A Brush with Death

by Joan Smith

  Her strangely impassive face showed a spark of life. “Legitimate movies, yes. Not blue films."

  Knowing her past, I was careful not to denigrate blue films. “A girl has to start somewhere,” I said.

  “I played Juliet once, just in a school play. I wasn't very good, but I enjoyed it. Acting is difficult. Enough bull. Let's get on with the reading,” she said. “Have you got anything to smoke?"

  “I don't smoke."

  “I've got some pot in my room. If you like...” She jumped up, eager to please.

  ''No, I'm fine.''

  “Let's have something to drink,” was her next desire.

  “There's some Scotch..

  “I don't like the hard stuff."

  I didn't like to suggest champagne and whipped cream at ten-thirty in the morning. “Coffee?” I said doubtfully.

  “Great.” She lifted the phone and ordered a pot.

  It was time to begin the reading. “I'll let you establish the aura while we wait,” she suggested. “I'll get the coffee."

  I took my queue and went into John's sitting room, where the reading would occur. I closed the curtains to eliminate distractions, as dictated in my book. Knowing she could see me from the bedroom, I stood still and did some deep breathing, ostensibly to self-energize my mind. I was not so deep into meditation that I failed to hear the coffee arrive, and the delighted thanks when Ayesha handed the guy a tip. My book didn't say anything about having coffee while reading the cards, but apparently Madame Feydeau allowed herself this dispensation, and I did likewise.

  I shuffled and cut the deck five times while Ayesha poured. When I was done, I put the deck on the table, face down. Ayesha, the seeker of knowledge, was supposed to allow me fifteen minutes before she started peppering me with questions.

  “Shall I spread?” I asked.

  “Please. Let's just do a Major Arcana."

  This was music to my ears. I lifted the large, cumbersome deck and sorted out the proper cards. They were very colorful and ornate, with the major figures surrounded by occult symbols. I cut them into three piles to Ayesha's left, with my left hand. This is a strict rule, and holds the key to success. Next I stacked the three piles so that the card on Ayesha's right was on top, also de rigueur. I decided to flip sideways, rather than up and over. Dealer's choice. I chatted as I lay out the spread, to establish rapport with the seeker and the occult forces. My attempts to explain the meaning of the septenaries, the twenty-two cards of the Major Arcana plus The Fool, which I hoped I wouldn't call the Joker, was cut short by an impatient, “Yes, yes. I know all that. Let's get on with it."

  I figured maybe the sheikh would be calling, and she was afraid to be gone for long from her room. “Madame Feydeau uses a circular spread. Can't you use it?” she asked.

  I had laid them out in a line, but I knew real readers stuck to one method, and said, “No, I follow this system."

  Long before the quarter of an hour was up, Ayesha began exclaiming excitedly and shooting questions at me. She seemed youthful and enthusiastic, completely different from when she was with Rashid. “The World comes up first. That never happened before!” she said. “What does it mean? A reward—doesn't it mean a reward?"

  “It's reversed,” I pointed out, surprised she hadn't noticed it, as this card is a nude woman, surrounded by symbols. “It means confusion, destruction—if you're afraid of change,” I added slyly. I meant to impress the need for a change of lifestyle.

  “I love change. I'm due for a change, past due. If only I could get away from Rashid! But he's very influential. Look, the Star is right beside the World, it's not reversed. What does that mean?"

  “Hope, despite difficulties. A new beginning for you."

  “What about Rashid? Dare I leave him?” she asked, with fear glowing in her eyes. Her eyes moved to the Lovers, a naked man and woman, backed by the tree of life. “It's not reversed. That would indicate a rupture, but this means two hearts in harmony. The male is stronger...”

  “But the female has a strong mind too,” I said. “And a decision must be made to find happiness."

  “What about the Hangman? He's the card of happenings,” she said eagerly.

  “He's reversed, and right next to the Lovers,” I said. “That could be...” Disaster! No, I didn't want to talk her out of leaving Rashid. I lit on the High Priestess, right beside the Hangman. “Strong self-reliance here,” I said firmly, and went on to substantiate this by the Empress and her love of creativity, also upright.

