“It’s very old-fashioned, but we thought you’d prefer it to the modern horrors that have gone up here, which are very luxe, but very cold,” Luiza said. “The Copa’s now a national landmark.”
“We have no complaints,” Reuben said. “You did very well by us.”
The small talk among old friends continued as lunch was served in the dining room by the houseboy and a woman in a starched white uniform.
“We haven’t planned your whole stay,” Luiza explained, as they ate delicious small steaks and delicate French-fried potatoes. “Tomorrow we thought we would take a sail around Guanabara Bay. Alfredo has his little boat moored down at the Yacht Club, so we’ll go out for a sail, have lunch and come back.”
As she talked, two young teenagers, a girl and a boy, came into the room. Both had black hair, still wet from a recent swim, and deep, dark eyes; it was impossible to say, Reuben thought, which was the more attractive. Following them were two very small boys in bathing suits.
“Ah, my babies!” Luiza said, greeting all four with enthusiasm, smothering the little ones with kisses. “Come and say hello to our old friends,” she said to the adolescents. Joaquim and Teresa dutifully and politely shook hands and then stood awkwardly by the dining-room table, in their jeans and polo shirts looking like teenagers anywhere.
“And these are my grandchildren, Eduardo and Manoel. Jorge’s children,” Luiza said, and to the teenagers, “What are you up to?”
“We’re going to take these two home. Then Joaquim and I are going over to see Roberto Dias,” Teresa said. “His sister, Maria Angelica, just got back from New York with a whole suitcase of new CDs.”
“All right, my dears. Don’t make yourselves deaf.”
The children, relieved at their dismissal, left the room, but not before kissing each of their parents good-bye. The grandchildren did likewise.
“What splendid creatures, Luiza,” Cynthia said.
“Yes, they are, aren’t they?” Luiza said with a sigh. “They’re good, too. Sometimes I think mine would rather listen to music than study, but we are lucky. They are nice.”
“Most of the time,” Alfredo added.
“Now, let me go on with the plans,” Luiza said. “Tonight, if your stomachs are okay, we will go out. A nice restaurant with the very authentic food of Bahia. Does that sound all right?”
“By this evening I’ll be ready for anything,” Reuben declared.
“That’s my Reuben,” Luiza said. “Monday, we can sightsee, and Monday night we are having a little dinner party for you. Just a few friends we would like you to meet. After Monday? We’ll see. Maybe we will go up to Petropolis. See our house there.”
“Whatever you say, Luiza,” Reuben said.
“But what do you want to do?”
“We’ll leave everything in your good hands.”
“No suggestions?”
“There is one thing. Do you know a woman named Ines Amarante? I believe she runs an art gallery here,” Frost said.
“Ines Amarante de Sousa. Yes, we know her some. She used to be married to a guy in New York. Did you know her there?”
“No. We’ve never met.”
“She’s quite the bohemian,” Luiza said. “She has a very artistic coterie around her all the time. I would ask her to our dinner, but, as I say, she travels everywhere with a crowd.”
“No, no. I didn’t mean you should invite her. But she does have a gallery?”
“Yes, not too far. Alfredo, where is Ines Amarante’s gallery?”
“Downtown. Avenida President Wilson, I think.”
“You want to visit there?” Luiza asked.
“Yes, I’m curious,” Reuben said, without explanation.
“It is closed Sunday and probably Monday,” Luiza said. “We will go Tuesday morning.”
Cynthia, with the perception that comes from a long marriage, noticed that Reuben was flagging slightly and signaled him that it was time to leave. Delfim was summoned and took the Frosts back to the hotel.
“Isn’t it nice to see happy rich people,” Cynthia said, once in the privacy of their suite.
“You have any comparisons in mind?”
“You know very well who I mean.”
“Yes, it is. But how long can it last, Cynthia? I recall reading somewhere that one percent of all Brazilians control fifty percent of the wealth. That’s like keeping a can of gasoline next to the stove.”
“Well, at least they’re enjoying it while they can. And we should, too, even if it’s only for a week.”
