by Clea Simon
There was no need. He was waiting, sitting at a table by the window. As I walked up from the parking area, I could see him, as I was sure he’d intended. The place was French, the chef from the city. And the candles on the table were supposed to give a romantic glow to the room. From outside, though, they did little to soften the angles of that face. If anything, the dim lighting made for more shadows, and his deeply set eyes were cloaked in darkness.
As I stood there, he turned toward the window. I froze. It was dark out. The paved path lit only by a series of low Japanese lanterns. There was no chance he could see me, little chance he could see anything beyond his own reflection. Still, for a moment, I had a sudden desire to flee. My car was only a short walk away. I owed this man nothing. Just then he smiled, though, and I had the strongest sense that not only could he see me, he could sense my hesitation. My, call it what it was, my fear. And that was too big a challenge. I took the last few steps to the door and came in out of the night.
“Ms. Marlowe.” He stood, of course, reaching to take my hand as the maître d’ pulled out my chair. I used the chair as an excuse not to give it to him. In part, I thought he might kiss it, and I wouldn’t be sure how to respond. In part—that scene by the window—I had an eerie feeling about him touching me. A feeling like he would be able to pick up too much of what I was thinking, as if he were more akin to Wallis than to a man like Jim Creighton.
“Thank you for joining me.” He dipped his hand, turning the rejection into a gesture of welcome. “Please.”
A waiter came over with a balloon glass, filling it from a bottle I hadn’t seen.
“I took the liberty of ordering.” Benazi raised his own glass. “The chef has a decent cellar. Of course, if you’d prefer a cocktail…”
“No, this will be fine.” I took a sip. Nice. “Thanks.” As I replaced the goblet on the table, the movement of the wine within caught the candlelight and pulsed like blood. “So, what brings you to town, Bill?” I wasn’t going to be lulled by all these classy appurtenances. Benazi was as civilized as Wallis, underneath his smooth exterior.
His raised eyebrow acknowledged this. “Always business with you, isn’t it, Ms. Marlowe?”
“Please, it’s Pru.” Something about his honesty was charming. “And, well, I have to admit, it was strange to hear from you. Or maybe not so strange…” I drank a little more. The wine was good, and it gave me a reason to stop talking and observe him.
He nodded, again, as if I’d confirmed something for him. “What is it you do, exactly, Ms.—Pru?”
“I’m a behaviorist, sort of.” It was his eyes, rather than the wine. It was hard to lie to them. “I work with people’s animals. Kind of a glorified dogwalker, in a way.”
He laughed silently at that, his shoulders hunching up in his good wool jacket. “Please, Pru—”
Whatever he was going to say was interrupted, however. The waiter had arrived, with menus and a list of specials that seemed to utterly engage my date. When we’d ordered—I noticed we both went for the meat—he turned back toward me, and I braced myself for his next question.
It didn’t come. Instead, he raised his glass. “May I propose a toast?”
I couldn’t see any reason not to respond, and so I raised mine.
“To health and long life,” he said.
“Long life.” For a moment, I flashed on my mother. Sometimes, dying is a good thing. A much longed-for escape, and when I looked back up, I could tell Benazi had seen something on my face.
“I’m sorry.” He reached over the table, and I let him place his hand on mine. His was warm and dry, and I trembled a little, as if I were a small animal. “You have had…” He paused, before starting anew.
“I have had the benefit of a long and varied life, Ms. Marlowe.” I noticed he had switched from speaking about me to himself. I’d also noticed that he’d reverted to his prior form of address. I didn’t correct him. In this setting, at this time, his formality seemed appropriate. Courtly, even. “And I have been witness to some things that perhaps are best not spoken of.”
I waited, curious as to what he was going to say. Before he could continue, however, the waiter arrived with our salads, and I reached for my fork, automatically. With the first bite, it hit me then how hungry I was, how little I’d eaten all day. Which could, I thought while crunching down on the bitter romaine, explain the strange feeling I’d had. Those first few sips of wine must have hit me hard.
