SAGE: AN ADAM STONE MYSTERY (THE ADAM STONE MYSTERIES Book 1)

by D. L. EVANS

  I had concluded previously that Alison Stanford has a pathological dislike for being upstaged. She was much more than ‘just miffed’ about the private family service for Morgan. I figured this out for myself when she announced a 'spontaneous' memorial service, on the news. I guess ‘spontaneous’ to Alison is a planned occurrence. A microphone was handed to her as she told the world that the affair was to be held Friday evening after the private funeral and before Morgan’s (now astronomically expensive) artwork was to be shipped to a waiting gallery in Warsaw. She looked fabulous; demur and professional with just a touch of glittering emotion. She could be Prime Minister. Everyone who loved Morgan could attend. She neglected to say ‘provided your name was on the list’, but hey, that’s show biz. If the Mongol hoards showed up, what the hell, the police had nothing better to do than control crowds. It’s a safe, polite city... ask anyone. No video or public relations people, thank God. Vlad Roman would repeat the same eulogy that he was giving at the funeral. The press release actually stated that the memorial evening in Morgan's honour was ostensibly to assuage the grief of her many friends and admirers that were not able to attend the funeral. Do people actually say things like that? Shit, I better take notes. I wondered what had the hell the great Vlad had to say about Morgan anyway? Originally I thought she’d be categorized as competition, unworthy of his 'divine' attention but Lauren cleared up my confusion. Morgan's biography stated she had studied under him years ago in Romania and (like all his successful students) he had kept in touch. That's nice. Nothing like a photo opportunity to keep the prices up. I was intrigued enough to ask Lauren to get me an introduction, and hopefully access to his studio to poke around for background information. Looked more and more like I was going to learn about the 'art world' after all. Sis was thrilled to arrange anything that didn’t include alcohol. As always, nothing comes without strings, and this was a bloody rope. I had to attend the memorial, Friday night. I owed it to my fans. See and be seen. Free publicity for the book-in-progress. I wanted to attend like I wanted haemorrhoids. Damn.

  The outline was coming along nicely and I had quite a little pile of notes to develop. I'd been considering calling my agent Sam Fox and letting him know that I was back on track but that would risk his well meaning but annoying interference. I'd rather have a little more in the can before I raised his hopes. He's more optimistic than Mack and twice the nag. Lauren was right after all. I just needed to get my teeth into something.

  Chapter Thirty

  ADAM STONE:

  Any time now I'm going to pick up that phone and ask Annie Stanford out for dinner. I can't seem to put my feelings for her into words but it's somewhere between attraction and curiosity. I know that my grief over Savannah will never go away. It's buried deep in my bones like a dose of radiation, but she would want me to get on with my life and I sure as hell would have wanted the same for her, so here I am. Just one little tranquillizing sip of the good stuff for courage and I am dialling her number.

  "Hello Adam”, she answered in her low rich voice. “It's about time you called... Before you visualize me gazing into a crystal ball, I have 'caller I.D.' on my phone." I could hear her smile.

  I laughed. "That's just what I was thinking, more or less." I felt her warm breath travel down the phone line. "And since that exhausts my ready stash of small talk, let me get to the point. Would you like to join me at Café Brussels for dinner tonight? It’s on the Danforth just east of Broadview.”

  "Sure, I'd love to, I know it. Good choice. I have some errands to run so I'll meet you there at say... eight?"

  "See you then." I hung up feeling ridiculously pleased with myself. Time for a shower, shave and a spray of cologne to cover a whiff of nerves.

  At two minutes to eight Annie walked in the door of the Cafe, scanned the room, and made her way to my table. Every eye in the place followed her. She moved beautifully, never once looking where she was going, eyes locked with mine. Her long hair was arranged on top of her head in whirls that gleamed like cherry wood and she wore a simple dress of jade silk. It was the first time that I’d seen her in something that showed her lovely figure. The silk shimmered over curves luscious enough to wake the dead. It was the kind of dress Lauren would choose except that she would add touches of glitter but Lauren is jellybeans and diamonds. Annie is... what? So far, smoke and mirrors. She wasn't wearing any jewellery. Her eyes were enough. Tonight they looked green but I knew that they were picking up the tint of the dress. I must have been staring. She laughed self-consciously as two waiters competitively fussed over her chair.

  I could tell from the impact that her approach had on me; my tranquil existence was forever changed. I wanted her in my life. I made a stab at trying to put her at ease. "In spite of the latest phone gizmos, you knew I'd call, didn't you?"

  "Hoped." She smiled and I once more felt a strange dislocation. “I usually scare away the good ones. Takes a brave soul to go out with a psychic."

  "Is that an incendiary subject? I should know the rules if I'm not to repeat past mistakes," I offered tentatively.

  "Thanks for the thought. My abilities do give me the advantage sometimes. I know what not to say, like asking about your marriage for instance, but not what I should say to make you feel comfortable."

  I cleared my throat and took a slow breath. "I will tell you all about Savannah Jane, but not tonight, OK?” She nodded and arranged her dress. Why was I pleased that she was nervous? “I hope you're not too upset that I didn't get in touch with your doctor friend. I think I can manage at present... so far, at least."

