Читать книгу Granville Island Mysteries 2-Book Bundle - Michael Blair - Страница 11

Friday began as just another perfect day in paradise. The early morning rain was warm and soft and sweet, scrubbing the air until it smelled like new wine, and washing the dust off the huge blue-and-white ready-mix trucks that rumbled in and out of the Ocean cement plant as I skipped along the glistening cobbles to the Aquabus dock by the Public Market. I may be overstating the case slightly, the skipping-along-the-cobbles-part, anyway, but I felt pretty darned good that morning. Better than I had in a long while. Whether it was a “hangover” from my late-night beer with Jeanie Stone or the result of having unconsciously arrived at some conclusion about the future of my relationship with Reeny, of which I was still consciously unaware, it had been just what the doctor ordered.

When I got to the studio, Mary-Alice and Wayne were already there. The movers were due in less than twenty-four hours and there was still a lot to be done. We got down to it. About half an hour later Mary-Alice threw an empty film canister at me.

“Will you please stop that,” she said.

“Stop what?”

“That bloody humming.”

It looked impossible, but between us, we managed to get everything done. It took all day, and by four o’clock we were dirty, grumpy, and tired. Well, Wayne and I were dirty, grumpy, and tired. Mary-Alice was just grumpy and tired. Somehow, even though she had worked just as hard as Wayne and I, she had managed to stay immaculately clean despite rooting through years of accumulated dust and grime. After Wayne and I cleaned up as best we could, I took us all downstairs to Zapata’s, the Mexican restaurant on the ground floor, for a much-deserved beer or three and a plate of nachos. The beer and nachos improved our moods, but by five-thirty we’d run out of conversation and were almost falling asleep in our chairs. I paid the tab, leaving a fat tip for Ping, the waitress. I then exchanged hugs and kisses with Rosie, the owner and chef, promising to deliver her best wishes to Bobbi, then followed Mary-Alice outside.

“See you at seven,” Mary-Alice said as I walked her to her car.

“Pardon me?”

“Our cocktail party,” she said. “For the Children In Peril Network. You promised you’d come.”

I groaned, recalling that in a moment of weakness I had accepted an invitation to attend a party Mary-Alice and her husband David were throwing in honour of Elise Bridgwater Moffat. She was head of the Josiah E. Bridgwater Foundation, Mary-Alice had explained, whose main preoccupation was the Children In Peril Network. She was also wife of the ex-Honourable Walter P. Moffat, erstwhile Member of Parliament for Vancouver Centre and would-be MP for West Vancouver — Sunshine Coast — Sea-to-Sky Country, the official name (I kid you not) of the riding that included the town of Squamish.

“I really don’t think I’m up to it, Mary-Alice,” I said. “I’m beat. And I want to drop by the hospital and see how Bobbi’s doing.”

“You don’t have to stay all evening,” Mary-Alice countered. “Besides, it’ll give you a chance to schmooze with Walter Moffat. He may have changed his mind about the exhibition catalogue, but he’s still in a position to send more work our way.”

“Isn’t schmoozing why we took you on as a partner, Mary-Alice?”

“Believe me, I’ll being doing my share. I’m going to be busy with other duties, though. There’ll be some interesting people there. Who knows, you might even enjoy yourself.”

“I doubt it.”

“It will do you good to get out, Tom, take your mind off things. You’ve been moping around for weeks, ever since — well, for weeks.”

Ever since what? I wondered. “Who else is going to be there?” I asked.

“Well,” she said, a cunning glint in her eye. “Jeanie Stone, for one.”

“Oh.”

“You’ll come?”

“Yes, I’ll be there,” I said.

Mary-Alice and her husband, Dr. David Paul, lived in West Vancouver on the north shore of Burrard Inlet, in a big glass-and-redwood house that clung precariously to the rocky slopes above Marine Drive, propped on cantilevers that didn’t look sufficient to support it at the best of times, let alone when it contained at least seventy-five guests and a dozen or so caterers. The view of Burrard Inlet from the living room was spectacular, though, and David’s taste in single malt whisky wasn’t bad, either. I was enjoying both, while keeping an eye out for Jeanie Stone, when David came up to me.

“Glad you could make it, Tom,” he said in his deep, wet voice. “Are they taking care of you all right?” I presumed by “they” he meant the caterers.

“They’re being very generous with your Laphroaig,” I told him.

