“Whoever stole it has no intention of selling it,” he said.
Then why bother stealing it in the first place? I wondered. Unless …
“They are holding it for ransom,” Moffat said. “They’ve threatened to destroy it if I do not pay.”
“Ah,” I said. “Well, that’s what insurance is for, right?”
“Have you any idea what it costs to insure an art collection, Mr. McCall? Particularly one as valuable as mine?”
“Um. No.”
“More than I could afford, I’m afraid. Despite what you might think, sir, I am not a wealthy man. Neither is my wife a wealthy woman. And if I can’t afford insurance, I can hardly afford to pay the ransom.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Moffat, but I didn’t come here to talk to you about your art collection.”
“No? Why are you here, then?”
“I spoke to Samuel Waverley today.”
“Did you? His wife’s death must have been a terrible shock to him. How is he holding up?”
“Not very well,” I said. “He’s dead.”
“Pardon me?”
“He’s dead. He had a massive heart attack in his cabin near Lake Lucille. We tried to get him to the hospital in time, but he didn’t make it.”
“I see,” he said, with a politician’s cool. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”
I’d decided to fib a little, keep it simple. “Before he died, he told me that you were having an affair with his wife,” I said, looking him the eye.
“I’m sure he told you nothing of the sort,” he said, looking me straight in the eye back.
“You’re denying it, then?”
“Of course I’m denying it,” he sad.
“You weren’t Anna Waverley’s lover?”
“No, I wasn’t,” he said patiently. “Frankly, Mr. McCall, under other circumstances, I might find your allegations amusing. The whole idea is quite absurd.” He turned away, as if looking for his glass, which was on the coffee table, and I knew he was dissembling, and trying to cover it up. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, sir — she doesn’t flaunt it, after all — but my wife is an exceptionally attractive woman,” he added, casually picking up his glass and walking to the bar. “Would you care for a drink? You’ve been through a lot recently. Perhaps you are suffering from a form of post-traumatic stress.” He poured a centimetre of Chivas into a glass, and held it out to me.
I couldn’t argue about the stress, but I said, “No, thanks.”
He shrugged and poured it into his own glass. “Well, then,” he said, “if you don’t mind seeing yourself out, there are more pressing matters that require my attention.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Moffat,” I said. “I know you’re lying. You were having an affair with Anna Waverley and you were on the Wonderlust with her the night Bobbi was attacked. I don’t believe for a minute that Mrs. Waverley attacked her, so that leaves you. What was it? Did you panic because you were terrified that your political career, such as it is, would be ruined if it became public that you were having an affair with your art dealer’s wife?”
“Mr. McCall,” he said with a heavy sigh, as if dealing with a recalcitrant child. “You really are trying my patience. If you persist in these ridiculous allegations, I will be forced to call the police. I think you should leave at once.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “Call the police. They’ll be very interested to learn that your wife’s foundation owns the Wonderlust, which you neglected to tell me when we first met.”
“It was hardly relevant. It has been years since I or my wife have been on her father’s boat. It was my understanding that it had been sold some time ago. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, and I’m certain I’m not, it was sold to a film production company. Whoever told you that my wife’s foundation still owns it is obviously misinformed.”
“It was Sam Waverley,” I said. “Just before he died.”
“At the risk of sounding callous, Mr. McCall, that hardly makes him a reliable source.”
If he was lying, he was very good at it. As a politician, he had better be. The problem was, I found myself half believing him. Maybe more than half. Did I have him figured all wrong? Maybe he hadn’t been Anna Waverley’s lover. Jeanie Stone had told me that he’d been a perfect gentleman when he’d spoken at the meeting of female forestry workers, despite the best efforts of some of her colleagues. And he was certainly right about his wife being an attractive woman. But so had Anna Waverley been, and that hadn’t stopped Sam Waverley from wandering. I was as certain as I could be that Anna had been on the Wonderlust when Bobbi had been attacked. If Moffat hadn’t been on the boat with her, who had been? I was back at square one, without a clue as to my next move. So I winged it.
