He Huffed and He Puffed (11 page)

He never did understand. That man kept me ignorant as sin until I was nearly grown. He had a lot of help from Mother, though; the first sixteen years of my life she kept telling me I wasn't like other girls and I couldn't do this and I couldn't do that and I had to be
so careful
to take care of myself all the time. Long naps when I wasn't sleepy, or at least quiet periods of resting. No sports, of course. No public functions of any kind. Brief periods of supervised play, so long as they didn't get too strenuous. Father backed her up, bringing in tutors instead of letting me go to school, even a private school. I'd reached high school age before I read a magazine article that said diabetics could lead perfectly normal lives just through exercising common sense and a reasonable amount of caution.

When I confronted them with what I'd learned, they pooh-poohed the whole thing and gave me those looks that meant I was just a sweet, silly, gullible little girl who needed to be led by the hand all the time. I don't know what I would have done without my Uncle Marcus. That dear man died when I was ten, but four years earlier he'd seen something my parents never saw and gave me a child-sized violin for my birthday. I remember that moment as clearly as if it were this morning; I picked up that tiny instrument—which seemed enormous to me at the time—and I played it. I played a scale first, and then I played a tune I'd heard on the radio that had been haunting me. It wasn't until several years later that I learned it was the theme of the largo movement of Beethoven's
Seventh;
but that one sustained, repeated note sent chills down my back the first time I played it for myself. I knew from the moment I tucked that first baby violin under my chin that there was a
rightness
to making music that I'd never find anywhere else.

My mother and father thought it was cute. They both approved of my playing, because it gave me something to do and kept me from crying because I couldn't go out and play baseball or whatever else might happen to catch my attention. They never stinted on lessons or on replacing the scaled-down violins as I outgrew them, and I'm grateful to them for that. It's just that they had such a hidebound view of the way a correct life ought to be conducted that the idea of living for music was something of a joke to them.
One doesn't compete with others in the arts, dear … and you aren't serious about playing for money, are you? Don't be vulgar, Joanna. You don't need money
.

Money. A. J. Strode actually thought I
killed
them for money.

The light outside had changed; the afternoon was almost gone. I showered and changed and went downstairs to see if Strode was back yet. At the bottom of the stairs I could hear a television blasting away, so I followed the sound to a room down the hall from the main living room. The light was dim; at first all I could see was a huge rear-projection screen showing a tennis player arguing a call. Then I could make out a man stretched out on the sofa watching the TV. “Strode?” I said.

It wasn't Strode. The man who got up from the sofa was lean and good-looking and as surprised to see me as I was him. “Hello!” he said in a friendly manner. “I didn't know anyone else was here—Strode isn't back yet. My name's Jack McKinstry, by the way.”

“I'm Joanna Gillespie. I was supposed to meet Strode here—alone, I thought.”

“Same here. Did you say Joanna Gillespie? The violinist?”

“One and the same.”

“Hey—no stuff! Terrific!” He laughed. “I can't see you … here, let me turn on a light.” He switched on a table lamp, and I saw clearly for the first time the smiling face of Jack McKinstry. “You sure as hell are Joanna Gillespie—I'd know you anywhere. At the risk of sounding like a gushing fan, I've got to tell you I have all your tapes. Well, almost all of them. I've just about worn out the Prokofiev! You don't know what a pleasure this is for me.”

“Well, thank you, Mr.… I'm sorry, I didn't get your last name.”

“McKinstry. But call me Jack—please.”

He had a smile so infectious that I found myself grinning back. “I'm Jo.” This looked promising, but the timing was all wrong; the getting-to-know-you game would have to wait. “Did I understand you to say you're here to see Strode too? Well, of course you are or you wouldn't be in his house, would you? I meant to say Strode and I have some business to wrap up and I expected to see him alone.”

“Oh, I'm sure you'll have him to yourself for a while. He'll probably take care of your business first, before he gets to me. I'll be here for the whole weekend.”

I was starting to get a funny feeling. “Isn't that interesting? I was … invited for the weekend too.”

