Whistler's Angel (8 page)

Mrs. Geller - Katie – was a handsome woman who almost could have been an older sister. Same coloring, same smile, and almost the same figure, give or take some matured redistribution. She wore a black turtleneck and a Harris Tweed jacket with a sprig of holly pinned to the lapel. She had the same easy warmth that had attracted him to Claudia. And his father had always had an effortless charm that Whistler had never quite managed. The two parents hit it off right away.

The fact that his father lived over in Europe - where he said that he was an investment consultant - seemed to add to the comfort level between them. A pleasant encounter, but ships in the night. He’d be flying back in another two days. She knew that they would probably not meet again, but she told him that she hoped he’d send a postcard. That allowed Whistler’s father to give her his card and ask Kate for her home address. She reached into her purse for a card of her own and placed it on the table before him.

Whistler’s father caught his eye and showed him the address. Whistler must have frowned when he saw it.

“Is something wrong, Adam?” Mrs. Geller had asked him.

“Wrong? Oh, no. Nothing at all.”

“It’s Claudia’s address, too, if that’s what you’re wondering. She’s moved back in for a while.”

“You’ve…read my mind, Mrs. Geller.”

What had caused his reaction was the name of the town. Cherry Creek
was on the long list of affluent communities that were mentioned in Felix Aubrey’s ledger. If a town was listed, someone there was in his pocket. It might be a police chief or a county prosecutor, a tax assessor or a judge. Whistler couldn’t recall what names were listed or how many property seizures had occurred there. But the fact that Aubrey had connections in that town seemed reason enough to avoid it.

Not that he’d been invited. Whistler pushed it from his mind. The
future was one thing, the present was another, and he was enjoying the evening. During dinner he began hearing all about Claudia. Not from Claudia herself, who kept trying to change the subject, but from her intensely proud mother.

“She’s a wonderful dancer. She studied ballet.”

He said, “I’m not surprised. I’ve seen her ski. Good skiers always seem to be good dancers.”

“She didn’t stick with it. She keeps trying new things. Did you know that she’s a tri-athlete?”

“No, I didn’t,” Whistler answered. “I’m surprised and impressed.”

“She’s competed in two triathlons so far. Races mountain bikes, too, and she ice skates like a dream. In college, she was a star pitcher.”

“Women’s softball?”

“Men’s baseball. She was pretty hot stuff. Claudia was the only girl in the state to play on a varsity team. She was featured once on ESPN. Scholar-athlete, too. Straight A’s right through school.”

“Mom, quit it,” said Claudia. She was drumming her fingers. “Besides, most of that isn’t true.”

“It isn’t?” Whistler asked.

“Well, it’s way overstated. To begin with, I did not have straight A’s.”

“Okay, Dean’s List,” said her mother. “Same thing.”

“No, it’s not. As for pitching, my best season was five wins, eight losses, so don’t sign me up with the Yankees just yet. As for mountain bike racing, lots of starts, zero wins. As for those two triathlons, I only finished one, and in that one I barely staggered across. And as for ballet…”

“Boobs too big,” said her mother.

“Sure, and whose fault is that? Look at yours.”

“I’m…ah, still impressed,” said Whistler, almost blushing. “I’m not that good at anything I’ve tried.”

“Not true,” said his father.

“Didn’t think so,” said Claudia. “Let’s talk about you for a change.”

That was where the lies started, mixed in with the truth. Grew up in Europe, went to French and Swiss schools, then came over here to go to college. All true.

“By here, you mean the States?”

“Here in Colorado. Boulder. I went to UC, but…well, I didn’t finish. I dropped out in my senior year.”

“Flunking? Girl trouble? What made you leave?”

“Nothing like that. I just needed a change. I joined the army. Finished school in the service. After that, I got into consulting.” Partly true.

“What kind of consulting?”

“Right now I’m with the Department of Commerce. Trade agreements, import quotas...that kind of thing. Dry stuff, on the whole, but I do enjoy the travel.” This part was entirely false.

But Claudia and her mother had no reason to doubt them. And his father, as long as they were being inventive, proceeded to fill in the blanks. He told a few stories about his boyhood, young-manhood, all intended to make him seem wholesome, unthreatening, and at least a passable athlete.

“So he’s an only child? No brothers or sisters?”

His father answered, “One of him is enough.”

Neither Claudia nor her mother seemed to catch the evasion. In fact, there had been a younger sister. His father said to Claudia, “Adam lives outside Washington. Do you ever have occasion to go east?”

