by Anna Porter
Her office was more than four times the size of David’s, and a lot better lit. She had a Persian carpet, four mahogany filing cabinets—legal size, a thin designer lamp with movable parts, a bushy plant near the ceiling-to-floor window that offered a superb view toward the lake, and a giant IBM memory typewriter with black box attachment.
“Kind of Mr. Zimmerman,” David said.
“Very,” Miss Thomas agreed. “And now, though I don’t want to rush you, can you explain why you wanted to see me?” She had positioned herself next to the window, hands on hips, a little expectant smile on her face.
Despite the fancy-dress, David thought, a woman to take seriously. “I’m attempting to track down the movements of a man who appears to have known Mr. Zimmerman and may have been in touch with him last week. He was in Toronto Thursday last. Name is Harvey Singer. He’s from New York.” He had avoided the past tense; no sense in alarming Miss Thomas.
“Singer... Singer...,” she mused, slowly walking over to her desk. “Yes, the name does ring a bell. I think...” She opened her desk diary and leafed back to Thursday, the 26th. “Yes, I do have his name down here. He called Mr. Zimmerman in the morning, around 10:30 I think, because Mr. Z. wasn’t in the office yet. He came in shortly after 11, after his meeting with the bank.”
“Did Singer leave a number?”
“No. He said he’d be calling back but I did take his name, see?” She showed David where she had written the name on the separate daily message sheet her diary provided.
“And did he?”
“Call again? Sure he did. Mr. Z. took the call.”
“Mr. Zimmerman knew him, then.”
“Must have. He never took calls unless he knew who was at the other end of the line. Otherwise he could have spent the whole day on the phone. Everybody wanted something from him. Lawyers, government officials, charities, foundations, reporters, politicians, you name it.”
“Did Mr. Singer come to see him?” David asked.
“He didn’t have an appointment. They could have met later in the evening, of course. I didn’t keep track of all Mr. Z.’s movements, only his business agenda.” She said Z the British way: zed. She sat down behind her desk and swiveled the chair around to face David. In the process her skirt rode higher up her thigh, affording a panorama of long, athletic legs in blue lace stockings. He wondered idly if she was married, and if not, if she might be free for dinner some evening.
David cleared his throat. “Right. Well then, do you recall his ever being here before?”
“No, I don’t. But his name did sound familiar. That’s why I asked Mr. Z. if he wanted to talk to him. Tell you what, though.” She crossed her legs, one ankle hooked around the other, and grinned up at David. “I’m checking through all my records and all his files anyway. If I find something, I’ll call.”
***
Constable Giannini spent most of the afternoon annoying everyone at the Downtown Fine Cars body shop, from the manager to the apprentice repairman. None of them had seen the XJ-S since December, when Geoff Aronson had had the tires changed.
Fourteen
ONCE SHE HAD FLOWN first-class to Rome, courtesy of Alitalia. She had been working on a story about winter tourists in Italy for the now defunct Star Weekly, and Alitalia had decided to treat her to the best it had to offer: a fabulous combination of spacious seats, endless wine, champagne, five-course meal, thick socks, traveling bag, and an attentive stewardess. She had felt like Cinderella, savoring every moment, knowing it wouldn’t last.
But none of that experience of how the 2 per cent lives had prepared Judith for the Lear number 421 at Buttonville Airport or the crew of two whose sole function was to get her safely to Bermuda. They had donned their uniforms this morning just for her, the TIGHTEN SEATBELTS NO SMOKING request had only her for an audience, and they had prepared the breakfast of coffee, croissants, and eggs Benedict with one customer in mind. There was no check-in counter, no waiting in line, no more fuss about boarding the plane than if she’d taken a cab.
Clearly, the rich have less time to waste than the rest of us.
In Bermuda, Customs and Immigration came to the Lear to glance at her passport and welcome her to the island. The pilot himself helped her out of the plane.
She wore her black high heels and stockings with the black and gray woolen suit Dorrit had saved from her last fall sale, and her all-purpose black bag carried a notebook, makeup, face cream, and, by a stroke of genius, a change of underwear. She had selected the clothes to look appropriately somber but had quite forgotten that Bermuda in February is rather like Toronto in the spring. The sun was already reflecting warmly off the tarmac. If the interview didn’t make her sweat, the sun would.
