Eclipse (3 page)

The doll had short blonde hair.

And one blue eye.

The other eye having already been removed.

Cut out, neatly and precisely, to leave a small black hole.

The work was exacting, the air in the room hot and fetid, and the doll maker, the
corpse
maker, was perspiring as the short, sharp blade of the tiny scalpel blade began its next circular incision; the blade attached to a pencil grip handle, worked with the tips of the thumb, index and middle fingers, the handle resting between the index finger and thumb.

Over to one side, waiting on another table until the work was complete lay a pair of doll-sized sunglasses and a roll of gauze.

The corpse maker found this part of the job the most fulfilling.

It felt like an ending, almost like closure.

But it never was.

Grace's hotel, the Dolder Waldhaus, stood on a hill high above Zurich, surrounded by forest and prime real estate, most of it old and solid. Her room had a balcony with a fine overview of the city, its lake and the Alps way over on the horizon.

On arrival, she'd showered, eaten a light, excellent lunch and dozed off in an armchair. Waking upset with herself for having wasted time, she'd revived downstairs with a delicious cup of coffee and a swift but glorious walk in the forest just across the street, before catching a little red cogwheel train down to Römerhof, then a tram to the town center – and now, finally, she was in the heart of Zurich.

For a city renowned for banks, it was astonishingly pretty. A large Swiss national flag presided over a big bustling square where a host of tramlines intersected. Smooth modern cobbles underfoot, linden trees lining the street, attractive, expensive-looking stores and boutiques, people everywhere, hurrying or strolling, a church bell tolling someplace nearby – and Grace was debating whether she should begin with the lake or the Bahnhofstrasse when she saw, over to her left, one of the places she remembered Magda telling her about.

‘If you have no time for anything else,' she had said, ‘go to Sprüngli, sit upstairs, drink coffee, eat cake and watch people.'

A priority then, clearly.

The
confiserie
downstairs smelled like heaven, and Grace made a mental note to go home laden with foodie gifts. But for now, she climbed the staircase to a spacious old-fashioned restaurant where well-heeled locals and tourists waited for tables, and spied, by luck, a small, free window spot.

She ordered, then relaxed back in her seat to await her chocolate ice cream – which came in a misted silver flute with whipped cream, and was extraordinarily fine.

If she lived in Zurich, Grace reflected, she would grow fat.

She pictured her family sitting here, several tables pushed together. Cathy, their adopted daughter, studying at Johnson & Wales University's College of Culinary Arts, would relish choosing from the delectable-looking goodies behind the counter where customers were patiently queuing . . .

‘Are you OK?'

It took a moment for Grace to realize that the man at the next table was speaking to her.

‘I'm sorry?' she said.

‘You're from the States, right?' he asked.

He was no more than thirty, with wavy brown hair and blue eyes behind fashionable rimless glasses. His smile was friendly and natural, his accent French.

‘I am,' Grace answered him.

‘You were looking very pensive,' he said. ‘I wanted to make sure you were all right. I didn't mean to intrude.'

She smiled. ‘I'm fine, thank you.' She looked at the remains of her ice cream
.
‘The food here seems as good as I was told.'

‘Swiss food is excellent, and Zurich is filled with fine restaurants.'

Their waitress brought him a small glass of white wine.

‘Are you here with your husband?' the young man asked.

Grace hesitated only briefly.

There was something in his eyes, she thought, something possibly flirtatious.

‘I'm here to attend a conference.' She felt unsure why she'd told him that, why she hadn't simply lied, said that yes, her husband was with her.

The check was on her table. She picked it up, looked around.

‘You pay over at the desk,' the young man told her.

‘Thank you.' Grace stood up. ‘It was kind of you to be concerned.'

‘It was not so much concern,' he said.

He stood up too, and momentarily she thought he might want to leave with her, that she might have to be less pleasant. But instead, he extended his right hand, and she gave him her own, found his grip cool, firm.

‘I wish you a good stay in Zurich,' he said.

And sat down again.

