A Brush With Death (17 page)

“He can still afford them. He's very rich. But with all that money, he never gives me a penny. Just credit cards,” she sighed.

“I never heard the sheikh was a collector."

“He keeps it quiet. Afraid of robbery, I suppose.” She hunched an elegant suede shoulder. “Or perhaps for other reasons. It might be best not to inquire where he got some of the pictures."

I stored all this up for John and began fishing to discover something about her origins. “Where did you meet him, Ayesha?"

“In London, I went to school there. My father was attached to the diplomatic corps. I met up with him again later in Paris."

“Oh, I see.” There went my theory of a deprived childhood. “What nationality are you?"

“Part Ay-rab,” she said, smiling, “and part Korean, on my mom's side. She's dead."

“I'm sorry. Has she been dead long?"

“She committed suicide eight years ago. She was mentally unstable and hated England. I think the fog killed her.” Her crust of indifference was cracking, to show the troubled girl beneath the veneer. Her fingers moved nervously over the tarot cards.

“What does your dad think of how you live now?"

She shrugged. “I wouldn't know. I haven't been in touch with him since I ran away from finishing school in Switzerland when I was sixteen, just after Mom's death. I went with a rock star,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “All the girls talked about doing it. I was the only one foolish enough to do it. It seemed a good idea at the time. I only did it to impress the other girls. They were so snooty to a foreigner. Sex and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. You'll do anything when you need a fix. But I'm clean now, except for a little toke once in a while. Shall I get some?"

Sixteen and eight, she was twenty-four, no longer a delinquent child. But I still had to pity her. She had probably been very attached to her mother and had become a little unstable herself when her mother committed suicide. Her life might be a kind of revenge on her father for having kept his wife in London, which she apparently hated. Ayesha wasn't the first girl to fall victim to sex and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, not necessarily in that order.

“Not for me, thanks. I guess you really miss your mother at a time like this. Christmas, I mean."

Ayesha was becoming fidgety. I wondered if it was only an occasional toke she indulged in. She really looked zonked at times. That would account for the air of boredom. She stood up and shrugged. “Christmas was no big deal with us. We're not Christians. Rashid is giving me a Rolls. Bribery—he knows I want to leave him. I did, a while ago. He had me brought back."

It was hard to know what to reply to this generous tyranny. “Wow! A Rolls! What will you do with it, when you travel so much?"

“I'd like to leave him and drive to L.A. Look, about Mazzini, if I'm out, you can leave a message at the desk. I'd really like to meet him. I better go now. Thanks for the reading, Cathy."

She left, and I stood looking at the paneled door. She didn't even remember my name. Had drugs ruined her mind? I'd have to warn Victor the lady was troubled. Maybe she needed psychiatric help, after what she'd been through. I'd try to help her get into a career, but I wouldn't let Victor run any risks in the doing.

More importantly, I had added a piece to the case. Sheikh Rashid was a collector of paintings, not necessarily come by honestly. If we failed to find the paintings here, the originals would eventually end up in the sheikh's Riviera mansion, from which it would be impossible to rescue them. I was still congratulating myself when John returned around noon.

He glanced at the table and the two coffee cups and tarot cards. “Company?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow at me.

“Yes, I gave a reading to a friend."

“I'm glad to know I'm engaged to an enlightened, educated lady. Don't tell me you believe that stuff?"

“If it was good enough for Plato..."

He snorted and glanced at his little overnight bag, which was at the end of the sofa. “I wish you'd keep that thing closed,” he said. “I've got the slides I stole from Bergma in there."

“I didn't touch them. You must have left it open yourself."

His look expressed his opinion of this impossible lapse of care. “I hid them under my BVDs and closed the case. I didn't think I had to lock it."

“But I didn't touch it, John!"

“Then the maid's been rifling it. I often wondered if they snoop."

He lifted the case. The slides were sticking up through the underwear, and the case wasn't properly closed. We exchanged a look.

“Whose fortune were you telling?"

I gulped. “Ayesha's. And it really worked, John. Rashid has an art collection in a mansion on the Riviera. He collects hot stuff. He practically keeps her prisoner."

He looked unimpressed. “If you tell me she spilt coffee on you and you had to change..."

