Capriccio (6 page)

I didn’t forget Sean during that morning. A thought of his warm brown eyes was often with me, but unless he came to the door, I couldn’t be seeing him again. Victor’s phone was unlisted, and anyway tourists don’t stay in town forever. I wanted to phone him, but didn’t even know what hotel he was at. On a guess, I thought probably not the Hilton or King Edward, certainly not one of the small, exclusive places. But it would be downtown. The Delta Inn was a possibility—the Royal York, tops. While I idly pondered this riddle, the phone rang. It was Sean. For no discernable reason, I felt happy.

“How’d you get my number? It’s unlisted.”

“It’s on the phone in the apartment. I memorized it last night.”

“You’re quick!”

“Persistent, too. If you hadn’t answered the phone, I meant to take a run over to Bloor Street. Any news?”

“He hasn’t turned up. Don’t say I told you so. I haven’t had a call for ransom either.”

“Good. What are you doing today?” he asked.

“Waiting by the phone with coffee—literally. When do you leave town?”

“Not till I’ve seen you again. You got a spare cup of that coffee?”

“Sure. I’ll even spring for a fresh pot, if you want to waste your annual vacation sitting by a phone,” I tempted.

“I’ll be right over.”

I was sitting with the receiver in my hand, listening to the buzz and smiling like an idiot when the police finally came to the door. They had sent a plainclothes detective named Fred Marven to interview me. He was fiftyish, overweight, flushed, and a good candidate for a heart attack. He looked around the place, asked all the obvious questions about when I had last seen my uncle, his state of mind, was there anything unusual, what was he wearing, and had I heard anything from him since last night.

I answered everything truthfully. He didn’t happen to enquire whether the apartment had been broken into, and I didn’t volunteer the information. I did the best job I could of acting disturbed, which wasn’t too hard when I was half deranged, and concealing evidence didn’t do anything to calm my nerves.

Ronald had said there were “some policemen” in the garage. The others were probably looking at the car, maybe dusting it for prints or something. I noticed Marven didn’t leave the building when he left the apartment, but went down the hall to query the neighbors. It was Betty Friske’s door he went to first—she’s the flakey redhead who hates me. I have a strong suspicion my arrival interfered with a romance between Victor and her. Was it possible he was there, right next door all this time? How easy for him to have slipped in here after he heard Sean and me leave last night! Sean had thought someone was watching, but he never thought he was watching from such a close vantage point.

I left the door open a crack and listened. Marven didn’t go into Betty’s apartment. I couldn’t hear his questions, but her answers came fluting down the hall quite clearly. Mostly she kept saying “No!”, loud and clear. Once I overheard her say “hardly know him”. That was a lie, and maybe those “No’s” were also lies. I’d drop in on Betty Friske soon.

As soon as the detective got into the elevator, I went rapping on Mrs. Friske’s door. She’s a divorcee, somewhere in her late thirties, and still attractive in a full-blown way. She should be; as far as I can tell, she spends all her time going to beauty parlors and shopping. The only people who call at her door are delivery men. She lives expensively and drives a Porsche.

She already looked annoyed when she came to the door swathed in a Japanese geisha girl’s kimono with her red curls tousled picturesquely. I realized I should have taken time to rehearse my approach to her. Caught unprepared; I blurted out, “I’ve got to see Victor.”

She stuck a cigarette in her mouth and inhaled before answering. Through the cloud of smoke, her sharp gray eyes gimleted into me. “Welcome to the club, Miss Mazzini,” she said grimly.

“My name’s Newton. Cassie Newton.”

She cocked a penciled brow at me. “Niece, I thought he said.”

“On my mother’s side. Mom’s his sister.”

“Sure,” she said, chewing back a smile at my cute guide’s uniform. “I have no idea where he is. I already told the police.”

I looked over her shoulder, wondering how I could talk my way into her apartment to look for clues. She started closing the door. I could see a slice of a lovely living room in there all done up in flowing Art Deco, with furniture that belonged in a Fred Astaire movie or a bar. She must be getting some fantastic alimony. There was a hard-edged finish to Betty that said she wasn’t born to this lavish life.

