She gave me a thumbs-up. “Good to go.”
“You made it happen, Sam,” I said.
Then I went over to Ben. “Our appointment isn’t till next Tuesday.”
He reached into his jacket and took out two tickets. “Cosi Fan Tutte at eight tonight. Interested?”
I certainly was. The current Toronto production starred renowned soprano Adriana Ivanney. The sparkle in my eyes must have given Ben my answer, because he stood up with a smile on his face.
I hesitated for a moment, maybe two. But I knew that Laura would be at home that evening for Tommy. And I wanted to see Cosi Fan Tutte. I gave Ben a nod, hoping I wouldn’t regret this.
“I’d take you to dinner, Pat, but, darn, you don’t do dinners with clients.”
“I’ll take you to dinner, Ben,” I said. “I’ll consider it a business dinner. Getting to know my client.” And I planned to write it off as a business expense.
“Sounds good to me.”
“I’ll meet you at six at Volos.” I named a restaurant near the opera house.
“Volos?”
“Greek restaurant on Richmond Street. Excellent food.”
“Volos at six it is.”
“The reservation will be in my name,” I called out as he went down the stairs.
“Dinner and a show with Mr. Cordova,” Sam said with a smile.
“It’s business, Sam. Ben is our top client. I have to spend some time with him.”
“Sure you do,” she said. “By the way, Becca called me here. She was furious that I stood her up.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“Don’t be. I told her something had come up at work, and she should have let me have her contact info.”
I sat down beside her, and she explained how our door phone worked. “We won’t have people barging in on us anymore,” she said when she’d finished.
“We’re making good progress here.”
“I’ll call Detective Hardy tonight,” she called out as I went into my office.
I turned to look at her. Would she really call him?
She met my eyes and nodded. “Yup. Soon as I get home.”
After she’d left—calling out from the top of the stairs, “Have fun with Mr. Cordova!”— I tried Michelle Blake again. To my surprise, she picked up.
I introduced myself, and told her I was meeting all my new clients.
“I have a disability; it’s difficult for me to get around,” she said. “Dean always met with me here.”
I told her that I’d be willing to visit her at home, as well. She asked if I was free that afternoon.
***
Michelle lived in a condominium tower a 15-minute taxi ride north of my office. The young Asian-Canadian man at the reception desk made a phone call, then told me to take the elevator to the 23rd floor. An attractive blonde with wavy, shoulder-length hair opened the door. Michelle was wearing a floor-length tie-dyed caftan and sandals. All she needed was a headband to complete the flower-child look.
She took me into the living room where sofas covered with Indian-print throws were arranged around a low coffee table. “Take a seat,” she said. “I’ve made some tea.”
While she was in the kitchen, I walked over to the window and looked down on a slice of suburbia: miniature homes on miniature lawns, with the occasional high-rise building and park to break the monotony.
“My window on the world. Not terribly exciting, is it?” Michelle said, emerging from the kitchen with a tray in her hands.
“You should have asked me to carry that,” I said, as she set the tray on the coffee table.
“I like to do what I can, which isn’t much. I’m like a princess locked in a tower up here. I rarely go out. My friends get my groceries.”
I wondered what her disability was, but I decided to wait until I knew her better before asking. Maybe she’d bring it up herself. I really didn’t know much about her at all. I hadn’t found her client file, and her name wasn’t on Dean’s client roster. But Sam had said she was a new client, so maybe he hadn’t got around to the paperwork.
She handed me a cup without a handle. It was filled with a clear yellow liquid.
“Chamomile,” she said.
I asked the usual questions. Michelle told me that she was 33 years old, single, had come into an inheritance and reached out to Dean six months later for financial advice. Under his guidance, she’d invested $85,000 of her windfall in blue-chip, dividend-yielding equities. And she had another $115,000 in government bonds and bond funds, which would protect her portfolio in the event of a stock-market crash.
Her investments were clearly a nest egg, because she said she wasn’t taking income from them. So I asked about her sources of income.
“My parents set up a trust fund for me,” she said. “I live off that. The condo is paid for, and income from the fund covers my condo fees, my property taxes, and my living expenses.”
She gave me a wry smile. “Your needs are pretty simple when you don’t get out much.”
There wasn’t much I could say to that. “Your parents left you the money that went into your investments?” I asked.
She shook her head. “That was from my aunt.”
Lucky gal with a family that looked out for her. Now I knew that she had money to live on, I had a suggestion.
“This year’s stock-market decline will confirm some people’s fears, but it can also be a buying opportunity. You might want to ease off on bonds and acquire more equities. Something for you to think about.”
She seemed interested, so I continued. “Why don’t I come back in a few days, and we can talk in more depth? About your goals, short- and long-term. Whether you have a will and a power of attorney in place. Your health and property insurance coverage. And an emergency fund. We’ll also look at your budget: how much money you spend every month and on what, and how much comes in.”
I took a printout from my briefcase. “Give these topics some thought. And write down what you pay for insurance, condo fees, and property taxes.”
We made an appointment for Friday. “What broker are you using?” I asked as I got up to leave.