She was greeted by a young man with freckles and a red peeling nose shaded by a blue cap with gold braid around the rim. It made him look very much like an officer in the British navy, and the rest of the uniform, including the brass buttons, added to the impression.
“I’m Geoff Aronthon, Mrs. Hayes,” he said with a slight lisp. “I’ll be driving you to Xanadu.”
“To where?”
He was flustered. “Mithis Simmerman thent me to drive you to Thanadu,” he said, his lisp becoming more pronounced. “Mithis Hayeth, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Judith admitted. “But didn’t you say Xanadu?”
“The Simmerman home in Bermuda.”
Of course. Brenda hadn’t stopped at Byron, she’d gone on to Coleridge. It would make a hell of a sidebar: “In Xanadu did Kubla Khan / A stately pleasure-dome decree...” Would there really be fountains, towers, and hanging gardens?
Geoff handed her into the glowing green Cadillac and exchanged some pieces of paper with the flight crew. “You’ve been here before?” he inquired as they swished out the main gate.
“Never,” Judith said.
“...On the left is the Governor’s mansion, coming up on the right, St. Peter’s Church and the old cemetery.” Geoff occasionally broke into his running commentary on the pink and white sights to honk his horn and wave at someone. At the corner of the Sacred Heart School, a group of brown-uniformed schoolgirls sent up a cheer, whistled, and hooted as he slowed the car for the lights.
“Your fan club,” Judith observed.
“Jutht kids,” Geoff said, retreating into his lisp. He had a low embarrassment threshold.
“Seems like you’re one of the locals.”
“Been coming here for 10 or 11 years. Get to know a lot of people. You know.”
“You’ve worked for the Zimmermans all that time?”
“Yes, ma’am. Started in ’76 as a garage boy. I was in the army before then,” Geoff said, looking in the rearview mirror to seek eye contact. When he found it, he added: “A good thing Mr. Simmerman didn’t ask for references. I’d been discharged for inthubordination. Not cut out for all that dithipline, I gueth.” When he smiled, he showed tiny, uneven teeth.
“This the only car you drive?” Judith asked casually.
“Good Lord, no. There’s the Rolls, the Chevy station wagon, the Cherokee Chief, the Olds, the stretch, the Morgan, the XJ-S, and sometimes Mr. Simmerman lets me drive the Ferrari.” His nose glowed as he recited the cars.
“Is one of those a Jaguar?” Judith asked.
“A Jaguar?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“They’re my favorite,” Judith improvised. “Always thought if I hit the jackpot, what I’d like most is a Jaguar. They sort of hum when you drive them.” Not like old Renaults, for example. They cough.
“Know what you mean,” Geoff said, smiling again. “The XJ-S is a Jag. It’s got the 5.3-litre V-12 May head engine, four-wheel independent suspension, man, you should hear that baby purr... Mmm-hmm.”
“Do you keep it here or in Toronto?”
“Usually in Toronto, or in France. It was the boss’s favorite car, too, so we shipped it ahead when they went to the chatto.”
“In France?”
�
��Yeah.”
“What’s a chatto?”
He glanced into the rearview mirror again. “You know, one of those old places they have in France, it’s got a vineyard and a lake. Built three hundred years ago. Mrs. Simmerman had it done over real pretty, though. They spent a week there in May, and another in June last year.”
“That’s where the Jag is right now?”
“No. It’s on its way here from Toronto.”
“A shame. Would have been nice to see it,” Judith said sadly, feeling she’d done her best for David.
“Coming in this afternoon,” Geoff volunteered. “Could take you back in it, if you’re still here then.”
“Thanks. Great.” Her enthusiasm was as real as his apparent pleasure at a chance to show off the baby to a covetous buff.
They had turned into a road clearly marked PRIVATE. To the right, the sloping hills of a well-manicured golf course; on the left, the ocean rolled up onto a gold sand beach. A man in golf shoes and checked Bermuda shorts strolled along the shore. The air was soft, carrying the sweet smell of hibiscus. As they approached the end of the fairway, the scent grew stronger, and stronger still along the shiny hedge that bordered the golf course. As they squeezed through a white gateway, she caught her first glimpse of an extravagant white-gabled house surrounded by pink, blue, and white blossoms. The house had a central cupola and four smaller turrets, one on each corner, and a long, screened-in veranda with pink roses climbing up each of its many square pillars. In front, a long smooth lawn set for croquet. Whatever Coleridge had meant by “stately pleasure-dome,” this qualified.