“If he turns up, let me know,” she said. “We have unfinished business, Victor and me. And he better turn up, or he’ll be sorry. So far I haven’t told the police anything. So
far,”
she repeated, with a very meaningful lift of her brows. She had a weird purplish-pink eye shadow on. Her eyes looked bruised.

“Thank you,” I said, as the door closed firmly in front of me. I was sorry I’d bothered going—I didn’t need that implicit threat to make my day. What criminal business could my uncle be engaged in with that tart? But at any rate, I was convinced Victor wasn’t hiding out there. Or if he was, Betty Friske was a consummate actress.

Before Sean came, I changed out of my uniform. It wasn’t particularly flattering, and if we went out, I didn’t want to wear it on the streets. I put on a cotton dress, navy with big white polka dots. The fresh coffee was filtered by the time Sean came.

He was back in his tourist clothes; the jeans, boots, a checked shirt, jeans jacket tossed over his shoulder like a lasso, and the Western hat in his hand. All set to go herding cattle along Bloor Street.

“Where’d you tether Trigger?” I asked.

“My wheels are downstairs.”

I felt mean, jibing at a man too innocent to even recognize sarcasm, let alone retaliate. “The police just left,” I told him.

“Good, I’m glad you called them. What did they have to say?” he asked eagerly.

I filled him in while we sat by the phone, having our coffee. During the next half hour, nobody called except Eleanor, and she had nothing to say except that the party went fine, just fine, and I mustn’t worry about anything. I told her the police had been here, and she thought it
infradig
of me to have spoken to them, I believe. “That was encroaching of them,” she exclaimed.

“Ronald is so worried about you,” she said a little later, to my surprised gratification. I rang off as soon as politely possible and relayed the conversation to Sean, especially the part about Ron being worried.

He soon got tired of sitting and asked what we were going to do about finding my uncle. “.He must have friends, some place he’d go to if he just went off for the hell of it. That’s what you still think, isn’t it?” he demanded, piercing me with a sharp eye.

“It’s a possibility.”

“I read the papers this morning. “No foul play indicated,’ they said. What I haven’t figured out is how you knew it last night in his bedroom. What did I miss? I didn’t see any bottles, didn’t smell booze. You went in there looking like a candidate for the Spanish Inquisition, and came out looking as if you’d beaten the rap.”

Despite the anachronism, he was too sharp to bluff, so I broke down and told him about the cigars being gone.

“Are you sure they were there when you left for the concert?”

“Pretty sure. And I’m positive his humidor wasn’t open. I noticed it, looking like a little coffin.”

He measured me, trying to decide whether to take offence. “Why didn’t you tell me about that last night? In fact, you were pretty reluctant to tell me anything.”

“I didn’t want to spread it around that he’s hiding—it looks bad. People might get the idea he was drunk, and I don’t believe that.”

“I see. And naturally I, a tourist in town, would’ve grabbed the closest phone and announced it to the papers. What do you take me for?”

“A stranger. Who knows what a stranger might do? Anyway, I did tell you.”

“Eventually. I don’t know what your average run-of-the-mill stranger might do, but this one is getting damned bored doing nothing. Have you come up with any ideas as to where he might be?”

I thought about it for a minute. “He has a cottage up north. Not too far—about forty miles. There’s no phone, or I’d give him a call. Or we could drive up . .

He was already on his feet, reaching for his hat. “We could be there in an hour. You won’t miss much here. If he comes back, he’ll be here waiting for you.”

“All right. Let’s go.” You can only look at a mute phone so long without picking it up and throwing it out a window. It was a lovely day, and it was a nice drive up to Victor’s cottage in the Caledon Hills. Maybe he
was
there; he didn’t seem to be anywhere else.

Mrs. Friske’s door opened a crack when we went into the ball. I wondered if she always monitored the traffic so closely, or was on the alert today for my uncle’s return. Whatever was going on between her and Victor, I hoped she’d keep it from the police for a little longer.

“Friend of yours?” Sean asked, after she’d closed the door. He didn’t miss much.

“Not particularly. Why, were you hoping for an introduction?”

“I didn’t get that good a look at her. If she always haunts the hail like she is now, she might be able to tell us something.”

“I already asked. No luck.” I didn’t add her worrying message to Victor. There are some skeletons best kept in the closet, and I was worried about just what kind of bones I was dealing with here. Did women still prosecute for breach of promise? I couldn’t imagine what else but romance Betty and Victor shared. Whatever her intentions might have been, I doubted very much he’d used the word “marriage”. He was too experienced for that. And so was she.

