Murder on Embassy Row

by Margaret Truman

  “We already knew all that,” Morizio had said when Lake first told him.

  “Yes, but the big question is why? If you’re sitting on a rich company you don’t just close the doors. You sell it for a profit.”

  “Maybe Marsha James doesn’t have a nose for business. Maybe she hates it.”

  “But there are others involved, the Scotsman, Edwin Ferguson, for one. He’s a businessman.”

  “She held the big hunk of stock,” Morizio said. “Maybe he didn’t have any choice but to go along.”

  They left it at that. Georgia Watson said she’d continue to look into it, and Lake promised to call when they returned from Europe.

  The next morning Morizio went through all the Callenders in phone directories for London and environs until reaching Melanie Callender’s parents. Her father answered, a pleasant man who informed Morizio that his daughter was away “on holiday” but would return in two days. Morizio left his name and the number of the May Fair, thanked him, and hung up.

  “If we wait around for her we’ll blow the flight to Copenhagen,” he said.

  Connie thought about it. “Why don’t I just go as scheduled and you catch up after you’ve talked to her? I’ve got to spend time with my Aunt Eva anyway, and if you’re really delayed I’ll pop over to Malmö to see my grandmother.”

  He went with her to the airport, promised he’d join her as soon as he’d made contact with Callender, kissed her good-bye, and watched her vanish through a doorway leading to her flight.

  He killed the day by shopping: a Mackay tartan kilt from the Scotch House and a silk umbrella from James Smith and Sons for Connie; a walking stick that concealed a sword for himself, also from Smith’s; a beautiful cut-glass compote from W.G.T. Burne for his mother; and an assortment of small gifts from Marks and Spencer for nieces and nephews. He returned to the May Fair late in the afternoon and took a nap, had a drink in the hotel bar and Talaparu duckling for dinner in the Beachcomber Restaurant. He felt very alone, and wished Lake were there. He was told at the desk when he retrieved his room key that Miss Lake had called, and would call again. He went to his room and called the d’Angleterre Hotel in Copenhagen. Miss Lake was “out for the evening.” He left a message, turned on TV, got into bed, and promptly fell asleep to a BBC commentary on the state of the British economy which, judging from the announcer’s voice, wasn’t doing very well.

  ***

  Constance Lake sat with her Aunt Eva Nygaard in the d’Angleterre’s Restaurant Reine Pedauque. Aunt Eva, who was in her early sixties and who was a vegetarian, had had a steamed vegetable plate. Lake had feasted on Kalvefilet Niçoise med friske krydderurter fransk sennep, piskeflode og pommes croquettes. Veal Niçoise with herbs, mustard, cream, and potato puffs.

  “It was wonderful,” Connie said.

  Her aunt, a wrinkled, tanned flower child, smiled and sat back. She wore a beige roughhewn sack dress, a necklace of handhammered copper dangles, and a copper bracelet. Her hair, brown streaked with gray, was pulled back tight. She wore no makeup and her nail polish was cracked and peeling. Stories in the family about Aunt Eva were legend. She’d been at the forefront of the movement in the early seventies to turn an area of picturesque Christianshavn into the fristaden, or free town of Christiania, where hundreds of young bohemians dealt openly in drugs, lived a communal lifestyle, raised large families without benefit of marriage in abandoned army barracks that could only be described as hovels, and who were immune from Danish law. “We finally convinced the Supreme Court that it was better to have them there than roaming around Copenhagen,” Eva explained to Connie during dinner. “That wasn’t really why we wanted Christiania established but it worked.”

  Connie enjoyed listening to Eva. Although the older woman espoused avant-garde philosophies and eschewed anything smacking of commercialism and wealth, she lived a rich existence, thanks to the estate of one of her late husbands who’d made a lot of money in real estate. Currently, she was living with a young artist whom she billed as a student, but who Lake was certain was her lover.

  “Tell me more about this young man of yours,” Eva said. “He’s not the only one, is he?” She sounded as though an admission of it would be a potent shock.

