“Well, Ma,” I said with a chuckle, “I don’t think Jennifer will be leading a soup tureen sort of life, unless she fills it with dried apricots.”
“Royal Doulton has some lovely patterns,” continued Mildred, oblivious to everything but her booklets. “But most of them are too opulent, for Jennifer anyway. And pattern all over the dinner plates does compete with the food. The Majestic Collection is a possibility, but those flowers are a bit twee. It’s one thing to be feminine, another thing to be simple- minded. I have always loved Coalport, but the designs tend towards Fu Manchu. It’s not as though Jennifer were going to marry Charlie Chan’s number one son. Maybe we should choose Royal Worcester, one of the simpler patterns, in gold and white perhaps. One never tires of gold.”
“I do hope Jennifer will carry gardenias,” Mother spoke from Cloud 9, where she had taken refuge from Mildred and her brochures. “I carried them at my wedding. They are so fragrant. But you have to be careful not to bruise the petals, or they will turn brown. Jennifer will look like that poor girl in the opera who dies of consumption. Il Trovatore?”
That was pretty close for Mother, who has spent a lifetime resisting information, but Mildred could not not let the slip pass without correction.
“Don’t you mean La Traviata, Mother?”
“No, she means Die Walküre. With you and Lois to deal with, Jennifer would be well advised to carry a spear and shield.”
Silence settled over the table. By pretending to scratch the back of my hand I stole a glance at my watch. In a moment of filial foolishness I told Mother I would take Mildred to her train. We still had coffee to get through, and one of Madame’s stolid desserts. Then goodbyes before Mother went to crash.
I could have sworn the hands on my watch were standing still.
How long, O Lord, how long?
WHEN THE TIME FINALLY NEARED to take Mildred to the station, I was suffering from a tremendous energy leak, a condition caused by drinking in the middle of the day followed by a stodgy meal taking its own good time to digest. My disposition teetered on that fine line between the smile and the snarl. I suggested to Mildred that were she to get to the train early she would have her choice of seats.
“Mildred, I have something to say which I did not want Mother to hear. As you already know, I have her power of attorney. This gives me discretionary authority over which expenses she will or will not pay. I have no wish to stint on Jennifer’s wedding, nor do I intend to let Mother underwrite a Cecil B. De Mille spectacle.”
“I think Mother is the best judge of that.”
“You know as well as I do that she is not. I will not stand to see her browbeaten or manipulated. Also, I will happily contradict her, if I consider it necessary for her own best interest. It is quite evident you want a far more grandiose wedding than does Jennifer, the bride. What I propose, therefore, is that you submit a budget, for a wedding that includes three attendants for the bride. The cousins can draw straws for the honour, or the chore.”
I could see Mildred drawing a deep breath, but I held up my hand. “If I consider your budget reasonable, I will approve it. If not, I will submit your proposed expenses to a bridal consultant. I may anyway. Mother will pay for a reasonable wedding. Should you wish to add bridesmaids, flower girls, ring bearers, should you decide to turn the chancel into a tropical paradise of exotic blooms, should you want to provide ten stretch limos, horse-drawn floats, T-shirts, and a big brass band, you are at perfect liberty to do so. Only you will pay for them yourself.”
I put down my cup. “Finally, do not fall into the trap of trying to compete with Lois Fullerton. If she chooses to throw an elaborate reception, it is her right. But we do not have to live up to her party. I have the distinct impression that Jennifer would prefer a simple ceremony and a low-keyed reception afterwards, but she is going along with Operation Wedding to accommodate you. That you must work out for yourselves. I am not siding with Jennifer against you. My concern is that Mother pay no more than is reasonably necessary to finance this tribal rite. Is there anything more dreary than a wedding? Now, I think it’s time we left for the train.”
Mildred looked at me as though I had just drowned a sackful of angora kittens, then went to get her coat. On the way to the station she was uncharacteristically quiet. Like many people who tend to bully, she backs down in the face of real authority. Furthermore, I had the law on my side.