Cynthia and Reuben tried hard to follow her admonition about making the most of their stay. That night they joined their friends at the Chalé Restaurant for a delicious Bahian dinner of seafood, notably a delectable fish stew called by their hosts moqueca. It was well past midnight when the Frosts returned to the hotel, this time driven by Alfredo himself.
“Is it true it’s unsafe to walk along the beachfront at night?” Reuben asked him.
“It’s an exaggeration, like everything else in Rio. The worst that’s likely to happen is that one of the night ladies will come up and proposition you. But, as they warn you, don’t go out with your wallet or your handbag or your pearls. It is not good.”
Thus warned, the Frosts went directly to their room.
The next day turned out to be beautiful, and the sail around the bay, on Alfredo’s 108-foot ketch, was spectacular. The only casualties were a slight sunburn in Reuben’s case—he had forgotten to pack a hat—and a mild stomach upset in Cynthia’s.
Monday, still feeling some distress, she asked the concierge where she could buy some paragoric, her old-reliable remedy.
“There’s a drugstore on the other side of the hotel,” she was told.
“Don’t I need a doctor’s prescription?”
“No, no, senhora,” came the reply. “You can buy almost anything there without.”
While Cynthia was buying her medicine, Reuben decided that the time had come to explore the beach. He put on his sedate Brooks Brothers swim trunks under his khaki shorts and striped shirt from Banana Republic and set out for the beach, stopping to buy a cotton hat from a street vendor on the way.
Spreading out his towel beyond the reach of the ocean surf, he sat down and took in the scene. His pink-white skin, reddened only in spots from the previous day’s sun, made him conspicuous amid the sea of evenly tanned bodies around him. He stared unabashedly at sexy girls in the briefest bikinis he had ever seen (except, of course, the bikinis the local boys were wearing).
His memories of wartime Navy days in the South Pacific notwithstanding, he was sure that the setting, both natural and human, was the most voluptuous and sensual he had ever seen. He bought a Coca-Cola from a passing vendor and felt downright randy as he drank it in relaxed contentment amid the tanning flesh on all sides of him. Then, reluctantly, he realized that he had absorbed his day’s quota of sunshine and returned to the Copacabana’s swimming pool for a cooling swim.
“I wonder if the Herculanos’ ‘little’ dinner party will be like their ‘little’ boat,” Cynthia said to her husband as they dressed for dinner.
“You can rest assured it will be,” he answered.
Reuben was right. A touch of grandeur was suggested as soon as they entered the Herculano grounds that evening, lighted torches lining the passage to the front door. There, Saturday’s houseboy was now in full livery as he met the guests.
The ‘little’ dinner was a sit-down affair for forty, seated at five tables for eight in the rearranged dining room. Everything about the meal was impeccable—the floral decorations, the chicken basquaise, the Puligny-Montrachet, the service by a vast and discreet staff.
All the guests spoke English, some better than others, though this did not prevent some of them from occasional bursts into excited Portuguese even when one of the Frosts was listening. Reuben sat between Luiza and the spirited and witty wife of a local newspaper publisher. Cynthia fared less well. Alfredo, on her left, was good com
pany, of course, but her other partner, the chargé d’affaires at the American embassy in Brasilia, she found exceedingly dull.
“If that man has one single opinion about Brazil he concealed it from me,” she told Reuben, as they relaxed later over a nightcap at the hotel. “I’ve never seen anyone so careful. And not very knowledgeable, either. I asked him if there were any cultural-exchange programs with Brazil at the moment, and he simply didn’t know. Where do they find these bland people?”
“The field and the farm,” Reuben answered. “Now, let’s go to bed. Don’t forget we have to look Ines Amarante over tomorrow.”
The Galeria Amarante was sleek and modern, with a glass front that allowed the sunlight to flood in on its walls. Luiza had come to the hotel with Delfim to pick up the Frosts and take them there. The trip to the city’s center was filled with Cynthia’s compliments over the previous night’s dinner.
“Luiza, may I ask you a personal question?” Cynthia said to her hostess on the way. “How many servants do you have? Is that too vulgar a thing to ask?”
