Capriccio (11 page)

But my immediate concern was to phone the restaurant and order dinner. I looked up the number and sat thinking what food would suit a hardware salesman from Nebraska without adding a zillion calories to a dieter. I didn’t know one single person from Nebraska unless you could count Johnny Carson or Dick Cavett. Maybe duck à l’orange was too pretentious, but a steak wouldn’t travel well. Something with a sauce that could be slipped into the oven for a few minutes before serving

I was at the phone about to order coq au vin for two to go when the doorbell sounded once more. I thought it might be one of the neighbors since Victor was popular in the building. When I peeked out the peephole, I saw Fred Marven, the plainclothes policeman, standing there. My insides were shaking like a leaf in the wind when I admitted him.

“Have you found him?” I asked, staring.

“No, Ma’am, I’m afraid we haven’t,” he said, and stepped in, looking all around.

I led him to the sofa where he immediately spotted the two glasses. “A friend just dropped in,” I said, before he spoke.

“I saw Mr. Strathroy in the parking garage,” he said, which gave me hope for his alertness and ability to put two. and two together. “I believe he was here this morning as well."

“Yes, he dropped in on his way to work.” I was proud to announce my connection with such local worthies. “The Strathroys are very good friends of the family.”

“A fine family, the Strathroys. Have you and your uncle known them long?”

“Mr. Mazzini has known them longer than I have. I believe he met them a few years ago in Italy. Mrs. Strathroy’s cousin lives there—married to an Italian.” This all seemed highly irrelevant, but I wasn’t eager to quit such a harmless topic. “He looked Mrs. Strathroy up when he moved to Toronto, and they became good friends.”

We discussed the Strathroys for a while—Eleanor’s party mainly—then he stirred in his seat. I was alarmed till I discovered what he wanted.

“I don’t have a search warrant, but would you have any objection to my taking a look around the apartment?” he asked.

“Not at all. Go right ahead.”

He began walking around, poking at everything, while I paced behind him. I took the idea he was looking for the money. I didn’t know whether Mr. Bartlett, in a fit of timidity, had called the police, or the police had been checking into Victor’s financial affairs, but I don’t know what else he could have been looking for. I remembered with a sigh of relief that I had put the bank statement into my purse.

He went into Victor’s bedroom and sort of half closed the door behind him. This looked like a hint that he wanted to be alone, so I stayed outside. When he came out, he didn’t mention the empty humidor. Next it was the studio. The only worrisome item there was the empty violin case. He didn’t find it suspicious, or didn’t mention it in any case. He stopped at my bedroom door and looked a question at me.

“That’s all right. I gave the maid the day off, so you’ll have to pardon the unmade bed.” And my being a lazy slob.

The whole visit lasted only fifteen minutes. Marven was quick, but I don’t know how efficient he was. At the doorway I screwed up my courage and asked, “Was there anything in particular you were looking for?”

He gave a bright, tight little smile. “Evidence,” he said, “but I didn’t find any. If you notice Mr. Mazzini’s car missing from the garage, don’t worry about it. We’re removing it for the time being.”

“Why?”

“Its ownership is in question now.”

“Does he owe money on it?”

“No, he paid cash. You weren’t aware he was selling his car?”

I blinked in disbelief. “He didn’t mention it.”

“He advertised it in the papers last week. A man put a thousand dollars down and was to bring Mr. Mazzini the remainder today and arrange the transfer of ownership papers. When he heard of your uncle’s disappearance, he came down to the station and told us. The car is in the process of being sold, so it wouldn’t be wise for you to drive it in case of an accident. It won’t inconvenience you?”

“No, I never drive it, but . . ."

“You mustn’t be concerned, Miss Newton. I expect your uncle planned to buy a different car. Good day.”

Marven bowed himself out quite formally, and I stood, mute with shock. Victor couldn’t be selling his car. He loved it. One of his greatest joys was crouching behind the wheel of that low-slung, showoff car with his silly little tweed cap pulled down over his eyes. His car was his second most precious possession after his Guarneri. And what had become of it?

I really couldn’t settle down to arranging the dinner party after that. I didn’t even get changed. When Sean came, I was still sitting in my dotted cotton dress, staring at my toes, which peeped out from my strapped sandals, and noticing that my toenails could do with a new paint job.