  “Yes, he is,” Connie said, laughing. “One at a time, Aunt Eva. That’s me.”

  Eva sighed and sipped her tea. “I suppose you have time,” she said into her cup.

  The table next to them was occupied by two men, one American, the other Danish. Both were middle-aged and well dressed. Connie had eavesdropped on their conversation and surmised that they were in the food business. She wanted to talk to them. Eva, noticing that Connie had cocked her head in their direction, leaned across the table and said, “We’ll have them join us.”

  It dawned on Connie that Eva assumed she was interested in the men personally. She started to correct her, then realized it didn’t matter how they got to talk. She nodded, and Eva said loudly, “We should join tables. It’s the custom.”

  Connie and the Danish gentleman were taken aback at Eva’s loudness, but the American laughed. Connie had been aware throughout the evening that he’d been looking at her. She smiled at him and said, “Your table or ours?”

  “Yours, by all means,” he answered. He introduced himself as Mark Rosner, president of Rosner Foods of New York. His Danish dinner companion was Erl Rekstad, a food exporter.

  They ordered three brandies; Eva never touched alcohol because it “bloated one.” There was lots of preliminary chitchat, with Rosner asking Connie questions like: “First time in Copenhagen?” “Business or pleasure?” (A hint of a leer). “Husband couldn’t make it?” “Danish? You look Danish.”

  Connie answered pleasantly and bided her time until she could ask her own questions. She kept an eye on Eva, who seemed to be enjoying it.

  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Eva said to Rekstad, referring to Connie.

  “Very,” he said. “And you are, too.”

  Eva smiled coyly and patted his hand.

  “Your wife couldn’t make it?” Lake asked Rosner.

  “No, no wife,” he said.

  “Oh. Rosner Foods. What sort of foods?”

  “Fancy foods, outrageously expensive and sinfully good. Do you like fancy foods?”

  “I prefer expensive ones,” said Lake.

  “Caviar tastes?”

  “Especially caviar. Do you import it?”

  “Of course. Do you have a favorite?”

  “You mean Iranian or Russian?”

  Rosner laughed. “Yes, that too, but I was thinking of beluga, servruga, osetra, pressed, or whole…”

  “I love all of it.”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” Rosner said. He said to Rekstad, “A devoted fan.”

  “That’s good,” said the Dane. Eva had now rested her hand on top of his and left it there.

  “You must know Berge Nordkild,” Connie said, hoping it wouldn’t prove to be a sore subject.

  “Berge? Of course I know him. He just got himself in a lot of trouble.”

  “Yes, he did,” Connie said. “I was shocked.”

  “You know him well?”

  “Quite well.” Let him find out differently later, she thought.

  Rosner asked what she did in the United States.

  “I’m a… a consultant.”

  Rosner raised his eyebrows and finished his brandy. “What do you consult on?” he asked.

  “Design. Interior design.”

  Connie noticed the puzzled expression on Eva’s face. She smiled at her and raised her eyebrows. Let her think she was reserving some vestige of her anonymity in case the evening progressed.

  “I’ve been thinking of having my offices redone,” Rosner said. “Maybe you’d be interested in the commission.”

  “Maybe I would,” Lake said. She snapped her fingers as though a sudden thought had hit her. “Someone else you may know, Inga Lindstrom.”

  “Inga?” Rekstad said, sliding his hand from b
eneath Eva’s. “You are Inga’s friend?”

  This was a different ballgame, Lake knew. Copenhagen was his home field. A simple local phone call to Lindstrom would reveal any lie. She said, “No, I’ve never met her, but mutual friends back home suggested I look her up when I was here.”

  “You look like her,” Rekstad said.

  “Yes, I’ve been told that,” Connie said. “I thought I’d call her tomorrow.”

  “I am sure she is here,” said Rekstad.

  “Oh, good.”

  Rosner laughed. “Yes,” he said, “nobody in the caviar business is away this week.”

