Forever (7 page)

'Everything I need is in this one room,'
he'd told Stephanie not so long ago.

For hours she talked to him as she prowled -
as though he was sitting right there, in his favourite, faded
leather swivel chair by the desk, listening to her every word. She
told him about Raiford Prison and Jed Savitt. She told him about
the kind stewardess on the return flight, and Sammy Kafka meeting
her at the airport and dropping her off to pick up Waldo. And, in
every other sentence, she told him how she couldn't believe for a
minute that he'd killed himself.

The night dragged on.

Every so often, she'd stare up at the
tarnished brass chandelier - the one her grandfather had supposedly
hanged himself from - and tried to imagine him climbing up on a
chair, looping a belt around his neck, and kicking the chair out
from under him.

But each time, she shook her head and
frowned. It was no good. No matter how hard she tried to visualise
it, the scenario just wouldn't play. She kept thinking: How could
he have managed it with his bad leg? He had barely been able to get
out of a chair, or even step up on a curb without relying on his
cane.

On the drive into the city, she had told
Uncle Sammy as much.

'The police say that suicides often show
unbelievable determination,' he had replied.

But no. The suicide verdict just wouldn't
play. Not for her. Not now. Not ever.

But how could she prove it? For prove it she
must.

There were so many questions . . . and no
answers.

When she ran out of things to tell him, she
mosied around his desk, poking among the piles of papers and
scribbled notes. An eight-by-ten colour slide caught her
attention.

She picked it up, held it against the desk
light, studied it for a long time. It was a first-rate photograph
of a painting which depicted weary, stooped old people on one side
awaiting their turn to step into a fountain, from which they
emerged young and straight and beautiful on the other. Not a pretty
picture as paintings went, but powerful, and strangely arresting.
And its subject matter was unmistakable. It's the fountain of
youth, she thought.

Lowering it thoughtfully, Stephanie noticed
a stick-on label in the lower left-hand corner of the cardboard
frame. It was neatly printed in what she recognised as her
grandfather's hand:

Lucas Cranach, The Younger (1472-1553)

Oil on panel

Property of the British Museum

Setting the slide down, Stephanie's eye
wandered to the stack of old, fading black-and-white
photographs.

She picked them up, flipped slowly through.
The first showed a beautiful young girl of about six standing
beside a dog almost as large as she was. The next was of the same
girl, at about age twelve, standing beside an even more beautiful
girl, obviously her sister. The resemblance was striking. They both
had pigtails and wore Bavarian dirndls, and there were rolling
meadows and a steep-roofed chalet in the background. Another
photograph showed them along an esplanade flanking . . .
what?
A wizened, ancient dwarf? Obviously a close friend,
from the way they hugged each other.

The next few photographs were even older ...
the brown-and-white variety, with sawtooth edges. Were these the
parents of the girls? Perhaps. Then came more black-and-whites. A
woman walking with both girls
and
the dwarf, all three in
First Communion dresses, all three smiling at the camera. One
showed the first girl, older now, her arms hooked through those of
two young men . . . obviously admirers.

Suddenly something raised the hairs on
Stephanie's arms; made them stand up straight. She recognised this
young woman of sixteen or so. It was Lili Schneider - future
world-class opera diva and beauty, whose voice had thrilled
millions . . . whose very biography her grandfather had been
working on!

There were other photographs, as well.

Lili hamming it up with school friends, Lili
standing beside a piano, where a stern-faced woman with swept-back
hair sat with her fingers poised over the ivory keys; an older Lili
onstage, bewigged and begowned for
Der Rosenkavalier
, a
smiling Lili on the arm of a handsome Nazi officer ... a whole slew
of pictures of Lili with Nazis . . .

It was too chilling.

Stephanie let the pictures drop.

The stereo caught her eye. She went over to
it. What had Grandpa been listening to last? she wondered. She
turned on the sound system and punched the CD player. The disc
drawer slid silently out, the disc shining iridescently in the
lamplight. She picked it up to look at the label. But it was as if
she had already known.

