Nonchalantly, she strolled toward the office, having already decided that if anybody interrupted her during her search, she would just say she had forgotten her notebook and come back to get it. She had even had the presence of mind to bring it with her, just in case. And if it turned out that the doctor was still there, she could always pretend that she wanted to ask him a few more questions. It was a simple-enough plan and it even had a nodding acquaintance with the truth. After all, she was just doing a little more research for the article.
“You call it research, I call it snooping,” warned her mother’s voice. “Remember, curiosity killed the cat.”
But Joyce shrugged off the little prickle of apprehension that ran up and down her spine, and continued on her way. When she got to the door of the office she listened first to see if there was any sound coming from within. But it seemed quiet—no voices, anyway. And so, bucking up her courage, she knocked firmly on the door and waited. There was no answer. She knocked again, even more firmly this time and, when no response came, she decided it was safe to try the handle.
For a fleeting moment she found herself hoping the door would be locked, and she could at least tell Harry she had tried. But the handle turned easily and, opening the door a few inches, she stuck her head around it and called out.
“Hello.… Dr. Voight? Dr. Voight, it’s Joyce Redmond, may I come in?”
But her query struck the only human note in an otherwise deserted room.
“So far, so good,” she muttered to herself, moving inside and closing the door behind her.
She stood by the door for a few seconds and glanced around the room. Where to start? There were no filing cabinets, so she decided that the desk looked like the best bet and started toward it.
Other people’s empty rooms were so different from your own, she reflected, as she tip-toed across the tiled floor. You’re always waiting for something to happen. For someone to suddenly appear. Another shiver of apprehension slithered up her spine and she turned around to make sure no one was standing in the doorway watching her play Nancy Drew.
“I’m getting too old to be an investigative reporter,” she said out loud.
However, secure in the knowledge that she was quite alone, she examined the desk. It had five drawers. Two deep ones on either side and a shallower one which ran the width of the desk top. She began with the bottom left-hand drawer, reasoning that if she did get interrupted in the middle of her search, she could always say she had dropped something on the floor while looking for her lost notebook.
But her search of the bottom drawers proved somewhat less than exciting. The drawers on both sides of the desk contained nothing but blue bookkeeping ledgers, and the ledgers contained nothing but columns of numbers.
She opened one that was labelled “Accounts Payable—Kitchen” on the outside, just to make sure they were what they said they were, and quickly read down the last column of entry—“Lettuce $525, Mushrooms $346, Tomatoes $278.” She scanned the rest of the column, trying to imagine what $525 worth of lettuce looked like. The only interesting thing here was that all the invoices were marked “30 days past due.” Whatever the doctor was up to, it was not paying bills. She closed the book and replaced it in the drawer.
Next she opened the drawer on the right hand side that sat just below the top drawer. Inside were a few files, containing more unpaid bills, mostly for utilities and fuel, some paper clips, tape and … something that looked official.
“Bingo,” she said, reaching for the letter.
She was just about to open it up when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw what had been lying beneath it. A blue velvet box.
Blue velvet boxes tend to look out of place in desk drawers, and Joyce felt immediately that whatever was in the box might be a lot more interesting than what was in the letter. So she put the letter down and gingerly extracted the box from its corner.
It felt heavy and looked expensive the way that boxes which contain pricey pieces of jewellery usually do. Joyce took a deep breath and snapped open the catch on the lid. Then she took another breath without exhaling the first.
“Wow!”
Lying on a cushion of pale blue silk was the heaviest-looking gold ID bracelet she had ever seen. And on the smooth gold surface which was usually reserved for initials were two set in a one-inch script of pavé diamonds: L.B.
L.B.? She pulled the bracelet out of the box. It was even heavier than it looked. She turned it over. On the reverse side of the band was an inscription. “To Lover Boy from Lady Bug.”
“L.B. Lover Boy? Lady Bug? Either way, it’s pretty sickening,” said Joyce, slipping the bracelet back into its blue silk nest. But, just as she snapped the box shut and was returning it to the drawer, and before she could dwell on the taste or implications of what she had found, the hairs on the back of her neck told her she had company.
Slowly, without turning around, she managed to slip her own notebook into the open top drawer as well. Only then did she let herself look up.
Standing in the center of the room was a little man in a black suit with a white shirt and a black-and-grey striped tie. His black hair was slicked back in a fashion which screamed of the 1920s, and he wore a small, black moustache.
Joyce was so jumpy that her first thought was, My god, its Hitler! But her second was, But he’s been dead for forty years. She wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse.
Seeing that he had her attention, the little man clicked his heels and made a slight bow from the waist. “I am Mittlehoff.”
Joyce nodded. “Uh, good morning, I mean … afternoon uh … I am Joyce. Joyce Redmond … uh Allan … uh Redmond-Allan.” Joyce wasn’t sure if she had been caught in the act or not. Who was this? He wasn’t one of the guests, that was for sure. And he certainly didn’t look like one of the staff, either.
Seeing that his statement had elicited no sign of recognition from the woman behind the desk, he continued: “I am here for the doctor?” His face was polite but expressionless.
“The doctor. Ah yes, well, this is his office.”
