A Hopeless Case

by K. K. Beck

  “I’m fine, thank you,” said Jane.

  “That’s great!” said the voice. “I understand you’re in the real estate business. It’s a really great business, that’s why I enjoy working with people in it. Are you familiar with our real estate sales seminars?”

  “No,” said Jane. “And I’m not in the real estate business.”

  “Oh.”

  “And I don’t plan to be either,” she said. “And I don’t want to do any seminar. I want to talk to whoever bought your Vashon retreat.”

  “That would be Mr. Wayne himself,” said the voice. “I don’t quite understand what you want.”

  “I’m looking for the previous owner of the property,” said Jane. “Kind of an informal title search. Do you think I could talk to Mr. Wayne?”

  “You could talk to someone in his office,” said the man, whose cheeriness had abated somewhat.

  “Thank you,” said Jane.

  She was put on hold for a moment, during which time she heard a mellifluous recorded male voice. “You’re on hold,” it said inanely. “The One-Ten Institute will handle your call promptly. Please be patient while we speak with others like yourself who choose one hundred and ten percent effectiveness. Meanwhile, keep this thought. Every day is a terrific day if you make it that way.”

  “Others like you,” corrected Jane. “Not others like yourself. You people are idiots.” Spooky New Age music of the spheres came on, and Jane wondered if it wasn’t laced with some ghastly uplifting subliminal message.

  An older female voice now came on the line. This woman, too, sounded as if she were on drugs of some kind. “This is Dorothy. You’ve reached the One-Ten Institute Executive Suite,” she said happily. “How may I help you today?”

  “My name is Jane da Silva. May I speak to Mr. Wayne?”

  “Mr. Wayne is in Washington, D.C., conducting a personal workshop for top-level employees of the Internal Revenue Service,” said the woman breathlessly. “We expect him back in the office tomorrow morning. Is he expecting your call, Jane?”

  “No. He doesn’t know me,” said Jane. She felt like adding, “And neither do you, Dorothy, so you can call me Mrs. da Silva.”

  “Well, Mr. Wayne is very busy and he only takes calls from his prescreen list,” Dorothy said in a whisper, as if she were embarrassed at Jane’s ignorance.

  “Perhaps you can help me,” Jane suggested.

  “Boy, I sure hope so.”

  “You people own some property on Vashon Island.”

  “Yes, we certainly do. Have you ever been there? It’s just gorgeous. A really great facility.”

  “I’m sure it is,” said Jane. “I’m looking for the previous owner.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Dorothy said, sounding a little flat. Jane noted with satisfaction that these people seemed to lose their iridescent personalities when they heard anything that wasn’t in the script.

  “Well, I wonder who does,” said Jane.

  “That’s an excellent question,” said the woman. “Can I take your name and number and have someone return the call?”

  “Fine,” said Jane, supplying it.

  As soon as she hung up, she dialed the main number again, bracing herself for more sweetness and light. This time, Fran wanted to know how she might help. “Give me the public relations department,” Jane said.

  “Just a moment please, and we’ll have someone in Corporate Communications speak with you,” Fran said, bubbling over with goodwill, and Jane was back on hold, with Mr. Mellow intoning and the spooky music again.

  “Hi! This is Pat in the Corporate Communications Department. How may I help you today?”

  “My name is Jane da Silva.”

  “Hi, Jane.”

  “Hello. I’m looking for someone and I hope you can help. Apparently, the property the Institute owns over on Vashon Island once belonged to a group called the Fellowship of the Flame.”

  “Oh, really?” said Pat.

  “Yes. And I’m looking for the guy in charge of that group. He owned the property when you bought it. Do you have a record of that somewhere?”

  “This is certainly an unusual request,” said Pat. Jane thought she detected a little strain behind the voice.

  “Yes, it is,” agreed Jane.

  “Let me put you on hold for just a moment.”

  Jane braced herself for another thought for the day, but she just heard clicks and buzzes this time. After a few moments, Pat came back on. “There’s no one here who can help you today,” she said. “Could you give me your number so I can have someone call you back?”

