The Opposite of Dark chm-1

by Debra Purdy Kong

  The door to Dad’s old room opened and Vincent stepped out. “Good to see you again, Casey.”

  “You too.” She tried not to look shocked at how much he had aged in three years. His hair was white and his eyes were enveloped in creases, and his hand felt frail and scratchy when she shook it, like crinkled paper that had been flattened out. “Thanks for seeing me this late on a Friday afternoon.”

  “No problem. I’m always here.”

  Casey followed Vincent into the room where the somber sound of a Gregorian chant played. They sat in a couple of easy chairs at the far end of the room.

  “So, you moved into the big room,” she said. “Good plan.”

  “I use both.”

  She sat next to a large, glass tank containing sand, rocks, and thick, leafless branches. A reptile crawled out from behind a branch and she jumped up. “What the hell is that?”

  “A Western skink.”

  “Skink?”

  “It’s a lizard. He’s known for his slender body and bright blue tail.”

  Casey studied the creature. At the top of its tank, a heat lamp was attached to a wire mesh cover. She glanced at the terrariums beside the skink’s home, afraid to look too closely. All of them had heat lamps.

  “So, Vincent, this decor is new.” Casey hoped she sounded more relaxed than she felt. “How many lizards to do you have?”

  “Two dozen; reptiles are less complex than people, and easier to live with. I use the office across the hall for clients who aren’t comfortable near them.”

  Good lord, weren’t there laws about this? She pushed up her sleeves, realizing why it was so warm. “What made you keep them here?”

  “This is my home now. I had to give up my condo to keep the business going.”

  “I take it things haven’t been easy?”

  “No.”

  Given Vincent’s pets, musical taste, and this god-awful heat, Casey wasn’t surprised.

  “There’s a little profit coming in now.” He glanced at his clasped hands. “I work six and a half days a week, when I can manage it. Even have a part-time employee. And I like working with this menagerie close by.” Vincent smiled. “If I don’t like someone, I can bring out Sydney.”

  “Sydney?”

  “My papa iguana; he’s a beauty. Just don’t wear a hat when you’re around him. Sydney hates hats.”

  Casey glanced at the closed door while another Gregorian chant began to play, this one even more somber than the last.

  “Aside from the bizarre news about Marcus,” he said, “how’s life been treating you?”

  Casey briefly described her breakup with Greg and her residency at Rhonda’s place. When she switched to the subject of Dad, Vincent’s gaze shifted to the terrariums.

  “I don’t know what to say about all this. It’s unbelievable.” Vincent adjusted a strap on the sandals Casey had always seen him wearing. “You want some coffee? The pot should be ready.”

  “That’d be great, thanks.” On second thought, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be left alone in lizard-land.

  Vincent pushed himself up from the chair, as if the gesture required effort. Dad once told her that Vincent had health problems, but she couldn’t recall the details. As he left the room, Casey listened to a depressing music for ten long seconds before she sought a distraction. Cautiously, she approached the terrarium next to the skink and peered through the glass.

  The creature inside looked like a tiny dinosaur. About twenty-five inches long, its squat body was covered in spines. Horns projected back from a fringe behind its head. The beast’s brownish yellow body blended fairly well with the sand.

  Casey strolled toward Vincent’s desk, where small terrariums sat on shelves behind his chair. Terrain inside the tanks varied from rocky deserts to miniature forests and jungles. All of the cages had water dishes, boxes, and makeshift hiding spots. Many had bowls of fresh vegetables. She looked tentatively through the nearest glass and spotted five bright green baby iguanas. Okay, these creatures weren’t so bad. The lizards with brownish bands on their backs in the next tank were even smaller.

  Casey started toward the cages under the window at the front of the house when she noticed a cane propped against a chair. Then she remembered. Vincent had multiple sclerosis, though he’d been in remission back then.

  When he entered the room carrying a tray with the coffee things, she offered to help, but he turned her down.

