Love You to Death

by Grant Michaels

  “I’m sorry, Vannos.”

  “It’s only spilled milk.”

  She breathed deeply for a few seconds and regained her composure. “There’s a lot on my mind. I didn’t mean to turn on you like that.”

  “Sometimes I deserve it.”

  “No, I was wrong.” Then she looked at me with needy eyes. “Actually, would you mind talking about something personal?”

  “If I can help, Liz, sure. Our relationship doesn’t begin and end at the sink.” Devious Stanley at work.

  After I’d mopped up the milk, Liz steamed what was left in the small pitcher. It was still a lousy job. The bubbles were coarse and the foam collapsed quickly. To finish it off, she’d sprinkled not chocolate but cinnamon on top—ugh!—and pushed one of the cups toward me. “I’m afraid it isn’t very good today,” she said apologetically.

  “When the emotions are askew, so is everything else.” But troubled mind or not, I could tell she hadn’t inherited the knack for making good Italian coffee. “Now tell me,” I said, folding my hands in front of me and facing Liz Carlini with kindly, concerned eyes. “What’s the problem?”

  She picked idly at her manicured nails for a moment. Then, realizing it was “unprofessional” behavior, she curled her thumb and fingers into her palm, which I recognized as a classic defensive posture. “Prentiss and I are having a disagreement,” she said unsurely, using a euphemism even for the simple, direct word fight.

  “What happened?” I asked, wondering how the overly refined Prentiss Kingsley could be in conflict with anyone.

  “I think it’s a result of what happened the other night.”

  I thought, Nothing like a little death to show people’s true colors.

  Liz went on, “I’m sure that we’re both upset by that horrible accident at the party. But he insists it’s something else.”

  “What do you think it is?”

  She sipped some of her coffee, then made a sour face, as though admitting how bad it was. She took a deep breath, looked me straight in the eyes, and said, “I know what it is. I just don’t want to believe it. Prentiss wants me to sell my share of Le Jardin to the Gladys Gardner Corporation.”

  “But I thought Le Jardin was already part of the business.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Rafik mentioned it at the factory yesterday.”

  Liz let out a professionally discreet giggle. “Rafik misled you. How would he know anyway? He just drives the truck. No, Vannos, there’s no fiscal connection whatsoever. Prentiss did put up part of the money, but I raised the rest myself. Le Jardin is privately owned by Prentiss and me and Danny together.”

  “Dan Doherty is an owner?”

  Liz nodded. “He didn’t contribute any money, but Prentiss and I agreed that it would be fair to give him a share of the business.”

  “That’s very generous.”

  “We thought so too, even though Danny’s artistic contributions to Le Jardin are almost priceless.”

  “How is the business split?”

  Liz eyed me curiously. “That’s not what’s causing the problem.”

  “Then what is?”

  “Danny and I worked hard together to make Le Jardin happen. Danny once joked that it was like having a baby together.” She blushed. “Sometimes it almost seemed true. But then, as soon as the business was about to open officially, Prentiss wanted me to give it up and sell it, as though the whole thing was an academic exercise. I’m supposed to relinquish it all now and become the devoted wife again.”

  “And you don’t want that.”

  “Of course not. I kept my own name for this marriage, and I’m certainly going to keep my own business alive too. Le Jardin has potential for international growth. We’ve already had inquiries from two European distributors to sell our products over there.”

  “That’s big-time stuff.”

  “It’s certainly not the kind of sophistication Gladys Gardner can handle.”

  “Why can’t you just continue on with your plan the way the company stands now, keeping it separate?”

  Liz shook her head no. “Prentiss claims that Danny is willing to sell his share of the business to Gladys Gardner, which will leave me with a minority holding in Le Jardin. Basically, I’ll be powerless to direct the course of the company.”

  “I don’t see why Le Jardin has to be part of Gladys Gardner. What’s the benefit?”

  “That’s obvious, isn’t it? If my husband’s company owns my company, he regains his control over me, his chattel.

