Shaded Light: The Case of the Tactless Trophy Wife: A Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan Mystery (The Manziuk and Ryan Mysteries Book 1) (5 page)

It must have been a year since she’d seen Bart last, though George had given him money a couple of times. He looked older and—and lost somehow. The baldness seemed to draw attention to every bone in his face. Made him look harsh, even tough. Made his eyes stand out. Hard eyes. Perhaps even wary? He must be thirty-five, the only son of George’s favorite sister, long dead. A hustler, sometimes living it up, sometimes owning only the shirt on his back. But the shirt was inevitably silk.

However, despite his faults, which were many, he was family, and despite the hard-nosed appearance George presented to both client and associate, he had a strong sense of family. Even though he’d never liked Bart’s father, and had been very angry with his sister for marrying him, for his sister’s sake he’d given Bart an allowance, which Bart had used for gambling. He’d pulled some strings to get Bart a job in a bank and then paid off the bank so that Bart wouldn’t be arrested for embezzlement. He’d offered all kinds of incentives for Bart to make something of himself, and, at last, offered to give him money so long as he stayed away—a modern version of the old remittance man.

But he hadn’t stayed away, and George would not be pleased to see him, especially not this weekend with the partners and their wives here. But then, she thought, Bart was always a good actor.

He was still standing, waiting for her, probably knowing how much she hated to make anyone unhappy.

“You might be useful,” she said at last. “You’ve always had a way with women.”

Bart raised his eyebrows quizzically.

When she didn’t continue, he asked, “What exactly do you have in mind?”

“Oh, come back and sit down! I shouldn’t even be thinking of this. What George will say—!”

The door was shut, the dufflebag dropped in a corner. Bart reached for another toffee before settling himself back in the recliner. “I’m all ears, my dear—no, my favorite, aunt.”

“Do you think you can exercise your charm for a weekend without straining yourself?”

“Are you implying that my charm is wearing thin?”

“Not at all. If you had half as much ambition as you do charm, you could probably get elected to the government.”

“How sweet of you to say so, and how intolerably revolting a thought.”

“Never mind. I’ve got your uncle’s law partners and their wives coming for the weekend. Can you concentrate on keeping the wives busy? You know, amuse them for me. They’ll be far more interested in talking to you than to me. If you can keep them happy, I’ll put in a good word for you with George.”

“When you phrase it that way, how can I possibly refuse?”

“You’ll have to see if Mrs. Winston has time to make up a bed for you. There’s an apartment for a chauffeur over the garage, but so far George hasn’t saddled us with one. I dare say there are a few mice, but they shouldn’t bother you.”

He chose to ignore her assumption that he was familiar with rodents. “And where do I find Mrs. Winston?”

“Go straight past the hallway when you go out of here and turn left at the first door. You’ll be in the kitchen. She should be there.”

“Oh, and Bart,” Ellen cautioned as he picked up his dufflebag, “don’t waste your charm on Crystal Winston. It wouldn’t be appreciated.”

“Crystal?”

“Mrs. Winston’s daughter. She’s eighteen and idealistic. Just the type who takes to you. So see you mind your own business where she’s concerned. George wouldn’t like it one bit if you made Mrs. Winston unhappy.”

He saluted. “I shall amuse wives, not maids.”

“See you do.”

He started to turn toward the kitchen.

“There’s one other girl who’s going to be here,” Ellen said thoughtfully. “Her name is Lorry.”

“Yes?”

“Stay away from her, too.”

Bart raised an eyebrow. “That sounds intriguing.”

“Not at all. She’s the daughter of my favorite cousin, and she’s not in the least your type.”

“Your cousin’s daughter, eh? Now why do I suspect something? Could she perhaps be Kendall’s type?”

“Perhaps. But it’s none of your business. Just stay away from her.”

“Your wish is my command.” He bowed to kiss her hand. “What time will they start arriving?”

“Dinner is at eight, but I told them they should try to come in the afternoon. To avoid traffic, you know. And they might like a dip in the pool first.”

“Then I’d better waste no time in getting settled and learning my way around so I’ll be ready to go into action when your guests arrive.”

He wandered toward the kitchen and Ellen leaned back in her chair. “Stupid,” she said aloud. “I should have sent him packing.”

That’s what George would say, and he would be right. George said she had a soft spot for Bart. Her only excuse was that most women did.

She stood up, and wetness seeped through the flimsy straps of her sandal.

The drink she’d spilled! She’d forgotten all about it. She hurried out to find a cloth and stain remover.

TWO

George Brodie glanced at the grandfather clock in one corner of his spacious office. Time he was packing it in for the day if he was going to be at the airport on time. Ellen was afraid Lorry would be upset if she arrived in that huge terminal and he wasn’t there to meet her and help with her luggage. And he supposed she might be right. Lorry had never been to Toronto before, and the large, bustling airport would no doubt be an intimidating place for a young girl from the country. Besides, he was having trouble concentrating on work.

He signed a few more papers and then buzzed his secretary. She was through the door in less time than one would have thought possible. Sometimes he wondered if she sat on the edge of her seat, poised to spring at the sound of the buzzer.

“Yes, sir?” said the woman as she advanced into the room. Nadia Estmanoth was in her fifties, with graying hair worn in a tight bun and a flowered sari covering her from chin to toes.

George smiled at his secretary. “I have to go and pick up my wife’s cousin’s girl. Which terminal was it?”