Probably waiting for his girlfriend, Grace thought, standing in a short line at the cash desk. Not remotely interested in a woman at least a decade older – absurd of her even to think that.

She paid, walked back down to the first floor and bought herself some dark chocolate truffles.

Perfect to nibble on later, while she rehearsed her conference speech.

Gorgeous sounds.

Filling his ears, his head, his mind and soul.

My, but it felt good to be back.

Sam Becket doing one of the things he loved best.

Way,
way
down his list of loves, of course.

Grace and Joshua still tied at Number One.

It had, of course, been Gracie who'd steered him gently back to S-BOP. Amateur operatics, for sure, but
hot
amateur, and a great bunch of people, some of whom he'd known for years, some new and none the worse for that.

‘It's exactly what you need,' she'd begun telling him soon after New Year's, after their prolonged period of high stress, and she was right, he had needed something more, something therapeutic.

Singing again, releasing his deep voice, working at it, doing his vocal exercises, learning the libretto, listening to the others. Some of them way superior to him, some not as good, but all of them sharing that
shine
that got right inside them, that soaring sensation; and sharing the down moments, too, when they screwed up, forgot the words, hit the wrong notes, ruined the timing.

Letting down the geniuses who'd given them their music.

Georges Bizet in this instance, and Sam had been cast as Escamillo, the matador – a ton of swagger
and
the Toreador song
and
his very own fight sequence – what more could an amateur baritone homicide cop wish for?

‘How's the diet going?' Toni Petit was S-BOP's long-time, dedicated and tireless costumier and dresser; a diminutive woman in her thirties with short dark hair and black cherry eyes, now regarding Sam critically, as the rest of the company assembled in the backyard of Tyler Allen's house on Lime Court in Coconut Grove.

Tyler Allen, a forty-something choreographer. His yard and good-sized converted garage their rehearsal venue till they could get into their theater. A great spot for rehearsing, if the neighbors didn't object.

They were grouped on benches around Tyler's long trellis table, set with large pitchers of water and paper cups – regular tea, coffee, cola and alcohol banned for the rehearsal's duration – the fragrance of night sage growing in the flower beds powerful, almost intoxicating.

It was Linda Morrison, directing
Carmen
(known as ‘La Morrison' by the company), who'd first suggested to Sam, right after she'd cast him, that he might want to drop a few pounds.

Linda was the proprietor of a clothing store near Lincoln Avenue, an old pal, a cast member from way back: statuesque, red-haired and a talented mezzo-soprano
.

‘Grace's cooking.' Sam had taken no offence at Linda's remark about his weight. ‘What can I tell you?'

‘Bullfighters don't have paunches,' Toni pointed out this evening.

‘Now I'm a little hurt,' he said.

‘Don't be,' she told him. ‘Just remember you're a big guy who's going to cut a dash with your dagger.' She smiled. ‘So to speak.'

An interesting and eclectic cast had been assembled. Billie Smith – the daughter, Sam had learned, of an old school pal, aged twenty-three and gorgeous, with a mezzo-soprano from heaven – singing the lead. Gossip had it that she'd been asked to leave UM's School of Music – reason unknown – but was now taking classes at the Lincoln Park Music School near the New World Center.

Jack Holden, tenor, a handsome, fair-haired, blue-eyed Scottish-born lawyer, singing Don José. Carla Gonzales as Micaëla, the village maiden – the role a little tame for the ambitious, thirty-two-year-old Cuban-American – and if her vocal range had been just a little lower down the scale, Sam thought there might have been a real battle for Carmen.

Tyler Allen, a specialist in stage combat, had relocated from upstate New York four years ago, out of work for some time due to sickness, but now raring to go. Whippet-thin with fearsome energy levels and, according to Linda, not always the kindest of men, Sam felt sure that Tyler was the one most likely to challenge the hell out of him.

Too many years of sitting, in the car, at his desk and in interview rooms, and though the occasional pursuit got the detectives up and running, and Sam had thrown a few punches over the years, a prolonged stage fight while
singing
. . .

