Kelley led him to the house and into another gigantic room. This one had a fireplace big enough to roast a pig, a scattering of rustic but obviously expensive furniture, a glossy grand piano, and a wall that was all windows, looking out over a body of water in the distance. "Is that the ocean?" he asked.
"Sort of. It's the mouth of the Avon River, which runs into the Minas Basin, which is part of the Bay of Fundy—"
"Which has the highest tides in the world," Ryan finished. If he was going to sound like Allen, he had to say something a little bookwormish once in a while.
"Right."
Mr. Kurz was lounging in one of the chairs with a newspaper in his hands and an unlit pipe clenched in his teeth. "Well, well, if that isn't a dandy sight, the two of you together. Your mother said you were getting acquainted, so I didn't butt in."
Kelley bent to give her father a kiss on the cheek. "Yes, we have been. And you are not supposed to have that." She plucked the pipe from his mouth.
"Ahh, I wasn't smoking it. I was just—"
"Pretending?"
"Right. Pretending."
Ryan glanced around the room. There was no sign of the burly investigator. "Where did Mr. Burton get to?"
"Oh, we finished up our bit of business in short order, and Sandy drove him back to the airport."
"Drove him—? You mean he's … he's gone?"
"Uh-huh. He left just a few minutes ago. Is that a problem?"
Ryan smiled weakly. "Oh, no. No problem. I just didn't have a chance to … to tell him thanks."
Chapter 10
Dinner was pure misery. Ryan was trapped in the classic actor's nightmare—the one where you're thrust onstage without the slightest notion of what your lines are, who your character is supposed to be, or even what play you're in. Except that it wasn't a dream; it was real. His only consolation was that, unlike in the nightmare, he did have all his clothes on.
It wasn't as if Burton had been a whole lot of help; in fact, he'd been mostly useless. But at least having him around would have been better than being stuck here alone, with no clue about what was expected of him. All Ryan wanted to do was hole up somewhere for a while and think things through. Instead, he had to sit there making polite conversation, forcing salmon with Hollandaise sauce into his queasy stomach and trying to look as if he enjoyed it.
"Now, Allen," Ollie chided him. "You'll have to do better than that or the cook will be offended, and you have no idea how difficult it is to find a decent cook." Her tone seemed playful on the surface but, underneath, Ryan sensed a real peevishness.
"It's extremely delicious, Mrs. Kurz—"
"Ollie," she said. "Everyone calls me Ollie." She didn't sound all that happy about the fact.
Well, you could hardly blame her. It was a pretty strange nickname. It was all Ryan could do to keep from saying, in his Stan Laurel voice, "But, Ollie …" Instead, he used his nerdy Allen voice. "It's extremely delicious, Ollie. I'm afraid I'm just not very hungry. We had a meal on the airplane."
"I'd be happy to eat his share." Mr. Kurz reached for the last piece of salmon. "I certainly wouldn't want to hurt the cook's feelings."
Ollie gave his hand a smack that, like her chiding, seemed playful but had serious undertones. "Allen is a growing boy; you're not." She slid the fish onto Ryan's plate. "There. You look as if your mother hasn't been feeding you properly."
That was certainly true. When was the last time his mom had fed him anything this good? But, of course, Ollie wasn't talking about his mother, she meant Allen's mother. Ryan's mind raced momentarily. Why would she mention Allen's mother? Burton had told him the woman was dead. But maybe these people didn't know that. Or … or maybe they knew something he didn't; maybe she was really alive. It wouldn't be the first thing Burton had lied to him about.
He didn't know what to think, or what to say. He found himself recalling a line from The King and I: "When one does not know what to say, it is the time to be silent." Good advice. He crammed a forkful of rice pilaf in his mouth.
"I still can't believe your mom let you come," Kelley put in. "I mean, I'm glad she did, but what changed her mind after all this time?"
Ryan shrugged apologetically and pointed to his full mouth, stalling for time.
"Maybe," said Mr. Kurz, "she just thought it had been long enough."
"Yeah," Ryan agreed. "I guess she just … changed her mind. You know what they say about it being a woman's prerogative."
"I don't suppose," said Ollie sweetly, "that it could have anything to do with the money."