The door was opened by a small brown woman in black tunic, white frilly apron, and starched cap pinned to her short-cropped curly hair. “Welcome to Bermuda, Mrs. Hayes,” she said with a slight lilt to her voice. “Would you like to freshen up after your journey, or go straight to the conservatory?”
Judith declined the freshening and followed the maid along a brightly lit passageway with coral pink and stucco walls and light blue mosaic tiles. On the window side there were tiers of pink geraniums in hanging pots and baskets of long-stemmed Swedish ivy. The passageway opened onto an expanse of greenery, dappled with sunlight. “The conservatory.” Full of tall palms, hibiscus trees, and oleanders, with a perfectly oval pool with bronze fountain and water lilies in the center. Turquoise and pink canaries were chirping in white cane cages.
Brenda Zimmerman reclined on a green and pink chaise longue near the pool. Her hair was piled on top of her head, but for a few feathery blond strands that had been allowed to escape and fall alongside her slender neck. A soft gold silk dress fell in folds from a raised knee. Except for the array of rings on her fingers, her arms and shoulders were bare.
So much for widow’s weeds.
She was gazing out the windows when Judith entered and continued to do so until Judith stood at the end of her chaise. Then she looked up. Her face was pale and faded, her deep violet eyes ringed in red. Two new lines had etched themselves into the corners of her mouth. “Well...,” she said softly. “There you are again.”
“I do appreciate the opportunity to talk to you, Mrs. Zimmerman. I’m terribly sorry...” Judith felt monumentally awkward and cumbersome in her black winter outfit, with the heavy bag, in her inability to find the right words.
Brenda waved the attempt aside with one languid movement of her right hand, which then reached for the tall glass of wine on the turquoise table beside her. “Do call me Brenda,” she said wearily, “and for heaven’s sake sit down, take some clothes off, and have a drink.”
“Thank you.” Judith chose a gin and tonic with lots of ice and lemon. She threw her jacket over the back of the chair.
“A bit overdressed for Bermuda, aren’t you, dear?” Brenda asked.
“Happens so rarely, I might as well make the most of it,” Judith said, pulling out her notebook and kicking off her shoes. “That’s better.”
Brenda smiled. “Philip says I can talk to you. That, coming from Philip, is tantamount to a recommendation. He’s not very partial to the press.”
“I know.”
“I think Paul would have liked to see the story done,” she added, turning her head away. “Did you come to the funeral?”
“I was late,” Judith said. “Saw Rabbi Jonas on the way out.” When Brenda didn’t comment on that, she went on. “Did you know Mr. Zimmerman was going to have a Christian burial?”
“Not until we read the will.”
“The 51st Psalm was his own choice?”
“It certainly wasn’t mine,” Brenda said, emptying her glass. “Not well up on my psalms, really.”
“Any idea why that particular psalm?”
“None.” She shook the little silver bell perched on the table next to her. “You ready for a refill?”
Judith wasn’t. “Philip Masters said you’ll be carrying on with the management of the Zimmerman string of companies.”
Brenda looked bored. “Probably.”
“Have you decided on the succession at Monarch?”
“You mean between Griffiths and Goodman? No, but that part I might even enjoy.”
After the maid had come and gone, Judith decided on a less direct approach. “What can you tell me about Mr. Zimmerman?”
“Paul?” Brenda brushed her face with her hand, as though to smooth the skin. Her long, perfect nails were still painted silver. “He was extraordinary. As I said. He never failed at anything—or he never tried anything he might have failed at. A most unusual talent, don’t you think?”
Rather alarming, Judith thought, but she didn’t say so.
