A Trick of the Eye

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  “I will tell you one story about him,” Madi said, narrowing his eyes.

  “Go on, please.”

  “Holt named one of his racehorses after Sandy. A filly—Cassa Mia. When Sandy was twelve, Holt took her out of school one day and flew her in his plane somewhere where Cassa Mia was racing—Louisville, I think. He made a big production, introducing her to the trainer, letting her pat the horse in its stall before the race. She watched the race from a private box.”

  “Sounds good so far,” I said.

  “Wait,” he said, holding up his hand. “Cassa Mia did not win the race. When Sandy said she wanted to go back and see the horse again, Holt announced that he had had the poor animal shot. He told Sandy, ‘That is what happens when those that belong to me do not obey.’ ”

  “My God,” I gasped. “I can’t believe it. Shot for no reason? Are you sure the horse didn’t go lame and had to be put down?”

  “No—listen to the rest,” Madi said. “They spent the night in Louisville, and the next day, all the way home, Sandy was in tears over this horse. But when she got home, what was the first thing she saw?”

  I shook my head, unable to imagine what was coming next.

  “The horse,” Madi said. “Cassa Mia.”

  “What?” I was incredulous.

  “Yes. Cassa Mia. She was fine. Holt never had her shot at all. In fact, he gave her to Sandy as a present.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You see, he wanted to show Sandy his power, to let her know he had the power of life and death over the horse . . . and by extension, over her.”

  “Jesus, what a story.”

  Madi snickered. “That is nothing.”

  “I can’t believe it,” I said. “Where the hell was Frances?”

  “Terrified, probably. Everyone close to this man was terrified. No—I take it back—everyone who depended on him for something was terrified of him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were fine if you did not want anything from him, or did not need him. Then, as I understand it, he could be very generous—a great friend, a great benefactor. But God help you if you did need him. And God help you even more if you were related to him.”

  “I wish I could remember his picture in the newspaper better.”

  “He was very attractive, very elegant, and sophisticated. Always dressed perfectly, but understated, like an English gentleman. And quite disarming. With not a bad sense of humor. Even I liked him when I first met him,” Madi said grudgingly.

  “Do you think Frances loved him?”

  “Certainly she loved his money and his position.”

  “But not him?” I pressed.

  “I do not think she could separate the man from what he represented, and she worshipped what he represented. After all, he made her what she was. Before him, she was nothing. Holt was the one who started her real education in collecting, in society. Then, as often happens, the student surpassed the teacher.”

  “Did Cassandra love him?”

  “He was her father. Daughters love their fathers, do they not?”

  “Did he kill her?” I said without thinking.

  Madi averted his eyes and shook his head, but I knew there was something more he wanted to tell me, just like Mrs. Griffin. I was sure they both knew the truth about Cassandra’s murder, and Madi struck me as a battle-weary mercenary on the verge of defection. I felt in time I could get him to talk.

  “So what happened after you met Sandy?” I said, deciding to pursue a gentler course for the moment.

  “We got married.” He seemed relieved by the new tack.

  “In Switzerland?”

  “Yes. Then Sandy took me back to America, and for the next year her father tried to have the marriage annulled.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Let us just say, not for the reason everybody thought.”

  “What did everybody think?”

  “That I was a poor boy with no background. A fortune hunter.”

  “And that wasn’t the reason?”

  “Not the real one, no.”

  Madi stared at me hard as if some part of him were hoping I’d intuit the true cause of Holt Griffin’s vindictiveness. I couldn’t imagine what “real reason” he was talking about, though I began to suspect it had something to do with Cassandra’s death. He continued:

  “Of course, it was a ridiculous tactic on his part. His opposition only made us come closer together. It’s incredible how much you remind me of her,” he said, staring at me harder.

  I ignored the comment. “What about Frances? How did she feel about you?”

  “Frances was also afraid of the monster.”

  “The monster being Holt Griffin?”

  He nodded.

  “Did Frances like you?” I asked.

  “She did not want to, but I think she did. I think she was pleased that I made Sandy happy.”

  “Why do you hate her now?”

  “Because . . . I hate her. Now I think I hate Frances more than Holt,” Madi said, shaking his head.

  “But why?” I kept pressing him. “What happened? Something to do with the murder. It is, isn’t it?”

  “For that you will have to inject truth serum,” he said. “And there is one more. One I hate even more than I hate both of them.”

  “Who?” I was fascinated.

  “No. I will take these things to my grave.”

  I sipped some wine and wondered what secret he was keeping. Clearly he knew who killed Cassandra, just as her mother knew. I no longer believed it was he who had done it, but he was certainly part of the cover-up.

  “What was Cassandra really like?” I said, after a time.

  “Look in the mirror,” he replied.

  “Seriously—I’ve seen one picture of her, but her mother says it doesn’t do her justice.”

  “No, her pictures were terrible and she hated having her photograph taken. She was too animated to capture in a single moment. I took some movies of her. In the movies you can see how beautiful she is. Especially when she is laughing.”