  “Who’s the skink’s neighbor?” she asked.

  “A short-horned lizard that a friend and I caught with a pole and noose in Alberta.” He placed the tray on a table between the chairs. “When Charlie’s threatened, he ruptures a blood vessel in his eye and squirts blood as far as a six feet.”

  “Neat trick,” and totally disgusting.

  Vincent poured the coffee. “How’s Rhonda? Still the world’s greatest cook?”

  “She’s fine, and how do you know about her cooking skills?”

  “She used to bring us picnic baskets filled with chicken and salads and wonderful strudels.”

  “I didn’t know that.” She accepted the mug he handed her.

  “Rhonda hung around a lot waiting for Marcus that last year. A couple of times she showed up, thinking he’d returned from one of his business trips when he hadn’t. She seemed lonely.”

  “Yeah, well, Dad was around less and less. Rhonda said he’d been on lots of business trips. In fact, the last time I saw him was that Christmas. Less than three months later I was arranging his funeral.” She watched Vincent pour a packet of sugar in his coffee. “I know about his import/export business, Vincent. A woman named Simone Archambault told me. Do you know her?”

  “The name’s vaguely familiar.”

  “Simone implied you knew something about this business,” she said, watching his mouth clamp shut, “and I need to know more.”

  “All I did was help Marcus with the bookkeeping now and then. You know how little patience he had for accounting.”

  “Was the business called TZ Incorporated?”

  “Yes.”

  “Simone said his architectural practice wasn’t doing well and that importing was helping him bring in extra cash.”

  “It did that.” He sipped his coffee.

  “How long had he had this sideline?”

  “About fifteen years. By the end it wasn’t a sideline, it was his whole life.”

  The stifling room was making her sweat. “Fifteen years? Are you kidding me?”

  “Afraid not. The more money Marcus made through importing the less interested he was in acquiring new architecture clients or in even designing. He was always taking off somewhere, living the high life.”

  “I don’t frigging believe this.” Casey’s thoughts were reeling. All that time without saying one bloody word to her. “What did he import?”

  Vincent shrugged. “Nothing terribly exotic or illegal, that I know of. Mostly art, rare carpeting, artwork, unusual pieces of furniture, some of it antique.”

  “Then why did he keep it from me?”

  “Truthfully, I think Marcus was embarrassed that his firm was failing; you know how proud he was. Also, for most of those years he was only a courier, a delivery person for someone else.”

  “Theo Ziegler?”

  Vincent nodded. “How did you know?”

  “A little research. The guy’s been following me since the murder and the police want to talk to him.” She watched his gaze drift to the terrariums again. “Do you know the man?”

  “We’ve never met, but we spoke on the phone occasionally, which is also what I told the police.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Just that he was Marcus’s employer and later his partner. They were also good friends, though one day I overheard Marcus arguing on the phone with him about money. I knew it was Ziegler because Marcus called him by name.”

  “When was this?”

  “About six months before he died, maybe longer.” Vincent gazed into hi
s mug. “I tried to convince Marcus to give up importing and return to architecture, but he brushed me off, said he’d sort things out.”

  Casey squirmed in the chair. She didn’t like what she was hearing. “Vincent, how is my mother involved in all this?”

  Vincent blinked at her a couple of times. “Have you been in touch with Lillian?”

  “I emailed her and then she phoned me back. To hear Mother’s voice after all these years was surreal and awkward. When I told her about Ziegler she kind of freaked out and said I should leave town immediately. She asked me to meet her in Paris and she’d explain everything. She also said she knew about the import business, but wouldn’t say how until I saw her in person.” Casey watched him. “What I’m looking for, Vincent, is a heads-up about what’s really going on.”

  Vincent sipped his coffee slowly. “Why Paris?”