  Jane gave Pat her number.

  “I’m filling out a ‘request for corporate communication’ form,” Pat said. “And just what is it you need to know? I need to fill that in too.”

  “It sounds crazy,” said Jane, “but I’m looking for someone who called himself the Flamemaster. He used to own your Vashon property.”

  “I see,” said Pat unconvincingly. “We’ll see what we can do and get back to you. ’Bye now, Jane.”

  Exhausted from her attempts to penetrate the exuberant but not particularly efficient bureaucracy at the Institute, Jane checked her watch. Bucky would be picking her up in an hour. She sighed. She would have liked to weasel out, but thought she’d better go through with it. Unfortunately, Bucky Montcrieff was in a position to do her harm as well as good.

  She thought about a nice hot bath, during which, she knew, she would wrack her brain trying to put together all she had learned so far. But the phone rang.

  It was Leonora.

  “How are you?” said Jane. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. A policeman came and talked to us about my mother.”

  “Detective Cameron?”

  “Yes. Some other guy was with him, but he asked most of the questions.”

  “I know. I’ve talked to him, too.”

  “Anyway, I felt better after talking to him. He wouldn’t tell me whether he thought my mother had anything to do with this Richard English guy.”

  “The police don’t tell you anything,” said Jane. “They just ask questions.”

  “Uh-huh. He sort of made me feel better, you know? He asked how come you were involved, and I told him how you heard me play and how I talked to you and all that. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Of course. You have to tell the police everything you know.”

  “Good.” Leonora paused. “There’s another thing.”

  “What?”

  “My aunt called me. My half aunt, I guess.”

  “Susan Gilman?”

  “That’s right. She said after she met you she decided she should get in touch with me. She has a little baby. My cousin.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, I was wondering if you’d go with me. Dad doesn’t want to, and to tell you the truth, I’m kind of nervous about going by myself.”

  “Of course I will,” said Jane. “Your aunt is really very nice, and her baby is adorable. I’m glad she called you.” And about time, too, she added mentally.

  “Thank you,” said Leonora. “I really am glad you’ll come. She said day after tomorrow.”

  “Fine. What time?”

  “Ten o’clock. She said the baby would be awake then.”

  “Great. I’ll pick you up at nine-thirty.”

  Talking about Susan Gilman and Bellevue reminded Jane of Dr. Hawthorne. She had a follow-up question for him, now that she’d collected more information. He was out of the office, but his service said she could leave a message. She didn’t have much hope. In her experience, doctors seldom returned phone calls. “Ask him to call Jane da Silva, please.” She left the number and added, “Ask him if he remembers a friend of Linda’s called Robin.”

  So far, no one remembered her. No one except Kenny. Yet Robin was there at the very end. And then she’d disappeared. Jane felt sure that if she found Robin she’d be halfway home.

  She went upstairs and ran a hot bath.
She decided she’d order a very expensive dinner. That would cheer her up. And she’d wear a very nice dress. That would cheer Bucky up. She wasn’t about to alienate Bucky at this point. Nor was she about to marry him or anything in between, either. Bucky would have to be handled tactfully, which meant, she thought, her black, drapy dress.

  Chapter 24

  Jane’s black dress was the kind of thing you could wear anywhere without looking under-, or worse yet, overdressed—even in Seattle, where, for some people, logging attire provided a workable basic wardrobe.

  When Bucky arrived, looking like an amiable cad in a double-breasted silk blazer, she was pleased to see they seemed to match.

  “So this is Uncle Harold’s place,” he said, strolling through the living room with his hands in his pockets after he’d given Jane herself his appreciative once-over. The decor seemed less to his liking. “Kind of creepy, isn’t it?” he said, eyeing the mohair upholstery. “But the house is great and the neighborhood’s terrific. I’d say twenty or thirty thousand and this place could look fabulous.”

  “Maybe more,” said Jane. “If I redo the kitchen and bathroom and enclose the back porch.”

  “Well, it’s all up to you. And the trustees.” He gave her his wide, sharklike smile.

  “Yes,” she said demurely.