“I won’t go into details,” he began again once we were alone. The hand that had held mine now waved away the past, like an importunate moth. “But I have seen some unusual sights and met some highly unusual people.”
He paused, as if expecting me to pick up the conversational gambit. I only nodded, chomping away. The passing thought that perhaps it was rude to keep eating as he bared his soul occurred to me. I dismissed it and speared more romaine.
He took a break, then, to address his own salad, though I had the distinct feeling that he was motivated more by a desire to put me at ease than by hunger. Well, I could wait. “And this has given me the capacity to recognize others who, well…” I hadn’t thought to see Gregor Benazi at a loss for words. It was refreshing. “Let me just say that I believe you and I have more in common than either of us may have previously thought.”
I looked up from the last bit of anchovy, curious as to what he was getting at. And, before I could follow up, our steaks arrived. As the waiter fussed with the pepper mill, I thought of my initial impression—that my dinner partner had appeared to be able to see me outside, in the dark. Could he have the kind of sensitivity I had? Did he really recognize it in me? We both remained silent even after the waiter left, and I realized the ball was in my court.
“You don’t like coloring inside the lines either.” The steak was delicious, and the first bite had brought me back to a more realistic conclusion.
It also gave Benazi an excuse to not respond, although he did nod slightly as he chewed.
“You’re some kind of middleman, aren’t you?” It wasn’t exactly what I was thinking. It was, however, more polite.
Benazi didn’t look like he agreed with my assessment. “Oh, Ms. Marlowe.” His voice was pained. “You shouldn’t try to reduce everything to some kind of…” He waved his fork, before spearing the bloody meat once more. “Some kind of transaction. It cheapens everything.”
“I’ll bet.” Nothing about Benazi was cheap. Not that jacket, not the wine. Not our steak dinners, either, and so I took another bite. I had no idea how this evening was going to turn out, and I was not going to leave any of this dry-aged grass-fed treat uneaten. “But you do provide something—maybe a service?—for some of my more upscale clients.”
I was fishing. He looked up, pausing as he cut into the steak. I’d hit close to something.
“For the Haigens?” I met his eye. “This wouldn’t have something to do with Richard’s car, would it?”
He addressed his steak once again. I’d missed something, though I didn’t know what.
“As I was saying, Ms. Marlowe, we both share certain…skills.” The pause, as well as his delicate choice of word, made me look up. He didn’t stop. “For my part, I have found it most congenial to share your company, when our paths intersect. So many live in…” He paused. I was waiting: cages, I thought he’d say. Though why that and not something less animal, I couldn’t have said. “…within preordained boundaries,” he corrected himself. “It can be hard to find colleagues, much less peers.”
So he thought we were both outside the law? Despite my iffy past, I did my best to sound offended. “I don’t provide any shady services, Bill. Or any—“I thought again of that fancy gun—“goods. I train people’s animals. I solve their behavior problems. I’m good at it.”
One eyebrow came up, and I wondered again just how much he knew. How much he sensed. When he started talking again, howeve
r, it was as if he hadn’t listened to me at all.
“What we do can be exhilarating.” He was making good progress on the steak, and I wondered if he too was keeping track of the time. “Exciting even.” He cut into the beef with care, looking for all the world as if that was all he was concentrating on. “Particularly to one who trusts in her own peculiar sensitivities.” He took a bite, chewed, and then swallowed.
He attacked the remaining bit of meat without looking up. “But it can also be dangerous.” His tone was gentle, almost warm. Listening to him, I heard the concerned tone of an older relative. Someone who knew me, and knew my capabilities. A caution, cloaked as a gentle admonition. An elderly gentleman’s advice to a newcomer, at the very least. I’d not finished my steak by then, but I put down my knife and fork. My mouth had gone dry, but I’d lost the taste for the bloody meat, for the good red wine, and I waited. Finally, his own steak done, Benazi looked up at me, his dark eyes as cold and deep as I’d remembered. I looked into those eyes, neither of us speaking, and his last words took on another meaning. I knew them as a threat.