Lili Schneider.

Of course, it would have to be.

She replaced the CD in the disc drawer,
punched the PLAY button, and listened to it for some time. They
were songs from various light operettas . . . Lehar and Strauss and
Sieczynsky. But the voice ... Ah, but it was so unearthly clear and
sweet; pitch-perfect and unlike any other - a voice of such magic
that it instantly raised new gooseflesh along her arms and neck and
legs.

A captivating voice, she thought, too
beautifully sweet for Nazis . . .

Had Grandpa been listening to this when he'd
died? she wondered. But the stereo hadn't been on when she'd come
in. Or had someone shut it off? Pham? The police? Of course, it did
not matter. What mattered was that Grandpa was dead and gone and
lost to her forever.

Her mind became a kaleidoscope of memories.
There were so many of them. She laughed again at the funny ones,
smiled at the good ones, and cried at the sad. She relived her life
with her grandfather - every emotion, all the happinesses and
sadnesses of a lifetime condensed into a single night.

Time crept by.

It was sometime in the hour before dawn,
while sitting on the sleigh bed, that she finally nodded off.

She jerked awake to brilliant sunshine
flooding the bay. From outside, the sounds of the city intruded:
car horns honking, urgent sirens screaming, loud bursts of rap
issuing forth from a passing car. For a moment she was disoriented.
She had been dreaming about her grandfather. He had been sitting in
his swivel chair right here, in this very room, enjoying one of his
Monte Cristos - smug and mysterious about something he'd dug up for
the Schneider biography.

The cigar!

She sat suddenly bolt upright, wide awake
now.

Of course! Why hadn't she thought of it
before? The cigar was the key, positive proof that Grandpa
hadn't
committed suicide! The police would have to listen to
her and start an investigation.

Because Grandpa hardly ever smoked. He only
allowed himself to enjoy a good cigar on very, very special
occasions - when he was feeling exceptionally good about something.
And Pham had cleaned house the same day Grandpa and Sammy had gone
to see
Dinorah
; in other words, he had cleaned house the
very day her grandfather was suspected of having committed suicide.
And Pham was nothing if not thorough. He took pride in his cleaning
and abhorred dirt with a personal vengeance. A nonsmoker, he
loathed dirty ashtrays most of all. Which meant the cigar butt
couldn't have been in that ashtray very long! Grandpa had to have
smoked it after Pham had cleaned - within twelve to twenty-four
hours of his death!

The realisation bolted around inside her
like live bursts of lightning.

The cigar proved that he must have been
feeling exceptionally good . . . and people who felt exceptionally
good did not loop belts around their necks and commit suicide!
Depressed people did that . . . despondent people who had nothing
left to live for.

Galvanised, she decided she would talk to
the police.

She consulted her wristwatch. It was past
seven o'clock.

She got up and stretched. She felt stiff and
rumpled and dirty; she'd been wearing the same clothes since
yesterday morning. She decided it wouldn't hurt to get cleaned up
and look presentable.

She went into her old pink bedroom, where
she kept some changes of clothing, and showered in the bathroom
that had once been hers.

Afterwards, she immediately felt more alert
and less stiff. The shower had worked some of the kinks out of her
joints. From her closet, she chose a white blouse, long red pleated
skirt, matching back-pleated jacket, and black, medium-heeled
pumps. Applying makeup took a scant few minutes.

She jolted herself even wider awake by
making and drinking a potful of coffee. Then she fed Waldo, filled
his water dish, and left for the police station.

The morning air was brisk and there was a
determination in her every step. She couldn't bring her grandfather
back, but she sure as hell could make certain of one thing. She
thought: I'll see to it that his death isn't dismissed as
suicide.

It was the least she could do.

Suddenly she stopped walking as the enormity
of her thoughts hit home.

If it hadn't been suicide, then . . .

. . . Then it had been made to look like
suicide. Which meant . . .

She felt a chill.

Could it be possible? Had he been
cold-bloodedly murdered?