  “Anyway, I have a great decorator,” he continued. “She just did a great southwestern thing for my apartment. Sort of postmodern. Very spare but with some whimsical touches. It really works. I got her to kick back some of her commission, too. She was great to work with.” He gazed up at Saint George and shuddered.

  “I think that stays,” said Jane, following the gaze. “A tribute to Uncle Harold. Of course,” she added, “I don’t intend to count my chickens—”

  “Before they’re hatched,” he finished. “Come on, give me a break. You’ve already got that money spent—at least mentally—and you know it.”

  Jane laughed. “Well, maybe some of it.”

  “You like oysters, right?” he said.

  “Crazy about ’em.” Jane remembered how he’d snagged more than his share at lunch, and made a note to watch him like a hawk this time.

  “Well you’re in luck. Because I know where to get the best ones in town.”

  They drove to a waterfront restaurant. As before, in the elevator after they’d just met, Jane felt slightly overpowered by his cologne in the small confines of his vintage Porsche, which he drove fast and aggressively. Once inside, Bucky ordered a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and a dozen oysters. “Make sure they’re the Chiloés,” he said.

  “You see,” he said, beaming, “local oysters aren’t at their best now in the warmer months. But in Chile, it’s winter, right? These little guys are perfect. Very firm, with an incredible finish. They taste like Olympias, but better.”

  Jane loved food but hated food bores. She nodded politely. The oysters were, however, just as advertised. She bit into the first one and sighed happily.

  “Divine,” she said, counting the remaining oysters on the plate from the corner of her eye as he filled their champagne flutes.

  “Mmmm,” said Bucky, taking his first sip. “Now tell me how things worked out with Claire.”

  “She was delightful,” said Jane. “And quite helpful. I really appreciate your giving me the lead. She painted quite a picture of the Fellowship of the Flame. Said you helped her get some money back from them. Just what I’m trying to do.”

  “Can’t discuss it,” Bucky said, with a gleam in his eye.

  “I understand. Anyway, I’m trying to track them down through the One-Ten Institute.”

  Bucky clicked his tongue. “They’re a real piece of work,” he said. “Half the executives in this town have been through their training program, and they come back with glazed-over eyes and sign up the typing pool. Those guys are raking it in. Absolutely raking it in.”

  “What exactly are they selling?”

  “Oh, it’s all bullshit,” said Bucky, “but it goes over very big. My theory is that a lot of these managers don’t do anything much. I mean the regular people run the businesses, right? In some haphazard fashion.

  “But, instead of going out and playing golf in the afternoons like managers in my uncle’s generation did, these guys think they’re supposed to be actually doing something. Managing. So they sign everybody up for these rah-rah workshops.”

  “Sounds plausible,” said Jane.

  “But forget about all that,” said Bucky, his eyes narrowing. “You’re doing more than just trying to get that money back, aren’t you? I mean this Richard English character was killed. What’s going on?”

  “I suppose when Uncle Harold ran things, he didn’t run into anything like that, did he?” Jane asked, a little nervously.

  “You mean will the trustees take kindly to rough stuff? I don’t know. The main thing is to conduct your part of the business respectably and discreetly. Don’t break any laws. The judge is a stickler on that point. And no cheap publicity, either.”

  Jane nodded.

  “Not that you’d ever do anything like that. You strike me as a very well-bred lady, if I may use that term.” He raised an eyebrow as if bestowing a very important and perspicacious compliment.

  “‘Lady’ is fine. But I always think ‘well-bred’ is a term that applies more properly to Bedlington terriers than to human beings, don’t you?” said Jane. She smiled nicely, aware that she was careening just a little too close to the edge. Guys like Bucky were intrigued when you insulted them, but only to a point.

  “Oh, you know what I mean. It’s just that there are a lot of tacky people around these days,” he said in a confidential manner. “And a single guy like me, doing well in his profession . . . well, I meet a lot of women. It’s just refreshing to meet one like you.”

  She smiled warily.

  “Tell me about yourself,” he said.

  “No,” she replied, eager to seize control of the conversation. “Tell me about yourself.”

