accidentally. “I am not being held prisoner. Everything is fine, if you don't count Vinny's amorous advances.”

“Really? Advances? Vinny is gay?”

“No. I think just starved for affection.”

“Are you gay? If you don't want to say it, just say
cow.
”

“I am not being held prisoner, and I'm not gay.”

Fanny grunted. “Well, you can't blame me. This is a very suspicious conversation.”

“I probably shouldn't have gone over, but the curiosity was too much.”

“Are you calling the police?”

“Not before I see Jolynn. I mean, if I'm wrong? How embarrassing is that!”

“Pretty embarrassing,” Fanny had to admit.

They spent another few minutes talking about the Mrozeks and their marriage, then about Amy. “Buy her something,” Fanny suggested. “That's always a good first step.”

Marcus hung up and deposited the phone in a cup holder. Then he pulled off the shoulder and tried once more to follow directions. Alice Avenue was curving gently into unfamiliar loops, if this was still Alice Avenue, which he doubted, since he hadn't seen a sign. This had never been one of his strengths. Amy had called it a revealing trait, the inability to follow other people's directions.

“How'd I get on Elm?” he asked himself, squinting at a lone street sign. His eyes scoured the thinning pattern of houses, looking for someone to point him toward Palisades Parkway. Why was no one ever on the streets here in suburbia? The sidewalk had just ended, too, which was not a good omen. He slowed even more and was barely aware that the car fifty yards behind him had also slowed. His mind wandered back to Amy and this morning and the picture on the refrigerator.
No wonder Doris Carvel didn't say anything
, Marcus thought.
I would have reacted the same way.

The road took one more curve, then straightened out. Again, Marcus thought about the photo. It struck him as ironic. He and Amy had each discovered different pieces of the puzzle, Amy from the dinner, he from the photograph. Amy knew who'd poisoned the wine, and he knew why. For a moment he regretted not having combined forces this morning. “Well, she wasn't in the mood to listen.”

Only four houses in sight, none of them showing any sign of life. Maybe he should flag down the Grand Cherokee behind him. He was just pulling up to a corner, was just beginning to roll down his window, when half a block ahead a green metal rectangle popped up from behind a golden-leafed tree. “Thank God.” Marcus drove past the sign and made the suggested right turn.

Once on the Palisades, he relaxed and allowed himself to think about the appliance outlet in Fort Lee. They were bound to have a good selection of espresso machines, something fancy, on sale, and foolproof. Would she be pleased about getting a present from him? Or would she take it the wrong way, whichever way that might be?

The same Jeep was still behind him, on his bumper, causing him to flip on a turn signal and ease the Volvo out of the passing lane.
We're the only two on the road,
he thought, faintly annoyed.
Why can't he pass on the right?

The forest-green vehicle pulled up beside him but didn't pass, staying close enough and steady enough so that Marcus could see his own reflection in the tinted side window. Someone he knew had a green Grand Cherokee. Who was it? Of course, half the Jeeps in the world seemed to come in that shade.

The vehicles had just rounded a bend, still in tandem, when the Jeep swerved over the dotted line. Marcus compensated, honking his horn. “Would you prefer to hit that damned pothole or hit me?” They were on a straightaway now, and the northbound lanes, usually hidden by the rolling, tree-encrusted median, slipped momentarily into view. The Jeep edged back into its own lane. “That's better.”

Barely had his eyes returned to the road when it happened again. The northbound lanes had just vanished behind a hillock when the Jeep swerved across the line. It was harder, more deliberate this time, forcing the Volvo off onto the thin shoulder.

In a gut-wrenching flash, he realized who owned the preppy-green Jeep. A surge of adrenaline pumped through his bloodstream, superseding all rational thought. Survival was the sole instinct. No anger, no panic, not even fear. To plan anything, to plan even a second ahead, seemed a luxurious impossibility.

Marcus slowed down, but the Jeep slowed, too. It was now halfway into his lane and edging closer. With a jolt, both his right tires lunged onto the high, grassy verge.

Instantly his car was at a twenty-degree angle, its roof tilting into the Jeep, almost close enough to scrape paint. He was leaning into his side window now but did his best to maintain control of the steering wheel, his knuckles so tight and white, they ached. But control came and went and came again in spurts too quick to pinpoint. The left tires began to skid on the gravel shoulder, while the rights bounced maniacally over rocks and holes and leafy brush. A row of four hefty sugar maples loomed directly ahead.