  “Probably because it’s one of two places Dad apparently went to most, at least that’s where the postcards and occasional phone call came from. Anyway, I want to talk to medical staff who’d tried to help him, and Mother’s already planned a visit with friends there.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “As soon as the travel agent can book a flight to England, which is my first stop. That reminds me, do you know a man named Daphne Reid?”

  “He was one of Marcus’s regular clients.”

  “I spoke with him last night. He knew about the murder because the police had contacted him, but he played dumb with them because he didn’t want to get involved, or so he said. Reid claims to have a pretty good idea about who killed Dad, but he said he wouldn’t tell me more until he got something in exchange.”

  Vincent nodded. “Marcus had said more than once that Reid was a bit of a weasel.”

  “Dad was supposed to have delivered a pen-and-ink drawing to Reid this week, and now Reid’s pissed because he has a buyer willing to pay double what TZ Inc. paid. I found the drawing in the West Van house, so I’m taking it to him in exchange for information.”

  She’d been embarrassed to ask Lou for the drawing back, but if he was really as relieved as he’d sounded, he was fine with it. Happily, he hadn’t told his mother about the drawing.

  “I asked Mother if she knew Reid, and she said only by his greedy reputation.” Casey added, “But based on everything she’s heard, he’s not violent, just stupid.”

  She didn’t mention that Mother had suggested accompanying her to meet Reid, but Casey wasn’t ready to deal with both of them at once. She still wasn’t sure she wanted to see Mother after all this time, especially when Mother had been so evasive about her reason for being in Geneva and about what she knew about TZ Inc.

  “So, Vincent, what’s the deal with Mother? Is she somehow involved in the import business? After all, she knows Ziegler.”

  Vincent’s expression was about as cheerful as the Gregorian chant. “Wouldn’t it be better if she told you herself?”

  “Mother exceled at leaving out key bits of info, and obviously, she’s still at it. But she’s family, Vincent. If Dad was murdered because of the import/export thing and Mother’s involved, couldn’t she be in danger too? Maybe that’s why she left town right after the murder. So, please tell me everything you know.”

  Vincent stared off into space. “When you were little, Lillian was our record keeper. The firm was struggling, so she brought in extra money by helping clients furnish the homes Marcus designed.” A flicker of blue drew his eye to the tank beside her. “Lillian had a talent for interior design and for finding the right art and fabrics, and for networking, which was how she met Theo Ziegler. Ziegler put Lillian in touch with people who could supply whatever she needed. He also helped eliminate red tape.”

  “When did she meet him?”

  Vincent shifted in his chair. “About twenty years ago.”

  Casey put her coffee down and sat forward. “Twenty years?”

  Vincent nodded. “When Ziegler’s business grew, he hired your mother to deliver goods, pick up checks, that sort of thing. Ziegler’s business kept growing while Marcus’s firm went further into debt, so Lillian got him some courier work. It was supposed to be temporary, but the more Marcus learned about the business, the more fascinated he became. Then five years ago, Ziegler offered him a partnership.”

  “So you ran the firm while Dad played importer? And was Mother a courier all that time?” Casey shook her head.

  “Yes, but she also established her own personnel business. After the divorce your parents rarely saw each other.”

  “I tried calling Dad’s lawyer to see who legally owns the West Vancouver house and contents now, but he’s not listed in the phone book.”

  “The man was this firm’s lawyer, too, and he died months ago.” Vincent watched the skink. “Marcus’s will was drawn up five years before the botulism tragedy. Maybe he never had it changed, which means you’ll inherit everything.” He shook his head and stood, wincing slightly. “I didn’t know Marcus had left the business to me until the lawyer called.”

  “Dad wouldn’t have given the firm to someone he didn’t trust.” Casey followed him to the other end of the room and watched him ease into a chair behind the desk. She wandered past the desk toward the cages beneath the picture window. “Aside from Paris and Geneva, it seems that Dad also spent a fair amount of time in Amsterdam. Does the name Gislinde Van Akker mean anything to you? I have an address for this person, but no other information.”