  Bucky looked pleased, and proceeded to launch into his résumé. “Well, I grew up here in Seattle, and I prepped at Lakeside; then I went to Stanford—Dad’s old school.”

  And that’s perhaps how you got accepted, thought Jane.

  “I was in retail for a while,” he confessed. “A youthful aberration. I liked the design aspects. I have a strong visual sense, but there’s no future. So I went to law school. Uncle George found a place for me in the firm.”

  “How nice for you.”

  “Yes, it’s worked out really well. Do you want to know more? Like those personal ads? Ever read them? They’re all the same. ‘Enjoy long walks on the beach, cozy fireside chats, romantic dinners, reading the Sunday New York Times, mountain bikes, and music from Bach to Brubeck.’”

  Jane laughed and added, “‘Might be ready for a commitment with a sexually uninhibited, nonsmoking, disease-free woman uninterested in marriage and children—’”

  “‘And not averse to being tied up and tattooed,’” finished Bucky.

  “It’s kind of sad, really, all those ads,” said Jane.

  “To be honest, lately I find being single is getting to be kind of a drag,” said Bucky. His face took on a sensitive look, meant, she imagined, to convey a sincere desire for a warm, committed, intimate relationship after years of predatory dating. Probably scared to death of AIDS.

  Jane took on a brisk, hearty manner. “Well,” she said, “I’m sure you won’t have to rely on one of those ads. The world is full of lonely women. I’m sure you could snap one up in a minute.” She held up an admonishing finger. “Watch it! That’s my oyster.”

  “We’ll order some more.” He summoned the waiter.

  Despite Bucky’s obvious shortcomings, Jane could see how Claire had succumbed to his charms. He wasn’t bad-looking, he was amusing, and he was so transparently out for himself you had to admire the guy’s nerve.

  “When people see me,” he said huskily, “they see a guy who looks like he has it all toget
her. But underneath the tailoring, I’m sometimes a lonely guy.”

  “Speaking of tailoring,” Jane said rather desperately, “I was admiring your sport coat.”

  “You like this?” said Bucky, pleased, running a hand over the lapel. “You know, this is a great shopping town. There are some fabulous stores here.” He leaned over eagerly. “Shopping’s a little game with me. I never pay full retail.”

  “Really?” said Jane.

  “Why do it? I like nice things and I can get more of them if I pay less. I just picked up a fabulous Armani suit for fifty percent off.” His eyes lit up, and Jane relaxed. “A very subtle tweed, kind of khaki, with a little thread of blue.” After his wardrobe, she’d proceed to his decor and then perhaps where he had his hair cut. That should carry her through to dessert. And then there was his car. Bucky may have been a lonely guy, but he had lots of nice things to keep him warm. Jane just wanted to make sure she didn’t become one of them.

  It wasn’t until much later, on Jane’s porch, that Bucky summoned up the wistful expression once again. “It’s been really great to talk to someone—really talk to them. You know?”

  “Absolutely,” agreed Jane. “I enjoyed it so much. Thank you.” She stuck out her hand for him to shake, and Bucky looked down at it mournfully. “I’d ask you in, but I have to get up early tomorrow,” she said. He took the hand and held it.

  From behind the door, she heard the phone ring. Bucky released her hand and Jane opened the door and made her escape.

  She heard his Porsche screaming down the road as she reached the phone. It had rung five times.

  “Jane da Silva?” It was a woman’s voice.

  “Yes? Who’s this?”

  “Robin. I was Linda Donnelly’s friend.”

  Jane tried not to sound overwhelmed. “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ve known for some time you’ve been looking for me.”

  Jane racked her brain to try to remember whom she’d asked about Robin. A lot of people. But no one had said they knew of her. No one except Kenny.

  “I’d hoped we could get together,” said Jane. “I’m trying to find out some things about Linda. For her daughter.”

  “Oh no,” said Robin. “I don’t want to meet you. And I won’t call you again. Mostly, I want to know who you are and what you want. You can’t be part of the Fellowship. Are you?” She sounded a little hysterical.