  Ayesha returned to the Hangman. “Death—does it mean I'm going to die?” Her soft voice was hushed. She actually believed this stuff.

  “No, Death is the skeleton knight on horseback. And he's not reversed. It means rebirth, a new beginning. Perhaps a new career..."

  “Madame said the reversed Hangman could mean death."

  “Everyone interprets the cards slightly differently. Why should you be afraid of death? You're young and healthy."

  “I'm going to die young,” she said, in a flat, resigned voice, as if she were saying it's December or I'm Irish. Just stating a fact.

  “Did Madame say so?"

  “No, my aunt told me. I used to visit her in London."

  I quickly mussed up the cards. “I wouldn't take all this too seriously, Ayesha. It's just a game."

  She stared as though I were a lunatic. “Fortune-telling was good enough for Plato and Aristotle. It's good enough for me."

  “Plato?"

  “Oh certainly. Pythagoras too."

  “That was a long time ago. They still thought the world was fiat and gods lived on Olympus."

  Ayesha lifted the pot and poured more coffee. Her hand was trembling. She stood up suddenly with her full cup and accidentally sloshed half of it on me. Fortunately it was no longer hot enough to burn, but she'd wrecked my new pinstripe slacks that I couldn't even wash.

  “Oh I'm sorry! So clumsy of me,” she said, and began pulling tissues out of her Gucci purse to blot at me.

  “It's all right; I'll change."

  I made a quick trip to my bedroom and changed slacks. She was still at the table when I returned. Her nerves seemed to have settled down. “When is your uncle coming?” she asked.

  “This afternoon. Would you like to meet him?"

  She was all eyes. “Could I?"

  “I'm sure he'd love to meet you. He has an eye for the ladies."

  “And he knows the movie crowd, you said?"

  “Yes, and they're making a lot of movies in Toronto nowadays."

  She nodded, interested. “Rashid adores the violin, so he won't refuse an invitation. He makes me go to concerts.” But apparently she wouldn't be let out alone where she might meet people other than store clerks. I thought having a go at Rashid might help John and invented a party on the spot. “We're having a little cocktail party to welcome him this evening,” I said. “I do hope you can come."

  “Where, here at the hotel?"

  “Yes—I'll let you know the exact time and place."

  “We're going to dinner at eight-thirty. Some business associates of Rashid's. He'll make me go to that."

  “Yes, we're going out too. It'll be earlier. Around six,” I said vaguely.

  “Super. So where are you going from here?” was her next question, one much to my liking.

  “I hope somewhere for a little skiing; then back to Texas. How about you and Rashid?” I could ask, with no cause for suspicion.

  “London."

  Not skiing? Had Rashid ordered her to lie if anyone asked? “Do you spend a lot of time in Europe?"

  “As much as possible, preferably in Paris, and of course Milan for the shows. Rashid doesn't mind that. He likes Armani himself."

  Ah, then it was fashion shows we were talking about. “Sean prefers Cardin,” I replied, and turned to other Italian goodies. “Do you and Rashid like art, at all? I just wondered, since you mentioned Italy."

  “Rashid has a villa full of paintings on the Riviera. A lot of Picassos an
d the Impressionists."

  “Oh, I love the Impressionists. Who does he collect—Renoir, Monet..."

  She nodded. “The Post-Impressionists too. He adores Van Gogh."

  I was careful not to choke on my coffee. “They're worth millions now,” I said, fully impressed.

  “He can still afford them. He's very rich. But with all that money, he never gives me a penny. Just credit cards,” she sighed.

  “I never heard the sheikh was a collector."

  “He keeps it quiet. Afraid of robbery, I suppose.” She hunched an elegant suede shoulder. “Or perhaps for other reasons. It might be best not to inquire where he got some of the pictures."

  I stored all this up for John and began fishing to discover something about her origins. “Where did you meet him, Ayesha?"

  “In London, I went to school there. My father was attached to the diplomatic corps. I met up with him again later in Paris."

  “Oh, I see.” There went my theory of a deprived childhood. “What nationality are you?"