“No, no. When I’m in New York, I’m very curious how you live. You can do the same. Let me see.…” She paused and did some mental calculating. “Twenty-two.”
“Twenty-two?”
“Yes. That includes the couple that takes care of the apartment in New York and the couple and the gardener in Petropolis. And the schoolmaster.”
“Schoolmaster?”
“Yes. We have a schoolmaster to teach the others—English, or a little bit anyway, how to set the table, things like that.”
“I’m amazed.”
“It’s a big job. A big responsibility. Some of them have been with the family for years. Some are children of servants Alfredo’s parents had. We are very lucky. Cynthia. They, most of them, anyway, are very good to us and we try to do what’s right for them.”
Cynthia could not help comparing Luiza’s situation with the Vandermeers’ and was still stunned by what her hostess had told her when the Mercedes pulled up in front of the gallery. The three got out and went inside, where a fifty-ish good-looking woman greeted them. She was Ines Amarante herself, and Luiza introduced the Frosts as “friends from New York.”
“Please come in,” the owner said. “We are showing two local artists now, Nina Barata and Aristides Moreira. This is Nina’s work here. She is a young woman who lives here in Rio and this is her first show.”
The works on display were pleasant abstracts, saved from mediocrity by bold, almost brazen, swirls of color.
“Nina is only twenty-two and very promising,” Senhora Amarantes explained. “Would you like some coffee?”
The owner took her visitors to her office at the back of the gallery, a disorganized, comfortable room with paintings stacked around the walls. A white-coated houseboy—does everyone in Rio have one? Reuben wondered—was summoned and appeared with small cups of cafezinho, to each of which he added a large quantity of sugar.
“Mrs. Frost, you look very familiar to me,” Senhora Amarante said after they were all seated. “Weren’t you a dancer at one time?”
“Yes, many years ago. I danced with the National Ballet.”
“Yes, I thought so. I used to live in New York and had many friends who went to the ballet all the time. I used to go with my friend Jasper Johns, the painter. A true balletomane. Do you know him?”
“We’ve met,” Reuben said. “But no, I can’t say that we know him.”
“He’s doing very well, no?”
“That’s something of an understatement,” Frost replied.
“He’s too expensive now, even for the rich Brazilians. Only the Japanese can afford him.”
“It’s clear that someone can,” Reuben said. “His auction prices are phenomenal.”
“Oh, I miss New York. So vital! So exciting! Always something new and interesting. I came back here in 1964. I left behind many wonderful memories—and a drunken husband. Perhaps you knew him? Poor wretched man was murdered last month. Poisoned, they tell me. Tobias Vandermeer?”
Senhora Amarante looked directly at Reuben as she spoke. Did she, he wondered, know that he had been Tobias’ lawyer? Or even more?
“Yes, we knew him,” Frost replied noncommittally. He saw no need to add that he and Cynthia had been present when he died.
“Have they found the murderer? I have not heard.”
“They hadn’t before we left.”
“Tobias was a dreadful man who caused me much unhappiness. But I was sorry to hear of his nasty death. No one deserves that.” She shook her head vigorously, as if to erase memories of both the living and the dead Tobias. “Come, let me show you the other room. Aristides is also a young artist, who lives in Minas Gerais, in Belo Horizonte.”
His works were smaller in scale than Senhorina Barata’s and were quite pleasing oils showing colonial facades and doorways, all rendered in the bold yellows, pinks and greens the Frosts had observed in the older houses they had seen around Rio.
“I like these very much,” Cynthia said to her guide.
“He is very good,” Senhora Amarante acknowledged.
“Do you show mostly Brazilian artists?” Cynthia asked.
“Oh, no. We have many North Americans, and have done very well with them. Last year we had a marvelous show of Nabil Nahas. Do you know him?”
“I know his work,” Cynthia said.
“Very strong, very forceful. And Mark Innerst? What about him?”
“Again, I know his work.”
“Very clever. Very clever. We could sell everything he paints right here in Brazil.”
