by Joan Smith
I left the door open a crack and listened. Marven didn't go into Betty's apartment. I couldn't hear his questions, but her answers came fluting down the hall quite clearly. Mostly she kept saying “No!", loud and clear. Once I overheard her say “hardly know him". That was a lie, and maybe those “No's” were also lies. I'd drop in on Betty Friske soon.
As soon as the detective got into the elevator, I went rapping on Mrs. Friske's door. She's a divorcee, somewhere in her late thirties, and still attractive in a full-blown way. She should be; as far as I can tell, she spends all her time going to beauty parlors and shopping. The only people who call at her door are delivery men. She lives expensively and drives a Porsche.
She already looked annoyed when she came to the door swathed in a Japanese geisha girl's kimono with her red curls tousled picturesquely. I realized I should have taken time to rehearse my approach to her. Caught unprepared; I blurted out, “I've got to see Victor."
She stuck a cigarette in her mouth and inhaled before answering. Through the cloud of smoke, her sharp gray eyes gimleted into me. “Welcome to the club, Miss Mazzini,” she said grimly.
“My name's Newton. Cassie Newton."
She cocked a penciled brow at me. “Niece, I thought he said."
“On my mother's side. Mom's his sister."
“Sure,” she said, chewing back a smile at my cute guide's uniform. “I have no idea where he is. I already told the police."
I looked over her shoulder, wondering how I could talk my way into her apartment to look for clues. She started closing the door. I could see a slice of a lovely living room in there all done up in flowing Art Deco, with furniture that belonged in a Fred Astaire movie or a bar. She must be getting some fantastic alimony. There was a hard-edged finish to Betty that said she wasn't born to this lavish life.
“If he turns up, let me know,” she said. “We have unfinished business, Victor and me. And he better turn up, or he'll be sorry. So far I haven't told the police anything. So far," she repeated, with a very meaningful lift of her brows. She had a weird purplish-pink eye shadow on. Her eyes looked bruised.
“Thank you,” I said, as the door closed firmly in front of me. I was sorry I'd bothered going—I didn't need that implicit threat to make my day. What criminal business could my uncle be engaged in with that tart? But at any rate, I was convinced Victor wasn't hiding out there. Or if he was, Betty Friske was a consummate actress.
Before Sean came, I changed out of my uniform. It wasn't particularly flattering, and if we went out, I didn't want to wear it on the streets. I put on a cotton dress, navy with big white polka dots. The fresh coffee was filtered by the time Sean came.
He was back in his tourist clothes; the jeans, boots, a checked shirt, jeans jacket tossed over his shoulder like a lasso, and the Western hat in his hand. All set to go herding cattle along Bloor Street.
“Where'd you tether Trigger?” I asked.
“My wheels are downstairs."
I felt mean, jibing at a man too innocent to even recognize sarcasm, let alone retaliate. “The police just left,” I told him.
“Good, I'm glad you called them. What did they have to say?” he asked eagerly.
I filled him in while we sat by the phone, having our coffee. During the next half hour, nobody called except Eleanor, and she had nothing to say except that the party went fine, just fine, and I mustn't worry about anything. I told her the police had been here, and she thought it infradig of me to have spoken to them, I believe. “That was encroaching of them,” she exclaimed.
“Ronald is so worried about you,” she said a little later, to my surprised gratification. I rang off as soon as politely possible and relayed the conversation to Sean, especially the part about Ron being worried.
He soon got tired of sitting and asked what we were going to do about finding my uncle. “.He must have friends, some place he'd go to if he just went off for the hell of it. That's what you still think, isn't it?” he demanded, piercing me with a sharp eye.
“It's a possibility."
“I read the papers this morning. “No foul play indicated,’ they said. What I haven't figured out is how you knew it last night in his bedroom. What did I miss? I didn't see any bottles, didn't smell booze. You went in there looking like a candidate for the Spanish Inquisition, and came out looking as if you'd beaten the rap."