Oh, man.

The rehearsal over, Sam felt tired, but content. His voice had held up quite well, and the choreographer had been less harsh with him than some of the others. Allen had openly humiliated Carla by referring to her ‘big backside', had said Jack Holden was graceless, had referred to Toni Petit as ‘the little seamstress', twice snapping his fingers to get her attention, rewarded both times with a chilly stare. Petit could clearly handle him, and Holden's ego was in need of a little downsizing, but Carla Gonzales was not, Sam felt, nearly as confident as she liked to make out. Linda had said that Tyler Allen could be unkind, but there was, Sam decided, something of the bully about him.

Not a trait Sam Becket could tolerate for long.

‘Everything OK?' La Morrison asked him as they were packing up.

‘Except for my lousy dancing,' Sam said.

‘Seems to me you move pretty well,' Billie said.

Tyler Allen made a small, derisive sound, and Sam understood why, because it had seemed to him that Billie was actually looking him up and down. Which had discomfited him, considering she was an old friend's daughter.

Imagination, he told himself. Maybe even wishful thinking from a forty-four-year-old with a
paunch
, according to Toni Petit.

Though Allen had noticed it too, and hey, what the hell.

A compliment from a lovely young woman could only be good for a middle-aged guy's self-esteem.

The conference facility was less than fifteen minutes walk from Grace's hotel; sleek, modern, and beautifully appointed. The welcome breakfast at eight-thirty was delicious, and her name tag identifying her as ‘Dr Grace Lucca' was boldly colored in a prizewinning design by the children of a primary school in the alpine canton of Graubünden.

‘We're so happy that you could step in,' Dr Elspeth Mettler, one of the organizers, elegantly suited, wearing Chanel spectacles and sensible shoes, told Grace. ‘And I'm personally very grateful to Doctor Shrike for her recommendation.'

‘I'm honored to be here,' Grace assured her. ‘Though to be frank, it's been a long time since I've spoken anywhere, let alone in such illustrious company. I hope I won't disappoint.'

‘I'm sure you won't,' Dr Mettler told her. ‘And yours, I understand, is to be an interactive event.'

‘That's my hope,' Grace said.

She looked the part, at least, in a new linen dress bought with Sam's encouragement two weeks ago, but though she wasn't scheduled to speak till tomorrow, she felt suddenly intensely nervous.

Abruptly, she realized why.

It had been a long while since she'd stood on a podium.

The closest to it last year, in court.

In the past, she'd felt reasonably equal to this kind of gathering, but so much had been ripped from her during that terrible time, and though she accepted that she was slowly getting back on track, there was still a long path to travel.

In the old days, Grace Lucca Becket had believed she knew who she was.

A contented, grateful woman, at ease with herself.

Not quite back there yet.

Mildred was finally at the optometrist's.

David had made the appointment with Ralph Sutter, a man he had known for about a decade, a good optometrist with his own practice on NE 29th Place, an experienced and kindly doctor.

Mildred seldom took pills, had a repugnance for illegal drugs which had spilled over into wariness of prescription medication. But despite her best efforts to disguise her fears, after a virtually sleepless night, David had seen that she was pale, tremulous and agitated.

‘I'd like you to take a very mild tranquilizer,' he'd said, expecting her to refuse. ‘It won't give you any loss of control, but it will help take the edge off your anxiety.'

‘How about two?' Mildred had said.

‘That won't be necessary.' David had smiled.

‘I wasn't joking,' she had said.

She already knew, from television programs, how much these places had changed since her last visit to an eye doctor's office.

That had been in her first ‘respectable' life as Mildred Bleeker. Long before she had met Donny, her first love, had given up everything to become his fiancé, and had then lost him and, with him, her very identity, becoming a homeless person, sleeping on a bench down in South Beach. Which was where she had found a whole new Mildred Bleeker, a woman with the kind of perspective on life that only a person living on the edge of society could achieve.

Where she had first met Sam Becket, the tall, broad-shouldered African-American detective who had become her friend.