Reuben, browsing, picked up a small leaflet that listed, as best he could read the Portuguese, artists who had been exhibited at the Galeria Amarante recently, or were about to be shown. Nahas and Innerst were listed—and so was Vitalia Ashley, the artist of the wax drippings at the Deybold/Costas Gallery.
“I see that you are going to have a show of Vitalia Ashley’s work,” he said.
“You know her things?”
“Yes,” Reuben said, with authority. “She uses melted wax a lot.”
“That’s right. I saw her work on my last trip to New York and liked it. Do you?”
“Frankly, no.”
“Ah, too bad. I think she is very good, but, as always, opinions can differ. She is having a show in New York now and we will have one here in three months.”
“I saw the show,” Frost said. “At the Deybold/Costas Gallery. In Soho.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know them?”
“Who?”
“Sherman Deybold and Michael Costas.”
“Of course,” Senhora Amarante said. “I know them all. Castelli, Angela Westwater, Holly Solomon. Everybody. I even know the ones in jail,” she said, laughing.
“I fear we must go. It’s time for lunch,” Luiza said. Thus prodded, the Frosts exchanged “nice-to-meet-you’s” with Senhora Amarante and departed.
Cynthia was bursting to talk to Reuben privately, but had to wait for the briefest of opportunities when Luiza excused herself in the restaurant where they ate.
“Reuben, I’ve got to tell you! Nosy me, I happened to see the mail on that woman’s desk. Two letters addressed to her from the Deybold Gallery.”
“She did say she knew the boys.”
“Yes, but she said she knew everyone else, too.”
“And, as you heard, she’s going to show the wax lady from Deybold/Costas. And—and—how about that still life in her office?”
“Which one do you mean?”
“There was a still life of a fish that to my untutored eye looked old and Dutch. Just the sort of thing Sherman deals in. Very odd, in a gallery that sells contemporary art.”
“I missed it completely.”
“Well, I didn’t,” Reuben said with satisfaction.
“It looks to me like Senhora Amarante, Deybold and Costas are pretty good friends.”
“And?”
“And I wish I knew if that
meant anything. Do you suppose …?”
“That she put one of them up to killing Tobias? Sweet revenge after all these years? God knows, my dear, anything is possible, though I thought we’d agreed that the second Mrs. Vandermeer was responsible, not the first.”
“I know. But isn’t this an interesting new alleyway? We’ll have to talk about it later. Here comes Luiza back,” Cynthia said, resigning herself to postponing a good, speculative chat with her husband until later in the day.
22
Another Country Heard From
The Frosts did not get back to the Copacabana Palace until late afternoon. Both looked forward to discussing their odd encounter with Ines Amarante, and Reuben, at least, was hoping to take a nap.
Neither the discussion nor the nap took place. Picking up their room key, Reuben was handed a phone message from Bob Millard in New York, marked urgente, and a brown envelope that contained a fax from Millard:
FOR RUSH DELIVERY TO REUBEN FROST FROM ROBERT MILLARD.
Reuben: I’ve been trying to reach you for several hours. Please call me as soon as possible. I was visited this morning by a lawyer named Drew Hammil, who represents one Stephen Rourke. Hammil claims Rourke is the illegitimate son of Tobias Vandermeer and the proof he presented appears to bear this out. Sorry to interrupt your holiday, but want to speak to you most urgently. Millard.
“Cynthia!” Reuben called out to his wife, waiting for him at the elevator. “Read this!”
She took the sheet of shiny fax paper and read the message. “Well, there goes your computer,” she said.
“What on earth do you mean?”
“My dear, you feed this little morsel into that electronic file of yours and the thing will explode.”
“That’s not funny.”
“This isn’t funny,” she countered, waving Millard’s fax.
“I’ve got to call him right away.”
“Can I listen on the other phone?” she asked.
“Why not?”
Frost dialed Millard’s direct number at Chase & Ward, only to find that he was still at lunch.
“What the hell time is it in New York?” he sputtered. Millard’s secretary told him it was shortly after two. “If and when he comes back tell him I’m waiting for his call,” he said sharply.
Murder Times Two Page 19
