Authors: Janice Weber
“We haven’t talked about it.”
“Right! You two just concentrate on music!” Bendix tried not to snarl. “What does Bobby say about her?”
Cool it, Smith. No secrets in this town.
“We haven’t really discussed Aurilla. Bobby’s been preoccupied with Jojo. He’s pretty upset at losing him.”
“He should be. Jojo was his favorite drinking partner.” A strange remark about the statesman whose impending departure had
so pained Bendix just a moment ago. “Does either of those two ever mention Jojo’s brother Louis?”
“Louis the doctor? I thought he was lost in the jungle. That’s what Myrna said at your dinner the other night.”
“What did Fausto have to say about that?”
“He said he hadn’t heard from Louis in months.”
Crunch
went the ice cube between Bendix’s teeth. When he smiled, I recoiled: his eyes looked exactly like Aurilla’s. “I suppose
you find Fausto fascinating,” he said.
“Fausto’s got a brain.”
“A devious one,” Bendix retorted. “He likes nothing better than putting his old friends in their places. It’s his way of compensating
for his own failure.”
Gee, Fausto had said more or less the same thing about Bendix. Bobby had said more or less the same thing about Fausto. My
stomach turned: had Barnard been caught in nothing more than a monstrous case of sibling rivalry? “I think I can handle him.”
“If I were you, I’d go with Bobby. You won’t get quite as hurt.”
That soulless smile was beginning to unnerve me. Finished my drink. “How’s Gretchen?”
“Making life intolerable for her mother, as usual.”
“She seems to dislike you.”
“Of course she does. I made her practice violin two hours a day. Thought it would straighten her out.” Total backfire. “She’s
going to school in Switzerland next week.”
“Is she excited?”
“She doesn’t know it yet.” Bendix floated a fifty-dollar bill to the table. “May I drop you at the hotel?”
I opted to walk. Outside, the heat devoured us. “Give my best to Aurilla.”
“I’ll be seeing her in New York tonight.”
“Nice of her to let Bobby and me use her summer house.”
Bendix barely missed a step. “He needs an escape from that virago of a wife.”
I kissed the composer’s mouth, which was about as responsive as a nose. “Send me your first invention?”
“If I write it.” He squeezed my hand a little too hard. “Thanks for your support.”
Thanks for the advice to the lovelorn. I ate dinner alone, haunted by the gleam in Bendix’s eye as he talked about Aurilla’s
glorious future. The evening news was all about defunct Jojo. I thought about driving to Lorton and dropping in on Louis.
Instead I called Gretchen, a younger prisoner. “How’d you like to go out for a little ice cream?”
“I can’t. It’s a school night.”
“Why don’t I bring some over then?”
“That would be okay. I like chocolate-chip mint.”
Aurilla’s mansion loomed dark and empty now that her party had ended. Between curb and doorbell, I passed five bananas in
pink saucers. “I’m Gretchen’s friend,” I smiled at the woman who opened the door. Each time I came here, a different maid
answered, looking more frazzled than her predecessor. “Brought some ice cream.”
A volleyball struck the maid in the back. “Get out of the way!” my playmate shouted.
“We’ll be in the kitchen,” I told the woman, grabbing Gretchen by the wrist. “That wasn’t very nice.”
“Ow! You’re hurting me!”
Pulled her through the empty banquet hall to the kitchen. Not quite as impressive as Fausto’s galley, but Aurilla entertained
less. I stuffed Gretchen in a chair and got two spoons from a drawer. “How’s school?”
“I hate it.”
“That’s the spirit.” Dug into the ice cream. “Guess Herman hasn’t come back, eh?”
“He’s a bad monkey. I want an alligator now.”
“Where’d you get him anyway?”
“In that country Uncle Bendix took me to. Belize.”
“You were in Belize?” I tried to choke down the cold stuff. “That’s pretty exciting. Better than Disneyland, I bet.”
“No it wasn’t. The air-conditioning didn’t work.”
“Were you on vacation?”
“No! Mom was at a conference. Uncle Bendix made me play the violin there. I didn’t want to. He promised me a monkey, so I
did.”
“What did you play?”
“A Bach suite.”
Bendix and Aurilla haul Gretchen the Untouchable to Belize to perform Bach during an environmental conference? Something wacko
here. “Who’d you play for?”
“People in a hospital. It was too hot and I couldn’t stay in tune. I thought Uncle Bendix would hit me. But he clapped afterward.
