“I think I've always believed it.”.
“Rubbish, Geoffrey darling. Your child bride twisted your tightie whities. You wouldn't have believed someone who'd been given a dose of truth serum.”
Whereupon Ida, mentally begging forgiveness from Bess if she ever found out, praying she never would, proceeded to tell Geoff exactly what she had told Bess she wouldn’t tell. He sat there, silent throughout, but took every word like a separate lash from a whip. By the time Ida had finished, he was bent over, staring at the floor and visibly shaking.
When the phone rang, he snatched at it like a life-line. What followed was totally incoherent to Ida, who could hear only one side of the conversation. All Geoff seemed able to say was: “But that’s not possible.” And: “We sold them. We sold them all! There’s no way they could all be here, and in my name.” Finally: “Okay, thanks. Just let them sit a while until I figure out... to be perfectly honest, mate, Tascalypt is the least of my problems.”
Upon hanging up, Geoff looked like someone in a trance. Even when Ida’s cell phone rang, he didn’t move, didn’t hardly blink. Nor did he seem to try and follow her conversation, which was mercifully short.
“Right, darling, my people have solved the puzzle,” she said, but had to reach out and pat his cheek to get a response. “Geoffrey, are you in there?”
“All those shares we threw on the market to ransom Bess. They’re back. My broker doesn’t understand it, says it was done through such a convoluted run of transactions, he can’t even begin to trace the source. What the hell's going on?”
“Off the top of my head, I’d suspect your girl had something to do with it. But the only way to find that out is to ask her, and to ask her you’re going to have to find her. Which means a little trip to Yankee-land, Geoffrey darling.”
That pulled him out of his fugue. “She’s gone back to America? But her clothes are all here, and her suitcases.”
“Which only proves she might be the first woman alive to fly from here to New York without a change of underwear. Interesting woman you’ve chosen, darling. But that’s what she’s done, it seems, so what are you going to do?”
Rising from his chair, he stretched like a lean, predatory cat. “I’m going to go after her, aren’t I? And I’m going to find her too, if it takes me three days or three months or three years. And when I find her, this business of the shares will be among the very last questions I’ll be asking.”
“You’ll ask her if she knows how much bloody trouble she’s caused you. You’ll ask her why she’s so featherbrained she didn’t see from the beginning that you loved her. You’ll ask her to forgive you for being such a half-wit. Hell, Geoffrey darling, get me your passport so I can make sure it's up to date. And while you’re at it, get me your divorce decree too. I’d never forgive myself if I let you get all the way over there and you can't marry her, assuming she’s bonkers enough to let you. Now, get packed. I'll start making your travel arrangements.”
“Would you take Lady while I'm gone?”
“No bloody way! You've not seen my house. It's a tribute to the childhood I never had. Your spaniel would have a bloody field day with my peacock feathers.” The last was added in a voice that suggested every feather was a trophy.
“How about phoning Rachel Greaves, Lady's breeder? Only thing is, Rachel would have to collect Lady at the Melbourne airport, or send someone—”
“Bloody oath, Geoffrey. Is this really the time to be worrying about that mad dog? Why not shoot the bloody thing and buy a Labrador, like you've always said?”
“You bet it’s worth the time.” He gave Ida his first real grin of the day. “If anything happened to that mad dog, it wouldn’t matter what I sorted out with Bess. She’d strangle me right there on the spot, and I’ve stuffed things up enough. I don’t suppose you could somehow manage to get me out of here this afternoon?”
“Out of here, yes. Out of Melbourne, I’m not so sure. And what if I can’t get hold of Rachel? What if I'm not able to reach her? You can’t just walk off and leave your dog at the Melbourne—”
“If you can’t find Rachel, go through my phone list. Try anybody in the TGTA. Sue Axton or Sid Drew would have her, in a pinch. Someone will have kennel space, but I’d rather Lady go to Rachel since I don’t know how long this will take and Rachel knows spaniels.”
“I suppose it would be silly of me to ask how long you expect it to take,” Ida grumbled, speaking half to herself as she began writing a list. Then she paused and looked up to find Geoff standing there, grinning at her.