"The money?" Ryan almost choked on his rice. He was thinking about Burton's forty thousand dollar fee, and his uncollected share of it.
Mr. Kurz poured a second glass of wine before his wife could stop him. "Ollie thinks that your mother is planning to steal all my money, and that letting you come here is part of the plan."
"Now, I never said that," Ollie protested.
"The fact is," Mr. Kurz went on, "I tried half a dozen times to get in touch with your mother, to see if she needed any money. The trouble was, by the time I managed to find out where you were, you were always someplace else."
Ryan felt like he had to contribute something to the dialogue. "Yeah, we moved around a lot. I thought about writing you, or calling you, but she never gave me any kind of hint about where to find you."
Mr. Kurz stared into his wine glass. "I see. I never knew she hated me that much."
"Um, well, I wouldn't exactly say she hated you. She just …" She just what? Why would she avoid her ex-husband for twelve or thirteen years?
"I know," said Mr. Kurz. "She just couldn't forgive me."
"Yeah," said Ryan. "I guess that's it." His real mom had said that same thing about his real dad many times—that she'd never forgive him for ruining her life.
A melancholy mood had settled over the table. "Well," Ollie said brightly, "let's talk about something else, shall we? Do you ride, Allen?"
"Only the bus."
Mr. Kurz, who had been lost in thought, abruptly let out a hearty laugh. Ollie laughed, too, but she didn't put much into it. "I meant, as in horses."
"I'm afraid we don't have a lot of horses in—" he'd been about to say Toronto "—in Montreal."
"Oh, I'm sure they must have riding stables somewhere."
"I'm sure they do. But I'm afraid I'm not exactly the athletic type."
"You do play tennis, though." It sounded less like a question than like a well-known fact. But how could she possibly know that, when they hadn't seen him in twelve years? Was Allen some kind of child prodigy who was playing when he was four?
"Well, yeah," he said. "But in tennis, you don't ordinarily break any major bones."
Mr. Kurz let out another laugh; so did Kelley. Ollie gave a fair imitation of one. "I can see you've developed quite the sense of humor." She laid a long-nailed hand on her husband's arm. "He must get it from you, Ken. It's nice to know you've given him something, anyway."
Mr. Kurz smiled across the table at Ryan. "Well, now that I've found him again, I intend to give him a lot more."
Ollie's gaze was fixed on Ryan, too, and, though her face was smiling, her eyes were not.
After a dessert of crepes filled with peaches and whipped cream, which Ryan tried valiantly to get down, they moved into the family room. Mr. Kurz crouched by the fireplace and began building a little pyramid of kindling wood. "I know, it's not the least bit cold; I just like a fire."
"If I'd known you wanted one," Ollie said, "I'd have had Sandy see to it."
"I think I can manage it." For the first time, Ryan noticed a slight edge in Mr. Kurz's voice. "Just because we're rich doesn't mean we can't still get our hands a little dirty."
"Of course not." Ollie kept her smile carefully in place. "I only meant … well, never mind." She turned to Kelley. "I know what would be nice; why don't you play something for us?"
Kelley already looked a bit uncomfortable in her lace-trimmed dinner dress; this seemed to make her even
more awkward. "Mother …"
"Go on, dear. I'm sure Allen appreciates good music, don't you, Allen?"
By good music, Ryan supposed she meant classical. Personally, he'd never been all that keen on it, but he had a suspicion that it would be just Allen's cup of tea. "Ah … sure." He glanced at Kelley. "But if you'd rather not, that's okay."
Kelley gave him a grateful, guarded smile. Ollie patted her on one lacy shoulder. "Now, don't be shy, Kelley. Shy people never amount to anything in this world. You play very well. Go on."
Behind her mother's back, Kelley rolled her eyes long-sufferingly at Ryan. He knew exactly how she felt. His mother had been pushing him to perform since he was old enough to talk—and he had been an early talker. He enjoyed performing, of course; he always had. But he would have enjoyed it more if she didn't push so hard.