“I manage my own investments,” she said. “That’s why I was working with Dean. He provided guidance. I do the rest.”
“With a discount broker?”
“I manage them myself.”
Investors today have unprecedented access to market information, and it’s easy to open an online account. But could Michelle manage her own investments as well as a professional? She probably had the time to devote to it, but did she have the knowledge? A gut-based decision could wipe out any savings she made from not paying brokerage fees. It could also put a big dent in her holdings.
“I only buy companies with names that begin with the letters B, J, and R, and only during a full moon.” She winked at me.
Had she been joking?
But I had only just met her. For all I knew, she had a wacky sense of humor, and could track the performance of her investments.
As I walked down the hall to the elevator, I wondered what Dean had thought of Michelle being her own broker, and why he hadn’t created a file on her.
And I wondered again what her disability was.
Chapter Twenty-two
Ben had a martini in front of him when I arrived at Volos. He was wearing jeans and a navy corduroy jacket. I was glad I hadn’t gone home to dress up for the evening.
“I took the liberty of ordering a drink,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes.
“I’ll have a martini, too,” I said to the waiter as he pulled out a chair for me.
“Your family’s being looked after tonight?” Ben asked.
I gave him a bright smile. “I’m sure they’re coping.”
“How old are your kids?”
“Tracy, my eldest, is 26. She’s a junior lawyer at a law firm downtown, and she’s flown the nest. Laura is 18, and she’s still with me. Tommy, my youngest, is eight.”
“Wit
h Laura at home, you should be able to get away now and then.”
I shrugged. “What about your kids?” I knew he was a widower, and he’d told me his daughter was running the family’s charitable foundation. Dean’s notes in Ben’s file hadn’t mentioned his children.
“My only child is 34, and she lives with her husband and their three children. I live with my cat.”
We looked over our menus and ordered our food. I asked for a bottle of red wine.
“Red doesn’t go with quail,” said Ben, who’d ordered quail as his main course.
I hold that red and white wine both go well with fowl, but I wasn’t about to argue the point. “The gentleman prefers white wine,” I said to the waiter, “so he’ll take a look at the wine list.”
Ben ordered an outrageously expensive bottle of champagne. He smirked like a little boy who had managed to get away with something. I smiled back at him and finished my martini.
Our starters arrived, and we tucked into them. I had taken a few bites of calamari when Ben pushed his bowl of soup away. “Waiter,” he called, “my soup is cold.”
“I’ll bring you another bowl, sir.” The waiter whisked the offending item off the table.
I savored every bite of my calamari, while Ben waited for a replacement.
“Hot enough?” I asked when he had another bowl in front of him.
“Perfect.”
I turned the conversation to the opera. He told me Cosi Fan Tutte was one of his favorites.
“It’ll be a first for me,” I said. “I’ve never seen it live.”
“You’ll like it.”
He suggested we have dessert at the opera house, so I asked the waiter for the bill.
“Mr. Cordova has taken care of it, madam.” He handed Ben a black leather envelope, which held his credit card and a receipt.
“Thank you for a lovely dinner, Ben,” I said, and got up from the table.
***
I took a bite of cheesecake and surveyed the Jackman Lounge. The VIP room was reserved for the opera and the ballet companies’ big donors, which meant that Ben was one of them.
“How did you know I like opera?” I asked.
“Your website bio. You named opera as one of your interests.”
The chimes called us to the opera. Ben held the door open, and I stepped into the tier of boxes one level above the theater’s main floor.
“The Grand Ring,” he said with a smile.
These were the pricey seats. Ben led me to a box with two chairs and a splendid view of the stage. “We have our own coatroom,” he said, taking my coat and hanging it on a peg.
The five-tiered theater was ablaze with lights, and humming with the sounds of fans taking their seats and the orchestra tuning up in the pit. My favorite part of any live show is just before the curtain rises: the entire house is vibrating in anticipation that something wonderful is about to happen.
When the house lights went down, I found myself all too aware of Ben beside me. His knee brushed my thigh, sending tingles up my leg. I crossed that leg and focused on the stage.
I soon relaxed under Mozart’s music. And what music it was: rapturous solos, duets, trios and quartets, backed by a superb orchestra. When the curtain came down after the first act, I smiled at Ben with real pleasure. “Bravo!”
“You like it.”
“I love it!” I resisted the urge to hug him. No sense in courting trouble.
“Women are like that.”
Startled, I stared at him. “What did you say?”
“‘Women are like that’ is a loose translation of Cosi Fan Tutte. Mozart seemed to think women were a fickle lot.”
The story lines of most comic operas are pretty silly, and Cosi pushes the limits by blaming capricious women for failed love. I could tolerate the misogyny, because the opera’s characters and its plot turns were so unbelievable. And its music was so breathtaking. But was Ben taking the story literally?
“The libretto tells us a lot about Mozart,” I said. “Before he married Constanze, he was engaged to her sister.”
Ben held up a hand in a placating gesture. “Why don’t you order us coffee in the lounge? I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
I ordered two coffees. Ben was longer than I expected, and he’d taken only a sip from his cup when the chimes called us back to the opera.