“Jees, Ida, you’re a rum’n,” he said, lapsing into pure Australian slang. “A week ago you’d have taken my head off if I tried to make you do any of this. I’m going to look forward to meeting Tom Rossiter properly, when I get back. He was a bit of a mess last time I saw him, but he must be coming good with a hiss and a roar if he can turn my woman of stone into such a bloody marshmallow while he’s still in his sickbed.”
“You keep that up and you can make your own flight arrangements,” she said with a blush. “Now, go find your passport and divorce decree.”
“They're right here.” He fished out the passport from one desk drawer, his divorce decree from another. “What's this?”
“I'd say it was a necklace, Geoffrey darling. Of course, that's only a guess.”
“I bought it for Bess at the Fair, left it under her dinner plate the night I falsely accused her of...” He stared down at the slender chain and jade tiger. “She left it behind, as if it didn't mean anything at all to her.”
Despite Geoff's stricken expression, Ida heaved an exasperated sigh. “That's always been your answer,” she said, thrusting her opal ring in front of his eyes. “For the last time, I'm not your ex-wife and Bess isn't your child bride. Gifts are fun, I'd be the first to admit that, but material possessions don't mean anything when you really love someone. Rossiter doesn't have a pot to piss in, or a window to throw it out of...” She paused, her cheeks ruddy again, then continued. “Listen, and listen good, Geoffrey Barrett. If your girl truly wanted to make some sort of statement, she'd have left the necklace on your pillow. I think she threw it in the desk drawer because she was angry.”
“She had every right to be angry. Still, she's getting the necklace back if I have to tie her to her chair and clasp it round her lovely throat!”
“Fine. But may I suggest a different gift?”
“What kind of gift?”
“The gift of words. You're a writer, Geoffrey. You've made women laugh, cry, even fall in love with you through your words. Surely you could sway one little Yank.”
“One little spitfire of a Yank.”
“Too true. Please get ready for your flight now, darling, and while I don't want to sound pessimistic, pack some underwear.”
~~~
Geoff could only stand in shock and disbelief at the sight of the gnome-like figure who huddled in the big office chair behind the enormous desk.
Part of Geoff's mind told him this had to be some sort of cosmic joke!
Could this man actually be corporate giant Dover Warren Cornwall?
The bloke Geoff faced resembled some strange species of monkey in a rumpled, unkempt business suit. The eyes that peered from beneath a beetled brow were simian, unblinking, perhaps even uncomprehending, and certainly far from threatening.
“He can’t help you, but I expect you’ve realized that.” The voice came from Cornwall's personal assistant, Miss Dragonian, who had placed a small hand on Geoff's sleeve to attract his attention. “He doesn’t know where Miss Elizabeth is. None of us here do, and it's causing problems because, as you can see, Mr. Cornwall is fading into a madness he, himself, created.”
As Geoff left the office, he found himself thinking that Cornwall had already faded. All that was left was smoke and mirrors, and Geoff found it almost impossible to believe that this was the corporate raider who had used his own daughter as a company pawn. Dogging Miss Dragonian's footsteps, Geoff couldn’t find
contempt, much less hatred, for such a pathetic creature. What really bothered him was that he couldn’t find any compassion, either.
“You’re Miss Elizabeth’s man,” Miss Dragonian said, walking behind her desk, reaching for a thermos, and pouring Geoff a cup of coffee that smelled like coffee but looked more like mud.
It was neither question nor exactly statement, but it suited the context somehow. Geoff accepted the coffee, which he needed badly, and merely nodded, unsure what might be coming next.
Miss Dragonian gave him a small smile as she rummaged through some papers on top of her desk, scooped up a pen, and began to write. Reading upside-down, Geoff could make out an address, a telephone number, and something else he wasn't able to decipher.
“I don’t know how much good these will do you,” she said, handing over the page from her memo pad. “We’ve been trying without success to get through to Miss Elizabeth, but the telephone only provides an answering machine, she isn’t answering her emails, and the person we sent to try and find her has reported that her apartment is empty and her car is gone.”
