Shaded Light: The Case of the Tactless Trophy Wife: A Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan Mystery (The Manziuk and Ryan Mysteries Book 1) (4 page)

And where was he now? Maybe lying in an alley someplace with no ID.

But no. Someone was at the door, fumbling with the knob. It was locked, of course. And, as happened not infrequently, Nick had forgotten his key. Kendall waited until the bell rang before he pulled himself out of the chair.

“You’re just a little bit late,” he commented as Nick walked through the doorway. “In fact, I was wondering if you were going to show at all.”

If Nick noticed the tone of reproach in his roommate’s voice, he hid it well. “What a babe!” was all he said as he collapsed his lithe six-foot frame into the twin of Kendall’s chair. “I wouldn’t have missed last night for anything!”

“Where’d you pick her up?”

“Well, actually, she picked me up.” The soft baritone that women and law professors adored changed to a Hollywood falsetto. “She’s an actress, dahling. At least she hopes to be. And she didn’t know anyone in the big city and I looked so tall, dark, and handsome I must be an actor, mustn’t I? And it didn’t matter anyway, because I was just so good-looking, all she could think of was running her fingers through my hair and would I mind terribly if she did?”

“You fell for that?”

“Kendall, the lady was gorgeous!”

“So what?”

“So—it was a mutual admiration party. We even had champagne. And when things got a little fuzzy, we finished the party up in her hotel room.”

“You’ve been there till now?”

“You have a problem with that?”

“I just think you should use a little intelligence, that’s all. You can get diseases from casual encounters like that.”

“I’m not stupid, Kendall. Anyway, it isn’t as if you’ve never had a little fun. What’s the real problem? Jealous?”

Kendall faked a swing, which Nick parried with his arm. “Just annoyed. You left me behind to answer the phone when Candace called last night looking for you. What was I supposed to say when she wanted to know where you were?”

“What did you say?”

“I told her you were out with some of your skiing friends. The male ones.”

“She buy it?”

“What do you think?”

“Oh, well, I’m becoming a little tired of Candace, anyway. She’s starting to get possessive.”

“Good old love-’em-and-leave-’em Donovan, huh?”

Nick grinned. “Did Marilyn stand you up last night? Is that why you’re in a bad mood?”

“Marilyn and I played squash and ate a late lunch together yesterday, as a matter of fact. I told her I was busy last night. I thought we could talk. You and I. Seriously, for a change.”

Nick rose and strolled to the kitchen where he rummaged in the fridge for a couple of cans of Coke.

When he returned, he threw one to Kendall and sat across from him. “We’ve been over this already.”

“You haven’t given it serious thought yet.”

Nick smiled and threw Kendall a quick glance. “I’ve given it a little.”

“And?”

“And I don’t think I’m ready for it.”

“You may never get another chance like this. A job with the law firm of Brodie, Fischer, and Martin is a dream come true.”

“For you, maybe. Not necessarily for me.”

“Do you know how much money you would be making?”

“I’ll make money if I win races. And there’s always sponsorships.”

Kendall shook his head. “Oh, sure. Risking your neck all the time. One of these days you’ll break a leg or maybe your back and then what? You’ll have to start right at the bottom in some no-name office. Maybe even from a wheelchair.”

“I like skiing.”

Kendall stood up and walked in a circle in front of Nick. His voice was earnest, as though he were pleading with the jury to understand a client’s alibi. “So do I. But as a hobby. Besides, freestyle isn’t skiing.” He walked a few steps further and turned back, hands outstretched. “Okay, I like to watch. But you would never catch me doing it for a million bucks.”

“You can’t do it. I can.”

“All right. You’re good. And you’ve been fortunate. So far. But one bad fall and it’s game over.”

“So then I’ll give law a shot.”

Exasperation replaced Kendall’s earnestness, and his face took on a boyish look of chagrin. “You’re nuts! Why did you bother going to law school in the first place? Why waste the time and money?”

Nick remained relaxed. “The skiing opportunity just kind of happened. You know that. I had no idea I was that good.”

“But won’t you even think about joining the firm? Talk to Dad? Ask him to tell you about the opportunities?”

“I don’t know what he could say that you haven’t.”

“Not good enough. Nick, this weekend is a perfect opportunity! They’re all going to be there, Dad, Douglass, and Peter. Once you’ve met them, you’ll see what I mean. You’ll want to be one of them instead of…”

“Instead of what?” Nick prodded.

“Instead of whatever you call yourself.”

“Whatever I call myself?” Nick’s voice was mocking, his eyes filled with laughter. “I call myself a freestyle skier, and a good one at that!”

“You can do a lot more good as a lawyer, Nick.” Kendall was pleading again. “And Brodie, Fischer, and Martin is one of the top legal agencies in the city. Think of what you could accomplish with their backing!”

“Speaking of backs.” Nick finished his Coke and stood up. “I think I’m going to hit the shower and wash mine. Then I’m going to pack—assuming I’m still invited, of course. After that I’m going to allow myself to be driven by you to your parents’ home where I hope I won’t have reason to regret the impulse that made me accept the invitation.”

“I don’t want you to make a mistake you’ll regret for the rest of your life.”

“Kendall, I’ve roomed with you for three years. Why, I don’t know. But not so you could tell me how to run my life.”

“I’m only thinking about your own good!”

“You’re not my mother. And that line is a cop-out.”

Kendall’s normally pleasant face was set in a hard line. “Somebody has to do your thinking for you. Right now you act like life is one big party, but there’ll come a day when you’ll wake up and realize you’ve blown it. I don’t want that to happen.”

