Knowing His Secret (6 page)

She'd left a note on the kitchen table:

Hey sleepyhead, how about a drive and a picnic tomorrow?
Jenn.

That sounded like a plan to me and it gave me something to focus on other than the strange and overwhelming way Tristan had insinuated himself into my thoughts. He wasn't doing it on purpose. That much I freely admitted to myself.

Even as a child, I had a tendency to over involve myself in people and situations. My sisters used to tease me about being 'sensitive' and taking things too seriously. Those qualities had also given more than one guy all the reason needed to walk away from a relationship with me.

I've never been very good at casual. Even my friendships tend
ed to be deeply intimate. What excuse could I come up with for allowing myself to get even mildly involved with Tristan? He wasn't just out of my league; we weren't even playing the same
game
.

One spring break, my second year at Bennington, Jenn and I and two other girlfriends went to Panama City beach for spring break.
Jenn and the two others threw themselves into the 'scene' with abandon. Even Jenn, normally not a girl you would describe as 'wild' by any stretch, had sex with at least three different guys that I know of in the course of our ten day stay. All I managed to do was piss off a couple of dudes, one of whom called me a prick teaser in front of a bar full of drunken strangers.

So, what was it about Tristan that would make me want to do something I'd never wanted to do before? Casual liaisons had never appealed to me. Why now? Why involve myself with a man with whom there could never
really
be any involvement? What was there about him?

Maybe I was growing up. Maybe I had matured sufficiently to do what the rest of the world seemed so fond of doing--see someone
attractive and go for it if you can. God knows I found Tristan attractive. At first, it was simply an animal reaction to a man who seemed to have been constructed to my personal standard of perfection. But, even in the short time I had known him, I had found other things about him compelling, appealing and so fascinating.

His talent as an actor was superb. From the first moment I watched him on stage, I was amazed at his ability to transform himself into another character. Every single thing
he did on that set reflected the coach--his voice, his posture, even the movement of his hands. The fact that this was only a hobby for him impressed me even more.

I liked the fact that he didn't seem to take himself too seriously, at least not all the time. And while he seemed to appreciate the fine things he surrounded himself with, they
apparently didn't define him.

About the time I started to hope that I'd get a call from him over the weekend, I realized that he had never gotten my phone number. I had his, o
f course, on the cast roster. I was tempted to call him, maybe just to 'check' that he made it home okay. That was a temptation best resisted, I told myself.

Sunday's picnic helped me stop over thinking the whole 'non-relationship' with Tristan. Jenn had taken care of last Sunday's Mexican day and it was my turn to treat
. A cold platter and a nice bottle of wine would be great for our picnic. I thought of the cheese, olives and great bread that I had eaten at Tristan's and wondered where he got those treasures. I could casually call him and ask. I mentally slapped myself across the face for that thought.

Our local gourmet grocer had quite a selection to choose from. I didn't see the particular cheese that Tristan had served--the one wrapped in brandy soaked leaves--but I found several
I liked. The cheese monger gave me samples and guided me in selecting three types that would complement each other. I also bought dry Italian salami, some mixed olives and a loaf of artisanal bread with herbs baked in. It would be a scrumptious picnic.

I stopped at the wine shop and bought a cheap, but respectable bottle for us to share and went home to put it all away.

I was at loose ends after that. Jenn is a neat and clean freak and I'm not far behind. There's rarely anything to be done to the duplex on Saturday except a little laundry and she had taken care of that before she went to work. I folded the few towels in the dryer and decided I'd take a ride over to the theater and see how the set was progressing. We had the basic walls up which made a big difference in rehearsal. It's so much easier to have an actual wall than a piece of tape on the floor. Even the appearance of a sofa on Thursday had change the dynamic of the 'room'. Each little detail added a new element that made each performance become successively more nuanced; progressively more real.

I laughed when I opened the theater doors to find the stage crew painting the
interior of 'coach's' house Pepto-Bismol pink. Tom had mentioned that he wanted the feeling to be one of a little old lady's living room complete with doilies over the backs of chairs. Coach had lived with his mother, never married and stayed in her house after she died. There was an implication in the storyline that the coach had some 'tendencies' but it was probably too subtle for most people to pick up.

Tom was on stage with Suze watching the painters. Suze was obviously acting strictly as a supervisor. Her beautiful slacks, shell top and ballet flats weren't going to get anywhere near that pink paint, that's for sure.

Tom saw me and waved me up on stage.

"Looks like things are really shaping up, Tom. I didn't see the pink coming." I turned to Suze. "The set looks great, Suze."

"Oh, thanks…uh…um."

"Raina, the name is Raina."

"So sorry. I'm
so bad
with names." I wasn't the least bit surprised she was 'bad' with mine. Suze ran over to a couple of high school kids who were bringing in the bar on the opposite side of the stage. "Boys…do be careful with that piece. It was my grandmother's."

Tom laughed. "There's one of the phoniest women who ever wore Chanel No. 5."

"Not fond of our little Suze?"

"Good god, she's one of the reasons I chose an all male play. I don't think I could make it through another production with her kind."

"Her kind?"

"Oh c'mon, Raina. You're young but you don't strike me as stupid. Have you ever met people as ridiculous as the women here?"

"Why just the women?"

"The men can be obnoxious, too. But they have a real life. For the majority of the women, this
is
their life." He shrugged as if to say it didn't matter much to him. "Let's go look at the set from the audience."