“And that person is...?”
“A highly respected, highly qualified detective agency man. Denver based, yet he seems to be having all sorts of problems operating in Colorado Springs.”
“I can just imagine,” Geoff said, gulping down his coffee and thinking: Mouse.
“Would you like another cup?” Miss Dragonian asked.
Geoff shook his head no. He desperately needed to return to his hotel, where he could make some phone calls, try the one long-shot he had in his own bag of tricks, and organize his flight back across the United States...to Colorado.
He was about to leave when the door to Cornwall’s office clicked open just far enough for the old man to poke his head through, looking for all the world like a stubble-chinned Howard Hughes...at the very end of his life.
“I don’t care what she says,” Cornwall hissed in a raspy, breathless voice. “And I don’t care what you say either, even if you are the father. He’s my grandson, and if you try to keep him from me I’ll fight you through every court in the land.”
Cornwall retreated again, slithering out of sight like a lizard, the office door closing with a blunt thud of finality. Geoff stared at Miss Dragonian, who looked placidly back at him, clearly not at all concerned by her employer's bizarre behavior or his astonishing statement.
“He gets quite obsessive about that,” she said. “In fact, he hasn't left his office since Miss Elizabeth told him she was pregnant. He has his own private bath, even a sleeping alcove, but he spends most of his time on the phone with his attorneys. Two have quit and the rest hang up on him.” Removing her glasses, she rubbed her eyes. “When you find Miss Elizabeth, please give her my felicitations.”
“Yes, ma'am, and we'll send you an invitation to our wedding,” he said.
Hailing a taxi, Geoff's mind raced. It was, he supposed, vaguely possible that Bess could have become pregnant. But would she know already? Not a chance! She had some other game in play here.
“Bloody ridiculous,” he said aloud, then turned his mind to figuring out how he could find this woman he loved when a local and highly-trained private detective couldn’t manage it. The only advantage he, himself, might have was that he knew about Mouse, a circumstance that hardly leant itself to the creation of confidence.
Inside his hotel suite, he dialed Room Service and placed an order for a steak sandwich and a pot of caffeine. Then he found that the best-connected flight he could get took off tomorrow morning. Which, he thought, was just as well. He had flown virtually non-stop from Tasmania, hadn’t slept in two days, and knew from experience he was running on fumes. His head ached, he felt stiff and cranky, and his mind was so fuzzy round the edges he had to go over everything a dozen times, just to make sure he hadn’t missed something of vital importance.
Almost immediately, he discovered just how difficult finding Mouse might turn out to be, never mind going past that roadblock to find Bess. Geoff kept getting Mouse's voice mail. He left his name, the hotel number, his suite number, even offered to pay the bloody rodent one thousand times the cost of a return long-distance call.
Finally, he said, “Mouse, damn your soul, I swear I'm not the bad bastard you think I am. I love Bess. I want to marry Bess. Now please, in God's name, help me!”
Sending equivalent emails to the address he had copied from his computer at home proved just as futile, so he placed a wake-up call and booked a limousine for the airport. Then he collapsed on the bed and was asleep in moments.
Twined through his fingers was a fragile gold chain, and his large hand clutched a tiny Tasmanian tiger.
Geoff had never believed in talismans or magic, had always thought a person made his own luck, yet even in his sleep his thumb polished the jade.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Having just returned from a writers' convention, where she'd been deluged with fellow mystery authors and fans, Denise Dietz wanted to take a long hot bath and finish reading Eileen Dreyer's latest medical thriller.
Instead, she listened to her friend Mouse, determined to hear him out before she argued. It took a fair bit of listening. In fact, the phone was beginning to hurt her ear before she found a chance to interrupt.