I handed my sister and her suitcase over to a redcap, tipped him, gave her a perfunctory kiss, wished her a good trip, and promised to be in touch. Then I climbed into my car and headed home. I wanted a nap so badly I could taste it.
10.
BECAUSE I HAD POSTPONED MY NAP I did not doze lightly but slept heavily. I awoke feeling sodden and disoriented, and lay without moving until my bladder prodded me out of bed. My mouth felt like North Africa, and I wondered briefly whether I should be wise and make tea, which took minutes, or foolish and pour myself a scotch, which took seconds.
The telephone rang. “Hello,” I said in a medium-grey voice.
“Geoffry, it’s Patrick. I have some information for you. Can I come by your office tomorrow sometime? Or could I drop by now, if you’re not busy?”
“You don’t rest on the Lord’s Day?”
“Sunday is just like any other day in my business.”
“I was just about to pour myself a drink. Come on over and I’ll pour one for you too.”
“Ten minutes.”
I washed my face in cold water, combed my hair, and pulled on some clothes. In ten minutes to the second, my buzzer rang, and I instructed the porter to let Patrick proceed.
In short order we were facing one another across a matching pair of highballs. In sports jacket and jeans, Patrick looked as trim and preppy as when I first knew him. Only the grey hair and deep lines like parentheses bracketing his mouth revealed the passage of time. It was easy to see why I had once found him attractive.
“I’ve dug out some information about our chauffeur: Manuel Alvarez, a.k.a. Marcello Adorno, a.k.a. Melvin Abrams. There could be more. Originally comes from the Dominican Republic. His mother was American, which suggests he must be handy in English. He got mixed up with the wife of someone pretty high up in the government, who found out. For reasons of health, Manuel Alvarez skipped to Cuba.”
“May I ask how you discovered all this, in what seems like a short time? In novels the detective usually tells the story himself, so we always know.”
Patrick smiled. “Would you discuss your clients’ affairs with me?”
“Point made. Question withdrawn.”
“Let us just say it is my business to find out. That is why you hired me. Verdad?”
“Si.”
“Our man arrived in Havana just about the time the island was being opened up for North American tourism. You must remember.”
“ ‘See the picturesque peons cutting cane down among the sheltering palms.’ ”
“Precisely. Anyhow, Alvarez managed to get himself on the wrong side of the law. There was an attempt on his life; very possibly the outraged official in the Dominican Republic put out a contract. The upshot was that he became persona very non grata and shipped out on one of those boatloads of refugees and riffraff that Cuba unloaded on the U.S. in 1980.”
“ ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses.’ ”
“From Key West he went to Miami, where, we suspect, he got involved in the drug trade.”
“Are you sure you haven’t watched too many episodes of ‘Miami Vice’?”
“Quite sure. He had occasion to leave Miami in rather a suspicious hurry, without even packing a bag. We lose track of him for a while until he ended up in Canada claiming refugee status before it became such a popular thing to do.”
“I have to hand it to you, Patrick. You have not been idle.”
“There’s more. But all this talking is thirsty work.”
“So is listening.” I poured two more highballs, and Patrick continued. “I m
ade another interesting discovery while I was tailing him, which I’d like to run by you. As you probably know, Lois Fullerton owns two cars, a grey Buick sedan and a Cadillac limousine. She obviously has brand loyalty. Ordinarily the chauffeur tarts her around in the limo. Supposing, however, the two of them set out one day in the sedan and drive to one of those apartment buildings on the edge of downtown, which has recently gone condo. The chauffeur lets her out at the door, and she goes inside. There is no doorman, so she uses her key. The chauffeur parks the car and returns to the building. He too has a key and goes inside. I check the names beside the bells and discover one L. Dalton, her maiden name, right? After an hour or so he comes out and goes to collect the car. By the time he drives up to the front door she has come outside. The two of them drive off. Has anything occurred to you?”
“Yes. Their fuck is costing me one hundred dollars.”
Patrick laughed. “Don’t worry. I give discounts for stakeouts, particularly if I’m in no danger.”
“When you sell the rights to this story for daytime TV, I insist on a percentage.”