Chapter Nineteen
I didn’t stay for dessert. And while Wallis would be peeved when she learned of it, I rejected the waiter’s offer to box up the rest of that good, aged meat. What I had swallowed would stay down. I’m tough that way. I was angry, rather than scared. Furious at the bait-and-switch the grizzled gangster had pulled to get me out here. But I had no desire to bring anything from that meal home with me.
Benazi got the message loud and clear. “I gather you wouldn’t care for a brandy?” He sounded a bit regretful, as if threatening me had been an unpleasant task that he’d hoped could be skimmed over, quickly forgotten. “A café filtre?”
“I believe you’ve said what you called me here to say.” I’d folded my napkin and replaced it on the table. If the waiter had any sense, he’d be bringing my coat. “And I’ve had more than my fill.”
“Please, Ms. Marlowe.” He raised his hand, as if to wave off my concerns. As if, even empty-handed, he wasn’t dangerous. “I didn’t mean to offend. I’m sorry if I did.”
I didn’t respond. I had to admit, I was still curious. Plus, I don’t like to be chased off. “Well, then.” I relaxed back in my seat and tried to figure out how to phrase my questions. “Tell me what you’re doing in town,” I said finally. I was too pissed to be polite. “Why were you watching me? And what’s your connection with the Haigens?” I wanted to ask why he was threatening me. What I had gotten too close to—or who. I didn’t think he’d answer those questions, though.
“And why do you think I know the Haigens?” That smile. As jolly as the grave.
“Come on.” It was my turn to growl. That was the easy one. To his credit, he chuckled, and I found myself relaxing.
“You really do have a sense for such things,” he said. “And, yes, you are right. I am acquainted with the Haigens. As you so astutely noted, I, like yourself, am particularly equipped to provide certain specialized services.”
He paused. I waited. The waiter hovered. He might be afraid to drop off the check, but I had no compunction about leaving whenever I wanted. This was Benazi’s party, and if he wanted to keep me here, he had to talk.
He came to the same conclusion. “The wealthy enjoy a different class of entertainment, at times,” he said, brushing off the poor server with another eloquent gesture. “A touch of the, shall we say, exotic?”
I nodded, as if I understood. I didn’t, not exactly. Don’t let it be girls, I found myself wishing. Or, hell, boys. I thought of Dierdre, buttoned up so tight, and it seemed possible. Richard was an enigma to me. I didn’t care about them, but I realized with a start that I didn’t want to think worse of Benazi either. For some reason, I still felt some kind of link to him. Some connection. At any rate, I was curious.
“So what new toy have you brought them recently?” I leaned in now, waiting for the big reveal. “And why are you warning me about it?”
“Because of what you do, Ms. Marlowe.” He smiled, his eyes as wide and innocent as they could ever be. “Because of who you are. And because, Ms. Marlowe, I care.”
Chapter Twenty
Cats can’t laugh, not without producing a fur ball anyway. And Wallis was way too dignified for an involuntary barf. She did, however, manage to convey an amused skepticism as I related the tale of my evening.
“And then you ate?” She put her ears back a little with that, and I realized the obvious: she hadn’t been fed.
“It’s not just that.” She watched as I shredded a chicken leg onto a plate. Her ears had righted themselves, and she’d begun kneading the floor. I smiled, but averted my eyes. She wanted to be taken seriously, I could tell. “It’s that you fed…willingly.”
I paused, a piece of skin in my hand, and thought about that. A small chirp, the feline equivalent of her clearing her throat, brought me back to the task at hand, and only after I had placed the plate on the floor did I finish thinking through what she had said.
She was right, in a way. I hadn’t finished my steak, and now that I was home, I was regretting that I hadn’t taken the leftovers with me. However, I had gone willingly with Benazi.
“It was a public place.” I looked down at the back of her head. Wallis was digging into the chicken, and I found my own mouth watering as she savored the roasted meat. “Besides, I was curious.”
“So you don’t…” A pause as Wallis savored a particularly toothsome bit. “You don’t fear him. Not really.”