“I was very sorry to hear about Bobbi,” he said. “I’m certain she’ll be fine. Are the police making any progress?”

“Not so’s you’d notice,” I replied.

“Terrible thing,” he said. “Who’s her attending physician?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve talked to a number of doctors.”

“No matter. I’m sure she’s in good hands.”

David was in his mid-sixties, a year or two younger than my father. An inch over six feet, he had a short salt-and-pepper beard and thick, dark-grey hair that made him look very professorial and distinguished. He was, in fact, both, teaching at UBC and lecturing all over the world on things proctological. He could be a bit pompous at times. My father, never one to mince words, called him “that arse doctor.” But he was a decent enough guy.

“Have you met our guests of honour?” he asked, voice rattling with phlegm. I resisted the urge to clear my throat.

“Not yet,” I said.

“Well, let’s rectify that oversight, shall we?”

“That’s not really necessary,” I said.

“As it happens,” he said, as he guided me across the room, “I’m under orders.” I didn’t have to guess whose. “And who knows?” he went on. “You might even find Walter Moffat interesting. Walter certainly does. He styles himself as a real Horatio Alger boy-made-good type, a true self-made man.” David snorted, which sounded like someone inhaling a raw oyster. “Who was it who said self-made men tend to worship their own creators?”

“Conrad Black?”

David laughed and gave me a laudatory clap on the shoulder. “He’d know, wouldn’t he? Walter Moffat thinks just as highly of himself.”

Across the room a small crowd of mostly middle-aged women had gathered around a tall, broad-shouldered man with immaculately coifed dark hair, highlighted with just enough silver to give him an air of maturity without making him look old. Jeanie Stone had been right: Walter Moffat was indeed a handsome man, although personally I wouldn’t have described him as “drop-dead gorgeous.” Nevertheless, he was favoured with just the kind of sincere good looks that television — and television viewers — loved. In his expensive haircut, perfectly tailored suit, and understated tie, he exuded warmth and trustworthiness. You might not have to worry about your daughters around him, but you’d be well advised to keep your eye on your mother.

I wondered what sort of art he collected. I asked David, “Have you seen his art collection?”

“No. Neither has Mary-Alice. We have it on good authority, however, that it is one of the finest collections of its type in the country.” He smiled, leaving little doubt as to the source of the authority. “Walter can be something of a bore on the subject, so perhaps you would be wise not to bring it up.” He shook his head and smiled ruefully. “Although, of course, that’s the point, isn’t it? Oh, well. Nothing for it, I suppose.”

“Mm,” I agreed.

He leaned close and rumbled wetly into my ear. “Oh, and, Tom, be careful of your language. Neither Walter nor his wife care for profanity. She’s become quite religious since she found God.”

“That’s typically what happens,” I said. “I’ll try to limit myself to scatological or anatomical references.”

He grinned. “You know, I think they’re both faintly embarrassed by my speciality.”

“What was she before she found God?” I asked.

“Something of a wild child, I understand,” he said. “Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll, although in Elise’s case it was a jazz musician, I think. There are rumours of a — well, never mind, it’s just gossip. She settled down after her father died and saddled her with the foundation. Running it suited her. It was she who refocused it on the plight of children in the Third World. Walter is also deeply committed to its cause.”

David used his bulk to shoulder through the knot of women surrounding Moffat and a slim, severe-looking woman of about forty-five. Walter Moffat’s head seemed unusually large in proportion to his body. So, evidently, had been Albert Einstein’s. In Einstein’s case, the extra size had been necessary to accommodate his larger-than-average brain, which some believed contributed to his genius. I wondered if Walter Moffat was a genius. I didn’t think so. Geniuses did not, in my opinion, go into politics. Politics was a game that attracted only the stupider of the species. The proof, if any was required, could be found in any newspaper or on any television news program, or observed directly during question period.

“Excuse me, ladies,” David said. The matronly throng melted away. “Walter, Elise. There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Tom McCall, Walter and Elise Moffat.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. McCall,” Walter Moffat said as he gripped my hand. He had a deep, smoothly resonant voice. Up close, he was still a handsome man, but his age, which I knew to be fifty-five, was beginning to show, particularly in his face, which was starting to sag here and there, under the eyes and his jowls. A quick visit to a plastic surgeon would take care of the dewlap, I thought. It also looked as though he was wearing makeup. You never knew when a news camera might show up.