Sean had done all the grooming I intended to do. He was freshly showered, shaved and dowsed in Old Spice. He had changed into a white sports shirt, open at the neck, with a light summer jacket over it. I could see the question in his eyes as he surveyed my frazzled state.

“What the hell’s been going on here?” he demanded. His voice was sharp with worry, and his eyes darted over me as if he expected to see blood or bruises.

“What hasn’t?” I asked, dazed. “Come on in and I’ll tell you about it if I can remember it all. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing since I came in except when I was answering the door. Everybody’s been in touch. Oh, Sean, I haven’t had a minute to order—to make dinner,” I whined and suddenly burst into tears of frustration and worry.

Some girls sniffle beautifully, the less fortunate sniffle like me. My eyes turn red, my nose runs, and I make rough, hiccupping sounds. All these unattractive manifestations were in full view now, so when Sean pulled me into his arms, I went readily, averting my wet eyes from his nice jacket. I felt his strong fingers, one hand cuddling my head against his shoulder, the other around my back, patting gently, as if he were burping a baby. It only made the hiccupping sobs worse.

“And I haven’t even called Mom!” I said suddenly. Why had I thought of her? It was the gentle cradling that did it. I felt safe as a child in its mother’s arms and as dependent.

“You’ll call her tonight as soon as you settle down. It’s all right, it’s all right now,” he soothed. “You just have a good nervous breakdown—you’ve earned it—then we’ll pull you back together.”

As the sniffles subsided, he stuffed a white handkerchief into my fingers. Even that struck me as significant. He’d changed from his red polka dot one to impress me. I blotted my eyes and nose and ran to the bathroom for larger repairs. I splashed cold water on my face, brushed my hair and cleaned my teeth. Clean teeth make you feel so much better about yourself. My eyes were still blotched with pink when I went back to the living room. Sean was looking at the coffee table with the two empty glasses on it.

“Ronald and I had a drink,” I said.

“Is he a teetotaler? I know you’re not.”

“What have you been doing, sniffing the glasses?”

“Cases are made up of details.”

“Then you’ll be keenly interested to know I had the soda water. Canada Dry. Make of it what you will. Sean, Victor sold his car,” I announced, and watched as his face fell in shock.

“I noticed it was gone from the garage. I figured the cops had hauled it away.”

“They did. They were here too.” In bits and pieces I outlined the harrowing couple of hours I had put in since he left. He was stunned, unable to grasp all the various calls and callers that had plagued me.

“I thought you had an unlisted phone number!”

“Friends and business associates have it.”

“I see why I’ve been gypped out of my dinner,” he mumbled.

“Would you like a beer? I’ll make something as soon as I recuperate.”

“I’ll get it. You’ve had enough to do.”

He went to the kitchen and came back with two bottles, already opened. Before he even sat down, the phone rang again.

“Let it ring. I’m on strike,” I said, and lifted the cold bottle to my lips. The welcome bitter sting of beer tasted like ambrosia on my throat, all one hundred and fifty calories of it.

“I’ll get it. It might be important,” he said and answered it.

“What’s that? For sale, you say?” Sean’s eyes grew an inch, and his forehead corrugated in surprise. With his hand covering the mouthpiece he said, “Victor’s got his cottage for sale. This guy says it’s advertised in the
Star.”

A giggle of uncontrolled hysteria erupted from my mouth. It could as easily have been sobs, but it was giggles that came out. Sean handled the call. I heard him say off-putting things, that he’d get in touch with the man tomorrow and listened as if from a vast distance. Victor was selling his life away. He’d probably sold his violin, too. That’s why we couldn’t find it. Maybe he and Betty Friske were planning to run away to Tahiti together since she was selling her jewelry. I hoped Victor hadn’t sold the condo, or I’d be sitting on the street corner.

When Sean hung up, he made a beeline for the newspapers and rifled through them till he found Victor’s ad. Sure enough, the property described was the cottage, and sure enough, the number to call was our unlisted number. Another treat to look forward to—an inundation of callers interested in buying the cottage. I could take no more.

“I resign from being Victor Mazzini’s niece,” I declared. “I’m going to move into the YWCA and become an orphan. Oh, Lord, I didn’t phone Mom! I don’t want her to hear about Victor on the TV.”

“You’re in no condition to phone right now,” Sean said as he ripped the ad out of the newspaper. “What you need is some food.”