  She nodded again without comment, and then said, "You definitely look a lot better than the last time we met. I think you're more focussed so you must be sleeping better too. It shows. Adam, you don't need to tiptoe around with me, you can ask what you like, though sometimes I do get tired of having to explain my mutant 'gifts'. I often wish I could make them disappear so I could have a normal life like everyone else."

  "I can see that men might find it a little nerve racking to ... well..."

  "Know I might read their minds?” she finished my sentence. “To always know if they're lying? Let's just say that I've come to accept the fact that a lasting relationship is impossible. I've had exactly three, semi-serious relationships with three very different and very brave men. They all backed away, eventually, from the stress of dealing with a lack of mental privacy. I don't blame them."

  "Are you still friends?"

  "No, I would have liked to have kept in touch, but it just didn't happen so I got on with things. I have since learned that one of them died in a boating accident; one lives in New York and one in Florence. I even learned Italian for him!" We laughed. She continued looking somewhere over my shoulder, lost in memory, "I've never heard from them. It's just as well in the long run. I like working alone." She found my eyes. "Do you? Writing must be lonely compared to your previously exciting police work, surely?"

  "Mostly. I still get overwhelmed when I face the blank computer screen but I like working on a mystery, collecting the pieces and trying to fit things together like a puzzle. Of course, even though my book was based on real cases, I have the luxury of moving things along faster than they happened and I can enhance bits that might otherwise be anti-climatic or boring."

  The waiter politely interrupted them. Adam ordered bourbon and Annie ordered an Absolute with a twist. The drinks arrived in moments.

  "Funny you should mention puzzles," Annie mused. "My parents loved games. That's one of the few memories I have of us together. We always played games as a family." A comfortable silence passed. I just looked at her without the need to fill the air with witty conversation. She tilted her head and favoured me with another smile. "Let's get the basics out of the way. Did you always want to be a cop?"

  "No, I always wanted to be Spider-Man but sort of ended up as a detective." She laughed her rich bass and I noticed perfect teeth and small pink tongue. I felt the swell of sexual arousal, aware of a rapport with her th
at I never could have imagined. The waiter arrived to take our order for dinner. We agreed on roast chicken with a bottle of Graves.

  The calm dulcet tones of the room seemed to disappear. The world was centred around the candlelight of our table. "I read your book," she said. "I really enjoyed it, even though I wasn't entirely comfortable with the subject matter. I was surprised at your command of the language and your go-for-the-throat style. You dive right in, no hesitation. Slash and burn... The bad guy didn't have a chance."

  The electrical feeling was back but not nearly as unsettling as the first time they’d met. Maybe she ran on batteries. "Didn't deserve one. You don't exactly beat around the bush yourself," I laughed. "Were you always interested in restoration?" What was it about her face that seemed so endlessly fascinating?

  "No,” she said. “I always wanted to write, actually." That was interesting. "I started university with journalism as my major but it didn't work out. I found out that all the skill in the world doesn't help if you have nothing interesting to say. My first literary attempts were full of brilliant phrases and apropos of nothing. I discovered that the first thing a writer has to be is a storyteller. The skills or the tools to express yourself can be learned. But I had no stories to tell so; I changed majors much to Alice's relief and took an art degree. I didn't, couldn't deal with the public and have no head for numbers, so you have no idea how relieved I was when I found my niche in cleaning and restoring."

  "I like what you’ve done with your hair.”

  She smiled.

  “Was that when you first knew that you could authenticate the work by sensing the artist?" I asked.

  "Thanks. It’s the one destabilizing force in my life.” She said.

  “My hair,” she laughed, seeing my look of confusion. “It does what it wants no matter what I do and behaves hideously if it’s the least bit humid. She brushed a wave back from her eyes, self-consciously. There was an endearing tentativeness about her. ”My work is another sensitive area."

  I wasn't sure what she meant and wondered if I should change the subject as the waiter skilfully set our food between us. Thankfully, she solved the problem by continuing on her own. "When I was about fifteen, Alison was twenty-one, I told her that I felt Uncle Rick had switched a couple of paintings in grandfather's collection, replacing the originals with fakes. The originals were worth over half a million dollars. She checked, found I was right and confronted him. To make a long story short, he was in financial trouble from gambling debts and was secretly selling off the collection. Winney, Winston Lucas, usually kept him on track but this little trick slipped past him. Richard was never good with money. Guess he assumed that we wouldn't spot the duplicates until we were due to inherit and by then it would be too late. Alison handled it, insisting that I stay out of it. She was just finishing off her business degree - she has an incredible head for numbers - and forced him to let her take over the books. Winney agreed. He knew about the gambling and the thefts too but couldn’t do anything about it. Alison changed all that. From then on she handled the family business and with Richard out of the finances, she got us back in the black. When I got my degree, I went against her wishes and worked for a New York gallery for three years. I became involved with the owner. We lived together for a while." Her eyes reflected sad unsaid memories. "When he left, I went to Florence for a year. That turned into an even bigger emotional mess so I came back home to help Alison." Her voice was dispassionate but I could hear the taut control. Another sip of wine to collect her thoughts, and she continued, "By that time, Uncle Rick wasn't well and Alison was completely in charge, so we bought him out. We sold the rest of grandfather's collection and the house to finance the restoration and upgrade security on the warehouse. There you have it."