Then he said I could go home.” She licked her spoon.
“I flew back in a private plane with Uncle Fausto. It was lots of fun. Herman came with me in a little box.”
I nearly gagged. “So you went to a hot country, played a concert, and left? That sounds like something I would do.”
“It wasn’t much fun.”
No kidding. “I’m sure the audience loved it.”
“They weren’t even listening! They were all in bed sleeping. They looked horrible. I brought some nice toys and they didn’t
even want them.”
“I’m sure your mother was very proud of you.”
“She didn’t come to the concert,” Gretchen scoffed. “Only Uncle Bendix. And Dr. Tatal. She gave me a doll.”
We concentrated on the ice cream for a while. “So have you been practicing?” I asked.
For once, Gretchen looked sheepish. “I broke my violin. I was angry that Uncle Bendix took Herman away.”
One hundred grand in splinters: that had probably earned her banishment to Switzerland. “Can you get it fixed?”
“Mom says no more violin. When can we go shopping for alligators?”
“Why don’t you get a dog instead? They’re a lot more fun to play with.”
“I want the alligator to eat Uncle Bendix.”
This was the second time Gretchen had mentioned killing him. Maybe she was the reincarnation of the murdered music critic.
“Why do you hate him?”
“Because he doesn’t like me. He just likes Mom.”
The maid anxiously peeped in. “How’s everything?”
Fubar. I put my spoon in the sink. “Back to your homework, Gretchen. I’ll come by soon.”
I wandered around Georgetown until nightfall. Then I crawled into my little hole in the zoo and, just to torment myself, hooked
into the airline files. Yep, Gretchen and Bendix had flown to Belize on August 15. No record of her return, but that was because
she had come back in Uncle Fausto’s plane. I took a deep breath and cut to Fausto’s phone tap. Again, not many calls, but
the ones that did
get
through wrapped my gut in knots. The first was from James in Belize. “Eh Fausto, I’ve got a bit of bad news.”
“What’s that,” Fausto answered dully, as if he already knew.
“They found Simon in the Macal. Not much left of him, poor bugger. No signs of violence on the bits still intact. Maybe he
hit his head on a rock and drowned.”
“Ah. Yes.”
“Did you need him for anything? I’d be happy to step in.”
“Possibly.” Signal flat, weak, emanating from another planet. “I’ll let you know.”
The next call was from Vicky Chickering. “I hear your little pickup trio was a roaring success. Is Rhoby over there now, by
chance?”
“No.”
“I can’t seem to find her. I called Frost’s hotel but she’s not in, either. You don’t suppose they’re out somewhere, do you?”
“Vicky darling, I’m not the vice squad.”
“Tell me something. What do you think Leslie Frost is doing here?”
A pause. Then, tonelessly, “Enjoying the scenery. Why?”
“I know you’re fond of her, but something’s not on the level with that bitch. I’ve thought so since the night I saw her at
Ford’s Theatre. She said someone just sent her a ticket. And she
used it!
That’s not normal, is it?”
“I’m afraid she’s that type of girl.”
“Well, where does she go all day? She’s never in her hotel.”
“How would you know?”
“I have my sources. Where is she now?”
Fortunately, Fausto didn’t suggest that I was in London with his old piano teacher. “She’s going back to Berlin in a day or
two. Then your worries will be over.”
“It won’t be soon enough. You wouldn’t happen to know where Bobby was last night, would you?”
“No. Why?”
“Something happened to his ear. He said he caught it on his comb. Looks to me like someone bit him. Paula’s furious.”
“Vicky, get a grip. No one could bite the president without the Secret Service going ballistic. Maybe Paula did it herself.”
“She and I were in Seattle. You’re no help at all, Fausto.”
“You’re asking for answers outside my area of expertise, dear.” My imagination, or had a little spark returned to his voice?
“Did Paula get her tea yet?”
“You ask me every time and every time the answer’s no,” Chickering sighed. “Maybe you should stop asking for a while.”
“Poor Paula. How she must suffer.”
“If you see Rhoby, tell her I’m looking for her, would you?”
“Of course. Bye-bye, dear.”
Good old Fausto: he had given Chickie pebbles for pearls. A call came from Duncan, about eight this morning. “Okay, where
is she?” he demanded. “This is Duncan Zadinsky.”
“At the White House, my boy. I believe that’s where she still works.”
“Not Justine, you fool! I’m looking for Leslie!”
“I haven’t seen her in days.”