Despite the anachronism, he was too sharp to bluff, so I broke down and told him about the cigars being gone.
“Are you sure they were there when you left for the concert?"
“Pretty sure. And I'm positive his humidor wasn't open. I noticed it, looking like a little coffin."
He measured me, trying to decide whether to take offence. “Why didn't you tell me about that last night? In fact, you were pretty reluctant to tell me anything."
“I didn't want to spread it around that he's hiding—it looks bad. People might get the idea he was drunk, and I don't believe that."
“I see. And naturally I, a tourist in town, would've grabbed the closest phone and announced it to the papers. What do you take me for?"
“A stranger. Who knows what a stranger might do? Anyway, I did tell you."
“Eventually. I don't know what your average run-of-the-mill stranger might do, but this one is getting damned bored doing nothing. Have you come up with any ideas as to where he might be?"
I thought about it for a minute. “He has a cottage up north. Not too far—about forty miles. There's no phone, or I'd give him a call. Or we could drive up...
He was already on his feet, reaching for his hat. “We could be there in an hour. You won't miss much here. If he comes back, he'll be here waiting for you."
“All right. Let's go.” You can only look at a mute phone so long without picking it up and throwing it out a window. It was a lovely day, and it was a nice drive up to Victor's cottage in the Caledon Hills. Maybe he was there; he didn't seem to be anywhere else.
Mrs. Friske's door opened a crack when we went into the ball. I wondered if she always monitored the traffic so closely, or was on the alert today for my uncle's return. Whatever was going on between her and Victor, I hoped she'd keep it from the police for a little longer.
“Friend of yours?” Sean asked, after she'd closed the door. He didn't miss much.
“Not particularly. Why, were you hoping for an introduction?"
“I didn't get that good a look at her. If she always haunts the hail like she is now, she might be able to tell us something."
“I already asked. No luck.” I didn't add her worrying message to Victor. There are some skeletons best kept in the closet, and I was worried about just what kind of bones I was dealing with here. Did women still prosecute for breach of promise? I couldn't imagine what else but romance Betty and Victor shared. Whatever her intentions might have been, I doubted very much he'd used the word “marriage". He was too experienced for that. And so was she.
CHAPTER 5
Sean was still driving the same rented car, a silver Monte Carlo. I gave him directions, and we were soon past the built-up commercial area and suburbs, heading north.
A beatific smile took strong possession of Sean's face. “God's country,” he crooned. “Jeez, would I love to live somewhere like this. No pollution, no traffic."
“No restaurants, no stores, no people to talk to. Just a man and his hoss."
“And his woman,” he added, flashing a smile.
I could see what he meant though. The sky was as blue and smiling as Irish eyes. A frolicsome wind blew a few cotton clouds along, high overhead. The world out here looked brand new. The leaves were still shiny, a pale shade of green. Solemn pines stood guard over the countryside. Lazy holsteins grazing in meadows lent the wholesomely contrived look of calendar art. It wasn't the right place to worry about kidnapping. It was a place for a picnic or falling in love. Or in Sean's case, a place to fish.
“There must be some lively fishing here."
“That's a contradiction in ter
ms. Besides, don't you need water to fish?” Water was missing from the landscape.
“Yeah.” A minute later he said, “What's Victor like?"
“He's Italian, with all the stereotypical qualities. Passionate, volatile, fun-loving, artistic, talented. He's also selfish, egocentric, vain—well, he's a man after all,” I added blandly. I could feel Sean's head turn toward me, and I looked out the window, unconcerned.
“He doesn't worry much about tomorrow, as long as he's enjoying himself today,” I continued. “Of course I didn't know him very well before this summer. He used to visit us about once a year. It was a grand occasion. Mom cooked for two days before he came, and we all talked about it for a week after, then forgot him till the next visit. He used to bring us all presents,” I said, remembering those visits with pleasure.
“Who's us all?"
“Mom and Dad, Ricky and me. Rick's my brother."