“Terminal two, Mr. Brodie. I was just coming to let you know it was time for you to leave. Won’t do to have her wandering around the airport looking for someone she’s never seen. How will you know her?”

“My wife says I can’t miss her, so I’m sure she’s correct. That is, if I’m there on time. Otherwise, I’ll just have her paged.”

“Of course.”

He gave her several folders. “These letters need to go out today. By courier.”

“Yes, sir. The courier is coming,” she said, glancing at her watch, “in half an hour. That will give me plenty of time to make copies and get them ready.”

She was gone as quickly as she had come. George cleared his desk and packed up his laptop computer. He glanced around, wondering if he’d need anything else. He pulled one file from his in-basket and added it to the papers in his briefcase. Then he checked his pocket for his wallet and keys.

“Have a good weekend, Mr. Brodie,” his secretary said as he strode through her office.

“I hope so,” he replied. Then, in afterthought, “You, too. See you Tuesday.”

He was soon driving his black Lincoln in the downtown traffic. But his mind was on the weekend. Ellen had wanted a simple house party with themselves, Kendall, and Lorry. Inviting his partners and their wives had been his idea. He and Douglass and Peter had a few things to discuss and it had seemed to him they could do some work on the side. Now he was starting to realize it had been a stupid idea. You couldn’t talk business with the wives hovering in the background. The naked truth was he’d forgotten that the other two women weren’t like Ellen. She never got in the way. But Anne and young Jillian? Another kettle of fish entirely.

Then there was this thing with Kendall. Stupid to get talked into offering Nick a job. Even though he showed a strong streak of brilliance, the last thing they needed was a woman-chasing, part-time lawyer. And now Kendall seemed to expect him to sweet-talk Nick into accepting the offer! That was a rum job! Why he’d ever let Kendall talk him into doing it!

But he wasn’t sure either of these things was what was bothering him. There was something else. An intangible. Nothing he could put a finger on. Just a sixth sense that something was going on behind his back. Something he couldn’t control.

His sixth sense had never failed him in the past. People thought he had achieved what he had because of his brains. Maybe a little. But it hadn’t been his brains that had told him to face up to the owner of the local newspaper forty-odd years ago when he was a wet-behind-the-ears kid of seventeen. Cocky. That’s what he’d been. But that particular owner, Mr. Anscotti, had liked the cocky kid from Cabbagetown enough to promote him several times and eventually put up the cash to send him to college. He’d made his money back, in spades, as silent partner of the law firm of Spencer, Jones, and Brodie, with Brodie the only one who actually existed.

Later, when George’s intuition told him to risk everything and branch out from Cabbagetown into the business center of Toronto, he’d done it. And it had paid off. His clients now were primarily millionaires. The elite business class.

Luring Douglass Fischer from a rival firm had been a solid coup—once again due to his intuition. Convincing Peter Martin to join had completed his quest for rock-solid respectability.

And his private life was solid, too. For thirty-eight years, Ellen had been there, seeing that his home was kept the way he liked it, doing everything a man could expect of his wife. She had never interfered. Always agreed that he should do whatever he wanted. Encouraged him to stretch.

And she’d never worried about finances. Early on, when they’d lived in one room in a basement, not knowing if there’d be food on the table the next day, Ellen hadn’t once complained.

The truth was, she took no notice of the things money could buy. She’d still be choosing her dresses from the nearest Walmart if he hadn’t put his foot down and told her it didn’t look right for his wife not to wear things from the designer shops. And the new house he’d bought her! He chuckled. He’d almost had to force her to agree to the move. But she deserved a house like this. A setting worthy of the wonderful person she was. And he could certainly afford it.

No, Ellen was not the cause of his concern. Neither was Kendall. Their only child was doing well. Joining the firm. What a terrific thought! His own son carrying on.

Not like George’s life. His old man had been a failure from start to finish. An Irish immigrant, cast off by his family because he lived in a fog, incapable of manual work. A dreamer, writing poetry and earning dimes and nickels for his readings and his ability to dazzle children with coin tricks. Nothing there for a son like George to emulate. What had impressed the young boy was not his father’s golden words but his mother’s rough, reddened hands, made that way from washing floors so she could put bread on the table. Well, Kendall would have something more to remember of his father. And, unlike George’s own mother, Ellen had never worked a day in her life. It would have killed him if she had. No. He shook his head. Whatever was bothering him had nothing to do with Ellen or Kendall.

He relaxed. Perhaps this weekend was going to turn out to be a good idea after all. Give him opportunity to talk to his partners in a casual way. His feeling of anxiety likely had something to do with them. Maybe it was his intuition noticing something that didn’t quite jibe. He’d have opportunity this weekend to discover what it was. Likely nothing important.

Like his partners, Douglass Fischer had been busy in his office for most of the day. Consequently, he arrived at his Rosemont home later than he would have chosen. The traffic flowing north out of the city was always heavy by four o’clock. Douglass had hoped to be soaking in the pool on the Brodies’ new estate by that time. But it hadn’t worked out. It never did.

He drove past the triple garage to stop his car in the circular drive which swept in front of his three-story brick home. A red Ford Mustang was already parked there. Douglass grimaced. Did Luc have to spend every waking hour here?

He strode heavily up the steps and through the front door. If Anne had the packing done, they could still be at the front of the rush hour traffic.

He found his daughter Trina and her boyfriend Luc in the family room. Music was blaring and he had to turn it off to make himself heard. They broke guiltily away from each other.