  Lake didn’t want to pounce on his comment too quickly. She sipped from her snifter, glanced at him and said, “This is the week, isn’t it,” hoping she sounded like she knew what she was talking about.

  “Once every three months,” Rosner said to Rekstad. “Like the old joke goes, tonight’s the night.” They both laughed.

  “I’d love another drink,” Connie said.

  “You’ve got it,” Rosner said. “Tjener,” he called to a waiter.

  Eva complimented Rosner on his pronunciation and suggested that after the next drink they all go to her home where she would entertain them. “I have no liquor in the house,” she said, “but I have excellent marijuana and cocaine.”

  “Jesus,” Connie thought, thinking of Morizio.

  “I prefer akvavit,” Rekstad said.

  “Plebeian,” Eva said, squeezing his hand. He withdrew it.

  “I’m fascinated with the whole mystique of caviar and this special week in Copenhagen,” Lake said.

  “There is a certain circus quality to it,” Rosner said. “Never used to be this way, but that’s what’s exciting about the international food business. A flood here, an overthrow there and the game changes.”

  Connie laughed, trying to convey that she understood.

  “You know, Erl,” Rosner said, “as chaotic as it’s gotten, there are advantages. Prices have gone down, the quality hasn’t suffered, and it’s a hell of a lot more fun than placing phone calls. Besides, it gives me an excuse four times a year to get out of the house and come to Copenhagen.”

  Lake looked at him, and he knew what she was thinking. “I mean the office,” he said. “It’s boring as hell just sitting behind a desk.”

  “Of course,” she said. “No wife, my foot,” she thought. She looked at Rekstad, who seemed to be feeling his drinks. His eyes were protruding and watery, and his mouth had drooped. Aunt Eva had pushed close against him, her fingers tightly entwined with his.

  “I’m dying to see what goes on this week,” Lake said. “I’ve heard so much about it from Berge and other friends in the food business. I’d hate to leave without experiencing it.”

  Rosner screwed up his face and looked at her. Had she blown it, she wondered. Had she overplayed it?

  “What’s the big deal about buying smuggled-in caviar off the docks?” he asked.

  She took a page from Eva’s book, pressed against him and said, “It’s exciting, dealing in smuggled goods. I suppose it’s tasting the bitter, unattainable fruit.”

  “God, it’s working,” she thought as he put his arm around her and said into her ear, “I know what you mean. Want to come with me?”

  “Sure,” she said. “What happens?”

  “We buy caviar.”

  “Where?”

  “On the docks. They run it in in small boats.”

  Rekstad frowned at Rosner. Evidently he didn’t like him talking about what was supposed to be a well-kept secret.

  “I’d love it,” Connie said.

  “Tomorrow?” Rosner asked.

  “Sure.”

  “What about tonight?”

  “What about it?”

  “We should get together and plan our strategy.”

  “It’s that complicated?”

  “It’s that simple. I’m staying here at the d’Angleterre. Where are you staying?”

  “With Eva.”

  “Stay with me.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “You will.”

  “Over a period of time.”

  He pulled away from her as though someone had slipped another disc into his computer, another piece of seduction software. He said, “Let’s forget about caviar and stick to more important things.”

  “Like?”

  “Like the rest of the evening.” He grinned and whispered in her ear, “What’s with your friend? She’s a little old for this, isn’t she?”

  “She’s young at heart, younger than I am.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Rosner said. “You ought to get with it. This is Copenhagen. Everybody’s ‘young at heart,’ as you put it.”

  Connie smiled pleasantly. “What about going to the docks? What dock? Where does it happen?”

  “In Christianshavn.”

  “Oh.”

  “Been there?”

  “No.”

  “Interesting part of town.”

  “That’s where the commune is.”

  “Right. You can’t believe what pigs they are, all the misfits.”

  “Any particular dock in Christianshavn?”

  “Along the main canal, on Overgaden.”

  “You’re going tomorrow night?”

  “Uh, huh. Still coming with me?”