“How old are you again? I could have sworn you turned twenty-five last month, but you sound more like fifty-five.”

“Nick, come on!”

“Kendall, there’s lots of time for settling down. Right now, I just want to be free to do what I want to do.” Nick grinned ruefully. “Can you seriously see me in a three-piece pin stripe with a briefcase and Gucci loafers?”

But Kendall didn’t smile. “You’re really going to turn down my dad’s offer?”

“Your dad’s offer? But it was your idea, Kendall. You talked him into it. And you didn’t even ask me if I was interested.”

“I was going to surprise you! I thought you’d be thrilled. And I wasn’t sure he’d do it. As a matter of fact, I had the devil of a time talking him into taking you. And now…”

“And now?”

“Now, thanks to you, I’m going to look like a complete idiot! Nick, you’ve got to take this job!”

Surrounded by windows dressed with yard upon yard of fabric flowers in rose, blue, yellow, and white, seated on a matching soft floral chair, Ellen Brodie was able to take a few moments to sip a ginger ale and get herself ready. She smoothed the skirt of the chic turquoise dress from the small boutique on Yonge Street and patted her hair, which was dark brown freely intermixed with gray, and had been put up in as modern a style as her despairing hairdresser could get her to approve. Cutting it was out of the question. Her hair had been waist length all her life and she couldn’t fathom it any other way. Besides, George liked it long.

Her figure was good—comfortable, she called it. She’d put on a few pounds over the years, but not enough to worry about. In fact, she rarely worried. And she wasn’t worried now. Only she did hope this weekend went well.

As she looked through the glass doors at the patio with its brightly colored umbrella tables and fabulous gardens, she wanted to pinch herself. She still found it hard to believe this spectacular house—mansion, really—was hers. She had spent her entire life in Cabbagetown, one of the oldest areas in downtown Toronto: her childhood in a small, battered third-story apartment, her first four years with George in a dingy basement, the next ten years in a narrow row house, and finally, the last twenty-four in a very comfortable three-story house on a large, well-treed lot. Cabbagetown had been home.

But this spring, George had decided Cabbagetown was no longer good enough for them, and they should move far from the heart of the city to a suburb where other affluent people lived. It took some getting used to. She suspected her feelings were much like Cinderella’s might have been after the honeymoon when Prince Charming carried her over the threshold of the castle and said, “Okay, honey, this is home now.”

But this one room she loved. She smiled as her eyes moved from the view through the patio doors to the interior of the room. She called it the “day room” because the real estate agent had deemed that to be the proper name, but she thought of it as her own personal refuge—a soft, gentle space, perhaps a little large with its numerous groupings of chairs and coffee tables, but bright and cheery and comfortable. The feminine equivalent of her husband’s heavy book-lined study. Only in this room did she really feel at home. But it was to be expected that it would take some time to get used to living in a mansion.

A bright whistle from outside broke into Ellen’s thoughts and she started, turning her head toward the now-open patio doors.

“Hello, Aunt Ellen.”

Ellen’s glass of ginger ale tumbled from suddenly numbed fingers. Amber liquid seeped into the thick rose carpeting.

A tall man in his mid-thirties stepped through the patio doors. Backlit by the bright sunshine, his silhouetted frame looked thin to Ellen, and somewhat stooped. His face, indistinct at first because it was cast into shadow by the intensity of the sunlight behind him, was an ordinary face, unremarkable except for the complete baldness of his shaven head.

He set down a worn dufflebag, walked over to pick up one of the foil-wrapped toffees threatening to overflow an elegant crystal swan candy dish, and sank into a floral recliner chair. “You’ve certainly done well for yourselves,” he said.

Ellen leaned toward him, her back stiff, every muscle taut. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Just dropped in to see my favorite aunt.”

His favorite aunt looked anything but pleased to see him. “What have you done to your hair?” Her voice changed suddenly. “You aren’t sick, are you?”

“It was turning gray at an alarming rate. Made me look old. It was either dye it or shave it. This seemed easier. Besides, baldness is in these days. Very sexy.”

“Does George know you’re here?”

“Not yet.”

“Bart, you know how upset he’ll be. We have guests coming! There’s no room.”

“You mean you’d turn me out in the cold? Your own flesh and blood?”

“You aren’t either my flesh and blood! You’re George’s nephew. And it’s not cold out. It’s July, and so hot you could live outdoors easily. You probably have been.

“And what happened to the money George gave you? Surely you haven’t gone through it already? You know he said it had to last the rest of the year.”

“Slow down, Aunt Ellen. You’re getting all worked up. The truth is I’ve had a bit of bad luck. But I can get the money back with a little ingenuity. I was in the neighborhood, so I dropped in. I’ll leave if you don’t want me.”

Bart stood up and reached for his dufflebag. As he picked it up, he said, “Sure is hot out there. I had to walk for miles.”

Ellen said nothing.

At the open patio door, he turned. “Are you really going to send me penniless into the cruel world?”

She stared at him. There was something of her husband George there, and something of their son Kendall, too. But it was muted by the lines of dissipation on his face and the cynicism in his eyes. She hoped with all her heart that life would never do to Kendall what it had done to Bart.

“Well?” He set the bag down and held out his hands. “What’s the verdict?”

There was nothing about him that looked beggar-like. He wore an expensive black tweed sports coat, gray slacks, and a white silk shirt, and his loafers were thin, well-cut leather. But the clothes were dusty. And the way he shuffled his feet made her think they were sore. Neither the clothes nor the man were made for walking along a highway thumbing rides.