His friendly smile started to fade. “You hesitated before you said ‘invited'.”

“Did I? I didn't notice.”

There was an awkward pause. Then he said, “Jo, does your being here have anything to do with House of Glass?”

I sat down on the nearest chair,
plop
, and waved an arm at the television. “Could you turn that off?” He did. “Look, Jack, I don't want to be rude, but why I'm here is my business. Just tell me one thing. Did you think you were going to be the only guest this weekend?”

He nodded. “You?”

“The same.”

He grinned crookedly. “And I don't think A. J. Strode just wants to bring two fascinating people together, right? He got us both here without telling either the other was coming. He has to have a reason for that—he never does anything without a reason. Any ideas?”

I shook my head. “Not a one.
Damn
that man!”

“Amen,” Jack said, looking surprised. “Why, heaven protect us, I do believe the lady is not an admirer of Iron Man Strode. Can this be true? Does this mean I am not the only one in this show-offy house who is not a member of the A. J. Strode fan club?”

“That's what it means,” I muttered. “I don't want to be here at all. I want to be in Boston practicing Mozart.”

Jack pulled over a chair next to mine and sat down. “Joanna Gillespie, I think you and I ought to talk to each other. We might turn out to be allies, you know. Frankly, I could use an ally. I don't want to be here either, and it looks to me as if our not-so-genial host is planning a little surprise that involves both of us. I don't know about you, but I hate surprises. Especially when A. J. Strode is behind them. So what do you say—shall we pool our resources, whatever they might turn out to be?”

I was thinking it over when Myron Castleberry came into the room. “Oh, there you are! I see you've met—good, good. I'm afraid—”

“What's going on, Castleberry?” Jack interrupted him. “You didn't say a word to me about Jo's being here, and you didn't tell her about me. What's this all about?”

“I didn't mention it?” Castleberry said smoothly. “An oversight on my part, I'm afraid. I've come to tell you Mr. Strode was delayed in Atlanta—bad weather of some sort. But his plane has just taken off and he'll be here in a few hours. We're not to wait dinner for him. The cook says half an hour, if that's satisfactory?”

“And if it isn't?” Jack asked innocently.

Castleberry pretended not to hear. “You know where the dining room is? Good. If you'd like a cocktail before dinner, just call the kitchen on that telephone over there.” He left before either of us could say anything.

“That's the only decent suggestion I've heard all day,” Jack said and headed for the house phone. “Martinis okay?”

I said yes. “Do you believe that?” I asked when he'd finished at the phone. “That he just forgot to mention there'd be two of us here?”

“Not for one minute. I doubt if Castleberry ever forgets anything, perfect little toady that he is. I don't like this, Jo. I smell a fish.”

“We could leave.”

He was quiet a moment. “Maybe you can leave, but I can't. I have to get some business settled with Strode, and it has to be settled this weekend.
Has
to be. I don't have any choice.”

That was a familiar phrase. Should I tell him?

Just then another black-frocked and frilly-aproned maid appeared, this one carrying a tray with two glasses and a shaker of martinis on it.
“Bless
you, my dear,” Jack said, taking the tray, “and our undying gratitude to you for your lifesaving errand of mercy. Doesn't it give you a warm glow to know you've just rescued two desperate souls from a terrible and thirsty death?”

She looked at him uncertainly; evidently such extravagant language wasn't usual in A. J. Strode's house. But she smiled politely and left without saying anything.

Jack poured a martini and handed it to me. “We don't have a whole lot of time. I'll go first, if it'll help.” He poured his own martini and lifted the glass. “To better days.” We both drank and he said, “Strode is working an extortion game on me. He wants my shares in a company called House of Glass. Does that mean anything to you?”

I finished my martini and held out my glass for more. “It does.”

He refilled our glasses and said, “Strode has manufactured some evidence that implicates me in a helicopter crash that took place in France four years ago. The evidence is garbage, but it can still make trouble for me. I can't afford even the appearance of guilt right now. If he can get the police investigation reopened … well, I'll just say our family business is the manufacture of helicopters. See? You can imagine the damage all that adverse publicity would do—not just to me but to the rest of the family as well.”