  “Part Ay-rab,” she said, smiling, “and part Korean, on my mom's side. She's dead."

  “I'm sorry. Has she been dead long?"

  “She committed suicide eight years ago. She was mentally unstable and hated England. I think the fog killed her.” Her crust of indifference was cracking, to show the troubled girl beneath the veneer. Her fingers moved nervously over the tarot cards.

  “What does your dad think of how you live now?"

  She shrugged. “I wouldn't know. I haven't been in touch with him since I ran away from finishing school in Switzerland when I was sixteen, just after Mom's death. I went with a rock star,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “All the girls talked about doing it. I was the only one foolish enough to do it. It seemed a good idea at the time. I only did it to impress the other girls. They were so snooty to a foreigner. Sex and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. You'll do anything when you need a fix. But I'm clean now, except for a little toke once in a while. Shall I get some?"

  Sixteen and eight, she was twenty-four, no longer a delinquent child. But I still had to pity her. She had probably been very attached to her mother and had become a little unstable herself when her mother committed suicide. Her life might be a kind of revenge on her father for having kept his wife in London, which she apparently hated. Ayesha wasn't the first girl to fall victim to sex and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, not necessarily in that order.

  “Not for me, thanks. I guess you really miss your mother at a time like this. Christmas, I mean."

  Ayesha was becoming fidgety. I wondered if it was only an occasional toke she indulged in. She really looked zonked at times. That would account for the air of boredom. She stood up and shrugged. “Christmas was no big deal with us. We're not Christians. Rashid is giving me a Rolls. Bribery—he knows I want to leave him. I did, a while ago. He had me brought back."

  It was hard to know what to reply to this generous tyranny. “Wow! A Rolls! What will you do with it, when you travel so much?"

  “I'd like to leave him and drive to L.A. Look, about Mazzini, if I'm out, you can leave a message at the desk. I'd really like to meet him. I better go now. Thanks for the reading, Cathy."

  She left, and I stood looking at the paneled door. She didn't even remember my name. Had drugs ruined her mind? I'd have to warn Victor the lady was troubled. Maybe she needed psychiatric help, after what she'd been through. I'd try to help her get into a career, but I wouldn't let Victor run any risks in the doing.

  More importantly, I had added a piece to the case. Sheikh Rashid was a collector of paintings, not necessarily come by honestly. If we failed to find the paintings here, the originals would eventually end up in the sheikh's Riviera mansion, from which it would be impossible to rescue them. I was still congratulating myself when John returned around noon.

  He glanced at the table and the two coffee cups and tarot cards. “Company?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow at me.

  “Yes, I gave a reading to a friend."

  “I'm glad to know I'm engaged to an enlightened, educated lady. Don't tell me you believe that stuff?"

  “If it was good enough for Plato..."

  He snorted and glanced at his little overnight bag, which was at the end of the sofa. “I wish you'd keep that thing closed,” he said. “I've got the slides I stole from Bergma in there."

  “I didn't touch them. You must have left it open yourself."

  His look expressed his opinion of this impossible lapse of care. “I hid them under my BVDs and closed the case. I didn't think I had to lock it."

  “But I didn't touch it, John!"

  “Then the maid's been rifling it. I often wondered if they snoop."

  He lifted the case. The slides were sticking up through the underwear, and the case wasn't properly closed. We exchanged a look.

  “Whose fortune were you telling?"

  I gulped. “Ayesha's. And it really worked, John. Rashid has an art collection in a mansion on the Riviera. He collects hot stuff. He practically keeps her prisoner."

  He looked unimpressed. “If you tell me she spilt coffee on you and you had to change..."

  He knew the answer without my having to say anything. “Victor's coming,” I offered, as an apology.

  “Much good it'll do us now! She'll have notified Rashid we're on to him."

  “I'm sure she won't. She doesn't even like him. She wants to leave him,” I said, and revealed all my dark secrets.

  “That's great, honey, but next time...” He looked forlornly at the slides.

  “I didn't know you put them under your undies. What a dumb place to hide them."

  “You're right. I should have warned you and hid the case."