“There’s some chick. salad in the fridge. It will, stave off starvation. Unfortunately, I ate all the choc. cake. "

“What?” His look displayed some fear that I’d become unhinged.

He went into the kitchen, and I heard the homey sounds of the fridge door opening, water turned on, pans and dishes rattling. I should be there doing it, or at least helping, but I had bottomed out. When the phone rang again, I roused myself to answer it—another man interested in buying the cottage. I took his name and number and said the owner would be in touch; he had to go out of town for a few days.

My beer got itself drunk up quickly, and just as quickly I went to the kitchen and opened another hundred and fifty calories. “I’m not sure that chicken is still edible. It was leftovers yesterday,” I warned.

“It tastes okay,” he said, rustling in the bread box for buns and adding them to the table. Some tomatoes were nearly ripe on the windowsill, and he washed them before putting them on a dish with lettuce. I got the mayo from the fridge door and set the places. I’d abstain from the mayo to atone for the second beer.

“I meant to have a really nice dinner, Sean. I owe you one, but before we eat, I’m going to phone Mom. My conscience is nagging me so I won’t be able to enjoy this if I don’t.”

Mom was happy to hear from me, and hadn’t heard the story of Victor’s disappearance yet. “He’s off on a binge again,” she said with grim Italian resignation.

I thought it best to let her nurse this idea as the alternative was even worse. “I’m sure he’ll turn up in a day or so,” I said calmly and withheld all the other puzzling occurrences.

“He must be unhappy. Is it a woman?” she asked knowingly.

“He’s seeing a woman, a very nice lady, but there’s no trouble between them.”

“She must be a saint or a fool. Let me know when he turns up. I’ll give him a piece of my mind. He doesn’t know when he’s well off—he’ll run himself right out of the business. Nobody will hire a sodden violinist, and it will ruin his technique. All those years of lessons! We all suffered to pay for that”

I knew the story by heart, and interrupted her. “I’ll let you know as soon as I learn anything. And don’t worry.”

“Am I allowed to worry about
you?
You should be safe in Toronto. Nothing bad will happen to you there. Lots of nice Italian boys in Toronto, a whole community of them. Do you go to Little Italy? Maria’s cousin is going to look you up— Alfredo his name is. Alfredo Danzo. A medical student. Have you got good warm clothing?”

She never could be convinced we had a summer up here. “Yes, I’m
fine.”
We talked a little about my life and job before I hung up, feeling lonesome, and oddly protective about Mom, who had protected me from life’s vagaries for so long.

“Soup’s on!” Sean called when he heard me hang up.

I was glad he was there, just a room away, waiting for me. It was strange I felt so at home with him, and so out of place at Ronald’s house. I already felt as if I had known Sean for years, maybe all my life. I knew he’d be standing, waiting to pull out my chair for me. I had a pretty good idea he’d strained his ears to overhear my phone conversation, and that he wouldn’t let on he’d heard a single word when I went to the kitchen. He’d have a politely disinterested look, maybe ask if I got through to Mom.

“Did you get through to your mom all right?” he asked, hand poised disinterestedly to pull out my chair.

“Yes, I talked to her.”

He misread my smile as pleasure at having done my duty, and I was so satisfied with him and my omniscience that I let him.

CHAPTER 9

It was only a so-so dinner, but in our advanced state of starvation, it tasted great. Neither the phone nor the doorbell rang once. It was late enough by then that I hoped the interruptions were over until morning. We talked more about all the happenings of the day while the coffee dripped.

"Sean, do you know what we didn’t do!” I exclaimed suddenly.

“I forgot the cream,” he said and started to get up for it.

“No, we forgot to check Victor’s bankbook. Remember, we started up here this afternoon to do it, then we found that key in the mail and went dashing off to the station. I started to look at it half a dozen times but never got around to it.”

“I bet the police took it,” Sean said with a tsk of annoyance.

“No, they didn’t. It’s in my purse. I’ll get it.”

I brought it to the kitchen table, but it held no great surprises. One hundred and fifty thousand hadn’t been deposited, of course. We knew he’d taken that in cash. There was a good advance for the concert—it went in and out the same day. It would have to be repaid now. The thousand-dollar down-payment on the Corvette was in and out, too. I had both his passbook and his personal book of matching entries, but there was nothing else startling.