He knew the answer without my having to say anything. “Victor's coming,” I offered, as an apology.

“Much good it'll do us now! She'll have notified Rashid we're on to him."

“I'm sure she won't. She doesn't even like him. She wants to leave him,” I said, and revealed all my dark secrets.

“That's great, honey, but next time...” He looked forlornly at the slides.

“I didn't know you put them under your undies. What a dumb place to hide them."

“You're right. I should have warned you and hid the case."

“I don't think she was interested in the slides at all. She was probably just trying to find out how rich you are. She asked about you."

“Maybe. Did this talk of Rashid's collection come up before or after she searched my case."

“After. Now she wouldn't have gone telling me all that if she suspected anything. I bet she didn't even glance at them. She could have taken them if she was suspicious. Maybe she just pulled open the box to see if there was any coke in it. I think she might be an addict. She used to be anyway. It's a tough habit to break."

John thought about it for a moment. “Well, she wouldn't have told you about Rashid's collection if she was suspicious. What time's Victor arriving?"

“Three-thirty, at Dorval."

He glanced at his watch. “Just time for lunch. Gino says there's a nice spot called Tuesday, on Crescent."

“That's Thursday's. Very nice, and close too. We can walk, in the fur coat."

“I doubt it'll fit me."

“True, and you'd probably prefer a sheepskin anyway. You know—wolf, sheep's clothing. Never mind, it wasn't very funny."

He smiled dutifully and helped me into the fur.

After lunch, Menard whisked us out to Dorval Airport, where we had to wait nearly an hour for Victor's plane. All the planes were running late and were crowded to the gills at the busy holiday season. Victor was easy to recognize amidst the throng of hurrying passengers. He looked like some minor European royalty, with his finely chiseled face, topped by a beaver hat. His mink-lined overcoat, rather long, flapped open as he walked. He removed the hat and smoothed his silver hair, while his black, alley-cat eyes scanned the crowd to see if anyone had recognized him. I don't think anyone did, but he's the kind of man you look at twice. Even if you don't know quite who he is, you sense he's somebody.

There's an air of drama about him. He's still handsome too, for a man his age. His age! He'd hate that description! On him, fifty looks young. He's lean and swarthy enough that his noble features appear tanned in all seasons.

“Victor! Victor! Over here!” I shouted.

He spotted me and came barging forward for a bear hug. He smelled delicious. Victor wears zircon “diamonds,” but for his scent, he insists on the genuine thing. After a flurry of “Merry Christmas” and “How are you?” and “How was your trip?” we decided to wait in the bar till the departing crowd thinned. Not that it would really, but it made a good excuse to go to the bar. That interest in the stomach must run in the family. The pit stop was Victor's suggestion.

“It'll give John a chance to tell me what the hell's going on,” Victor said, leading us all merrily off in the wrong direction. There was a blonde in Godiva-like tresses down to her swinging rump a few paces ahead of him. Another of Victor's little weaknesses.

I squeezed his arm and headed him toward the bar. “Easy on the sauce, Uncle,” I whispered. Victor has been known to imbibe more than is good for him.

“Sauce bedamned. It's a cigar I want. They don't let you smoke on the plane."

We ordered coffee, and Victor assuaged his urge for a Havana. “I shouldn't have coffee, with my high blood pressure,” he said, “but since I've been ordered to cut down, I crave it more than ever. Why couldn't broccoli be bad for you?"

I ordered decaf and switched my cup with his, assuming it was the caffeine that was restricted.

His black eyes sparkled like diamonds. “A sheikh, an oriental porn queen, a murder, forged Van Goghs, a dire plot to swindle a museum—it doesn't sound too boring,” he nodded.

“And now a world-class violinist to lend us a touch of class,” I added.

“Best of all, I stay free at the Ritz. Ha ha.” This brought not only a smile but a burst of delighted laughter. Right in the middle of it, his lips closed and a frown drew his brows together. “Where'd you get that coat?” he demanded. For about twenty seconds, I noticed a resemblance to my mother, who is about as unlike her brother Victor as it is possible for two siblings to be.

John flew to my defense. “It's rented. I'm posing as a Texas oilman. Cassie's my..."

