Cat With a Fiddle (9781101578902)

by Adamson, Lydia

  “Look, Alice, I’m going to be in your neighborhood this afternoon. You know that Italian place on Twenty-ninth and Third? Why don’t we meet there—about three. I thought I could buy you a cappuccino.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “You like cappuccino, don’t you? And cheesecake?”

  It was hard to know what to say. I liked them very much.

  ***

  “I thought perhaps I ought to mend some fences,” Leo said by way of greeting. He was waiting for me at one of the small round tables, tense and hyperactive as ever. Leo Trilby was barely out of his twenties, actually, but he had an affected British air that made him seem much older. No doubt he’d picked up his mannerisms during his studies at Oxford. He was rather brilliant, though, his mind constantly racing with theories and leaping ahead so fast that his directorial instructions were incomprehensible.

  He began to talk as soon as I sat down. “It wasn’t your fault, you know, and it wasn’t my fault, either. One simply shouldn’t try to modernize Henry James. But that was the playwright’s mistake, wasn’t it? I mean, God! He, James, that is, was modern enough for his age. But you can’t turn his insights into wisdom for the nineties, can you? Are you with me on that, Alice?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Leo.”

  He leaned in toward me. He was a short, powerfully built man and he was wearing a turtleneck, which only enhanced the physical resemblance to the young Norman Mailer. His face was blunt. He had thick black hair, badly shorn, and thick eyebrows, and his constantly roving eyes were deep in their sockets.

  “It is so terribly hard for people like us in this business, isn’t it?” he said.

  “It surely is, Leo,” I said, savoring the not-too-sweet cheesecake that was the specialty of the café.

  “I mean, one would be hard pressed to name a better actress in your age category, Alice. And where has it gotten you? Are you Streep? Are you Close? Are you even Cher? No. And you never will be, my dear. As for me, I’m good—damn good. We both know that. But I can never connect with the money. The money, the money, the money! The money people will always look upon me as an enfant terrible, when really I’m not that at all. I simply have my principles.”

  Leo sat back and exhaled hugely. He lit a cigarette and then stubbed it out immediately.

  “If I gave you a hard time, Alice, forgive me. I want to be your friend. I want to be your colleague. And mark my words, the wheel will turn again. We will be together again someday—I know it. The wheel simply has to turn in our direction sometime. In our business, Alice, something always happens.”

  I had little idea what he was talking about. But I nodded in complete agreement, picking up crumbs of pie crust with my fork.

  “Yes, the wheel always turns,” he repeated. And then, as if to buttress his position, he picked up his folded New York Times and waved it under my nose. “Did you see this stunning piece of news? They’re about to spend six million dollars on that lame-brained musical from England.” Leo thrust the newspaper at me. It was turned to the entertainment section.

  I read only a few sentences of the article about the impending arrival of a splashy new musical based on a Jane Austen novel. I stopped reading it because I caught sight of the boldface heading over another, much shorter article: RIVERSIDE STRING QUARTET WILL DISBAND, the title read.

  The story was simple. The Riverside String Quartet, the first and most celebrated all-woman chamber music group, had announced that after nearly twenty years it was disbanding as a result of personal difficulties and professional differences among its members. The article went on to detail the history of the group, its most successful tours and recordings, and the critical acclaim the women had enjoyed over the years.

  The last paragraph of the article announced that Mathew Hazan, the longtime business manager/agent of the quartet, would soon take up a high administrative position at the prestigious John F. Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C.

  I continued to stare down at the type on the page, dazed. Leo’s mouth continued to move. I didn’t hear a word.

  How could this have happened? I knew that the group was up at Covington on a retreat because their European performances had been so poorly received. I knew that the death of Will Gryder had hurt them both as a group and individually. But to dismantle the quartet after all these years? It didn’t make sense . . . unless . . . unless my failed trap had put the fear of God into at least two of the members. Unless they were terribly frightened by what Miranda Bly must have told them after I’d left.

  But this had to be Hazan’s doing. He was the beast in that jungle. And not only had he escaped scot-free, he was also dissolving the quartet and was about to start a wildly lucrative and coveted job. The man should be in a sewer somewhere.

  Leo kept talking. I could hear him again. He was telling me he had to leave now, but he’d be seeing me again soon, working with me—the very thought of it nourished and excited him, he said.

  And then he was gone, and I was alone at the table. He had carried the Times away with him. My rage was growing, suffocating me. It was like being zippered into a tight dress. I would not allow Mat Hazan to get away with this! I could not sit by and watch him move on, like a slick record-company entrepreneur, from one label to another. Not when he was leaving a trail of murder and deceit behind him.

  I decided to clear this case, at whatever cost.

  The waiter was a nice young man they called Lucky. He set another cappuccino down in front of me. There would be no charge for it, I knew. But I was too angry to drink it.

  Chapter 20

  “What time is it, Bushy?”

  The cat didn’t answer me, so I pulled his tail gently. He hates that.

  “Ha ha,” I said, and kissed him on the nose. I stood up to go after another cup of coffee.