  “It could be a client, but I don’t really recall.”

  It took a moment before Casey realized she was gazing at a boa constrictor coiled against the glass. She jumped back.

  “None of them are venomous,” Vincent said, and smiled.

  “Good,” but hardly comforting. She sought refuge in the chair in front of his desk. “Did you ever hear the name Gustaf Osterman?”

  “Lillian mentioned him a couple of times. I remember her referring to him as the chameleon, though I don’t know why.”

  “What else did she say about him?”

  “Nothing, really. But her eyes shone whenever she mentioned him, like she was in love.”

  Casey doubted it. Mother hadn’t loved any of her conquests. Casey had told Mother that she’d hoped to find Osterman in Paris, but all Mother said was that they’d talk later.

  “Did the police ask you for a list of Dad’s contacts and clients?”

  “They came and took Marcus’s Rolodex and all the old ledgers we kept on TZ Inc.”

  “I imagine they would.” Casey stood and retrieved her jacket. “If I learn anything useful, I’ll let you know.”

  “All I really want to know is why Marcus faked his death and went underground,” Vincent said.

  “You and me both.” She stopped at the door, “If Dad had come back to reclaim his old life, what would have happened?”

  “I don’t know.” Vincent looked at her. “But I’m too busy and too tired to lose sleep over it.”

  Maybe it was the creepy reptiles. Maybe it was the disturbing chants or simply the lighting, but she thought Vincent’s eyes had adopted a cold-blooded stare and his complexion turned a pale shade of green. Casey hurried out of the room.

  Twelve

  CASEY STUDIED THE half-filled suitcase on her bed. She was thinking about what else to bring when a knock on the door broke her concentration. Before she could move, Rhonda was marching toward her bedroom. Lately, she’d been entering Casey’s suite uninvited, as if Dad’s murder had somehow granted her the right. Casey wanted to remind her that, technically, she was a tenant, not family, but that line had been crossed long ago. Even family members had a right to privacy, though.

  “Summer’s upset about your trip,” Rhonda said.

  “Why? She knows I’ll only be gone two weeks.”

  “Marcus went to Europe and didn’t come back. Summer sees it as a place where bad things can happen.”

  Hard to argue the point, since Casey had her own doubts about leaving. Dad’s life had been all about secret
s. If he’d died because of those secrets, her questions could cause big trouble. And as for trepidation about seeing Mother again after all these years, lord, she didn’t even know how to express it. She hadn’t told Rhonda they’d be meeting and she hadn’t discussed Rhonda with Mother; didn’t want to go there when there were more urgent questions on her mind.

  “I still don’t understand why you have to trek all over Europe looking for answers,” Rhonda said.

  “It’s just three or four places over a two-week period. I’ll be home before you know it.”

  “Hasn’t your passport expired? You’ve had it a while, right?”

  “Only three and a half years, from when I planned to join Dad in Amsterdam the Christmas before he die—disappeared, remember?”

  Rhonda nodded. “What does your supervisor say about all this?”

  “He’s okay with it because Marie can cover for me. Besides, I did a little investigating and figured out what high school the purse thief probably attends, so Stan’s happy.”

  “Are you sure the thief’s a student?”

  “Yep. I compiled a chart that showed the times he strikes, and the pattern definitely fits someone who has to be in class by eight thirty-five, takes lunch between twelve and one, and is out by three.”

  The kid was becoming more predictable all the time. As much as Casey wanted to bust the kid herself, Marie hadn’t made many arrests lately and deserved a chance. Of course, if she succeeded, everyone at Mainland would hear about it for weeks. Still, it couldn’t be helped. When it came to family history research, no one was going to do this for Casey, and the sooner she pursued leads before they vanished, the sooner she’d have answers.

  “Do you want me to talk to Summer?” Casey asked.

  “That would be good. And have you returned Lalonde’s call yet? Does he know you’re going away?”