“Secretary!” I threw in hastily. Oh dear, the adjoining rooms! I must remember to lock the door while Victor was around.

“Rented? Deductible, I suppose?” he asked John.

“Right, and the diamonds you'll be seeing tonight are paste."

“Diamonds are a man's worst enemy. Nobody but an idiot wastes money on real diamonds. They don't pay interest, and they don't keep pace with inflation."

“We rented a Caddie limo too,” I said. That suited Victor right down to the ground.

“Since I'll be arriving in style,” he decided, “why not call the press and create a little stir in the lobby? It might impress your Dragon Lady."

He bobbed off and made a few calls. Publicity is a part of any performing artist's career, I suppose. With Victor, it was a mania. He was always good copy. A skirt-chasing, cigar-smoking, wine-drinking famous violinist with a temperament slightly wilder than Maria Callas's makes a lively story.

Not only the newspapers but the TV cameras were outside the Ritz to greet him as we stepped forth from the limo. As if the whole thing had been arranged by a producer, Ayesha was just returning from one of her shopping binges. She stopped and stared at all the cameras. I noticed her adjust her silken ebony hair artfully over her shoulders and arrange a smile before she went into camera range. She soon singled out the cause of the small furor and examined Victor.

When she spotted me, she came swanning forward. “The Great Mazzini?” she asked.

“Yes. I can't imagine how the press found out he was coming. He must have told someone in Toronto before he left. He'll be annoyed."

Her obsidian eyes strayed to John. I read the message glinting in them, beneath her lowered lashes. Her smile, when I introduced them, was shy but provocative. John, being very human, was not unmoved by the look. His mustache curved in pleasure.

“So you're Sean Bradley,” she said, in that high-class accent. “I've heard so much about you, Sean."

He gave his boyish smile, teeth slightly overlapping in front to add a guileless air, and said, “Not the truth, I hope."

A low croon gurgled in her throat. “You lucky woman, Cathy,” she said, sparing a glance at me. Her blood red fingernails had strayed to John's arm, where they rested lightly.

“The name's Cassie, actually,” I reminded her.

Before sterner measures, like maybe a half nelson, were called for, she turned her attention to Victor. “Is Mazzini giving a concert?” she asked over her shoulder. “How I'd love to hear him play."

“No, it's just a family visit,” I told her.

“I caught him at Avery Fisher Hall last year—Mozart. The Violin Concerto, no. 3 in G, I believe it was—it caused goose bumps all over.” She squirmed her shoulders and batted her eyes at John. Even I could picture her lovely naked body, covered in nothing but gooseflesh. What had made me think she was shy? And how had she suddenly become an encyclopedia of music? She had implied earlier that Rashid forced her to go to concerts. She must have been picking his brains to impress Victor.

We all squeezed into the lobby and the reporters began firing questions at Victor, while bulbs popped and cameras whirred. Victor was in his element: a world-class hotel, an exotic beauty drooling all over him, and mega-press to record it all for posterity. He was in no hurry to leave, and neither was Ayesha. No introduction was made, but she said before leaving, “What time is your little party, Cassie?"

“Six-thirty. We've hired a parlor here in the hotel. Will the sheikh be coming?"

“We're both looking forward to it."

She blew a kiss at the party in general and strode away, her wolf coat swaying behind her like an emperor's robe.

John got Victor's key from the desk, and we went upstairs to wait for him. I spent the time arranging details for the party. It was nothing elaborate, just the few friends and colleagues Victor could scrape up in a hurry. When Victor came upstairs, he began making the necessary calls to the guests, and John and I went to our rooms to hide any evidence of mutual visits. Export A soon came and peeked his head in.

“What's shaking, folks?” he asked.

“You tell us,” John said. “Is the sheikh in?"

“Not ‘less he came down the chimney. He hasn't been through the lobby. I hear you folks are having a party."

“I wonder where Ayesha went this afternoon,” I said, looking a question at him.

“I don't know where else she was, but since you're interested, I took a look at the bag she was carrying. It said the Museum of Fine Arts. They have a little shop there—sell books, reproductions of paintings and artworks. Stuff like that. Nothing very valuable."

I gave John a meaningful look.