  “Why the hell are you asking your cat for the time?” Tony yelled into the kitchen. “Does he own a watch? Huh? It’s ten P.M. Do you know where your other cat is?”

  I took my usual seat on the rug, next to Bushy. Arrayed at my feet were the items I’d brought back from Covington: the disk, the photos, the pedigree papers, Will’s notes for his roman à clef. In my mind the items had by now taken on a kind of totemic quality.

  “Here’s how I figure your meeting with Leo,” Tony said knowingly. “He’s heard that you’re being considered for something big-time. And he wants in. It’s not another off-off-and-under-Broadway thing. I mean a big-ticket deal.”

  I merely nodded. I had no idea whether Tony’s speculations were worth anything. But whatever Leo Trilby was up to, it didn’t interest me in the least.

  Tony came over and stared down at the objects on the floor. “Isn’t that against the law, by the way? You stole evidence in a murder case.”

  “Wrong!” I snapped. “For one, I found the evidence, I didn’t steal it. And two, Donaldson doesn’t believe it has any meaning. He doesn’t even consider it evidence. So at least as long as I have it, they’re still frightened.”

  “Oh, yeah. They’re shaking in their booties.”

  “Don’t be so quick to scoff. I promise you, Mathew Hazan will soon be shaking in his. I’m going to get him!”

  “Why don’t you give it a rest, girl? What’s it to you if the Riverside Quartet breaks up? Where’s all this self-righteous ire coming from?”

  “I’m not being self-righteous, Basillio. I just happen to take the concept of justice very seriously.”

  “Whoa! Aren’t we getting a little messianic here?”

  “Basillio, you didn’t see that chisel in Will’s chest. And all that awful blood. I did.”

  “I know that. But first it’s the breakup of the group that makes you mad. Then it’s the hateful manager. Now it’s the horrible memory of finding the body—and the idea that justice has been cheated. Your motivations are all over the map, M
iss Nestleton. You’re way out of focus!”

  “Am I? Well, watch me get back into character!” I snarled as I headed for the telephone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Calling Beth Stimson,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve got to make her listen to me. I’ve got to explain why I did what I did. And ask her help in continuing the investigation. To persuade her that Mathew Hazan and his henchman Miranda are murderers.”

  I half expected the answering machine to click on. But it was Beth herself who answered.

  “Beth, this is Alice Nestle—”

  The receiver was slammed down ferociously.

  “Bad connection?” Tony asked disingenuously.

  “She hung up on me.” I dialed the number again. As soon as she picked up I began speaking desperately. “Please, Beth, let me—” But the phone clicked off again. It was no use.

  “One thing I’ve always said about you, Swede. You’ve got the knack for making friends wherever you go.”

  “If all you can do is make wisecracks, Tony, why don’t you just leave?”

  He threw up his arms. “I’ve got a better idea,” he said in resignation. “Why don’t I make some pasta?”

  I wasn’t paying much attention to him. My mind was on other things.

  “How would that be, Swede? Hungry?”

  “Whatever,” I mumbled. He disappeared into the kitchen, Bushy trailing along behind him.

  It was obvious Beth Stimson wasn’t going to listen to me. What next? How to restart a stone-cold investigation? I thought of a move: call John Cerise again. He had given me solid information on the Scottish Fold thefts back in the 1970s. Maybe there was more where that came from. Maybe John knew more, or knew others who did.

  I called him and, in a refreshing change of pace, he seemed delighted to hear my voice.

  “Did what I gave you help any?” he asked.

  “A great deal, John—but I need more.”

  He laughed softly. “Alice, sometimes I think you’re part cat. You always want more.”

  “I know I’m being awfully pushy. And I’ll make it up to you soon. But I need to contact the people whose litters were stolen. Or anyone who was involved on some basic level: vets, buyers, breeders. Anyone. I need names and addresses and phone numbers, John.”

  There was a lengthy pause, and I heard him take a deep breath. I wondered if there was someone there with him in the house.

  “John, dear, am I calling at a bad time? I guess this could wait till morning.”

  “No, no. It isn’t that. I was just taken aback. You know, that information I got for you . . . Well, you have to remember, those things happened twenty years ago, Alice. I have no idea where all those people are today, if indeed they’re all still alive. But I guess I could give it a try, if you can give me a few days to work on it. Okay? I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  “Thank you, John, thank you very much.” We made a little small talk and then said good-bye.

  I began to pace. I had little confidence in John’s ability to come up with those names and numbers, in view of what he’d said. And I had no time! While I was up in New England I’d had no sense of “Time’s wingèd chariot,” but from the moment I saw that article in the Times about the dissolution of the Riverside and Hazan’s new assignment, all I’d been able to think of was time passing. This had to be done quickly—now—or not at all.

  All I really had were the cat thefts in the seventies. I had to concentrate on those. There had to be some kind of trail that could be followed. There had to be some source of information other than John Cerise.

  I kept pacing. First Bushy came in to watch me. And then Tony.

  “You ought to put on a pair of sneakers if you’re going to keep this up.” Tony was holding a couple of unpeeled garlic cloves.