  “Liz, you don’t mean that. The other night I overheard Prentiss saying how much he respected you and Danny for what you’ve done.”

  “Done, yes, but not doing. He wants everything back the way it was.”

  “But won’t Dan resist selling out—you know, for artistic integrity and all?”

  Liz began a tiny cackle, then caught herself. “Danny did all that design work for Le Jardin solely for the exposure. Beyond that, the business doesn’t interest him. He’ll sell out in a minute. He’s already planning his next project and he needs cash.”

  “So much for your baby.”

  Liz flashed a horrified look at me. “What do you mean?”

  “You said the business was like you and Dan having a baby together.”

  “Yes, that feeling is gone now too. Our friendship has changed suddenly.”

  “Maybe when the trouble from the party all blows over—”

  “No, Vannos. Prentiss wanted me to sell Le Jardin even before the party. As I said, once it became a reality, he wanted me to have nothing more to do with it.”

  “You have a contract, don’t you? Lawyers?”

  “Of course. But I never thought I’d be facing the classic problem of a wife having to choose between her own life or her husband’s demands. I should never have let Prentiss get involved in this project.”

  “Why did you?”

  “Because he had the means and experience. It’s not public knowledge, but Le Jardin’s chocolates are actually made in the Gladys Gardner factory.”

  I nodded. “Rafik told me that too.”

  Liz gave me another suspicious glance. “I know he’s handsome, Vannos, but don’t believe everything he says. We do have our own highly trained staff there, and they work exclusively on our products. It was just easier to start out using the existing facilities. Why reinvent the wheel, especially with the cost of tempering and molding equipment these days?”

  “But aren’t the intentions behind the two companies different?”

  Liz’s smile told me I’d asked a naive question.

  “Both businesses exist to make a profit. They’re aimed at different markets, obviously, but the end result is the same—money.”

  So simply stated, it was disturbing. Even the heavenly chocolates of Le Jardin weren’t so appealing now, thanks again to my unfortunate streak of moral purity, the one that often limits and ruins a lot of life’s experiences simply because of the monetary motives behind most enterprises.

  “Where is your husband now?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she answered quickly—too quickly, I thought.

  “Maybe you can help me with something else, then, Liz. I’ve been trying to find Dan Doherty, but he’s not in town. Do you know where he went?” I already knew, but would she tell me?

  She shrugged. “If he’s not at home, I don’t think I can help….”

  I absentmindedly twirled my coffee cup on the tile counter-top. “Has Danny ever been to your place in Abigail?”

  “What?”

  “I’m wondering just how close he is to you and your husband.”

  She answered flatly. “It’s a friendly business arrangement.”

  “You said it was like having a baby.”

  “Danny said that, not me.”

  “Liz, I have it from two sources that Dan Doherty is in Abigail as we speak. Is he staying at your summer house there?”

  “Did Rafik tell you that too?” she asked wi
th a playful toss of her head.

  Liz Carlini seemed to be on the denial track, more concerned about the future of her carriage-trade business than about her husband or the killing the other night. The time had come to tell her the facts of life and death.

  “Liz, from what I’ve learned recently, it’s probable that the poisoned chocolate from Sunday night was intended for your husband.”

  Liz blanched. “What do you mean?”

  “Laurett Cole told me that she switched the truffles at the last minute, and the one that killed Trek Delorean was originally supposed to go to Prentiss.”

  “I don’t believe that.” Liz shook her head angrily. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I think your husband is in danger. And in spite of this recent problem between the two of you, he needs your help.”

  Liz picked at her nails again, but this time she didn’t stop. “Who would want to kill Prentiss? Who? Tell me.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “Is that what the police think too?”

  “No, the police want to convict Laurett Cole and close the case. Meanwhile, someone is out there who wants to hurt your husband.”

  “This is absurd. You’ve really upset me, Vannos.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Maybe you’d better go now.”

  “But tell your husband—”

  “Just leave me, please!”