We had just seated ourselves—as I sat down, I moved my chair farther away from his—when he reached inside his jacket. “Phone’s vibrating,” he muttered.
“Damn,” he said, glancing at the screen. “I’ll be back before the curtain goes up.”
I looked at my watch. It was 9:55.
Ben hadn’t returned when the curtain rose. I assumed he’d have to wait for a suitable break in the performance to be seated, so I turned my attention back to the stage.
Ten minutes into the second act, he still hadn’t returned. I was thoroughly ticked. He had invited me out, then played games with me—acting childishly at dinner and now decamping. His empty chair rankled me, but once again I fell under the power of the music. I sat up in my seat in rapt appreciation of “Per Pietà,” Adriana Ivanney’s showstopping aria.
The house lights came up, and I glanced at my watch. It was 11:05. Where was Ben?
I joined the audience roaring its applause as the cast members took their bows. Ben slipped back into his chair. “I’m sorry, Pat,” he said. “They wouldn’t let me in during the performance.”
When the final curtain went down, I grabbed my coat and we left the box. In the Jackman Lounge, Ben put a hand under my elbow and attempted to steer me toward one of the tables. “We’ll have a drink,” he said, “and you can tell me how the rest of the opera went.”
But I’d had enough of Ben for one evening. I pulled my arm away from him. “I have to get home. Early start tomorrow.”
“I’ll drive you. I’m parked in the underground garage.”
I couldn’t trust myself. Ben was arrogant and controlling; nevertheless, I found him attractive. If I didn’t end this fiasco of an evening now, there was a good chance he’d wind up in my bed.
“I’ll get a taxi,” I told him. “Thank you for the evening.”
I hurried out of the lounge.
***
An hour later, I was relaxing in the sunroom with a glass of chardonnay, when the telephone rang.
“I’ve been thinking of you,” the voice at the other end of the line said.
“Devon!”
“What have you been up to?”
When did we last talk? More than two weeks ago. “A whole lot.”
Then it all came pouring out. I told him that Dean Monaghan, the vendor of the financial-planning practice I’d purchased, had been murdered. I told him about Sam, and my problems with her. And about Dean’s widow and son, who were starting their own business and intending to go after my clients.
I had to pause to catch my breath.
“A whole lot has happened,” Devon said.
“There’s more.”
“I’m sure there is. Have the police found Dean’s killer?”
“No, they don’t seem to be making any headway.”
“No suspects?”
“Plenty of suspects. Dean’s son wanted the business. And I came across some strange e-mails between Dean and a financial planner who’s been banned from the industry, and who just happens to be Sam’s brother-in-law. He seems to have had some kind of business arrangement with Dean. Very hush-hush.”
“Sounds like you’re swimming with sharks up there. Maybe you should get out of the water.”
“It’s too late for that,” I told him. “I’ve gone into debt to buy this business.”
Devon was a worrier; that had been one of my beefs about him. He worried about me and had told me on several occasions that I’d acted foolishly. On the other hand, he never tried to stop me from doing what I had to do. He wasn’t a controlling man.
There were worse things than having someone worried about me. I pict
ured Devon’s dark eyes boring into mine. I wanted to see him again.
We agreed to meet on his next business trip to Toronto.
Chapter Twenty-three
I was about to turn in for the night when the doorbell rang. I wondered how Ben had found my address.
I slipped on my bathrobe and met Laura in the upstairs hall. “Expecting someone?” she asked.
“No idea who it could be,” I lied.
I went downstairs with Laura on my heels. “Go back to bed,” I told her, but she kept right behind me.
“Get into the kitchen and close the door,” I said when we were on the ground floor. “I’ll handle this.”
I turned on the front light, and lifted a corner of the living-room curtain. Detective Hardy was standing on the porch. I knew he wouldn’t be delivering good news at this hour.
“It’s the police,” I called out to Laura.
I opened the door. “What brings you here, Detective Hardy?”
“Another murder.”
My gut twisting with fear, I stepped aside to let him in. “Who?”
“We need you to identify the body at the morgue.”
I stared at him, horrified. Was it Tracy? Had the unthinkable happened to my daughter?
He placed a hand on my shoulder. “No one from your family.”
***
“You must have some idea who the murder victim is,” I said, as we were driving north through the city.
“A driver’s license was found on the body,” Hardy said. “But we want you to do a visual identification.”
“Why me?”
“You’ve met the victim.”
Faces flashed through my mind. Stéphane? Norah Seaton, Tommy’s grandmother? Farah, our housekeeper?
“You’ll be looking at the body on a closed-circuit monitor.” Hardy’s voice was surprisingly gentle.
“A closed-circuit…”
“A television screen. You’ll only see the face.”
That was good to hear. I’d never been in a morgue before, and I pictured myself in a room filled with cadavers on gurneys.
Hardy pulled up in front of a chrome-and-glass building in the northwest part of the city. “Morton Shulman Avenue,” he said. “Office of the Chief Coroner.”
Uncharted Waters Page 11