“Sure thing.” He smiled as he drank. “Okay, Geoffry, this is where I begin to speculate. We have a still beautiful woman who enjoys male companionship. And, speaking off the record, that chauffeur is a bit of all-right, even if he does look like the heavy in a TV miniseries. However, this woman is beginning to realize time marches on; she wants a permanent relationship, marriage even. But since she did not originally come from the top drawer, she has had to work hard for the social position she now enjoys. She is not about to marry the chauffeur, even if he is a winner in the feathers. At this point a new character is introduced: a widowed lawyer, middle-aged, distinguished, not even bad-looking.” Patrick turned down the corners of his mouth as if in contradiction to his words while he paused to drink. “In other words, the kind of man she would like to marry. Furthermore, she is too shrewd to sleep with her chauffeur in her own house, under the knowing eyes of maids and cooks. At 15 Mayfair Crescent it’s strictly mistress and chauffeur. At the condo it’s mistress and mattress. In the meantime – I’m still winging it, mind you – the chauffeur understands that so long as he keeps the boss lady satisfied in the sack he will continue to drive her car. Should she become interested in someone else, however, he will be let go. One does not ordinarily keep old lovers on the payroll.”
I was tempted to suggest that I had just put Patrick on mine, but decided it would be better to keep the interview strictly professional.
“Now, let me put something to you, Geoffry. I’m certain there were more household servants in your background than in mine. Doesn’t it strike you as odd that a servant, someone who puts on livery and drives a car, would dare to threaten one of his employer’s friends? Servants have been known to lie and steal, but to make warning calls and send threatening letters?”
“You’re quite right,” I replied. “Unless for some reason it was critically important for him to keep the job.”
“My reasoning exactly. And considering his past record, he does not strike me as the kind of man who is going to settle down comfortably and spend the rest of his life driving a car for a wealthy widow. Not unless he really needs the job as a cover for something else.”
“Ah-so. And along comes this importunate lawyer who somehow manages to capture his employer’s fancy, and the driver feels threatened.”
“My idea exactly. I still maintain that servants, even jealous ones, do not threaten their superiors.”
“But wouldn’t he run the risk of the lawyer – me – going to the police?”
“You’re not certain of his identity. And whoever sent those notes left no fingerprints. He is probably counting on both your inertia and your reluctance to call in the law. Professionals like you tend to shun the spotlight. But the one possibility he probably did not take into consideration is that you would go to a private investigator. What we must rule out now are the other possibilities. Can you think of anyone, anyone at all in your past or present, who might have sent those notes?”
“No. Face it, Patrick; old male lovers, even cast off ones, do not ordinarily want you to stay away from women. Under different circumstances I could easily suspect my sister. But considering that she has strong-armed me into being a member of the wedding party, I can’t see why she would object to my meeting the mother of the groom. Seriously, though, I can’t think of anyone. The kind of law I practise does not send people up the river for twenty years, where they brood darkly on what they will do to me when they get out.”
“If you’ll pardon my observation” – Patrick tried, unsuccessfully, not to smile – “you strike me as a man some people might go out of their way to avoid, but not to threaten.”
I too tried not to smile. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me in years. In the meantime, what’s the plan of action?”.
“For the moment, business as usual. Avoid Mrs. Fullerton if possible. I do not believe you are in any real danger. If Alvarez is working on a caper – drugs, I strongly suspect – he won’t want to risk drawing too much attention to himself.”
Patrick’s scenario had a certain wild logic, only I could scarcely bring myself to believe I might figure in so unlikely a story.
“Now what about Lois? Is she in any danger? She may not be my favourite person – and I shall never forgive her for having made that toothsome sonofabitch – but I wouldn’t want to see her come to any real harm.”
“She’s his cover. And she’s no fool. If she knew or suspected anything, she wouldn’t keep him around.”
“Hey-ho.” I drummed my fingers on the arm of the chair. “You want me to sit tight and do nothing?”
“For the moment, yes. We may be on the verge of something big, Geoffry. A case of simple harassment …”
“Watching and besetting, as the Criminal Code would have it.”