But if so - why? And who could possibly have
wanted to see him dead? He had been such a sweet and mild-mannered
gentleman. No, offhand there was no one on earth she could think of
who could have hated him enough to do him harm. He'd had friends
everywhere.

Another thought hit her out of the blue.

He'd pried. He'd researched people's
backgrounds with the doggedness of a bloodhound, unearthing secrets
and sniffing out well-hidden facts. Always digging. And when he'd
dug deeply and relentlessly enough, he'd sat down and written those
secrets into his books.

Exposing secrets created enemies.

Shaken, she continued walking, her mind
reaching out in all directions.

But who?

Why?

And for what? The current research? Or
things he'd dug up for the books he'd written in the past? In one
of them, she felt certain, she would find the key.

But in which one?

Her steps quickened. She intended to do her
damnedest to find out.

Ilha da Borboleta, Brazil • New York City

Under the equator, the seasons are
reversed.

When it's winter above, it's summer
below.

And vice versa.

But in both hemispheres, the names of the
months remain the same. In Portuguese, May is
Maio;
it just
happens to fall in late autumn.

And autumn in Rio de Janeiro can be
decidedly summery. On this particular day, the temperature hit a
high of seventy-five degrees and, like a human tide, the
skimpily-clad sun worshippers descended on the world-famous beaches
of Ipanema and Copacabana or the twenty-one less famous ones to
soak up the rays and display youthful bronzed flesh.

For the young and carefree, skin cancer is a
lifetime away.

A hundred nautical miles to the north-east
it is a different story. Although the temperature climbed to
seventy-six on the private island of Ilha da Borboleta, the
pristine white sand beaches surrounding it were devoid of sun
worshippers; the man who lived here took cancer and the effects of
ultraviolet rays on the human skin as serious threats to his
health. Both he and his beautiful mistress avoided direct sunlight
like the plague.

If there is such a thing as Fantasy Island,
then Ilha da Borboleta certainly fits the bill. A good portion of
its seven square miles of gentle hills and volcanic outcroppings is
kept carefully thinned out and pruned back at all times; the shiny
green jungle vegetation never getting a chance to rot and stink of
tropical decay. The manicured lawns are like a blanket of soft
fabric mowed in a precise pattern. Exotic species of palms and rare
tropical flowers of all sizes, shapes, and colours grow and thrive
in great profusion.

Ilha da Borboleta was the private domain of
Ernesto de Veiga, a reclusive billionaire who, it was reported, was
one of the three richest men in the world.

The security measures were awesome, as
befitted a man of his wealth and stature.

Around the clock, one of two speedboats
equipped with searchlights and sophisticated radar and weaponry
patrolled offshore, while squads of armed security guards with
trained attack dogs were on land duty twenty-four hours a day.

The island was accessible only by seaplane,
helicopter, and yacht. Ernesto de Veiga owned several of each.

There was de Veiga. At home in Quinta Santo
Anastacio, the blue-and-white tiled
palacio
which had been
erected by a rubber baron back in the nineteenth century. The
intricate Portuguese tiles which covered its outside walls had
weathered beautifully over the last century and a half, and the
terracotta roofs had been conscientiously restored.

Ernesto de Veiga was sitting deep in the
shade of the bougainvillaea-shrouded verandah, a tall craggy man of
indeterminate age in a short-sleeved, white cotton shirt and dark
trousers. A yellow silk scarf was knotted around his throat. He sat
facing outwards, so that he could enjoy the view. And indeed, from
time to time he would look over the wicker table which held his
freshly squeezed vegetable juice and lepidoptery implements and
gaze out past the cascading bougainvillaea and spiky palm fronds
and across the beautifully kept grounds. His view was to the
bright-blue swimming pool surrounded by yellow sun umbrellas and
down the gently sloping hill, where the blue-green ocean extended
unbroken to the hazy horizon beyond. The sky was a mass of great
towering fleecy clouds.

From the shrubbery, giant clouds of
butterflies flashed bright rainbow colours. Insects buzzed
indolently all around.