“I don’t know.” I leaned back on the counter to consider. “I didn’t going in, but…” As best I could, I let her know my mixed emotions, replaying in my mind what had happened as I approached the restaurant. That strange sense that he could see me, out in the dark.
“Rather feline, don’t you think?” She was looking up at me now and licking her chops.
“You just like him because he likes cats.” Wallis had been much more comfortable with Benazi’s adoption of the white Persian than I had been. Then again, I suspected him in the death of a human witness. He’d always been kind to animals.
Which brought me back to my original question: What had Benazi been telling me? If he wasn’t a threat to me—and I rather respected Wallis’ take on that, if for no other reason than that his demeanor had continued courtly, even as I grumbled off into the night—then what? He could have been warning me. Something was definitely off in the Haigen household—something besides a problem with the help, and now more than ever I was convinced that Mariela’s death had its roots in the big house.
I had tried to get him to tell me more, to explain what he had been doing there, and what he meant by the Haigens’ taste for the exotic. Standing in my own kitchen, with Wallis’ eyes on me, the answer came to me. Mariela. When she’d first donned that silk blouse, she would have been beautiful. With her thick black hair and café au lait skin, she could qualify as exotic, as well. Richard Haigen might be going blind, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t want his last sights to be of a woman noticeably younger than his beleaguered wife, and, of course, sight would be the least of the senses he might indulge. Was murder the exotic thrill he now craved? Or was her death an accident, and her mutilation an attempt to cover up some horrible game gone wrong?
It was possible. Add in his anger—at his wife, at the world—and the idea gained credence.
With a sigh of relief, I realized another thing. No matter what I thought of Benazi, I doubted he had been involved with obtaining Mariela for the Haigens. I’d seen the young woman both times I’d been out at the house, and her duties—at that point—had seemed fairly standard, if somewhat demeaning. Benazi was strictly high-end. So what had brought him out to that sterile house?
By this point, Wallis had left the room. I followed her into the living room, to find her staring pointedly at the fireplace. It was cold enough and I still had logs left, and so I buil
t a fire and poured myself a bourbon. Maker’s Mark was my only other company as the evening wore on, however, and I let the logs burn down to embers, watching the shadows fade into the night as the room grew dark.
There really was no need for comment, and for once, Wallis didn’t intrude into my thoughts. We sat there in a companionable silence, and I found myself watching the glow turn to ash, contemplating how little any of us—two- or four-legged—really understood each other.
Chapter Twenty-one
“You’re up bright and early.” With so many questions rattling around my head and no Creighton to distract me, I’d slept badly. Wallis picked up on my snarky tone as I walked into the kitchen and acknowledged it—barely—with a flick of her tail. “Want some breakfast?”
It was a peace offering, but she took it, jumping down from the sill to brush ever so slightly against my bare legs. I waited a moment to enjoy the soft touch of her fur, before fetching the eggs and butter. Once the pan was warming up, I started my coffee. I knew I’d been out of line.
“I miss him, too.” Her voice reached me as I fetched my mug, but by the time I turned, she was facing away from me again. Wallis puts a premium on dignity. All cats do.
“Thanks.” It couldn’t hurt to acknowledge the courtesy. There really wasn’t anything else to say.
“Not to say, perhaps.” She’d come back over as I gave the eggs one last scramble. “Doesn’t mean you just have to roll over.”
I placed her plate on the floor. “We’ve had this discussion, Wallis.”
“More than one way to dispose of a rival…” Her thought trailed off into a reverie of butter.
“You’re thinking of Mariela, aren’t you?” No answer. She didn’t need to. I’d wondered that myself, though in the light of day the idea that the young woman had been murdered by the overbearing millionaire seemed increasingly slim. For starters, he would have to have intended—from the start—to make it look like an animal attack. The mutilation I had seen had been the cause of death, Creighton had said. Not postmortem. That ruled out a sudden act of passion. Although I didn’t have any reason to trust our county coroner—he was basically a country GP—I figured he had the basics right. But how could it have been done? And why?