  “I’m not sure I’m free. Can I call you?”

  “Sure. How about dinner tomorrow night?”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “I have the distinct feeling I’m being dismissed.”

  Connie shook her head and looked at Eva, who had Erl Rekstad roaring with laughter at something she’d said. “Ready to go home, Eva?” Connie asked.

  “We’re all going home,” Eva said.

  Connie shook her head. “My headache’s worse,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  Rekstad stood unsteadily and kissed Eva’s hand. Rosner took a final shot at Connie. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll buy you a nightcap in my room.”

  “Thank you, no,” Connie said. She shook his hand. “I enjoyed meeting you. If things work out for tomorrow I’ll call you.”

  “Sure you will.”

  “Don’t count it out. Good night.” She took Eva’s arm and propelled her out of the restaurant and into the lobby. “I told him I was staying with you,” she said. “Let’s make it look that way.”

  Eva giggled. “Why all the fuss? You should go with him. He’s nice. I like his nose.”

  “His nose?”

  “He has a kind nose.”

  “Aunt Eva.”

  “American girls are strange,” Eva said as they left the hotel and stood on Kongens Nytorv, in the middle of the King’s New Square. They crossed the busy intersection to a park. Lake looked back and saw Rosner and Rekstad saying good-bye in the lobby. Rekstad came outside and climbed into a cab, and Rosner went into a richly paneled bar off the lobby.

  “I think it’s safe to go back,” Connie said to Eva.

  “To see him? He looks lonely.”

  “It was good to see you again, Aunt Eva. It’s been what, five years since you visited in America?”

  “Yes. It was good to see you, too. My love to your mother and father.”

  They kissed. “Where’s your car?” Connie asked.

  Eva pointed down the street to a black Saab. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Connie said. They kissed again and Eva walked away.

  Lake checked the lobby, quickly got her key from the desk and took the small leather-lined elevator to the second floor, which was considered the first floor. Her room number was 102. The phone was ringing as she entered. She quickly picked it up and sat on the bed.

  “Connie?” Morizio asked.

  “Hi, Sal. How are you?”

  “Lonely. I miss you. How are you doing?”

  “Good, but I miss you, too. Let me tell you what happened tonight.” She replayed the evening with Aunt Eva and the two m
en. There was silence on Morizio’s end when she was done. “Sal?” she said.

  “Yeah, I’m here. This Rosner, he’s staying at the hotel?”

  “Yes. I managed to avoid him when I left Aunt Eva.”

  “That’s good.” His voice was muffled and flat.

  “Sal, are you jealous?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You are.” She laughed. “I think it was great what happened. I know where the caviar comes in, and that’s worth something. What luck being here the one week every three months when it happens.”

  “I agree, Connie, I really do. What are you doing now?”

  “Now? I’m going to bed. I’m beat.”

  “I wish I were there.”

  “So do I. Callender should be back tomorrow. Then you can get here.”

  “Right. I can’t wait. Look, if I can see her early enough I’ll be there tomorrow night. I’ll grab the last flight.”

  “Great. I’ll be waiting.”

  “Okay. Take care of yourself.”

  “You, too. I love you.”

  “That goes double for me.”

  ***

  Connie was up early. She opened French doors that led to an asphalt roof over the d’Angleterre’s front entrance and took deep breaths. It was a stunning morning, bright sunshine, a cloudless deep blue sky and springlike air. “Unusually mild,” Erl Rekstad had commented the night before about Copenhagen’s recent weather.

  She left the doors open as she turned on the radio, found an open space on the floor and went through a half hour of calisthenics. She missed Richard Simmons, thought of Morizio’s comments about him, and smiled.

  She stood under pulsating hot water from the shower for twenty minutes, vigorously soaping herself and washing her hair. She’d brought her own small hair dryer but didn’t have to use it; there was one built into the wall. The towels were warm from having been on a heated rack, and Lake had draped the white terrycloth robe that came with the room over the rack. It, too, was toasty warm.