  The tension in her voice was activating Jaws-n-Paws, the hungry mastiff who was barking loudly outside and scratching on the back door to be let back in. As Liz went to let him in, I headed quickly for the front door before he had the chance to taste my strong but tender thighs.

  Safely outside, I walked—slid, mostly—back down the icy hill until I got to the busy intersection of Route Nine, where I got the MTA back to town. But instead of getting off there, I stayed on and continued to North Station, where I could catch an afternoon train to Abigail-by-the-Sea.

  10

  NOT THE HOLIDAY INN

  AT NORTH STATION I PHONED THE SHOP to tell Ramon I might be late getting back there. I didn’t tell him where I was, nor did I say anything about Nicole’s bringing Tobias to the shop later. For all I knew, she was there already, so the less Ramon knew, the better. And if Nicole was annoyed at my lateness, there wasn’t much she’d be able to do, since I’d be twenty miles away, in lovely Abigail.

  I just made it onto the early afternoon train, which was one of the dilapidated old coaches lingering from the golden days of the Boston and Maine Railroad. The nostalgia and romance of the rails were nowhere to be found in that old heap of metal, which smelled of diesel fumes and dried urine. After a tilty and bumpy start through the industrial wastelands of Boston’s backyards, the shabby train snaked its way towards the North Shore. I lost all sense of time as I watched the varying montage pass by windows that were so filthy and scratched they were barely transparent. Still I could discern small, shack-like houses, leafless woods, frozen streams jammed with debris, rusted auto carcasses, and finally, in polar opposition to all that preceded it, a revitalizing glimpse of the ocean. Ten minutes later, a handsome young conductor, mustachioed and uniformed to almost military severity—a complete anomaly to the grimy, malodorous surroundings of the coach—marched down the aisle announcing, “Aaaab-gail! Ab-GAYLE!” Being susceptible to men in uniforms, I almost proposed to him on the spot, despite the wedding band on his left hand and the scent of cheap tobacco smoke in his wake.

  I got off the train and found a local town cab at the station. “I’m going to the Kingsley house,” I told the driver.

  He eyed me with mistrust, then started the cab. We went through what looked like the main part of town—a pizza shop, a gas station, a hardware store, a small surf-n-turf restaurant, and a bait and tackle supplier—all the et cetera of a small coastal community, with one notable exception: I saw not one bar.

  “Where do you get a drink around here?” I asked the cabbie.

  “A little early for that kind of thing.”

  “Just asking.”

  “Stranger here, eh?”

  “Visiting a friend.”

  “You know the Kingsleys?”

  “I do.”

  “You can get a drink there.”

  “I don’t need a drink. I just don’t see any bars or liquor stores around.”

  “Aren’t any. You want liquor, you go to Gloucester. Abigail’s dry, and we like it that way.”

  I wouldn’t last long in a town like that. I could imagine all the residents sitting around in privacy and peace, waiting for their ten-million-dollar dividend checks. Squeaky clean, sweetie-pie, neat and orderly it all was. I half-expected to see the Mary Baker Eddy Motel. Meanwhile, behind closed doors and drawn shades, these people were probably drinking, fighting, and abusing each other mercilessly. But as long as the houses were tidy, and the cars sat spotless in their heated garages, everything was okay. Even the all-white residents looked fresh and lively walking along the sidewalks in their brightly colored winter togs. These were the same folks who remark, “I’d never live in the city.” They see urban life as low and dirty, steeped in sin and corruption, except when they come into town to suck out some money or jostle their wits. It kind of made me want to leave my working-class mark on the place, piss on a hydrant or something.

