Capriccio (5 page)

He cleared his throat, looked away once or twice, then screwed up his courage to speak. “I’m not knocking your religion, Cassie, but I still think you ought to get some— uh—worldly help. The Lord helps those who help themselves,” he added with a sideways look to see the effect of this platitude.

“In that case, Victor should be fine,” I said grimly.

His lips clamped shut, and when he spoke a minute later, he sounded offended. “I was just trying to help. I take it you don’t plan to let me in on whatever you found in there. I was hoping we could work on this together, but if you want to go it alone, that’s your privilege.” He got up and walked stiffly toward the door.

I remembered a saying of Samuel Johnson’s that there are people we would like very well to drop, but wouldn’t want to be dropped by. Sean was like that. There was a quality of genuineness in his simplicity that made it important for him to like you. You knew instinctively he wouldn’t like inferior people—phonies. He’d hate Ronald Strathroy. It had something to do with troublesome morality. I knew I was going to stop him.

He was a nice, kind man. He hadn’t been a bit mad when the concert was cancelled, and he’d done everything he could to help me since that time. Even bribed the bartender at the hotel. When my head was in a whirl, he’d asked all the right questions for me. I took a step after him. “Wait!” He turned back with a light of hopeful interest in his brown eyes.

“Sean, I’m sorry,” I said, and took a step after him. “The thing is, Victor’s an awful publicity hound. Remember I told you about the capriccio? Maybe that wasn’t the surprise. I think he’s just hiding out to get publicity and pep up the sale of tickets.” Sean looked doubtful and I explained in a little more detail about the sagging ticket sales.

“Wouldn’t he have let you in on the secret?”

“Not necessarily. He’s really very self-centered. Artists are like that. I haven’t even thanked you for everything. I’ll—I’ll call you tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll be home by then.”

“What makes you think so?” he asked. “It doesn’t add up to me. I can’t see a guy coming in and mussing up his own apartment. We decided your break-in artist was looking for something, remember? More likely you’ll get a phone call from the kidnapper. If you’re as smart as I take you for, Cassie, you’ll call the police. It’s up to you, but the longer you wait, the colder the trail gets.”

“Kidnapper!”

“When rich people suddenly disappear, it’s usually kidnapping. I was hoping they’d just kidnapped his violin, but it’s been a few hours now, and there’s still no sign of Victor. Think about it.” He gave me a long, dark look, and went out. Before the door clicked, he stuck his head back in and said, “Lock this after me, and put on the chain. Whoever was watching earlier is likely still out there.”

On this comforting speech, he left. I ran to the door and did as he suggested. Was Sean right? Was Victor kidnapped? What could Sean possibly know? He’d never even met Victor in his life. And he didn’t know the cigars were gone—I’d forgotten to tell him that. Nobody but Victor would have taken them. A kidnapper didn’t take such pains for his victim’s comfort. Of course it was Victor himself, the wretch, and when he came back, I’d give him the tongue lashing of his life. No wonder his wife left him!

Sleep was obviously impossible under these harrowing conditions, so I went to the sofa to think. When no new thoughts had occurred to me by ten o’clock, I turned on the TV to watch the news, and see how much coverage Victor got. He’d be annoyed that a royal visit took precedence as an opener, but he was the second feature. I listened sharply as the announcer outlined the story.

Victor Mazzini, the celebrated violinist, had failed to appear for a scheduled concert at Roy Thomson Hall. His whereabouts were unknown, but foul play was not indicated. There was a snide mention of his former fight with alcoholism. Poor Victor, he’d done himself more harm than good with this gambit. Maybe he’d meant me to call the police and show them the messed up apartment. The police weren’t dopes. They’d see the lock hadn’t been tampered with, and soon suspect the truth. The best thing was to sit tight and wait for him to phone or come home. He wouldn’t stay away long once those old alcohol rumors resurfaced.

The next item on the news was a report on the St. Jean Baptiste celebration in Quebec. That French province has a unique provincial holiday not shared by the rest of the country. All businesses were closed; there were street parades, a picnic on top of Mount Royal in Montreal, but no demonstrations by the Separatists this year. I remembered that Ronald was in Montreal. Funny he’d gone on St. Jean Baptiste day, when the banks and brokerage houses would be closed. Or maybe he’d chosen this day on purpose. Everything would be quiet in the offices, so the meeting wouldn’t be interrupted by the crush of ordinary business. I thought there might even be a measure of secrecy to his trip. Lots of businesses had left Quebec, and if Ronald was luring another one to Toronto, he wouldn’t want any publicity before the fact. The Quebec government occasionally made noises about putting a stop to those business emigrations.