“Mr. McCall,” Elise Moffat said as she placed her hand in mine. Her voice was as tentative as her grip. Her eyes were a deep, rich brown and quite lovely despite the complete lack of makeup. I realized as I looked into her eyes that she was a very attractive woman who tried hard to make herself look dowdy. Her complexion was pale but flawless, and her fine, shoulder-length hair was the colour of wild honey. She wore it straight, parted in the middle, and secured at the nape of her long neck. She was dressed plainly but well, in a long wool skirt and matching jacket over a white blouse, demurely buttoned to her throat. The suit didn’t completely disguise what appeared to be a fine figure. She wore a silver brooch of a crucified Christ upon her lapel, a beatific grimace on the tiny face.

“Tom’s my brother-in-law,” David said.

“Yes, of course,” Walter Moffat said, feigning interest as only a politician can. “The photographer.”

“That’s right,” David said.

“Mary-Alice is a charming woman,” Moffat said. “You must be very proud of her, Mr. McCall.”

“Indeed I am,” I said. “She married very well.”

David laughed, a little hollowly, I thought, but Walter Moffat’s smile was as weak as my attempt at humour. Mrs. Moffat didn’t appear to get the joke. She looked as though she wasn’t there at all.

“Do you live in Vancouver, sir?” Moffat asked.

“I’m one of your former constituents,” I said. “Except that I didn’t vote for you. Either time.”

He laughed easily. “No?” he said. “Well, I lost by more than one vote, didn’t I?”

“Perhaps you’ll do better next time,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said, with a glint in his eye.

He took his wife’s arm. Did she flinch slightly? Perhaps he’d caught her off guard. She impressed me as a very guarded and nervous woman. “It’s been a pleasure making your acquaintance, Mr. McCall,” Moffat said.

I’d been dismissed, and would have gratefully retreated, but David wasn’t done. “Walter,” he said, “Tom was just asking me about your collection.”

“Oh? Are you interested in art, Mr. McCall?”

“Um, well, not really, it’s just that, um, well …” I could see he was losing patience. “I was looking forward to the opportunity of working with you on the photography for your exhibition catalogue,” I blurted.

“Ah, yes, that,” he said, glancing quickly at his wife, whose expression perceptively hardened. “I’m very sorry,” Moffat went on. “But we have decided not to go ahead with the exhibition. It was all very last-minute, I’m afraid. Please accept my sincerest apologies for any inconvenience it may have caused you. If something else comes up that you can be of assistance with, I won’t hesitate to contact you.”

“Thank you,” I mumbled.

“Now, if you will excuse us, we should circulate. David.” He took his wife’s arm.

Before he could drag her away, Elise Moffat extended her hand to me again, and said, “Mary-Alice told me of your associate’s assault, Mr. McCall. I’m very sorry. I shall pray for her full and speedy recovery.”

“Yes, yes, a terrible thing,” Walter Moffat added quickly. “She will be in both our prayers.”

“Thank you,” I said again, with more sincerity. Prayer wasn’t something I personally put any faith in, but what could it hurt?

“Walter,” David said. “Last week, when you were telling me about the latest additions to your collection, you mentioned that you knew Samuel Waverley, did you not?”

“I may have,” Moffat replied. “I don’t recall. I’m acquainted with him, of course. I’ve purchased several pieces from him over the years. Why do you ask?”

“It’s a coincidence, I’m sure,” David said. He looked at me. “Perhaps Tom should explain.”

“Explain what?” Walter Moffat wanted to know, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“On Tuesday a woman calling herself Anna Waverley hired us to take photographs of a motor yacht called the Wonderlust, which she claimed to have received as part of her divorce settlement. I had to meet with another client, so Bobbi, my partner, kept the appointment. She was attacked later that night. The attack evidently took place on the boat.”

Mrs. Moffat’s pale complexion grew even paler, except for highlights of colour on her cheekbones. Her lips moved as she uttered what I assumed was a silent prayer.

“I’m certain that neither Mr. Waverley nor his wife had anything to do with your partner’s attack,” Moffat said. “Besides, if I’m not mistaken, he is out of the country. And while the Waverleys do own a boat, I believe it’s a sailboat.”

“I’m sure Tom didn’t mean to imply that the Waverleys were in any way involved,” David said.