  The cab drove up a narrow winding road, and I watched the town recede below us. It didn’t seem like such a bad place from high up and far away. The village and small harbor finally disappeared as we headed out onto the ocean bluff, and my attitude changed immediately as the sea came into view. Even I have trouble grouching when I’m at the shore. The tide was up and rowdy, offering an expanse of turbulent blue-green water and white foam that was a welcome relief from the claustrophobic air of the tiny village. We passed two large houses on the bluff, set far enough apart to be almost invisible to each other. The cab pulled into the tree-lined driveway of the third one. It was a huge old three-story house, covered with grey wooden shingles and topped with a clay roof, cluttered with gables and dormers and chimneys. From some of the ground-floor windows, portions of the ocean showed clear through from the back of the house.

  Seeing the driveway empty, the cabbie said, “Looks like nobody’s home.”

  “I’m early. They are expecting me.”

  I paid him and requested a business card and phone number.

  “What for?” he asked.

  “I’ll need a ride back to the train station later, unless you’d rather share the business with your competition.”

  “Isn’t any. I’m it. Two cars, me and my wife.”

  “Then I might as well meet your whole family while I’m here.” I gave him a generous tip, figuring his superficial morality would compel him to show up promptly later on, since I’d just about prepaid my return trip.

  I got out of the cab and walked toward the front door of the large house. The driver didn’t pull away as soon as he should have. I sensed he was watching me, hoping for some extra juicy bit of scandal to spread around town. I could almost hear him recounting to his wife, “Had a stranger from the city. Wanted a drink in the afternoon. Took him to the Kingsley place. I think he was one of those male prostitutes or something. Hell, if the facts aren’t interesting enough, change them.

  I felt the cabbie’s eyes still on me, so I turned and waved to him. Then I veered away from the front door and followed a flagstone path, which I hoped would lead me to another entrance behind the house. I finally heard the cab drive off and felt some relief. I did find a side door, so I knocked loudly on it. But as the cabbie had predicted, no one was home. Now what? I continued walking all the way round to the back of the house. A wide expanse of flat ground led to the bluff fifty yards away. The patchy ground snow was typical of the shore, since the ocean air tends to change snow into rain. But the snow that was there was clean and white and undisturbed. A grey, sun-bleached picket fence ran in a straight line the full length of the property, about ten feet f
rom the edge of the bluff—a cautionary reminder to casual strollers that the pounding surf and craggy rocks lay almost one hundred feet below.

  Still presuming that Prentiss Kingsley and Dan Doherty were staying out here together, I figured I’d hang around until they showed up. I had no place to go and nothing to do until then—Snips Salon was far away—so I sat and enjoyed the sound of the surf and the rush of the wind. The bright sun gave a sense of warmth, but the cold ocean breeze soon dispelled the illusion.

  I sat for a long time with my eyes closed, letting the white noise of the surf lull me into a state of alpha consciousness. Awake in a dream, I sensed someone approaching me, and I happily assumed it was my lively subconscious, once again beckoning my incubus. However, rather than ravish me as usual, my loving other-self decided to speak to me this time.

  “Did you like the chocolate?” he asked, with a French accent.

  I opened my eyes and turned my head. The sun blinded me for a moment, but I could still make out Rafik, in all his tall, handsome glory. He was wearing a grey warm-up suit, without an overcoat or jacket. The wind caused the soft flannel to hug his body and reveal a slender, well-formed physique, much like a dancer’s.

  “Hi,” I said, perhaps too enthusiastically. “I figured you had sent it.”

  “You did not like?” His eyelids drooped sadly.

  “I took it to the police to have it checked for poison.”

  “Ah, non, I will not poison you.” Then, with an inviting smile, he asked, “You are coming to see me?”

  “I came to see Prentiss Kingsley. I’m curious why you’re here though.”

  “I am here with Dunny.”

  “And Mr. Kingsley? Is he here too?”

  With a wink Rafik shook his head no. What a charmer! It could be easy to say yes to any demand of his.

  I began, “I just wanted to, uh …” Control your yapper, Stanislav. Don’t tell this gorgeous man you came here to warn Prentiss Kingsley that someone is trying to kill him. “I wanted to plan a little surprise for Liz and Danny, so I thought Prentiss could help me with it. But don’t tell Dan, okay?”

  “We have secret then?”