“And you're here to.…”

“I'm here to swap my House of Glass shares for that phony evidence. I've tried everything I can think of, but there's no way around it. I'm going to have to let him have my shares.”

I was stunned. I sat there unspeaking for so long that Jack finally joked, “Jo? Hey, Jo, I told you my deepest and darkest secret—play fair, now. Your turn.”

I put down my martini and said, “I'm here for the same reason. He's blackmailing me into giving up
my
shares of House of Glass.”

Jack looked as if I'd slapped him. “But … but Strode told me he needed only
one
block of shares to give him control.”

“That's right. He needs only one block.”

We sat staring at each other, slowly figuring out what it meant. What it meant was that Strode was going to deal with only one of us and throw the other to the wolves.

“He's pitting us against each other,” Jack finally said, “and he's doing it for fun. We're his weekend entertainment, you and I.”

I could think of nothing to say to that. I got up and walked around the room for lack of anything better to do. The walls were lined with shelves holding videocassettes, the largest private collection I'd ever seen. The room boasted stereo speakers for the television and the VCR, but that was all. No radio, no turntable, no tape deck, no compact disc player. Evidently A. J. Strode never felt the need for music, never. Somehow that failed to surprise me.

Jack threw me a questioning look. “Jo—what's he got on you? If you don't mind my asking.”

I shivered. “It's too ugly to talk about. The ‘evidence' in my case isn't manufactured, but it is grossly misinterpreted. In fact, Strode has done such a nifty job of misinterpreting that I have no doubt he could persuade the police to see it his way. It's very difficult to prove innocence, isn't it? I haven't been able to think of a way.”

“So we're both stuck. What in the hell are we going to do?”

We were sitting there gloomily saying nothing when the same maid who'd brought our drinks came to tell us dinner was ready. I asked her if Castleberry was dining too and she said yes.

“Good,” Jack muttered. “I have a few things I want to say to our Mr. Castleberry.”

But before he got his chance, Castleberry had one more surprise for us. “I'd like you to meet Richard Bruce,” he said, indicating an immaculately groomed man ten or twelve years older than Jack. Solid-looking; gray streaks in his black hair. “Joanna Gillespie and Jack McKinstry, Mr. Strode's other guests.”

“Jesus,” Jack breathed. “Another one?”

The other man, Richard Bruce, turned to Castleberry. “I was not told there would be others here.”

“How many more, Castleberry?” I asked.

“No more,” he replied pleasantly. “Just you three. Shall we be seated?”

“No, we will not be seated,” Jack said angrily. “Not until you give us some answers. Why
three
of us?”

“Please—we'll have to eat sometime. I can't tell you anything anyway. Mr. Strode will be here soon, and he'll answer all your questions. Please sit down.”

We all stood frozen; then Richard Bruce broke the tableau by pulling out a chair and sitting. The rest of us followed suit. The first course was served, by the drinks maid and one other helping her.

Richard Bruce waited until they'd left the room and then said, “Castleberry, I want to know why I was brought here.” His voice was surprisingly musical. “I came here to transfer some stock, not to take part in a social weekend.”

Jack McKinstry laughed shortly. “You're here to take part in a game of cat and mouse. And guess what, Richard my friend. You ain't the cat.”

“This stock you came to transfer,” I said to him, “it's House of Glass stock, isn't it?”

“I do wish you'd wait until Mr. Strode gets here,” Castleberry interposed. “Why speculate when it will all be explained to you soon?”

Richard Bruce was looking straight into my eyes. “Yes,” he answered me.

I nodded. “That's why Jack and I are here too. You realize he doesn't need all our shares.”

After a moment he nodded back; he realized.

Dinner didn't last long; no one was in the mood for eating. Just as we were getting up from the table, Castleberry cleared his throat and made an announcement. “While we were dining, envelopes were placed in each of your rooms that should be of great interest to you. The contents are different in each case, but I'll just say they are related to what each of you came here to get. Perhaps you'd care to go examine them now?”