We sat about midway up the center section and looked at the stage as if we were an audience seeing it for the first time.

"That's the most bilious shade of pink I've ever seen. Are you sure you aren't risking wide spread nausea in our audience?"

"I wanted it to be a real contrast. The rough language, the big jocks, the drinking--all within the context of a little old lady's living room."

"You've certainly achieved that with this décor. I can't wait to see how the cast reacts to it."

"Rehearsals will take on a new dimension with the set nearly done. I think it's been going very well so far."

I agreed with him…and saw my chance. "It's a wonderful ensemble cast you've put together, Tom. But…I noticed something very strange in the air Friday night. Care to shed some light on it for me?"

"I'm not sure I know what you mean," Tom responded in a guarded voice.

"C'mon, that Roger dude. The whole cast went all somber and Tristan was a positive bear the whole night." Well, maybe not the
whole
night, but I didn't need to share those details with Tom.

"It's not important. There's just a past."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I hate to gossip. There are already too many noses poked in everyone else's business in this theater group."

"Well, it sucks when everyone knows an open secret but me." I was pissed off that Tom wouldn't tell me something that was obviously public knowledge.

"Okay, okay. Tristan was engaged to Roger's sister years ago. It ended badly."

I hadn't seen that coming and it hit me right in the gut. "But Roger and Tristan are still friends?"

"As much as they can be under the circumstances."

"Was the break up that ugly?"

"Oh, there wasn't any break up."

"Are you being deliberately vague? What do you mean there wasn't a break up? They aren't together anymore…are they?"

"Hardly. Elsa was…Elsa's dead."

I had to let that sink in for a moment. Tristan, man about town, was once going to get married and his fiancé died.

"How did she die?"

"Look, Raina, it was years ago and I wasn't around here then. I've heard several versions of how she was killed and the truth is, no one really knows except Tristan. So if you want the whole story, you'll just have to ask him."

Suze called from the stage. "Tom, I need you up here for a few, sweetie." Everyone was a 'honey' or a 'sweetie' to Suze. Tom seemed eager enough to finish our conversation and leapt up to do her bidding.

"She was killed…no one really knows except Tristan
.
"
I was stuck with more mystery than before and now there was a sinister edge to my speculation.

I went back to the duplex with the intent of digging up all that I could about Tristan King and his fiancé. It took me a few moments of intense concentration to come up with Roger's last name. I hadn't been paying all that much attention when Tom had introduced him. Fortunately, unlike Suze, I have a pretty good recall of names.

I typed in "Tristan King Elsa Maynard". Sure enough, I came up with an engagement announcement. The engagement had been five years before and there was a picture of the happy couple. Tristan was as handsome as ever. It was apparent the ensuing five years hadn't aged him much. Elsa was a female version of Roger. Just as I thought, the features suited a female face. She was pretty, but in a very natural, girl-next-door way.

I stared at the photo of the woman Tristan had loved enough to want to marry her. Her eyes were fixed on him and brimming with love. I wanted to cry. Not because he had lost the love of his life…no. Because he had
had
a love of his life.

I filled in as many of the blanks as I could over the next hour or so. I found the obituary. It said nothing at all about the circumstances of her death. I tried every phrase I could think of-- "Elsa Maynard death", "Elsa Maynard killed", "Elsa Maynard accident", and so on until I had exhausted my options.

There wasn't much more on Elsa. She was the daughter of a couple who apparently hadn't done anything more newsworthy than serve on a few high school planning committees. There was nothing about her family background; no social pedigree that I could find.

The engagement announcement mentioned that Elsa had graduated from a small state university. Beyond that, her major claim to fame was to get engaged to Tristan King. When I searched
that
name I came up with plenty.

I read enough to know that he was probably the most successful and secretive private investment guru on Wall Street. In a profession that values discretion, he seemed to be a master of it. In fact, most of what I read about him was pure speculation. Unschooled though I am a
bout the world of finance, I knew enough to know when I'm reading filler bullshit in an article. A lot of his press centered on the fact that he had garnered vast power and wealth at such a young age. Apparently, that's all the reporters could come up with.

I did an image search next. Jenn and Tom hadn't been off the mark in their assessment. Tristan seemed to have a penchant for model/actress types. There were several pages of images of him arriving at this or that gallery opening, art show, theater, opera and on and on. Every woman seemed more beautiful than the last. He certainly got around.

I went back to the engagement announcement. The contrast was striking. Elsa looked like Jenn, or any number of pretty all-American girls I had known in college. The women Tristan appeared with in New York were far more like Victoria's Secret models or Hollywood types.

There were a thousand questions I wanted to ask Tristan. But just how does someone start a conversation with "I researched your background on the internet for hours after I learned your fiancé had been killed. Let's talk about it."?

***

Jenn and I had a great picnic. I caught her up on the 'situation' with Tristan. She seemed impressed that I would even have the courage to get as far as I had with him. She knew me pretty well, maybe better than anyone. She knew how out of my element I was.

I filled her in on the things I had learned about him--both the gossip from Tom and the internet research.

"You've got yourself a complicated man on your hands."

I chuckled. "I wouldn't go so far as to say 'on my hands', Jenn. But I do agree that he's complicated."

"You better keep me posted. This ships-passing-in-the-
night
thing of ours is keeping me too much in the dark."