by Joan Smith
“Who would that be—in Toronto, I mean?"
“He has a friend at the Royal Conservatory, a Dr. Bitwell, who's the country's top expert. All right, so Bitwell tells him he got stung. Then he'd go to the police,” I said, with admirable restraint. “Or at least back to the man he bought it from."
“Do you think the guy would be dumb enough to still be there?"
“He wouldn't just run away and leave his antique shop."
“Maybe he doesn't have a shop. Maybe Victor just met him somewhere—at a party, or something."
“Oh really, Sean! This is becoming more ridiculous by the minute. This isn't Raymond Chandler; it's convoluted enough to be Hercule Poirot or Sherlock Holmes."
“Just hear me out, will you?” he asked stiffly. “We'll assume Bitwell told him the thing is stolen—he'd like to get his money back, but maybe he'd like even better just to keep the violin for himself. For a while anyway,” he added quickly when I blasted him with a blistering glare. But I didn't interrupt verbally.
“Maybe he just wants to cuddle and play the thing for a day or so,” Sean continued.
“Not at the price of a couple of hundred thousand bucks. He'd have gone straight to the police and reported it."
“Well, he didn't, so we can rule that out,” Sean insisted.
“We can rule out this whole fabrication. You've OD'd on detective stories, Sean. You're hallucinating."
“I admit it's only a theory,” he said defensively. “Of course, where it breaks down is when he learns the thing is stolen."
“It broke down long before that if you ask me. And you've left out the most important fact that Victor is missing.” Something began fomenting in my head, which must have left some trace on my face as Sean was regarding me peculiarly.
“What is it?” he asked.
“That's why he was kidnapped!” I exclaimed, not a shout, but a shocked whisper. “Whoever he bought the damned thing from followed him and knew he was getting it authenticated when he went to the conservatory. He kept following him till he got the chance to steal the violin back, but Victor wouldn't give it up, so he had to steal my uncle too."
I stopped, waiting for Sean to tell me I was crazy. He sat, nodding in total agreement. “But when he kidnapped him, he found out he didn't have the violin, and he's been looking for it ever since!” The whole incident reeled around in my head, as sharp as though I were seeing it on the screen. The clues fell into place so neatly I forgot for the moment that the whole thing was founded on quicksand.
Sean seemed to follow this crabbed reasoning with no difficulty. “Exactly,” he said, nodding his head. “What isn't quite so clear is where the violin got to."
“That's right, because if any of this is true, Victor must have had the violin he bought in the case when he went to see Dr. Bitwell."
“Bitwell!” Sean exclaimed triumphantly. “That's where Victor left it."
“The running shoes suggest he took the violin out at the Casa Loma."
“No, it only suggests he took an empty case into the Casa Loma. He left the Strad with Bitwell before he went to visit you. You've got to give Bitwell a call, Cassie."
But before I did, I wanted to rethink our mad story. How exactly had we got off on this track? It all began with Sean's idea that Victor had bought a stolen Stradivarius, and there was not one single shred of actual evidence that he'd done anything of the sort. I gently pointed this out to him, but it didn't budge him an iota.
“What's it going to cost to phone the guy?” he urged.
“If he had the violin, or even if Victor had been to see him, don't you think he would have called me, or the police? Or is he another of the covetous ones who wants to keep it for himself?"
“Hey, he could be! I never thought of that!” He smiled benignly on my brilliant inventiveness. “Or it could be that Bitwell's the one they've contacted about the ransom. I mean if they know he has the violin, and they would know if they made Victor talk...” He let it hang menacingly. Visions of a poor, tortured Victor rose up like something out of a horror movie.
“I'll make the call,” I said. There was no answer at the conservatory, but Bitwell was in the phone book, so I called his house. There was no answer there either. “I'll call back tomorrow.”
“First thing in the morning,” he added, shaking a peremptory finger at me.
“I will call, because I'd feel guilty if I didn't, but I don't believe Bitwell will even know what I'm talking about. Victor was being blackmailed—that's what I think. I don't know what he did, but it makes more sense than thinking he's dumb enough to buy a stolen Stradivarius violin."