“Watching and besetting, then. This routine case might turn out to be important. Trust me. If there’s the slightest hint of danger I’ll have you put under surveillance.”
“I really do not believe all this is happening to me.”
I sat for a moment feeling almost stunned. The sensation did not arise from fear; I was not concerned about my personal safety. To date the threats had been too clumsy and amateurish to be truly alarming, but now something out of the ordinary was definitely going on. My modest role in the wedding of my niece, a quiet, uncomplicated girl, had turned me into a quarry, on one hand pursued by a lusty widow intent on adding my initials to her monogram or, at the very least, my name to her hit list. On the other hand I was being tracked by her surly chauffeur, who feared I had wandered into his drug-smuggling operation and was trying to intimidate me into backing off. There was no chapter covering these contingencies in Fifteen Steps to a Lovelier Wedding.
Somewhat unsettled, I cast about for reassurance. I was already working on my second highball. Another might be foolhardy, at least without food on the way.
“Patrick, to change the subject for a moment, have you eaten?”
“Not yet.”
“I’m going to send out for barbecued chicken, one of my Sunday night rituals. You must join me.”
“Only if you’ll let me pay.”
“It’s a deal. I’ll go and telephone the order. Give me your glass and I’ll top you up.”
“Done!” I announced as I returned carrying a small tray on which sat our tumblers and a ceramic bowl filled with dry- roasted, salt-free peanuts. “Help yourself to the lavish hors d’oeuvres. Do not stint. I have ashtrays if you want to smoke.”
“No, thanks. I gave it up years ago.”
“Cheers!” I drank. “Now can we drop the investigator mode and talk like people? What have you been doing with yourself since you left me to return to your wife – in twenty-five words or less?”
Patrick shifted uncomfortably. “I thought it was the right thing to do at the time, but – we all make mistakes.”
“Speak for yourself.” I smiled. “O
bviously it didn’t work out.”
“No, it didn’t. I stopped lying to myself. I guess you could say I came out. There were three or four action-packed years.”
I laughed into my drink. “Only three or four? And then you met someone you liked? None of my business, really, but I am as curious as the next person.”
It was Patrick’s turn to smile. “You’re absolutely right. I did meet someone. We lived together for almost twelve years, until he died.”
I was fearful of saying the wrong thing. Silence thickened between us. “Sorry to hear that, Patrick,” I offered lamely.
“I know what you’re thinking, but he didn’t die of AIDS.”
“Was I thinking that?”
“Who doesn’t? People today hear of a gay man’s death and they jump to one conclusion, especially if he’s under sixty. He survived the first heart attack but not the second.”
“Dead is dead, Patrick. It still leaves you out in left field.”
“Does it not. Twelve years is a long time. We were very – I suppose compatible is the word. What I really missed were the shared habits, having someone with whom to talk over the day, to argue with over whose turn it was to stay in for the plumber. The trivia of daily life. I grieved. Then I realized I had to get on with my life. But by then the scene had changed. When I went out, the men were so much younger I felt like a chaperone, AIDS had changed the rules. And I really wondered if I could go right back to the beginning and start all over again with someone many years my junior. I tried a couple of times, with pleasant, decent men, but we kept running into blind alleys. Which is another way of saying we had little in common but a mutual desire to get off the streets. All the people my own age had settled into stable relationships, or resigned themselves to solitude. At the moment I seem to have opted for the latter.”
“There are worse things than living alone,” I suggested. “And I should know. I cleaned up my act long before I had to. The running around one did at twenty becomes exhausting at fifty. Twenty years of the morning after begins to pall. I suppose we all hope one day to meet that certain someone, one more time. It gets easier to fool other people as you get older, but a lot harder to fool yourself.” I paused for a sip of my drink. “God only knows, I’ve certainly had my share of love affairs – and doesn’t that very term date me. Who has love affairs today? Relationships are the thing. What is a love affair but a kind of neurotic confrontation. When you’re not in the sack you’re squaring off over slights, which are mostly imagined. A love affair gives you good head. It also gives you good headache. I’d willingly give up sex in the shower, or under the kitchen table, for someone compatible to share a weekend in Vermont.”
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