  "Uncle Rick raised you by himself?"

  "Sort of... He was our legal guardian... our mother’s half brother and quite a bit older. His philosophy on life is to give little and take-all-you-can. That about sums him up. Mom and Dad were killed in a head-on car accident when I was six as I told you before and Alison was twelve. She was devastated. I've never seen anyone cry like she did. Her depression went on for nearly a year. I'm sure Uncle Rick thought she would have a breakdown but she eventually came out of it. We always had nannies and maids to look out for us, as Uncle Rick wasn't too interested in raising two rather precocious little girls. Winnie was his assistant, and tried to help where he could. If we didn’t like someone that Uncle Rick hired to take care of us, Winnie would listen and make changes. Uncle Rick didn’t care as long as we stayed out of the way and Winnie made the decisions but he was approachable. Alison, when she settled down after the accident, was like a mother to me, a little too protective sometimes. We fought like cats and dogs. Normal sister stuff." I watched her emotions play across her face in an endless array of expressions. She was totally unaware of her charming mannerisms.

  "I can relate,” I replied. “Lauren is in my face sometimes, ready to run unnecessary interference, forgetting that I'm a big boy now." I got another laugh for that, so I continued. "You're very different from Alison. It must have been hard for her. Does she have 'abilities' too?"

  Her eyes were locked on mine. There was a certain vibrancy about her that even as she sat absorbed in my words, suggesting movement and a sense of life. "Alison and I have a ... gentleman's agreement. When we were quite young, I used to try and read her mind. She always knew and it made her furious, but the death of our parents closed some doors. Now, all I get is a wall of worry and concern for me so I try not to aggravate her maternal instincts. Part of the reason that I love working in my studio is the privacy. When we lived together, she made me crazy. We're closer now than we've ever been, I think. She likes you, but thinks you're trouble for me." I must have looked concerned as she quickly added, "Oh, don't worry. She never thinks anyone is good enough for me and right now she's overwhelmed with... other concerns. And I told her I'm only here so I can have ride in your fabulous Healy. I have a weakness for classic sports cars." (giggle) "And, she knows better than to interfere in my private life. That's part of the agreement. I'm a big girl now too!" She smiled her perfect smile. I felt all was right with the world. Reality settled in.

  "Are you still being watched?"

  "It's not so clear, or maybe, not so consistent. I don't think I'm the centre of attention but... there is an... anticipation of death and a sensation that he has killed. Gosh, I wish I could explain it better. Alison is up to her eyeballs planning this wake for Morgan and frankly I'm glad she's fully occupied. She's so worried about me that I'm afraid she'll make herself sick. I can't get a handle on what's going on, you see, and that scares her to death. It's never happened before. There's always been something invincible about her; some source of inner strength. Its not so sure now. We're both feeling... vulnerable, I guess.”

  "You said your mother and grandmother had psychic abilities?"

  "That's right. Gran lived on Davenport Road, not too far from here. During the Depression she actually gave readings. Can you imagine! They called her the local 'Spook'." She laughed her rich contralto and I saw heads turn in envy. "She must have done alright at it too because eventually, she bought a dry goods store and brought the rest of her family here from Newfoundland. We still have her letters. She brought the family to Canada because Newfoundland wasn’t a Province then. Alison traced the family, through our mother, all the way back to France. It's fascinating stuff if you're into heraldry. Anyway, I digress... Grandmother, Angelique Louisa Bishop. I was named after her and my mother; Grandmother met a man named Eugene Stanford. They married. She was already in her late thirties. My grandfather was a railroad executive, a widower with a young son. As a wedding gift he had the mansion in Forest Hill built; they moved in and she became pregnant with my mother. She called mom her miracle baby, because she was already into her forties. Grandfather insisted that she have her mother’s name too. The ‘A’ names go back hundreds of years. I don’t know why. Uncle Richard was eleven year
s old and less than pleased at his half-sister's unexpected arrival. They never got along. Grandfather retired from the railway and started seriously collecting paintings 'till he died."

  "Wait a minute, your grandfather on your mother's side was Stanford?"

  "Yep. Mother married a third cousin, Thomas Stanford. Almost incest.” She laughed. “The family nearly disowned her, but they came around."

  "What about your dad? What was he like?"

  "He was quiet and sort of shy. Alice took after mother, who was pale and blonde, but I have Dad’s darker colouring. He was not the kind of man you would call a black sheep, but he was in my family. What a scandal when mom married him. Like Uncle Rick, dad liked to gamble, especially at cards, but unlike Uncle Rick, my dad usually won. Mom could have had anybody she wanted and she picked a man with no-visible-means-of-support. She had guts. From what I hear and remember, they were happy. So you see, I'm just a spoiled brat after all. Alison tells me regularly. That's the condensed version. Annie leaned forward, put her elbows on the table and cradled her chin in her hands. Her breasts were full and lovely. I risked a quick appreciative look.