Sean relented into a smile. “It won't do any harm to call."
“Even if you're right, which you're not, it still doesn't account for the fact that my uncle's own del Gesù is missing. Where is it in all this tale? He was taking it to Roy Thomson Hall. That's what he had in that violin case that was suddenly full of my Adidas."
“He took the money in the case to buy the Stradivarius, and after he bought it, he put the Strad in the case,” Sean explained patiently, as though to an idiot. “Or possibly he gave the del Gesù plus the money in exchange for the Stradivarius. The very fact that it's missing points that way. Yeah, that'd account for it.” He appeared perfectly satisfied now, all the little ragged ends tucked into place.
“That violin was his wife. He wouldn't trade it in on a different one."
“I believe you mentioned your uncle is divorced?” I resisted the impulse to dash my coffee in his smug face.
“He wouldn't plan to play the Strad the very day he bought it. He'd want a few weeks to get used to the feel of it and work it into prime voice. He didn't sell the del Gesù the day of a big concert. And besides, whoever sold the Stradivarius to him must have known he'd want to have it authenticated. So why follow him and steal it back?"
“Maybe he didn't expect Victor to get it looked at so fast. If he'd waited a day or two, the guy that sold it to him would have had time to disappear. Why don't we hike over to that conservatory and see Bitwell in person tomorrow?” he suggested.
“Why not? It's your idea. You can share the ignominy of Bitwell's outrage when I suggest he'd been hiding a priceless instrument that doesn't belong to him."
“You'll feel different if he has it though, won't you?” he asked, trying to cajole me into a better mood.
“I'll feel nonplussed."
Sean set down his empty cup. “It's getting late."
“What time do you want to go to the conservatory tomorrow?"
“What time does it open?"
“Nine, I think."
“I'll pick you up at eight-thirty."
I got up to accompany him to the door. He took my hands in his and gave me an encouraging smile. I knew his story was foolishness, but I still appreciated that he was trying, in his goofy way, to help.
“I decided not to switch to the Park Plaza after all,” he said. “It's a pretty ritzy place—charges a fortune. The Delta Inn's more my league."
“Is that where you're staying?"
He pulled out a key. I was becoming as sneaky as he was. I got a glimpse of the number while it dangled from his fingers. It was 327.
“Kind of lonesome, going back to an empty room,” he said leadingly, sliding his hands up my arms till he grabbed me above the elbows.
This pass had to come sooner or later. If he'd been anyone else, it would have come sooner. Still, it was a long leap from not even having tried to kiss me to suddenly dropping a hint to stay overnight. I hadn't known Sean long in actual hours—just slightly more than one day, but we'd been together almost constantly and under such unusual circumstances that I felt I knew him fairly well. Well enough to know I could ease him out the door without much trouble.
“If you hurry, you'll have time to do something about it,” I suggested, politely but firmly. “Try the bar."
“What, an old baldie like me? It takes a while for my brand of charm to work.” A low chuckle tr
ailed into my ear as his moustache attacked me. It felt a lot like steel wool or maybe more like a toothbrush. It was a very rough moustache.
Everything about that kiss was hard. His arms felt like the proverbial steel bands, his chest a barrel against me, solid as a tree trunk. I struggled for a few seconds, until I realized he wasn't going to give way without an undignified skirmish. Something had activated his libidinous instincts, and he drew one of my arms around him, while holding me tightly with the other.
Sean may have been made of steel and wood—I was only flesh and blood. The usual chemical reactions occurred. My heart fluttered to a faster beat and a warmish glow suffused me. After the battering my emotions had taken the past day, it felt good to have a man's arms around me, infinitely tender arms, too, despite their strength. Without quite knowing how I knew it, I knew Sean wouldn't persist if I were really unwilling. If I had simply said “no", he would have stopped, so I didn't say it.