Eleanor phoned again before I went to bed. There was a wild flare of excitement, thinking it was Victor calling, but Eleanor’s voice brought me to earth with a thump.

“Is there still no word from him?” she asked.

I considered telling her about the cigars and my suspicion, but decided against it. Eleanor wasn’t a serious lady love, only a convenient companion who opened pleasant doors. I did try to console her though.

“I’m sure he’ll be back tomorrow. Why don’t you go to bed and try to get some sleep?” I suggested.

“Bed? I have a hundred people here. Why don’t you come on over and join the party? It would be better than sitting by the phone alone,” Eleanor countered.

The very mention of a party made me realize how exhausted I was. The emotional strain had drained me. “I want to be here in case he calls or comes home.”

A deep sigh was transmitted along the wire. “Be sure to call me the
instant
you hear from him. No matter what the hour. I won’t be sleeping in any case.”

“I’ll call. Goodnight, Eleanor.”

I got ready for bed with no horrendous fit of nerves, but only a tense, waiting feeling that at any moment he’d come back. He
had
to come back. Sean couldn’t possibly be right, that I’d get a call from kidnappers. That was ridiculous. Who’d kidnap Victor? He wasn’t that rich. His life savings were pretty well tied up in this condo and a summer place he’d bought up north of Toronto. Unless they hoped to tap Eleanor for a million or so . . . In which case I feared the kidnappers were out of luck. Eleanor only spent money on herself, as far as I could see. Even tonight’s party was more for herself than my uncle. He was an excuse, no more. If Victor hadn’t been the guest of honor, it would have been some tenor or writer. She dabbled in the artists.

One hour, one glass of warm milk and five hundred calories of choc. cake later, I slept.

CHAPTER 4

At eight a.m., the alarm clock whirred into sound, dragging me from a deep, troubled sleep. My hand automatically went out to silence it. I was sitting up, muttering imprecations against the necessity of working for a living when a remembrance of the past night washed over me. I jumped out of bed to see if Victor had returned, but when I got to the door and saw the chain on it, I realized he couldn’t have gotten in without waking me.

I padded barefoot to the kitchen, put on water for coffee and went to the shower. Twenty minutes later I sat at the table dressed in my guide’s uniform and sipping coffee, debating the pros and cons of going to work today. Surely they wouldn’t expect me to work, Of course I had to stay home, but I didn’t want Rhoda Gardiner underfoot all day, vacuuming and rearranging the dust.

Two phone calls later I had arranged a day off for the housekeeper and myself, and I went to the door to retrieve the morning papers. Victor took all three of them. The sedate businessman’s paper didn’t have him on page one. The less sedate
Toronto Star
did, but without a picture—the pictures were on the Entertainment page. It was the popular rag that ran the shock-type story, hinting at my uncle’s libationary past. They resurrected a photo of him with a champagne glass in his hand, wearing his wide smile. In non-libelous phrases, they left the impression he was off on a toot. At least he’d be easily recognized if he ventured out of his hiding hole.

When the intercom buzzed, I answered to the cultured accents of Ronald Strathroy. He has a voice like Devonshire cream, smooth and rich. I didn’t know whether I was glad or sorry, but I wasn’t surprised. Ronald could always be counted on to do the polite thing. He’d be here, with his well-tailored shoulder to lean on, but I better not sully it with a tear.

Within minutes, he was at the door. He came in like a well-oiled machine, every move a glide. Ronald was probably the smoothest man I’d ever met, and the classiest. Maybe it was the echo of an upper crust English accent that caused that impression. He’d only spent two years at Oxford, but he’d managed to assimilate the manner. When I first commented on it, he’d explained his schooling: Upper Canada College, for the sons of the elite, followed by the University of Toronto and the two years at Oxford.

His hair was the color of straw and the texture of silk. He wore it neatly barbered, a little longer than Sean. Sharp, intelligent green eyes were set in a narrow, chiseled face with a handsomely prominent nose and a crooked mouth that robbed him of dignity. His summer working outfit was a striped seersucker suit, a blue shirt and silk tie. He carried his long, lean frame as straight as a whip.