  “Do you still have those movies?”

  “I have saved everything to do with her.”

  “Really? Her clothes?” I said.

  “Yes, though she did not have many. She hated clothes.”

  “A reaction against the mother?” I offered.

  “Of course. And I will tell you something amusing,” he said. “Her clothes were all solid colors—never a pattern. She used to say to me, ‘Roberto, I can never wear prints because my mother tells me my face is too busy.’ ”

  I laughed. “So she was quite funny and self-deprecating.”

  “Oh yes, she had a wonderful sense of humor,” he concurred. “But she was shy. She did not show that side of herself to many people. Like you, I suspect, have sides you do not show to many people.”

  I let the comment pass, for the way he said it presumed a flirtation between us I was wary of encouraging. I didn’t want to get off the subject of Cassandra.

  “Did she have a lot of friends?” I inquired.

  “No. Her father isolated her, you know. He was afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of losing her. Tell me, Faith, are you afraid of losing anything?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I think I’m more afraid of what’s been lost.” I replied.

  Madi reached over and took hold of my hand.

  “Now you are just like Sandy,” he said softly.

  I didn’t take my hand away. I looked past the candle flame between us into his clear, dark eyes, focused intently on me.

  “I have never remarried, nor have I had another long relationship,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “As you just said—because of what w
as lost. You make me think of her more than any woman I have met.”

  His eyes swelled with tears. I reached out to him with my other hand. We locked hold of one another across the table.

  “I can’t explain it,” I said, “but I’ve felt so close to her all these months. It’s as if I’ve become her avenging angel. I have the feeling she’s been guiding me. I thought I’d come out here to solve her murder, but now—”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know—maybe it was more to solve my life in some way.”

  “In what way? Tell me, Faith.”

  He looked at me tenderly, and, for a moment, I read into that look an unspoken suggestion that he might be part of that solution. Then I thought, “Oh God, Faith, you’re really getting carried away!”

  “I wanted to know why I survived and she didn’t,” I went on. “She would have been around my age now, had she lived, and I felt there was somehow a connection between her death and my survival. I thought it might have had to do with my escaping from a destructive man before it was too late.”

  “What man?”

  “Oh, first my father, who ran off before I ever knew him. And then others with whom I could relive that abandonment again and again because it was familiar and compelling. One in particular.”

  “Who?” He seemed interested.

  “No one. Just somebody.” I was anxious to get off the subject.

  “But you survived,” he said.

  “Maybe,” I responded, with a weak smile. “Sometimes I’m not so sure.”

  “Who was the one man in particular? Tell me.”

  “Oh, just somebody—a writer.”

  “He was cruel to you?”

  “Not on purpose, I don’t think. I think he was just being himself.”

  Madi let go my hands and edged his chair around the table in order to be nearer to me. He stroked my cheek gently with the back of his hand.

  “Such lovely, soft skin,” he said as he pushed my hair behind my ear to reveal more of my face. “And such delicate little ears.” He leaned over and kissed my neck.

  Over another bottle of wine, our faces softened by candlelight, Roberto Madi and I drifted toward that timeless universe for lovers where there is nothing but a look, a touch, a shiver of the heart. The world narrowed down to the two of us, and finally, to the sensations that the slightest physical contact between us produced. Everything and everyone else became an intrusion or an amusement, put there for us to dismiss or embrace as the mood took us. We were, as the Buddhists say, not two and not one, but a different entity governed by our attraction to one another. By the end of dinner, having drank too much and said too much in too short a time, we both knew we were going to be lovers.

  When we left the restaurant, well past midnight, it was colder and darker outside. Madi put his arm around my waist as we walked to the car. We said nothing. We got in and started driving. The car was freezing inside and took a while to warm up. Madi pulled me to him but it was difficult to nestle close to him in the jeep, the seats being separated by the gearshift. I stayed as near him as I could, paying no attention to where we were going. The night skidded by on either side of us. I closed my eyes, letting a floating feeling of intoxication take hold of my body.

  After a time, I felt the car vibrating a bit, as if we were on rougher terrain. I sat up and looked out the window. We’d turned off the main road down a rocky trail with tall, black trees on either side.

  “Where are we?” I said groggily.

  “We are going to my house. Is it all right?”

  He looked over at me for a split second. I stared straight ahead without speaking. The car was bouncing up and down now, and I gripped the dashboard to keep from being tossed around.

  “I am sorry, the driveway is a bit rough. I keep it this way to discourage visitors,” he grinned.

  “How far is your house from Broken Ridge?”

  “Three miles as the crow flies. Longer, of course, to drive.”

  He shifted the car into low gear, and we headed up a steep hill. Suddenly the road leveled off, and we were on smooth ground. I could see the distant outline of a ranch house crouching against the sky. A single porch light glowed in the night. When we reached the front door, Madi got out and came around to my side of the car. He opened the door and took hold of my hand more firmly than he had done in the past. I felt woozy as he led me up the steps of the porch. He was weaving slightly, and I could tell the alcohol was getting to him too.