  “I don't think she was interested in the slides at all. She was probably just trying to find out how rich you are. She asked about you."

  “Maybe. Did this talk of Rashid's collection come up before or after she searched my case."

  “After. Now she wouldn't have gone telling me all that if she suspected anything. I bet she didn't even glance at them. She could have taken them if she was suspicious. Maybe she just pulled open the box to see if there was any coke in it. I think she might be an addict. She used to be anyway. It's a tough habit to break."

  John thought about it for a moment. “Well, she wouldn't have told you about Rashid's collection if she was suspicious. What time's Victor arriving?"

  “Three-thirty, at Dorval."

  He glanced at his watch. “Just time for lunch. Gino says there's a nice spot called Tuesday, on Crescent."

  “That's Thursday's. Very nice, and close too. We can walk, in the fur coat."

  “I doubt it'll fit me."

  “True, and you'd probably prefer a sheepskin anyway. You know—wolf, sheep's clothing. Never mind, it wasn't very funny."

  He smiled dutifully and helped me into the fur.

  CHAPTER 13

  After lunch, Menard whisked us out to Dorval Airport, where we had to wait nearly an hour for Victor's plane. All the planes were running late and were crowded to the gills at the busy holiday season. Victor was easy to recognize amidst the throng of hurrying passengers. He looked like some minor European royalty, with his finely chiseled face, topped by a beaver hat. His mink-lined overcoat, rather long, flapped open as he walked. He removed the hat and smoothed his silver hair, while his black, alley-cat eyes scanned the crowd to see if anyone had recognized him. I don't think anyone did, but he's the kind of man you look at twice. Even if you don't know quite who he is, you sense he's somebody.

  There's an air of drama about him. He's still handsome too, for a man his age. His age! He'd hate that description! On him, fifty looks young. He's lean and swarthy enough that his noble features appear tanned in all seasons.

  “Victor! Victor! Over here!” I shouted.

  He spotted me and came barging forward for a bear hug. He smelled delicious. Victor wears zircon “diamonds,” but for his scent, he insists on the genuine thing. After a flurry o
f “Merry Christmas” and “How are you?” and “How was your trip?” we decided to wait in the bar till the departing crowd thinned. Not that it would really, but it made a good excuse to go to the bar. That interest in the stomach must run in the family. The pit stop was Victor's suggestion.

  “It'll give John a chance to tell me what the hell's going on,” Victor said, leading us all merrily off in the wrong direction. There was a blonde in Godiva-like tresses down to her swinging rump a few paces ahead of him. Another of Victor's little weaknesses.

  I squeezed his arm and headed him toward the bar. “Easy on the sauce, Uncle,” I whispered. Victor has been known to imbibe more than is good for him.

  “Sauce bedamned. It's a cigar I want. They don't let you smoke on the plane."

  We ordered coffee, and Victor assuaged his urge for a Havana. “I shouldn't have coffee, with my high blood pressure,” he said, “but since I've been ordered to cut down, I crave it more than ever. Why couldn't broccoli be bad for you?"

  I ordered decaf and switched my cup with his, assuming it was the caffeine that was restricted.

  His black eyes sparkled like diamonds. “A sheikh, an oriental porn queen, a murder, forged Van Goghs, a dire plot to swindle a museum—it doesn't sound too boring,” he nodded.

  “And now a world-class violinist to lend us a touch of class,” I added.

  “Best of all, I stay free at the Ritz. Ha ha.” This brought not only a smile but a burst of delighted laughter. Right in the middle of it, his lips closed and a frown drew his brows together. “Where'd you get that coat?” he demanded. For about twenty seconds, I noticed a resemblance to my mother, who is about as unlike her brother Victor as it is possible for two siblings to be.

  John flew to my defense. “It's rented. I'm posing as a Texas oilman. Cassie's my..."

  “Secretary!” I threw in hastily. Oh dear, the adjoining rooms! I must remember to lock the door while Victor was around.

  “Rented? Deductible, I suppose?” he asked John.

  “Right, and the diamonds you'll be seeing tonight are paste."