“Mouse, you’re a sadist,” she said. “You’re treating this poor man like some sort of enemy, and he’s not. He's in love with Bess and she's in love with him, even if she is in denial right at the moment… Well, of course I’m sure. I don’t have to know her well to figure that much out. If she really didn’t want him to find her, she’d have gone someplace where he wouldn’t have a hope in hell of… No, Mouse, that's not fair. Geoffrey Barrett is a very nice man. I’ve been following his contributions to the Novelists Inc. authors’ loop for years now and... So you call him Lucifer. Knowing you, it's the Cinderella cat, not the devil. Big deal. As a woman, I happen to find the name Lucifer very intriguing... What do you mean he hasn’t made a move you haven’t mapped out for him? Stop chortling and explain what... You gave every bookstore my address? How on earth did you do that? In any case, I'm sure Bess has contacted all the stores, told them she's back in town, and... If I was half awake, or even half alive, I would have figured out, on my own, that you can hack into bookstore computers, not to mention hotel computer hookups. Damn it, Mouse, is nobody’s system safe? Look, sweetie, I just got back from a conference and I'm in no mood to... Well thank you very much and the same to you. Sometimes you can be such a rat! Stop laughing, or I'll hang up the pho... Yes, Mouse, I understand. You’ve called one bookstore owner personally and you're going to aim Geoffrey Barrett at me and I’m supposed to redirect him so he can find you. But why me? I hardly know Bess, and, at the risk of repeating myself, I just got back from... You rotten rat! You’re playing that poor man like a fiddle and having the time of your life. Never mind about Bess, or me, or that poor lost Aussie who only wants to find the woman he loves. This is just a rat maze, isn’t it? Honestly, Mouse, you should be writing mysteries. You have the most devious mind I've ever encountered, and the most evil, and... Yes, okay, I said I'd do it and I will, but don’t expect me to like it. You’ve thrown me into this because I look enough like Bess to be her mother and you... Oh please, don't give me that sister crap. It's beneath you. Anyway, if you heard one word I've said, which I doubt, I just returned from a writers' convention. That means no sleep, and the circles beneath my eyes look like... No, Mouse, I prefer raccoon-eyes to Uncle Fester eyes.”
Denise slammed down the phone and started thinking out her role for when Geoffrey Barrett arrived. She hoped he'd get here soon, because, after talking to Mouse, whom she owed a ton of favors, she desperately wanted to take her bath and get squeaky-clean.
~~~
Geoff climbed the seemingly endless steps to a second floor duplex. He had exhausted every possibility, chased down every lead, and was reduced to taking a punt on what was probably the least likely hope he could think of. Or the best. Certainly, at thi
s point, the only course of action that seemed to offer any hope at all.
He had determined two things almost from the instant of his arrival in Colorado Springs. One was that the city had an astonishing over-abundance of not-too-tall redheads. The other was that Mouse was ineptly named. The elusive bugger was as cunning as a shit-house rat.
“You won’t find him unless he wants you to.” These words had been said to him so often, Geoff could recite the rest of the Mouse-legend in his sleep. The head of the city’s best detective agency had practically laughed in Geoff's face.
“The FBI can’t find him, the IRS can’t find him, I sure as hell can’t find him, and believe me, I’ve tried it a time or two,” Geoff was told over a sympathetic but otherwise uninformative after-work drink.
Well, not totally uninformative. He’d been given a list of known computer gurus in Colorado Springs, and he’d done his best to work through each individual, hoping he'd get lucky. Hah! What a total waste of time that had been!
Then he’d tried bookstores, only to find that while Bess was certainly known, admired, and locally famous, no one had seen her for months... or at least no one would admit to it. Likewise, the travel agents. Despite his disappointment with the detective agency, he had put them to work. But Bess was now proving as elusive as Mouse.
“It isn’t as if she’s breaking the law,” stated the firm's most successful private investigator. “Nothing says she has to live in her apartment, or drive her car, or use her credit cards, or even make calls from her own phone. Fact is, if she’s tied up with that damned Mouse, she could be driving anybody’s damn car and using anybody’s damn phone, and they probably wouldn’t even know it.”
In the end, Geoff had gone back to the beginning, talking to whomever would talk to him, using his own status as an author to try and get something useful out of the bookstore people, the library people, anybody.
Finding Bess Page 24