My fingers were discovering interesting contours and textures of his back. There were bulges of hard muscle and valleys lined with bones, a gulley like a small canyon that was his spine. There was a flare of tendon out to shoulders bent around me.
We kissed with his bristly moustache tickling my upper lip, and I wondered in some corner of my brain if I could get used to the intrusion of so much hair into our kisses, or whether I should charm him into shaving it. Suddenly the moustache slipped from notice. It was his lips, tensing to a demanding firmness, and the emotions within me that took my full attention. Something inside me was melting away, leaving a puddle of warm butter where vital organs should be. The knees, too, were becoming wobbly. When Sean's fingers began a geographical exploration of their own, focusing more on the front of my anatomy than the back, I decided to quell the bonfire, before it got out of control.
I pulled away and looked at him, suddenly shy. Me, I mean. He didn't look shy at all. He looked hungry—not for food. His eyes devoured me.
“Thanks for everything, Sean,” I said heartily, stepping back. He caught both hands and held them.
“You're welcome. I've got lots more to give whenever you're in a taking mood."
“How Shakespearean!” He didn't know when I was complimenting him and when I was giving the needle. He gave an uncertain look, unsure of my meaning. I kissed him on the nose and pulled back as he tried to slide his lips around to intercept it.
“I'm bushed. I'll see you at eight-thirty tomorrow. Come early if you like, and I'll scramble us some eggs."
He squeezed my fingers and had the self-control not to mention tonight's dinner and who had prepared it. “Eight?"
“Fine."
Another quick, fierce kiss and he was gone with a last reminder to lock the door. I felt very lonesome as I slid on the chain and rather frightened. I'd been entertaining the idea of asking him to stay on the sofa, but once you've kissed a man and explored his back, such an invitation would certainly be misunderstood, so I just hoped nobody came calling that night and went straight to bed. I set the alarm for seven, planning to tidy the kitchen and start breakfast before Sean arrived at eight.
My weary brain wanted something nice to think about in bed, so I thought of Sean and the kiss. Nice as it was, more important thoughts of Victor soon eased in to the back of my mind. Nothing had changed, yet suddenly here I was concentrating my attention on a Stradivarius violin that existed only in Sean's highly active imagination. I had promised to go to see Dr. Bitwell, which was patently a waste of time. I should be doing something more germane, though what that something was, I really had no idea.
I could talk to his friends, try to find out why Victor was being blackmailed. Nothing else could account for piling up cash. It was either blackmail, or he was planning a flight. Did he owe taxes? Now there was something to check up on tomorrow. Maybe he owed thousands of dollars, and planned to nip off instead of paying them. Having chiseled on his taxes was exactly the sort of thing Victor would do. I'd discuss it with Sean tomorrow, after Bitwell threw us out of his office.
CHAPTER 10
I know I set the alarm for seven. I have a very distinct memory of pinching my fingers on the little brass key that's too small to hold on to. It just failed, that's all. I awoke to the rattle of the front door being kicked, while shouts and profanities roared through it.
I leapt a foot from bed and ran to peek out the little hole. Sean looked fit to be tied. His western hat was all askew, and he held some brown bags in his arms, which explained why he was kicking the door rather than beating it. He was with the doorman, who at that very moment was unlocking the door with his master key. The chain was all that kept them both from a view of me in nothing but a short nightie.
“Wait!” I hollered. “Let me get a housecoat."
“Cassie, are you all right?” Sean shouted.
“I'm fine."
There were apologetic mutters to the doorman, and when I got back with a housecoat on, there was a man who didn't know whether he was more embarrassed or angry or grateful.
“I'm terribly sorry, Sean. I set the alarm for seven, but it didn't go off."
Then the damned thing decided to work. A keening, brazen ringgggg went on and on till I ran into the bedroom to silence it. When I turned back to the bedroom door, Sean was there, arms akimbo, perusing my legs. He had finally decided on his feeling. He was smiling, albeit reluctantly, at the fact that I had miscalculated and set the alarm for eight.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he said. “I was sure you'd disappeared too. I had to convince Hans—that's the doorman—that you were dead, and convinced myself into the bargain."