  The exterior of the one-story house was simple and rustic, built with rough-hewn timber. Madi opened the front door and switched on a light close at hand, nearly stumbling as he did so. I was freezing and grateful to get in out of the cold. As I entered, Madi pulled me into him and we stood hugging one another for a long moment. I thought he was going to kiss me. I wanted him to kiss me. I held my ground and looked up at him without turning away.

  “Faith is what I need,” he whispered.

  He leaned in, brushing his lips against mine. His breath was hot and reeked of wine. I suddenly realized how crazy the whole thing was—I’m drunk, he’s drunk, neither of us really has a clue what we’re doing. I’m out here in the middle of nowhere with a man I hardly know and whom I once suspected was a killer. These thoughts lanced through the alcoholic fog, breaking the spell. When he began to kiss me, I shied away. His passion flared up. He clamped his lips down hard on mine and gripped my shoulders. I let out a little gasp of pain and tried to withdraw, but he wouldn’t let me go. I jerked my head around, trying to stop him from kissing me.

  “Stop!” I cried. “That hurts!”

  He let go suddenly and raised his hands. For a moment I thought he was going to hit me, but he grabbed his hair and pulled it in anguish. I remained still, barely breathing. He was staring at me. I felt my face flush with fear. I touched my lips with my fingertips. They felt tender, bruised.

  “Forgive me,” he said, excusing himself abruptly and leaving the room.

  Still drunk and now fearful, I began to tremble. I wondered if Madi might indeed be the murderer. His absence gave me a much-needed opportunity to calm down, catch my breath, and look around.

  I found myself standing in an enormous room with bare oak plank floors, sparsely furnished, centered on a huge stone fireplace. The great log walls were bare except for four antique Indian chief’s blankets nailed up evenly across them. A beaten-up leather couch and some canvas deck chairs were grouped around the fireplace. Some antique Indian pots and baskets were scattered here and there, along with a few other artifacts—a Kachina doll, a Peruvian flute, a spear. There was sleek, black, state-of-the-art electronic equipment—an elaborate sound system, a huge television, a VCR, along with tapes, compact disks, records, and movie cassettes neatly organized in fitted wooden compartments.

  It struck me as a completely male room. There was no softness, no artifice, no attempt at decoration. I could imagine Madi holed up there for days with nothing except controlled electronic contact with the outside world. As I looked around, I thought how I could get to that spear, if need be. I wished to God I weren’t so drunk.

  When Madi returned, he was holding a joint in one hand and a videotape in the other. He put the tape down on top of the television.

  “Remind me to show you this later,” he said, offering me a puff of his joint.

  “What is it?”

  “Weed.”

  “No, I mean the tape,” I said.

  “Later.” He held out the joint again, motioning me to take it. I shook my head. He walked to the middle of the floor and stood there, inhaling deeply. He was spacing out—slurring words, moving carelessly, dropping ashes on the floor. He didn’t seem to notice or care.

  “So—what you think? Just like The Haven, no? This was our answer to her parents. Can you see Frances Griffin here—even for a day, an hour? She would kill herself.” He laughed,
steadying himself against a table. “I have changed nothing. Everything is the way it was when Sandy was here except for that junk over there.” He pointed to the electronic equipment. “She used to tell me it was the only time in her life she had ever been happy . . . Have a puff of this shit—it’s fantastic!”

  “No thanks,” I demurred. My head was spinning.

  Madi finished off the joint and ferreted out a bottle of brandy stowed in a makeshift bar inside one of the stereo cabinets. He poured himself a shot, which he downed, letting out a little gasp of air after he’d swallowed it all in one gulp.

  “Brandy?” he said, offering me the bottle.

  I shook my head. That was all I needed.

  This time he swigged some directly from the bottle and, taking it with him, went over and plunked himself down on the couch, sinking into its soft leather folds.

  “Come, sit here with me.” He patted his thigh.

  “May I have a look around?” I said, not wanting to go anywhere near him.

  I walked around the room slowly, aware that he was watching me, aware of the clunking sounds my footsteps were making on the bare wooden floor. I wondered what he was thinking as he sat there stoned, drinking his brandy, looking at me. I wondered how many women had been in that house, what his life had really been like since Cassandra’s death.

  I peered inside a darkened room. In the gloom, I could make out a large mattress strewn with blankets and pillows shoved up against one wall. There was a small lamp on the floor next to a stack of magazines and newspapers. Nothing else. No phone, which was what I was really looking for.

  “The master bedroom?” I said, half-joking, turning around.

  Madi had crept up so he was standing directly behind me. I jumped.

  “Do not be so nervous,” he said in a voice laced with innuendo.

  I edged away from him. He didn’t follow me. He just leaned against the door and watched me.

  “Sandy was a vagabond,” he said. “She hated anything to be permanent.”