“Why haven’t you called the police?” I asked.
“If you aren’t out of my house in two minutes, I shall do just that.”
“I mean about the theft of your collection.”
“If you must know, I was told not to involve the police or they would destroy it.”
“They’re going to destroy it, anyway,” I said, “since you can’t pay the ransom. If you call the police, at least there’s a chance you’ll get some of it back. Maybe even all of it.”
“That may be so,” he replied flatly. “However, it is no business of yours. Now, please go.”
“How did Sam Waverley react when you told him you wanted to send your collection on tour to raise money for your wife’s foundation?”
“What do you mean? He was as excited as I at the prospect.”
“I’ll bet he was excited,” I said. “It would have ruined him.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“I hate to be the one to break this to you, Mr. Moffat, but most of the so-called art you bought from Sam Waverley was worthless junk. If you’d exhibited it, the whole country would have realized he’d been selling you crap for years. His reputation would have been destroyed. And yours — as a collector, anyway.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Moffat said. “It’s one of the finest collections of its kind in the country.”
“That may be so,” I said, “but I have it on good authority that it’s mainly rubbish.”
“Whose authority?”
“Mr. Waverley’s assistant told me that Waverley has been ripping you off for years. I expect his wife knew about it, too, as well as a former assistant or two.”
“You do not have the slightest idea what you are talking about, Mr. McCall. Samuel Waverley was of exemplary character, one of the most respected art dealers in the country. Your opinion means nothing to me. Less than nothing. You are a narrow-minded cultural barbarian. Despite your so-called profession, you do not have an artistic bone in your body. You are a cretin, sir, and beneath my contempt.” I’d obviously hit him where it hurt the most.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “Maybe I wouldn’t know a Picasso from a pizza. I didn’t come here to discuss your taste in art. Your collection could be worth millions, for all I care. All I care about is who tried to kill my friend and killed Anna Waverley and seeing that he’s fittingly punished.”
“How may times must I tell you that I know nothing about Anna Waverley’s murder or the attack on your friend?”
“This might surprise you,” I said, “but I think I may actually believe you.”
“Imagine my relief,” he said sarcastically.
“But I’m sure you’re connected in some way to Bobbi’s attack and Anna’s murder. Where were you the Tuesday before last?”
“Why should I answer that?”
“Why wouldn’t you, if you have nothing to hide?”
“Very well. If it will get you out of my house. I’d have to check my calendar to be sure, but I was here, working. My assistant will confirm it, if necessary.”
“And last Saturday night? The night Anna Waverley was killed?”
“I had a strategy meeting with my campaign manager, Mr. Getz, whom you met at your sister’s house. His staff was
there as well. The meeting lasted till well past midnight.”
“Were you aware that Anna Waverley had a lover?”
“I was not.”
Oops. Something shifted in his eyes. He wasn’t as good a liar as I’d thought, perhaps because until now he’d been mostly telling the truth. He also realized that I wasn’t buying it and tried to recover.
“But it’s hardly surprising, is it, since her husband is a well-known philanderer.”
“Do you know who her lover was?”
He was ready for that one. Too ready. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “If I was unaware that she had a lover, how could I possibly know her lover’s identity?”
It was so obvious he was lying that I couldn’t help but laugh. “Walter,” I said. “You’d better pray that you don’t become anything more than an obscure backbencher, because you are one bloody awful liar.”
I had to give him credit, though; he didn’t ruffle easily. “Be that as it may, I have no intention of continuing this conversation. Good night.”
“What can you tell me about a man a little shorter than me with slicked-back black hair, an olive complexion, and too much cologne?”
“Nothing at all,” he said. “Good night, Mr. McCall. You can find your own way out.” He opened the door.