“Wishful thinking."
His eyes continued to leisurely exploration of what the housecoat revealed, and concealed, for that matter. “That's not my wishful thought at this very moment,” he parried.
“I'm dying for some coffee, too,” I said and smiled annoyingly.
“Did you know Hans has keys to all the doors?” he asked. “He's bonded and researched and all sorts of things. A regular Caesar's wife. Besides, he's a big fan of Victor's.” Although I talked about Hans, what I was really noticing was the glow of concern, or love, that was beating down on me when Sean said I'd scared the hell out of him. It was practically a declaration of love; I felt warm and shining all over.
“I look ghastly. Give me a minute to pull myself together.” I brushed the tousled hair out of my face, and yanked my housecoat belt more tightly around me.
“You're wrong; you look great,” he said, still glowing.
“Considering that you were expecting to see a corpse."
“You look just the way I thought you'd look in the morning. I'll put on water."
“No!” I shouted, so fiercely that he jumped. “I haven't cleaned up the kitchen. I went straight to bed last night. Oh, darn it, I wanted to have everything nice."
He lunged forward and put an arm around me to pull me against his hip. “You're safe, and that's pretty nice for starters after the scare you gave me. Go on, make yourself decent while I start on the kitchen. I'll just pretend I'm your husband. I'll scramble you some eggs."
My vitals were melting again. Where had this paragon come from? “How'd you know I like my eggs scrambled?"
“Alimentary, my dear Watson."
“Sheer luck, Holmes."
“No, you said last night you'd scramble me some. I noticed you only had one left, so I brought a dozen and some Canadian bacon. We were getting low on cream too. I switched us to half and half. Less calories for you."
“We women should take up a collection and have you cloned."
“I kind of like being unique,” he smiled, “as long as I'm appreciated.” Emboldened by my praise, he risked a pat on my hind quarters before he left.
I had a two-minute shower and hurried into my second best cotton dress, a black and white striped affair that Victor calls my zebra dress. Actually it's quite cute, a wraparound with big patch pockets in the front. By the time I got my damp hair pulled into a chigno
n and put a smear of makeup on, I could smell the bacon. The aroma was driving me crazy.
“You're a doll,” I said to reward him. Sean had cleared the table and stacked the dishwasher, too, so I kissed him on the ear.
“Save those goodies for when the toast isn't going up in smoke. That doesn't mean don't do it. Just don't do it now,” he said over his shoulder.
He looked very much at home in a kitchen, pulling the toast out while stirring the eggs with his other hand. He moved with the precise, smooth motions of a trained cook. I scanned his preparations and couldn't find anything to do but pour orange juice and put the cream on the table. While he finished the eggs, timed to be done when the bacon was ready, I poured the coffee.
“These eggs are so nice and fluffy!” I complimented between gobbles. “And the bacon is lovely too. Where'd you learn to cook?"
“I do most of my own cooking. You get tired of eating out."
“I thought you lived with your mother!"
“What made you think that? I'm thirty-one years old, Cassie. A bit long in the tooth to be living with Momma.” A glint in his eye told me this was a crack at Ronald. “You know, before we set out for the conservatory, maybe we should give Bitwell a call at home. He might not get to work till eleven or some damned thing."
“We should check the mail on the way out, too, in case Victor sent himself anything else."
While I cleared the table and did the kitchen, Sean took the key down to get the mail. It was a good thing I phoned Bitwell. He was starting his holidays and going to Muskoka that morning, but he wanted to see me before he left. The note of concern in his voice gave rise to a hope, or fear, that he had something to tell us. As he was in a hurry to get away, I ran downstairs and met Sean. He had a few envelopes in his hand, mostly bills, and one letter from Victor's stockbroker.
I opened the letter while Sean drove us to Bitwell's apartment on University Avenue, north of Bloor.
“Maybe he got a hot tip on some stock. Maybe that's why he borrowed all that money,” I said hopefully. “Ronald probably gave him some inside info—he works in that line, you know."