“Older or younger?"
“Younger. He's seventeen."
“That's what I thought. I had you pegged for an only child, till you mentioned that ‘all’ a couple of times."
“I can see you're dying to explain your brilliance. Okay, what made you think I was an only child?"
“You're cocksure, aggressive. Me, I'm the middle kid,” he said, pleading for sympathy from the corner of his eye.
I gave an ironic laugh.. “And only son. You like to take charge, too."
“I thought I was being downright agreeable! Didn't fool you, huh? Well you're right about the sisters. I know all about women, except what they do for fourteen hours at a time in the bathroom. Come out looking worse than when they went in. Hair all frizzed, too much makeup, smelling like French— uh—waitresses. I notice you don't use much makeup."
I suppose in Nebraska that might have been called a compliment. “You won't smell my particular bouquet on many waitresses. It's real French perfume. Victor gave it to me. An ounce would cost me a week's salary. Of course he only gave me a tenth of an ounce.
“You haven't let me get close enough to smell it,” he ventured. There was a lupine quality in his eyes again.
“That Old Spice you showered in would cover the smell. Good perfume is subtle."
“Yeah,” he grunted. A minute later he grunted again. “Real pretty country. What's a Yankee like you doing up here?"
I told him about my studies, and my plan to be a diplomat. It's a subject on which I easily get carried away. Somehow he arrived at the truth: what I really wanted was a sinecure that allowed me to loll in the lap of luxury, while performing ostensible duties of a highly cerebral but physically undemanding sort.
“What you want's a rich husband,” he concluded.
“Don't be silly. I could have that, if that's all I wanted!” I objected, and elevated Ronald to red-hot pursuer. Damned hardware salesman. What did he know about anything? “Ronald Strathroy—he's the son of Eleanor, the lady that's always calling,” I said. “I pointed her out last night at the hall."
“How come Ronald doesn't phone himself?"
“He comes in person,” I retaliated. “He came this morning, just before you called. In fact, it was Ronald who mentioned that Victor was probably at his cottage."
“Doesn't Ronald care for music? How come he didn't go with you to the concert last night?"
“He was in Montreal on business. The Strathroys own a brokerage house. They're taking over a Montreal trust company, but it's very hush-hush."
“I won't phone that one in to the newspapers either then.” We drove on a while in silence; not a comfortable silence, but an edgy one. After about a mile, Sean got over his pique and spoke. Having failed to spot water, he said, “Must be good hunting in those woods."
“I wouldn't know. I don't believe in killing innocent, helpless animals to eat,” I answered grandly.
“Vegetarian, are you?"
Being caught in a tight corner, I hastily reviewed our past acquaintance and remembered I hadn't eaten any meat in his presence. “Of course."
“Do you know where the musk for that expensive perfume you're dowsed in comes from?” he asked.
“I don't want to know! I wear leather shoes, and I know where leather comes from. That doesn't mean I approve of senseless killing of helpless animals. Furthermore, one doesn't dowse herself in French perfume. It's dabbed on. Let's talk about something less gross."
“Tell me something,” Sean said, without removing his eyes from the road. “Are we having a fight?”
“No, Sean,” I told him sweetly. “When we're having a fight, you won't have to ask."
He gave a begrudging chuckle that started in the pit of his stomach and rumbled up his chest, out his lips. “Do you fight with Ronald?” he asked.
“Certainly not. Ronald is a gentleman. He always does what I want.” Talk about a whopper! Ronald was the epitome of selfishness.
“Sounds like a wimp to me. You won't forget to tell me when I have to make a turn, will you? That's a question, not a command."
We were soon climbing a county road that curved between high rock cliffs, with modern homes perched precariously here and there. Victor's was one of them, reached by a road that wheeled around the rear of the rocks. Some of the occupants lived here year round, which necessitated a good road.