What could I do? I left.
chapter twenty-six
When I reached the bottom of the main staircase, the delectable Maria was waiting for me, standing on the worn spot on the Oriental carpet, hair brushed to a gleaming ebony lustre, but still dressed in her baggy sweats.
“This way, señor,” she cooed softly. “The señora would speak to you.”
I assumed “the señora” was Mrs. Moffat. “Then I would speak to the señora, too,” I said.
I followed Maria down the gloomy hallway toward the rear of the house. We passed darkened rooms lined with crowded bookshelves and filled with tall file cabinets and ancient wood desks upon which sat silent computers almost as old as Maria, some possibly older. Maria knocked on a door at the end of the hallway, opened it, and ushered me into a bright and somewhat more modern office. Elise Bridgwater Moffat sat behind a blond oak partners desk the size of a snooker table, the top piled high with file folders, printouts, and what appeared to be dozens of photo albums. The wainscotted walls were covered with hundreds of colour eight-by-tens of wide-eyed brown children ranging in age from toddler to teen. Mrs. Moffat’s Children in Peril, I presumed, although all looked happy, healthy, well-fed, and clean. Post-peril, perhaps.
Mrs. Moffat stood and came around from behind the big desk. “That will be all, Maria,” she said. “Gracias.”
“Very good, señora,” Maria said, and withdrew, closing the door behind her.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. McCall,” Mrs. Moffat said. “Sit down, please.” She indicated one of a pair of worn and cracked leather wingback chairs facing the desk. I sat down. The chairs were more comfortable than they looked. Certainly more comfortable than those in her husband’s upstairs study. “Would you care for something to drink?” Mrs. Moffat asked. “Tea? Whisky?”
I’d refused her husband’s offer of a drink, but I accepted hers. “Uh, whisky, thank you.”
She took a bottle of Glenmorangie from a cabinet against the wall by the door. Her taste in Scotch was better than her husband’s, and she was more generous as she poured two fingers into a squat, heavy glass, which she handed to me. She sat in the other wingback chair.
“I won’t join you, if you don’t mind,” she said, in response to my look. “I rarely drink alcohol. But, please …”
I sipped self-consciously. “I apologize for my behaviour earlier,” I said, as the whisky diffused warmly across my palette.
Nodding her acceptance, she said, “What did you need so desperately to see my husband about?”
“Perhaps you should ask him that,” I said.
“Mr. McCall,” she said patiently. “As you may have realized by now, my husband is … well, not to put too fine a point on it, but if by some miracle Walter does somehow manage to get elected again, he won’t be the least intelligent man in Parliament, but he won’t be the most intelligent, either. Nevertheless, despite his faults, he is a good man, relatively speaking. While he may not do much good in Ottawa, he won’t do any harm, either. Pray that if he is elected, and his party remains in power, the prime minister is himself intelligent enough to realize that Walter is not cabinet material.”
“Why are you telling me this, Mrs. Moffat?”
“Your sister thinks very highly of you, Mr. McCall. So does Dr. Paul.”
“Mrs. Moffat,” I said. “While your husband may not be the brightest bulb on the tree, your bulbs are loose.”
She smiled. It made her look ten years younger. “Mary-Alice told me that that would be your reaction.”
“She’s brighter than the average bulb,” I said.
“Yes, she is, isn’t she?” Mrs. Moffat said. “I like her very much.”
“She’ll be please to hear that.” I sipped my Glenmorangie.
“Are you enjoying your whisky, Mr. McCall?”
“Yes, thank you, it’s very good,” I said, taking another sip.
“Is it better than the whisky my husband offered you?”
“In my opinion, yes.”
“Do you know why he offers his guests the kind of whisky he does?”
“Presumably because he likes it himself,” I said.
“A reasonable assumption,” Mrs. Moffat said. “But incorrect. He offers his guests Chivas Regal because someone once told him it was good whisky.”
“Many people like it,” I said.