  “I haven’t even started pacing yet, Tony. When I really get going I take in the hallway and the bedroom too.”

  “Well, it’s always good to expand your horizons.”

  It was a mildly funny line, but I didn’t laugh. I didn’t laugh because his comment opened up a possibility for me. What if Miranda and Roz had expanded their horizons? What if their kitten-napping ring was in fact a large-scale organization that operated even outside the local area?

  And maybe their thefts had stopped not because they’d reached a financial goal but because they’d been caught—or at least suspected by the authorities. In fact, if they stole one type of property, why not other types? Perhaps one or both of them had even been arrested in the past.

  If any of that was true, there would be a record somewhere.

  “Who are you calling now?”

  “Remember Detective Rothwax? My old colleague from the police?”

  “I remember him well,” Tony said balefully, and headed back into the kitchen.

  Rothwax didn’t sound overjoyed to hear my voice. But luckily, I knew his bark was a great deal worse than his bite.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “It’s Cat Woman. You keeping yourself out of trouble?”

  When he’d first called me by that name, while I was a short-lived consultant for the NYPD special unit called RETRO, it had infuriated me. He seemed to have a talent for infuriating me back then. But we had eventually become good friends and he had helped me out often.

  “Detective Rothwax, I need that darling little computer of yours again.”

  “So what else is new?” he said. “I didn’t think you were calling to find out how my goldfish are doing.”

  “Seriously, can you help?”

  “Who do you want checked out this time?”

  “Four women.”

  “What kinds of dirt are we looking for?”

  “Arrest records. Any kind of contact with the law. Any kind of anything, I guess.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Musicians.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Yes, I do. Classical musicians who belong to a rather famous chamber music group.”

  “Nobody like you, Cat Lady. Nobody.”

  I spelled all their names for him and gave him the few trivial bits of hard information I had on each. Naturally, it didn’t go much farther than knowing that Beth Stimson was from Denver, or that Roz was married to a well-to-do businessman.

  “Do you think you can have something for me tomorrow?” I asked. “I could meet you at RETRO.” I hoped that my voice echoed my sense of urgency.

  “Sure. Why not? If they put the cuffs on me for unauthorized use of the computer, you can accompany me down to central booking.”

  “I appreciate it, Detective.”

  “Anytime, Cat Woman, anytime.”

  I had done all I could for the moment. Now I had to wait till tomorrow.

  It turned out to be a long night. I couldn’t sleep. Tony prescribed the time-tested remedy for that—making love. I said I’d pass, I just, didn’t want to. But neither did I want him to leave. So he ended up sleeping in my bed. I ended up on the sofa. And the put-upon cats roamed all night from one room to the other.

  ***

  I thought morning would never come. But of course it did, and Basillio and I went out for breakfast. I ordered poached eggs on buttered whole wheat toast and he had pancakes and bacon, starting a minor fight with me because I wouldn’t sacrifice one of my eggs to be dumped onto his flapjacks. We returned to the apartment and glared at each other for about thirty minutes. I chalked it up to sexual tension.

  At eleven I left the apartment and started the long, cold walk down to Centre Street. I arrived ten minutes late—a last-minute phone call had delayed me—and Rothwax was standing behind the frankfurter wagon where we always meet, when we do meet. He was griping bitterly between bites.


  “The least you can do is be on time, C.W.”

  “I’m really sorry, Rothwax. I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night and I guess I’m . . . It just isn’t going very well with this man I . . . The lights were against me.”

  He sighed forgiveness wearily.

  “What do you have for me?” I asked.

  “Nothing very interesting. Three of them weren’t in the system under anything but driver’s license and state taxes.”

  “But one was,” I crowed triumphantly, “and her name is Miranda Bly!”

  “Nope. You’re dead wrong on that one, Cat Woman. The only one with a police connection is Elizabeth Stimson.”

  “Beth?”

  “Right. Arrested for prostitution, Southampton, Long Island, 1974.”

  “You must be joking!”

  “Computer don’t joke, C.W. The charges were dropped. She paid a twenty-five-dollar fine for misdemeanor loitering. The end.” Rothwax laughed at me then. “Better close your mouth, Alice. You’re going to start catching flies.”

  When I’d recovered from the news about Beth, I offered to pay for his hot dog.

  “No,” he said. “You owe me, all right. But not now.” And then he trotted off.

  But I didn’t move a hair. I stood rooted to that spot, feeling too stupid to come in out of the rain that had begun to sweep in off the river.

  Chapter 21

  Like the proverbial fly in amber, we were stuck in molasses-thick traffic on the endless stretch of highway. We were driving in a car Tony had borrowed from his friend Greg Roman, and the strong winter sun was right in our eyes.

  Basillio jerked violently at the knot in his tie. “This is why all fathers give their sons two pieces of indisputable advice,” said Tony. “One: never eat the chili in a diner. Two: never get on the Long Island Expressway.”

  Only half listening to Tony’s complaints, I was staring down at that twenty-year-old photograph of Beth Stimson, part of the mysterious group of items I’d discovered in Will Gryder’s room up at Covington.