It was obvious that Kelley didn't enjoy her performance very much. Neither did Ryan. Though he was no musician, he had taken piano lessons for several years, and he knew clunky playing when he heard it. It seemed to him that she was just trying too hard. Her playing sounded forced, mechanical, and she kept wanting to rush it, the way beginning actors rushed their lines, not trusting themselves to hold the audience's interest.
Ordinarily, Ryan didn't have a whole lot of patience with incompetent performers. But Kelley wasn't trying to make a living at it. She was just trying to please her mom. When she wrapped up the piece, Ryan applauded loudly. She flashed him an embarrassed smile.
"Very nice," Ollie said. "Now, why don't you play that piece of Schubert's you do so well."
Kelley had been halfway off the piano bench. Her smile faded and she sagged back down. "You mean the Moment Musical?"
"Yes, I absolutely adore that one."
Ryan didn't. Neither, apparently, did Mr. Kurz. He paid more attention to his newspaper than to the music. In the middle of the piece, he leaned over to Ryan and whispered, "Want to take me on at chess after this, champ?" He jerked his head toward a coffee table that held a chessboard of inlaid wood, with figures carved of ebony and ivory.
Ryan winced. "Ah … I don't know. I mean, I'm really tired. I wouldn't stand a chance."
"Good!" Mr. Kurz rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "That's the kind of game I like!"
Chapter 11
Before Ryan could think of a credible excuse not to play chess, Kelley finished her strained rendition of Schubert and he had to applaud enthusiastically again.
"That sounded real good, honey," said Mr. Kurz. "We got her the best teacher money can buy. When she's home from school, he comes all the way from Halifax to give her lessons; he says our piano is a lot better than his." He cracked his knuckles loudly, and Ollie flinched at the sound. "And now," he announced, "we're going to give Allen a chance to show his stuff. I've challenged him to a knock-down-drag-out battle at the chessboard." He nudged Ryan with an elbow. "I've got to warn you, champ, I've been practicing. I got myself one of those chess tutor programs."
Ryan smiled wanly. "Great. But I really am beat. Couldn't we put it off for a while?"
"Oh. Well. I guess …"
Just as Mr. Kurz seemed about to relent, Ollie put in her two cents. "Oh, Allen, it's not even eight o'clock. You can't desert us so early—not on the first day of your visit." In a stage whisper, she added, "Don't worry about Ken. He's not nearly as good as he thinks he is."
Mr. Kurz gave a fake frown. "I heard that."
"Oops," said Ollie coyly. "You two go ahead, now, and I'll see if the cook can fix us all some lemonade."
"Tell her to put some rum in it," Mr. Kurz called after her, but she pretended not to hear.
The chess game was a disaster from the first move. Actually, the first couple of moves weren't so bad. Ryan put on a good show of knowing what he was doing. He even, by some fluke, wasted one of Mr. Kurz' bishops with a pawn. But then both of his knights bit the dust, and he knew he was doomed.
Kelley carried in a tray with the lemonade. As she leaned over to set the glasses on the coffee table, she bumped the table with her knee, sending the pieces tumbling like little acrobats. "Oh, shoot!" she cried. "I'm sorry, Daddy!"
Mr. Kurz started to scowl at her; then he shrugged instead and gave a helpless laugh. "Oh, well; Allen said he was tired, anyway. We'll have plenty of other chances to play—and to talk, and everything else. I guess I was just trying to make up for those lost years all at once. Come on, Allen, I'll show you to your room."
The room was more in the nature of an apartment, with its own washroom, its own tv/vcr, its own compact refrigerator. When Ryan got his gaping mouth to work, he said, "What, no pool?"
Mr. Kurz laughed. "No, but there's one down the hall. Also a sauna. Feel free to use it—or anything else. Sorry if the room feels a little generic; we weren't sure what sort of stuff you were into."
"Hey, this is fine."
"Good. Good." He patted Ryan tentatively on the shoulder. "So. See you in the morning, then."
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Kurz gave him a reproachful look. "Sir?"
"Dad."
"That's better. And listen … I'm sorry if I've been a little … well, pushy. Tact has never been one of my strong suits. Ollie's always getting on me for coming on too strong."
"That's okay."
"Well. Good night. Sleep tight." He gave a wistful grin. "You know, I used to tell you that every night when I tucked you in: Good night, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite. And you'd always laugh. I don't guess you remember that."