“Not to Washington. I’ve never been there.”

“I’m sure Adam would be happy to show you around.”

She grinned. “Not to push it, though, right?”

“Yes, he is,” said Whistler, “but he’s going to stop.”

“Not on my account. I’m enjoying it.”

She later told him how he’d stammered and blushed as he tried to ask his next question. “Sometimes I have business out here...well, in Denver. If I were to call you...”

“I’d like that. Please do.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“I mean…look…I know I’m putting you on the spot…”

The grin spread wider. “Did your father just kick you?”

Yes, he had. “No, I want to. What I mean to say is…”

“Do I have to kick you myself?”

“No, you don’t.”

“Then call me the next time you’re coming.”

Too young, too nice, and maybe too bright. Add to that the fact that she lived in Cherry Creek where Aubrey must have eyes and ears. On the other hand, as his father said later, the question was more like “Where doesn’t he?” Even so, it seemed a better idea not to venture where there might be dragons.

He would not call Claudia.

Well…maybe he would.

Maybe she would agree to meet him in Denver. Neutral ground. More to do. Better restaurants.

He did call. He suggested it, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

She said, “You’re invited to come out to the house. Your father says you need some home cooking.”

“My father? When was this?”

“Mom and your father have been
emailing
each other. You know, just stuff
about skiing and such, but your name came up once or twice.”

“Once or twice?”

“Yeah, I know. He’s still trying to push us together. But so what? Let’s see if we click.”

“Um…there’s no boyfriend? No one else in your life?”

“Tom Cruise, Richard Gere and a few Saudi Princes. But I’ll dump them if you’re coming out.”

“Start dumping. I’ll be there next Friday night.”

“You’ll stay at the house?”

“Sure, I’d love to.”

He flew out for the weekend. They spent two full days together. He came back almost every two weeks after that. He’d heard from Aubrey once. A request for a meeting. Whistler refused. After that, only silence from Aubrey.

Even knowing that he was probably still under surveillance, Whistler went about his days normally. He and Claudia would do all the usual things. Go to movies, go to dinner, take long walks or long drives. He would often ask her mother to join them. She did on occasion, but would usually decline. Other times, he’d help out at the garden center. It was just down the hill from their house. Spring was approaching and both greenhouses were filled with trays of spring flowers grown from seed. Whistler’s knowledge of plants had been almost nil if one didn’t count poppies and hemp. But he found that he rather liked working with plants of the gentler and decorative sort. Trays that he’d prepared would have burst into life between one visit and the next. It was not a big thing; it was done every day, but it still seemed a minor miracle to him. He could almost see himself doing this with his own life. It seemed such a peaceful occupation.

His father, early on, had phoned Stanton Poole.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Some…relation to young Adam?”

“I’m his father, yes, but I’m something more than that.” He suggested
that Poole make a call of his own. He gave him the name of one Roger Clew, a senior State Department official. He suggested that Poole telephone Clew at once and ask him about Harry Whistler.

“It is in your interest to know who I am and who my associates are. That

established, you will receive a visit from another acquaintance of mine and Mr. Clew’s. It will be a civil visit. You’ll be shown certain papers. I think you can guess what they are.”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Yeah, you do. From Aubrey’s ledger. And yes, my son took it.”

“I’m…sure that I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“Make the call.”

Poole did make the call. It had its effect. Clew suggested that he take Harry Whistler at his word if he hoped to postpone meeting Jesus. The “associate” appeared at Stanton Poole’s office with selections from the ledger in hand.

Who were these associates? His father wouldn’t say. This was normal
enough, a need-to-know thing, but it still annoyed him that Poole could be told
while he, Whistler, who was central to all this, was being kept in the dark. He did, however, at least know Roger Clew. Clew had worked Europe for much of his career, his specialty being Intelligence. He had been to the house in Geneva many times. But Whistler hadn’t seen him in a good fifteen years. The last time was after his mother had died. Clew was one of the speakers at her service.

His father said that Poole made a show of being shocked when his caller let him read a few pages. Poole swore that he knew nothing of any “loss or
leakage” of property that had been seized. He denied that people who were otherwise innocent were targeted for punitive raids. This was interesting, said his father, because he hadn’t been accused of targeting and looting the innocent. Poole said that he would certainly have a talk with Felix Aubrey and get to the bottom of this matter. The visitor said, “Let’s go do that together.”