“He breathed, ate, dreamed his business. His mind never slacked. He had to program himself to relax. When he and Philip were working on the Pacific Airlines takeover, he had to force pauses into his 24-hour days so that Philip could catch up to him. They would spend the night going over papers. In the morning while Philip slept, Paul would go for his run, all the while thinking about what the next move should be. When Philip emerged from his slumbers, drowsy, Paul would be completely refreshed and eager to get going. Some people don’t need sleep. Paul was one of those. Napoleon, I read somewhere, was another—” She broke off suddenly, focused her eyes on Judith, tense. “Not that I’m saying he was like Napoleon, you understand?”
Judith nodded sympathetically. Zimmerman was obviously a workaholic with latent megalomania, but Brenda wasn’t going to be the one to say so.
“He was as earnest about his pleasures as about his work,” Brenda said. “You saw the paintings? Paul had an eye for things. He chose carefully. That includes the people around him. I doubt he was disappointed more than once. And he was a wonderful father...” Her eyes filled with tears she didn’t try to hide. She drank with a loud gulp, swallowing her tears with the wine, “...to Meredith.”
“And to Arthur?” Judith asked quickly.
Brenda shrugged. “Arthur can take care of himself. He is an adult.”
“You met Paul in Nassau,” Judith prompted.
“I told you that already,” Brenda said impatiently. “Love at first sight with all the trimmings. Afterward, he sent me six red roses every single day, including Sundays, for six months, till we got married.” She sighed. “He knew I was an incurable romantic, and he’d determined I would be his wife. Paul had good taste in everything he chose—including women.” She didn’t elaborate.
Judith put a little star into her book to try and wend her way back to that remark. “Was he still married to Eva when you met?”
“Why?”
“I thought because you waited six months—”
“Good Lord, no.” Brenda waved dismissively. “We waited because I wanted to make sure. He was so damn perfect, so... ‘Everything my heart desir’d.’ Don’t you see, I had to make sure it would last. Kept thinking I’d...” Her voice had sunk to a whisper. She cupped her hands around the glass, staring at it. “Poor old pathetic Eva. She had let him go. Worse. She actually left him and moved to Mexico Ci
ty with Arthur.” She almost spat out the “Arthur.”
“Any idea why?” Judith asked gently.
“She was crazy. Still is. This for your magazine or are you just curious?”
Was it her imagination, or was Brenda slurring her words?
“Both,” Judith said.
“Good. I hope you’ll quote me. Maybe she’ll sue for libel.” Brenda laughed harshly and suddenly, and just as abruptly stopped. “Did you ask Paul about her?”
“No.”
“Then what on earth did you talk about?”
“Mostly his recent takeovers. And he told me a little about his childhood over dinner.”
“He did?” Brenda’s blond eyebrows shot up. “What part?”
“Some place in Hungary where they make Bull’s Blood. His father working in the vineyards and the family not having enough to eat...”
Brenda laughed again. “Oh dear, oh dear, he didn’t try that old chestnut on you. Must have been the wine we served.”
“You mean he made it up?”
“Let’s just say he imagined it. Loved the idea of those rags-to-riches stories. His father was a merchant. One of the wealthiest men in Eger. His mother had all her clothes made in Paris and Vienna. Not even Budapest. He was taught violin on a Stradivarius, had a private tutor and his own library. They went to concerts in Vienna and spent summers in Italy. Only problem was, Hitler invaded and they were Jews.” Brenda started to examine her silver nails as though she were searching for chips in the polish.
“What happened to them?” Judith asked hesitantly.
“Same as happened to most of the Jews in Hungary. They died.”
“In a concentration camp?”
Brenda shrugged. “I don’t know. Paul didn’t exactly relish talking about that part of his life. That’s likely why he invented little stories about parents he never had, and, having never had, never lost.”
“How did Paul escape?”
“It was 1944. He was 16. There were rumors about Jews being rounded up in Germany. His father worried he might be forced into one of the work gangs for the Eastern Front nobody ever returned from, so he sent him off into the Bükk Mountains with some of the other young men to hide. Later he joined the partisans. When the war was over he made his way to Vienna and reported in with the other lost and homeless.” Brenda finished what was left in her glass and tinkled the bell for another refill. “Where the real rags-to-riches saga begins is with Paul arriving in Canada by cattle boat in the winter of 1946. He was 17, alone in the world, with nothing but the clothes on his back and a burning desire to succeed.”