Ryan shook his head, but when he saw the disappointment in Mr. Kurz's face, he wished he'd lied.
"Well," the man said, "it was a long time ago."
When Mr. Kurz was gone, Ryan flopped onto the bed, as exhausted as if he'd just done a matinee and an evening show back to back—which, in a sense, he had. To his dismay, the bed heaved under him. Great. Just what he needed—a waterbed to make him even more queasy.
He tried to lie completely still, but he was too antsy; it was always that way after an opening. His brain wouldn't stay still, either; it kept trying to sort out all the stuff that had happened to him in the course of that long, long day. But it was an impossible task. There were just too many missing pieces. Burton had totally confused and misled him, and now the man was gone, leaving no clue as to when he'd return—if ever.
Each time Ryan moved, it created waves in the waterbed, increasing the sinking feeling in his gut, the feeling that he was in way over his head, that he'd taken on a role he wasn't equipped to play. It was like being hired to play Hamlet and then given a single day to learn the part.
He'd known he was going to have to improvise a certain amount, but he figured Burton would be around to coach him. He also figured that the Kurzes wouldn't have any current information about Allen, so he'd be able to fake it. Instead, they actually seemed to know more about Allen than he did.
He hadn't done all that badly so far. He was pretty sure he had Mr. Kurz fooled. But, of course, that wasn't saying much. The man probably would have accepted any teenaged kid who came along, just because he was so eager to have his son back.
It was Ollie who worried Ryan. Something about the way she looked at him unnerved him. It was the sort of look a director gives an actor who's reading for a role, the sort of look an undertaker gives a sick man. He didn't know how long he could go on before she managed to trip him up.
He'd more or less promised to stick it out for two weeks, and he'd do his best to keep up his end of the bargain—not because he felt any particular loyalty to Burton. After all, the man had lied to him and left him holding the bag. Ryan just didn't want to risk losing his share of the fee. He couldn't bear to go home empty-handed. How could he possibly explain that to his mom?
The thought of his mother made him groan. He'd promised to call her. She wouldn't be worrying about him yet; he'd only been gone one day. All the same, he wanted to call—not for her sake so much as for his own. He needed to hear a familiar voice, to talk to somebody he didn't have to li
e to.
It took him a minute to find the phone, which was cleverly disguised as a model of the Starship Enterprise. It was another minute before he figured out that the dial was hidden beneath the dome of the command module. To talk, you had to speak into one of the engine pods. Ryan sighed. Lately, it seemed that nothing was what it appeared to be.
The phone in their apartment rang six times … seven … eight. Surely his mother hadn't gone out. It took a major event to make her stir from the apartment. Maybe something had happened; maybe she'd hurt herself, slipped in the tub or something. It had happened before, when she was drinking.
After the tenth ring, his mother picked up and said, in a lilting, cheerful tone, "Waite residence."
"Hi, Mom. It's me."
"Ryan? I didn't expect to hear from you so soon." The cheerfulness and the careful diction abruptly collapsed; obviously, she'd been dipping into some secret reserve of whiskey. "You didn't even tell me goodbye."
"I didn't want to wake you."
"You left me without any money, too. What am I supposed to do without any money?"
"There's plenty of food, Mom, and I'll send some money as soon as I get paid." If ever. "Why didn't you answer the phone?"
"I was asleep. Is that all right? Where are you, anyway?"
"Halifax. We play here a couple of days, and then we go on to Montreal, and then—"
"All right, there's no need to give me the whole itinerary. When do they start paying you?"
"I'm not sure, exactly."
"Well, find out, would you? They can't expect you do this for fun. Ask that Mr. What's-His-Name."
"Burton. Yeah, okay. Don't you even want to know how it's going?"
"Well, of course I do, sweetie. I just want to be sure they're not taking advantage of you. Oh. Wait a second." She dropped the receiver with a clunk that made Ryan flinch.
"Mom?" He could hear rustling sounds, and guessed she was rummaging through the junk on the table. There was another painful thud as she tried to pick up the receiver and bobbled it.
"Here it is," she said. "I knew I had a message for you somewhere."
The Imposter Page 6