Victor hadn't had the cottage built himself, but picked it up at a bargain price at an estate sale. Victor wouldn't have chosen a modern slab of cedar with walls of glass, but I noticed that despite his alleged love of old things, Sean was enamored of the place. Mostly he loved the site and the view, I thought. He took a long, appreciative look around, inhaled the fresh spring aroma of new grass and pines before we went to the door. We had already observed, of course, that there was no car parked outside and no lights on within.
“This was dumb. Really dumb,” I said. “Victor couldn't be here, or his car would be gone from the parking garage."
“He'd have hired a car,” Sean countered. “But if he did, I don't see any sign of it. Let's go in.
“More dumbness. We didn't bring the keys!"
“You forgot the key?” he asked, delighted at my lapse.
“I hope you enjoyed the drive. That's all we're going to get out of this venture."
“Hold your horses. I'll be right back.” He went to the car, and came back carrying a small piece of hardware from the glove compartment.
While he pried the rear door open, very easily, and with no appreciable damage, I wondered if all hired cars came supplied with this criminal piece of hardware. “Lucky that was in the glove compartment,” I said, making no effort to hide my suspicion.
“Lucky? I put it there. I thought you might forget the key. I'm a hardware man, remember? Your uncle should install dead bolts,” he said, while he finished his breaking and entering job.
There was nothing remarkable to note in the kitchen. The cedar cabinet doors were ajar—that's all. Sean went to the cupboard and pointed out that the doors had magnets to hold them shut. “Funny they were all hanging open,” he said.
He lifted, up a few cans. “Victor doesn't share your vegetarian taste. Tinned ham, salmon, chicken soup."
I ignored his taunt. “Nobody's been here. There's no sign of eating or dirty dishes."
We went into the living room that stretched along the front of the cottage, with a glass front giving a breathtaking view of treetops and patchwork-quilt farms in the valley below. No damage had been done here, nothing was taken, but things were awry. Not quite helter-skelter, but the furniture was out of place. A pine chest against one wall had been opened and not closed. Victor and I had been here on the May 24th weekend, a long weekend in Canada, to celebrate the Queen's birthday. We hadn't been back since, and we hadn't left it like this.
“Let's have a gander at the bedrooms,” Sean suggested.
The three bedrooms were all in a row at the rear of the cottage. They were slightly disarranged too. The closet doors hung open, the bedspreads had been pulled up onto the beds, as though someone had lifted them to lo
ok beneath and not bothered to return them. Some boxes had been taken down from the high closet shelves and placed on the floor.
“No damage, just a quick search,” he said. His voice was flat, not surprised.
I looked around at the boxes and dressers. “Someone was here all right, but I don't see anything missing."
We wandered back to the living room. The expensive hi-fi equipment, the TV, the binoculars—all the things a thief would have taken were still in place.
“What do you make of it?” I asked him, as I didn't know what to make of it myself. “The locks weren't tampered with. It must have been Victor himself. Oh I know you got in without any trouble, but not everybody's a hardware expert."
“Face it, Cassie, whoever was here and in the apartment too was looking for something—something he thought was hidden. If it had been your uncle, he'd have known where he put the thing, wouldn't he?"
“Yes, I guess he would.” I walked all around the room, looking for clues. In movies, the crook is kind enough to leave behind a match flap, a handkerchief with an initial, a cuff link or a cigarette butt. The shiny ashtrays were unmarred by a single ash. There was none of that repulsive lingering odor of stale cigar smoke either, which was pretty good confirmation that Victor hadn't been here. Or Betty Friske, for that matter. She chain smoked cigarettes. It would have taken several minutes to search the place. I'd never seen her without a cigarette, even on the elevator.
“Could you break into my apartment with that little gizmo you used to get in here?” I asked. This unsettling thought sent a little shiver up my spine.
“No, not with that dead bolt. Whoever got in there had the key for sure."
“Well, only Victor had the key, as far as I know."
“Yeah, had. Maybe the breaker-in got it from him,” he suggested, turning my shiver into a full-fledged shudder.