Mittlehoff glanced around the room.
“But he’s not here at the moment.” Joyce waved a hand toward the door. “He’s out … having lunch.”
“Lunch?” Mittlehoff looked at his watch. “Ah, lunch. I see. And you are his secretary?” He inclined his head slightly to the right.
“I am … uh, I was uh … just looking for my notebook.” Joyce laughed nervously. “I ah … left it here this morning.” She laughed again and let her glance drift over the open drawer. “Oh here it is! Right under my nose.” She scooped the book out of the drawer and edged toward the door.
“I’ll tell the doctor you’re here … if I see him.” She reached the door, flung it open and ran straight into the doctor.
“Miss Redmond, what …?”
“Uh, Dr. Voight! Hello, forgot my notebook. Uh … there’s a man … waiting to see you.” She waved the notebook in the general direction of the interior of the office, and then, taking advantage of the doctor’s distraction, dashed down the path and didn’t slow down until she reached the pool.
Later that afternoon, a small dinghy approached the yacht which had been anchored in a cove just off the north end of St. Christophe since the previous evening.
“Ahoy, the Lady Bug,” shouted the man who had identified himself as Mittlehoff, flapping his oars like an inverted turtle as he attempted to bring the dinghy about. “Mittlehoff requesting permission to come aboard.”
“Ahoy, already,” called a young, blond man of about twenty-five who was wearing nothing but a pair of white shorts and a deep tan, as he scampered down the steps on the side of the yacht to steady the dinghy and help the little man on board.
“You don’t have to go through that ‘Mutiny on the Bounty’ routine every time, Mittlehoff. We know who you are.”
The man ignored him and clambered up the steps.
“Where is the baroness?”
“
Oh yeah. She said she wanted to see you the minute you came on board. She’s in the aft salon.” Then he lowered his voice a little and came closer. “You’d better hurry up. She’s in one of her moods again.”
“The baroness’s moods are none of your concern, young man.”
“Oh, is that right? Well, that’s not what she told me last night.” And the young man with the surfer smile laughed as Mittlehoff pursed his pale lips and scuttled off toward the aft salon.
She was lying on the sofa, a vision of well-preserved wealth in a white lace caftan. Her blond hair shimmered around her shoulders, vying for the light with a pair of perfect 18-carat yellow diamonds that dangled from her ears.
“Mittlehoff! Where have you been?” she demanded, the minute he arrived.
“I’m sorry for the delay, Baroness. I … I.”
“I don’t intend to listen to you snivelling all afternoon. There are only two excuses for being late. And since the first one couldn’t possibly apply to you, and you don’t appear to have been in a train wreck, either, there is no excuse. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Baroness.”
“Here, get me another one of these.” She waved her glass at him and he came and took it from her.
“Did you do as I told you?”
“Yes, Baroness.” He replenished the glass from a pitcher of Bellinis that sat on the bleached-ash bar.
“And what did he say?”
Mittlehoff brought her the glass.
She snapped her fingers. “Napkin, Mittlehoff. Napkin.”
Mittlehoff returned with the cocktail napkin.
“Well, don’t just stand there quaking in your shoes. Tell me what he said.”
“Well, I said what you told me to say. And he said, over his dead body. And then I said that you said that that could be arranged and uh.…”
“And then what did he say?”
Mittlehoff turned scarlet to the roots of his slicked-back hair. “I can’t re-repeat what he said then.”
The baroness sat up. “Stop quivering, man, and tell me what he said!”
Mittlehoff swallowed hard. “He said … ah … he said … ‘Tell the old cow to go fuck herself.’ I’m sorry, Baroness.”
“Oh shut up, Mittlehoff!” She stood up, towering over the little man who shrank visibly at the sight of her, and began to pace the room.
“The old cow, is it? Well this old cow is about to take the bull by the horns. And he isn’t going to like it, I can promise you that.”
She turned to face him. “I want you to go back to the island, tonight. And this is what I want you to do.…”
Chapter 21
The following day lunch was served al fresco on the cedar deck that curved around the narrower end of the spa’s free-form pool.
Joyce, who had just come from a session where she had been dipped neck to toe in hot wax and left to harden, was feeling understandably a little claustrophobic. She was delighted, therefore, with the idea of eating out in the open. In fact, the more open the better.
In the brilliant tropical sunlight, with a mass of yellow- and-pink striped umbrellas shading the filigreed white iron furniture, the deck looked like a quaint café transplanted from the south of France. It also looked deserted, and Joyce felt a pang of disappointment. She hadn’t seen Cliff since the day before yesterday, and in that time had managed to convince herself that because she had turned him down, he was now making an effort to avoid her. This, of course, made her want to see him all the more.
The meals were laid out on beds of slivered ice, according to the menu plan. Since no one seemed to be around to serve, Joyce decided to help herself. She debated for a few minutes, before settling on a raddichio salad with chilled breast of pheasant, goat cheese, and warm, wild mushroom dressing, followed by fresh fruit, and a glass of lemon water. Total, 270 calories.