“Cassie, I’ve just come from home. Mom told me all about it. How ghastly for you! Have you heard from him?” he asked, placing his long-fingered hands on my upper arms. A heavy, crested ring with a bloodstone glowed on one finger. It was his father’s university ring.

“Ronald, I didn’t think you be back so soon. No, I haven’t heard a thing.”

A crease formed between his eyes. “I took an early flight this morning. I wish I’d been here with you. What on earth can have happened?”

“You couldn’t have done anything. I was here; your mother was here. He just vanished,” I said, hunching my shoulders in confusion. “Do you want some coffee? It’s still hot.”

“I should be getting to work, but okay, I’ll have a cup first. I’ve got a million things to do at the office. Important meetings after the trip to Montreal yesterday, you know.”

“How did it go?” He followed me to the kitchen, and I poured his coffee.

 After we were seated, he said, “Fine, it was a success.” He glanced at the newspapers on the table. I could see him trying to hide his disgust at such vulgar publicity. The mention of my being Victor Mazzini’s niece might be dropped from my customary introduction. More likely, I’d be dropped altogether as soon as etiquette permitted.

“I was surprised to see on TV last night it was a holiday in Quebec. What did you do, have private meetings?” I asked.

“Yes, we met at the home of the manager of the trust company actually. A lovely mansion in Westmount—you must be familiar with the area, from being at McGill. It’s all very hush-hush. We don’t want the Separatists raising an uproar in parliament. That’s why we chose St. Jean Baptiste day,” he explained.

“Smart. I thought that was probably it.”

His eyes had shifted to the newspapers again, and he read silently for a moment. “Victor should sue these people,” he said and shoved the papers aside in disgust. “You don’t think there’s any truth in it, do you? Had he been drinking lately?”

“Just wine with dinner, nothing serious.”

“Mom didn’t think so either. What did the police have to say?”

“I didn’t call them. Do you think I should?” I was becoming more worried the longer Victor stayed away.

“They obviously know already,” he said, pointing to the papers. “They were in the parking garage downstairs when I came up. I imagine you’ll be hearing from them any minute now.”

I was wrenching my hands, and moved them to my lap, out of sight. “I hardly know what to tell them.”

He looked surprised. “Tell them the truth,” he said simply. “Answer whatever questions they ask. It obviously has nothing to do with
you.
You don’t have to worry.”

“It’s not myself I’m worried about!” Ronald could be a mountain of selfishness at times, and he apparently thought I was as bad.

We talked for a few minutes. I told him about last night. For some reason, I didn’t mention Sean Bradley. Ronald promised to be in touch, and started to leave. At the doorway, he paused and placed a light kiss on my cheek and patted my shoulder.

“He’ll turn up,” he said, smiling reassurance. “You know

Victor—always some rig running. Mom nearly killed me when

I said it, but I bet he’s just hiding to create a sensation. What

do you think?” A conspiratorial spark glinted in his green eyes.

They were light green, more like a peridot than an emerald.

At such times, I wondered why I didn’t love Ronald Strathroy. He had everything: looks, some charm, money galore, and I could probably joke him out of that air of stuffiness. Not that the word “love” had ever arisen between us, but you can’t help wondering. I couldn’t help wondering about his selfishness though. That’s innate, not something that can be talked or joked away.

“I think you might be right,” I admitted, and on an impulse, told him about the missing cigars, which I had omitted from the earlier recital of the apartment search.

“The old son-of-a-gun!” he laughed. “It’s a trick for sure. He’s probably hiding out at the cottage. Too bad there isn’t a phone there. I have to dash. See you tonight?” The question slid out very naturally, as though we were steady companions. Dates with Ronald were usually grand affairs, arranged with much pomp and some circumstance, the circumstance usually being that Victor was along with Eleanor.

“Give me a call. I’m leaving the night open. Anything could happen.”

Ronald was a little surprised at my lack of enthusiasm, but he left in good humor. Was it at all possible a romantic nature lurked beneath Ronald’s silk hair? Did he feel some urge to help a damsel in distress—or had Eleanor sent him? He would have stayed around and helped me with the police if he’d been a real romantic. What was taking them so long to come hammering on the door?