CHAPTER 5

Sean was still driving the same rented car, a silver Monte Carlo. I gave him directions, and we were soon past the built-up commercial area and suburbs, heading north.

A beatific smile took strong possession of Sean’s face. “God’s country,” he crooned. “Jeez, would I love to live somewhere like this. No pollution, no traffic.”

“No restaurants, no stores, no people to talk to. Just a man and his hoss.”

“And his woman,” he added, flashing a smile.

I could see what he meant though. The sky was as blue and smiling as Irish eyes. A frolicsome wind blew a few cotton clouds along, high overhead. The world out here looked brand new. The leaves were still shiny, a pale shade of green. Solemn pines stood guard over the countryside. Lazy holsteins grazing in meadows lent the wholesomely contrived look of calendar art. It wasn’t the right place to worry about kidnapping. It was a place for a picnic or falling in love. Or in Sean’s case, a place to fish.

“There must be some lively fishing here.”

“That’s a contradiction in terms. Besides, don’t you need water to fish?” Water was missing from the landscape.

“Yeah.” A minute later he said, “What’s Victor like?”

“He’s Italian, with all the stereotypical qualities. Passionate, volatile, fun-loving, artistic, talented. He’s also selfish, egocentric, vain—well, he’s a man after all,” I added blandly. I could feel Sean’s head turn toward me, and I looked out the window, unconcerned.

“He doesn’t worry much about tomorrow, as long as he’s enjoying himself today,” I continued. “Of course I didn’t know him very well before this summer. He used to visit us about once a year. It was a grand occasion. Mom cooked for two days before he came, and we all talked about it for a week after, then forgot him till the next visit. He used to bring us all presents,” I said, remembering those visits with pleasure.

“Who’s us all?”

“Mom and Dad, Ricky and me. Rick’s my brother.”

“Older or younger?”

“Younger. He’s seventeen.”

“That’s what I thought. I had you pegged for an only child, till you mentioned that ‘all’ a couple of times.”

“I can see you’re dying to explain your brilliance. Okay, what made you think I was an only child?”

“You’re cocksure, aggressive. Me, I’m the middle kid,” he said, pleading for sympathy from the corner of his eye.

I gave an ironic laugh.. “And only son. You like to take charge, too.”

“I thought I was being downright agreeable! Didn’t fool you, huh? Well you’re right about the sisters. I know all about women, except what they do for fourteen hours at a time in the bathroom. Come out looking worse than when they went in. Hair all frizzed, too much makeup, smelling like French— uh—waitresses. I notice you don’t use much makeup.”

I suppose in Nebraska that might have been called a compliment. “You won’t smell my particular bouquet on many waitresses. It’s real French perfume. Victor gave it to me. An ounce would cost me a week’s salary. Of course he only gave me a tenth of an ounce.

“You haven’t let me get close enough to smell it,” he ventured. There was a lupine quality in his eyes again.

“That Old Spice you showered in would cover the smell. Good perfume is subtle.”

“Yeah,” he grunted. A minute later he grunted again. “Real pretty country. What’s a Yankee like you doing up here?”

I told him about my studies, and my plan to be a diplomat. It’s a subject on which I easily get carried away. Somehow he arrived at the truth: what I really wanted was a sinecure that allowed me to loll in the lap of luxury, while performing ostensible duties of a highly cerebral but physically undemanding sort.

“What you want’s a rich husband,” he concluded.

“Don’t be silly. I could have that, if that’s all I wanted!” I objected, and elevated Ronald to red-hot pursuer. Damned hardware salesman. What did he know about anything? “Ronald Strathroy—he’s the son of Eleanor, the lady that’s always calling,” I said. “I pointed her out last night at the hall.”

“How come Ronald doesn’t phone himself?”

“He comes in person,” I retaliated. “He came this morning, just before you called. In fact, it was Ronald who mentioned that Victor was probably at his cottage.”

“Doesn’t Ronald care for music? How come he didn’t go with you to the concert last night?”

“He was in Montreal on business. The Strathroys own a brokerage house. They’re taking over a Montreal trust company, but it’s very hush-hush.”