“Many people evidently like poutine, Mr. McCall. Would you serve it to your guests?”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s a Quebec dish consisting of French fries, cheese curds, and brown gravy.”
“Mrs. Moffat, please,” I implored.
She smiled again. “The point I’m trying to make, Mr. McCall, is that while my husband is an essentially good man of average intelligence, he’s also easily influenced. Too easily, I’m afraid, especially by individuals possessing particularly strong personalities.”
Such as yourself, I thought. “Liking Chivas Regal,” I said, “or poutine, for that matter, is hardly …” Then the light dawned. “Are you talking about his art collection? Someone, presumably Sam Waverley, told him such art was good, is that it? Believe me, Mrs. Moffat, that’s not why I came to see your husband tonight. I had nothing to do with the theft of his collection.”
“I’m sure you didn’t, Mr. McCall.”
“You’re not sorry it was stolen, though, are you?” Another flash. “Mrs. Moffat, please don’t take offence, but when you couldn’t talk him out of exhibiting his collection to raise money for your foundation, did you hire someone to steal it?”
“No, I did not. As much as I find many of the pieces in my husband’s collection mildly objectionable, it is his pride and joy, and evidently quite valuable. I do love my husband, Mr. McCall. I would never knowingly do anything to hurt him, nor would I stand by and do nothing to prevent others from hurting him. As I said, he is a fundamentally good man.”
“With questionable taste in art,” I said. But very good taste in wives, I added to myself.
“Perhaps,” she agreed. “However, it wasn’t his taste in art I was referring to. I was referring to his campaign manager, Mr. Charles Getz.”
“Charles?”
“Woody is a nickname,” she said, her distaste for the man evident in the set of her mouth as she spoke his name.
“You consider him a bad influence on your husband?” I said.
“Do you know what he did before he became my husband’s campaign manager? He produced pornographic films.” Which explained how he knew Kenny “Mr. See-em-sweat” Shapiro, the former director of Star Crossed, Reeny’s sword-and-sex sci-fi series, which some people, especially those with a staunchly conservative mindset, might consider
soft-core porn. It might also explain how he’d acquired his nickname. “And before that,” Mrs. Moffat went on, “he owned a dozen used-car dealerships.”
“Pardon my cynicism,” I said, “but being a pornographic film producer or a used-car salesman doesn’t necessarily disqualify him from running a political campaign.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” she said. “However, I don’t believe he has my husband’s best interests at heart.”
“It may be my cynical streak showing again,” I said, “but I agree it’s unlikely he’s in it for anyone’s good but his own. I’m sure your husband is paying him very well for his services. And, if by some miracle, as you say, your husband should win, I’m sure Mr. Getz expects to be amply rewarded. One way or another. Seems to me they both want the same thing for their own reasons. It’s a marriage made in heaven, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
“I don’t believe it matters one way or another to Mr. Getz if my husband wins or loses. He isn’t in it for the long haul, as they say, whereas my husband is.”
“This is very interesting,” I said. “And I’m enjoying your whisky. But what does any of it have to do with me? To be honest, it doesn’t matter to me either if your husband wins or loses.”
“It matters to me,” Mrs. Moffat said emphatically. “What is more important, it matters to the foundation and the thousands of children it helps. The foundation is everything to me, Mr. McCall. It’s important to my husband, as well. If Walter should win a seat in Parliament, he will be a powerful advocate for the children of the Third World. Even as a backbencher, his voice will be heard. Nevertheless, I am a realist. I know the likelihood of his winning is not great. However, I will do whatever I can to ensure that the odds against him do not get any worse than they already are.”
“Okay,” I said. “I see what you’re getting at. You want me to stop stirring things up over my partner’s attack, is that it?”
“What happened to your partner was a regrettable accident, Mr. McCall. I prayed for her recovery and my prayers were answered. I understand that she was released from hospital yesterday. Perhaps you should just be thankful she is recovering and get on with your lives.”
Depth of Field Page 26