“What? You sleep with her then don’t even know where she goes?”
“Now that’s an interesting bit of information, Duncan. Where’d you get it?”
“Off Justine’s pager! It’s no secret! The whole town knows! Look, I need to speak with Leslie this second.”
“Try the president’s hot line,” Fausto snapped, and hung up. He immediately dialed Justine. “I understand your pager’s been
getting a workout. You haven’t been keeping your charge under very good control, my dear.”
“I’ve got a full-time job,” she snapped. “He’s a loose cannon. I told you he was getting out of hand.”
“In that case, we’re going to move things up a day.”
Short silence. “That’s going to be a major pain in the ass.”
“Take care of it.” Fausto hung up and called Tuna. “Get your people ready to go tomorrow.”
“You can count on me, my friend.”
I felt sick. Walked to Connecticut Avenue. Another hot, dense night, gagging with rain: all the sidewalk cafés were retracting
their tables. I cut over to Fausto’s street. Since my last stroll here, a few trees had yellowed. Didn’t jibe with the eighty-plus
temperature. Another autumn already? Each year it filled me with ever more desperate premonitions. I hurried past the dying
leaves: since last October I had unwittingly learned a few more words of their secret language.
Red Corvette in Fausto’s driveway, exactly where I had left it before my date with Bobby. Downstairs, lights in his music
room. I crept to the window. Fausto was playing Chopin’s Fourth Ballade. I felt a stab of envy: pianists were so lucky. They
got to do it all: melody, harmony, rhythm. No interpretive arguments, no backstage seizures from accompanists. No problems
with intonation, no welts on their necks. And a glorious repertoire. From the shadows of lust, envy, and longing, I watched
him play. His hands moved so gracefully and familiarly over the keys. Drove me mad. Why didn’t I just leave a dying man to
his labyrinth? Fausto would never need me. I almost went home. Then the wind stirred and I smelled the foreboding breath of
autumn. Suddenly it didn’t matter what games he and I were playing: they’d soon be over.
Flat yellow leaves scurried over my feet as I let myself in. Stood outside the music room as the ballade rushed to a dark,
tumultuous end. I knocked. My pulse ran wild as I heard footsteps. The door opened. Fausto’s round eyes flared but his mouth
didn’t move. I was acutely aware that I had interrupted him and that he knew I had killed Simon. Hell, he probably knew I
had been hanging off Barnard’s balcony. I wanted to put my arms around him, tell him I was harmless, get invited back upstairs.
“Sorry to drop by like this. I saw lights and thought it would be a good time to pick up my violin.”
The little pink mouth altered: perhaps my lies had amused him. “Come in.” Fausto’s Hawaiian shirt fluttered as he went to
the bar. “What can I get for you?”
Gin and an erection. He looked awful. “Have you seen your doctor?” I asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“You haven’t had another spell?”
“All quiet. Cheers.” We clanked glasses. “Where have you been?”
Jails, cemeteries, England. “Waiting for you to call.”
“Your pianist is looking for you. He sounds distraught.”
“Maybe Justine’s about to punt him.” I walked to the piano. “Did Rhoby invite you to some sort of luncheon?”
“Me? I’m the wrong gender.”
Not a word about Chickering. I diddled with his music. “What are you working on?”
“This and that. Old friends. Everything comes back so quickly. Hard to believe I’ve been away from it for so long.” Fausto
tugged a tiny twig from my blouse. “Rolling in the grass, dear?”
I watched his slow fingers snap it in half. “I rode with Bobby for exactly one hour. We did nothing but talk.”
“Really now!” Fausto lit a cigarette. “Talk about what?”
“The weather. Jojo.”
Go, Smith.
“You and Louis Bailey digging a bullet from his crotch.”
Fausto went absolutely still. “He told you
that?”
“He knows I won’t repeat it.”
Through hot white clouds, Fausto’s eyes burned a hole in me. Maybe he was trying to decide if I had killed Simon for business
or pleasure. “Entertaining story, isn’t it.”
“I liked the part about you leaving him in your apartment for a week.” Finished my drink. “Where’d you and Louis run off to?
Bayreuth?”
“Oxford. Louis was experimenting with endocrine extracts. I was his guinea pig.”
“You volunteered for that kind of stuff?”
“It was the sixties. I was curious and idealistic.”
Forget idealism: Fausto had been either collecting or disbursing chits. Huge ones. “Did he discover anything?”
He puffed away. “We’re still working on it.”