“No, of course not,” I said. “The woman who hired us wasn’t Mrs. Waverley and the boat belongs to some numbered corporation. As David said, it’s purely coincidental that you know them.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, David,” Moffat said, in a tone of voice that made it clear he didn’t expect David to challenge him. “Haven’t you also purchased works from Samuel Waverley’s gallery?”

“You’re not wrong,” David said. “I bought a watercolour from him last year, and that bronze just last month.” He gestured toward a niche that contained a small, dark sculpture of a young ballerina. “I visited Samuel Waverley’s gallery on your recommendation. Although I don’t know the Waverleys personally, I have met them both at various charitable events. He’s, well, a bit cold, I thought, but she’s very charming. Quite lovely, really. Quiet, though, and … sorry,” David said, with an apologetic smile. “I’m prattling.”

Walter Moffat nodded, as though he agreed, but Elise Moffat’s smile, while distant, was not without sympathy.

“And you’ve no idea who the woman was who hired you?” Moffat said to me. “No, of course you don’t. It was a foolish question. I am rattled. We are not accustomed to such violence hitting so close to home.”

It was then that a man slid into position partly between David and me and the Moffats. He reminded me of my daughter’s pet ferrets, Beatrix and Harry, except that he was nowhere near as cute or cuddly. His suit looked expensive and his dark, thinning hair was combed over his skull from above his left ear and lacquered into place. Jeanie Stone’s description fit him to a tee.

“Is everything all right here, Walter?” the man asked, eyes darting suspiciously between David and me.

“Yes, yes, of course, Woody,” Moffat intoned reassuringly. “Everything is fine.”

“Woody Getz,” the man said, thrusting his hand toward me. “Walter’s campaign manager. And you are …?”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said, reluctantly taking his hand. It was cold and damp and limp. I let go quickly.

“My brother-in-law,” David said. “Tom McCall.”

“Oh, right. We spoke on the telephone the other day,” Getz said.

Moffat took his wife’s arm. She leaned against him.

“David,” he said, “I think it’s time Mrs. Moffat and I said good night. Mr. McCall, I hope that your partner makes a full and speedy recovery.”

“Thank you,” I said.

David reiterated Moffat’s best wishes for Bobbi, said good night, then led the Moffats away in search of Mary-Alice, leaving me alone with Woody Getz. He smiled at me. I felt like a fish stranded on the beach and Getz was a hungry weasel.

“So you’re Mary-Alice’s brother?” he said.

“I am,” I admitted.

“You live on Granville Island, don’t you?”

“Not exactly,” I said.

“Eh?”

“I live in a floating home in Sea Village.”

“But isn’t …? Ah, I get it. Very good. I should’ve said ‘at’ not ‘on,’ eh? Arh arh.” He didn’t quite nudge me with his elbow. “I’ve been thinking about maybe buying a place there myself.”

“Is that right?” I said. “Well, good luck.”

“We have a mutual acquaintance, you and I,” he said.

“Who’s that?” I asked. Did he mean Jeanie Stone? I hoped not. Perhaps he was referring to Blake Darling, the real estate broker, recalling Darling’s little chortle as he’d told me that his mysterious client “usually gets what he wants.”

“Kenny Shapiro,” Getz said.

“Who?”

“Kenny Shapiro. The director. I used to be in the industry. Kenny’s an old friend.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t …”

Then I remembered. Kenny Shapiro had directed the second season of Star Crossed, Reeny Lindsey’s syndicated sword-and-sex sci-fi series. They’d shot part of an episode at Sea Village the previous fall.

“You mean Mr. See-em-sweat,” I said.

“Eh?”

“Never mind.” Reeny had dubbed Kenny Shapiro ‘Mr. See-em-sweat’ because he had frequently overheated the sets to satisfy his penchant for authenticity. No spray-on sweat for Kenny. He wanted to see the real thing. His predilection for the real thing did not extend too far, though. Reeny had come close to quitting the series when he’d tried to persuade her to get breast implants.

I excused myself and went looking for Mary-Alice. There was still no sign of Jeanie Stone. “She was on the guest list that Walter’s manager provided,” Mary-Alice claimed, but I was certain she’d fibbed to lure me into her charitable web. I hated it that I could be so easily manipulated. I left soon after, which necessitated manoeuvring my car past a sleek Jaguar coupe, a couple of Mercedes sedans, and a hulking Cadillac Escalade that made my little Jeep Liberty feel downright puny. It was after ten, too late to go to the hospital, I decided, so I drove straight home.