She carried the tray of food over to a table that looked out across the pool and sat down. No exercise classes were in progress. It was quiet, peaceful. She sat back for a minute, savoring the scene. Her eyes wandered briefly in the direction of the tennis courts, but her ears told her to forget it. There was no thwack-thwack of lobbing tennis balls so, wherever Cliff was, it wasn’t there.
She decided to try to turn her mind back to work, and began once more to evaluate and discard the various possibilities to account for what she had seen in the doctor’s office.
First of all, there were an awful lot of unpaid bills. That could mean either that someone was slacking off in the accounts payable department or there was some sort of a cash-flow problem, or there was no cash-flow problem but the doctor or whoever was doing something else with the money besides paying the bills. Then, there was that godawful piece of jewellery. Who was Lover Boy? The doctor? And if that was the case, who was Lady Bug? And why did she have such bad taste? And then of course there was the Hitler clone from Central Casting who called himself Mittlehoff. The German Connection? She shook her head. The pieces were not falling into place.
She was halfway through the salad and only slightly further into her list of questions, when Maxine waved on her way to the buffet. Joyce automatically waved back, realizing she was now about to have company. She sighed and chewed on a piece of the raddichio. “The sharp bitterness of the purple leaves made an interesting contrast to the sweet succulence of the pheasant and the fungial fruitiness of the mushroom dressing.” Or at least that’s the way Naomi would have written it, if she were here. Which she should have been, instead of me, thought Joyce, as she watched Maxine pick her way between the tables.
Harry’s wife put her tray down on the opposite side of the table. “So what’s the matter? You look a little pale.”
“I’m sitting in the shade,” replied Joyce, in defense. She was getting a little fed up with people telling her she looked tired and pale.
Maxine nodded. Briefly they inspected each other’s food. Maxine had selected cold blueberry soup and a crab quiche with string beans on the side.
“That looks good,” said Joyce, for the want of something better to say.
“I’ve got brooches that are bigger than this,” Maxine pointed her fork at the quiche. “But it’s only 310 calories. How do they do it? That’s not even one of my knishes.”
“I know what you mean,” replied Joyce. “Mine was only 260. I can get that many calories in a cup of capuccino at home.”
Maxine took a spoonful of the soup. “A little too much lemon. You want a taste?”
“No, no thank you.” Joyce shook her head to refuse the offered spoon. “Do you like to cook?”
“I’m compulsive. Do you cook?”
Joyce shook her head. “Not if I can avoid it.”
“A wife who doesn’t cook! What did your husband say?”
“Thank you.” Joyce forked up a piece of “fungial fruitiness.”
“With me cooking is like breathing. It’s second nature. I make everything from scratch,” said Maxine, with obvious pride.
Joyce nodded as if she understood, even though her only experience in making anything from scratch was the odd time, usually just before her period when, overcome by a craving for something sweet, she went to the trouble of adding water to a chocolate chip “Snack-n-Cake” mix. It was her idea of baking. You even got to use the box as the baking pan.
“It’s a thankless job, let me tell you. My son, God bless him, prefers to eat out these days, and my Harry.…” She sighed. “Who knows where he eats anymore?”
I do, thought Joyce.
“So there’s usually only me and the NBC Evening News. If it wasn’t for Tom Brokaw, I’d be eating alone.” She took a bite of the quiche. “So smooth, like velvet. Have a piece.”
But Joyce shook her head. “It’ll clash with my pheasant.”
Maxine nodded, and then paused for a second. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure. Go ahead. Ask.” Joyce mentally crossed her fingers. Please don’t let it be something I don’t want to hear.
“The other night y
ou said you were getting a divorce. Remember?”
Joyce swallowed. Feelings of apprehension began welling up inside her on a collision course with the piece of pheasant that was at that same moment on its way down.
Maxine continued. “What I want to know is.… How did you know?”
“How did I know what?” Joyce could hardly get the words out because the pheasant was stuck in her esophagus.
“How did you know that your marriage was kaput? And how did you know that divorce was the thing to do?”
Oh boy, thought Joyce, I don’t want to deal with this. She obviously wants me to help her make the decision to leave Harry. But breaking up Harry’s marriage wasn’t part of my assignment. She swallowed again, and the pheasant ran smack into the apprehension. Joyce started to choke.
“Here, have a sip of water. Have two.” Maxine jumped up from the table and whacked Joyce so hard on the back that she felt her eyes rattle. But she gratefully accepted the water and took a long sip.
Maxine sat down again. “Better?”
“Much better, thank you,” croaked Joyce.
Maxine picked up where she had left off. “Also.… You’re sure you don’t mind talking about this?”
Joyce shook her head and took another sip of water.
“Your husband … is he going to support you?” She shrugged. “My mother used to say that it’s not that money makes everything good, but no money makes everything bad. Now I know what she meant.”
“Look, uh Maxine. I uh.…”
But Harry’s wife wasn’t listening. “Funny how you never think about money when you’re going to get married, but when you’re thinking about divorce, it comes up all the time.”
“I’m sure that Har … I mean your husband would never let you go without. I mean he hasn’t up to now, has he?” But Joyce was thinking about Harry screaming into the phone that he wasn’t going to give Maxine any more money. “After all, he paid for you to come here, didn’t he?”
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