A Brush With Death (11 page)

I was so smitten with his beauty that it didn't register for a minute when he introduced himself as Mr. Bergma. When it finally sank in, I pictured him in his red and black and white house and thought t was the wrong setting for him. He should live on the boulevards of Paris. It should be perpetually spring, with the lime trees in bloom, scenting the air. If he insisted on having a house, Versailles would do. A man who looked like that deserved to be surrounded by mirrors, the better to see him from all angles.

His hand that held mine in warm embrace was also pale, with a masculine smattering of dark hair. An ornate gold ring with a green stone bedizened one finger. A glimmering wafer of gold watch peeped out from under his white shirt cuff. It came as no surprise that his accent was delightfully cosmopolitan, more French than anything else. It was a disappointment that he hardly glanced at me. His lustrous eyes were scanning the new arrivals. Perhaps for the man he had forbidden to call him?

I continued down the line and soon regrouped with John and Gino. “Wow!” was all I could think of to say. “Did you get a load of that Bergma!"

“As cool a cucumber as ever stepped out of the refrigerator,” Gino said. “I wonder where he got that suit."

John gave a disparaging look. “Don't tell me you fell for that greaser."

To call Jan Bergma a greaser was like calling Catherine Deneuve a bleached blonde. There may have been a daub of something on his hair, but it was hardly the paramount impression. John was just jealous, of course, so I raved on to reinforce this emotion. If I had to put up with Hot Buns, why should he get away with no more competition than Gino?

“Let me have the job of watching Jan,” I begged. I called him Jan instead of Bergma to infuriate John.

“I'd better circulate and see if I can find Denise,” he retaliated, and stomped off.

Gino and I, awash in a cloud of garlic oil, watched Bergma for a while. It was a night right out of my dreams. Everyone was there—even the premier of Quebec, with his beaky nose and glasses. There were lots of politicians, financiers, people from the performing arts—actors, singers, a famous ballet dancer in a dress much like my own, and a gaggle of anonymous society people. The pop of flashbulbs and whir of TV cameras told us the press was them.

“I should've sprung for a new jacket,” Gino said, looking at Bergma. “That'l1 teach me to spend my hard-earned money on a dishwasher. Did I mention I got Ma a dishwasher for Christmas?"

“Three or four times, but don't let that stop you. Repetition is the mother of learning."

“It has four settings. I got gold, to match her red kitchen."

“That sounds—bright."

When Bergma moved away from the door, I took a sharp look to see who he was with. Since it was the Minister of Culture, I acquitted him of being a murderer and took the chance to have a look at the exhibit. It was gorgeous. I'd return later to study it more thoroughly, but enjoyed a quick glimpse of the various displays. The jewelry was whimsical, with birds and flowers and animals fashioned of gold and gem stones. Cartier had some intriguing jewelry and small sculpture, and of course Erté was handsomely exhibited. What a genius! His fashion designs were extravagantly lovely. The twenties lived again in those elongated, ladies in sweeping robes. I wasn't mad about his new line of watches, but they were interesting.

“What do you figure the watches go for?” Gino asked.

“Over a thousand, I imagine."

“What suckers! This little beauty cost me twenty-five bucks.” He proudly displayed an ugly hunk of chrome with many insets on the dial. “Never loses a minute:"

Across the room, I spotted John and Denise examining a painting. I was gratified to notice John was keeping a close eye on me. He wore a pugnacious expression, but when he caught me looking, he turned and beamed an oily smile at Denise. Hot Buns was in white, a rather matronly and unattractive affair with a long,, boxy jacket that thoroughly hid her charms. Maybe the museum didn't want her to look like a hooker. From the neck up, she foiled them. The mane of red hair was frizzed to a fare-thee-well, and her earrings were even bigger and gaudier than mine. Waiters, decked out like nineteenth-century footmen for some unclear reason, carried around trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres. Gino speared us a glass and a plate.

“What the hell. This is costing John a bundle. We might as, well get his money's worth,” he said. He took a bite of one of the hors d'oeuvres and gagged. I was afraid he was going to spit it out on the floor. “What
is
this stuff?"

“Looks like a pâté to me."

“Yuck. It tastes like lard. I thought Angelina's was bad. And look at all these high-class people gobbling it up.” He put it in a handkerchief and slid it in his pocket.

The Minister of Culture met up with some noteworthy folks and abandoned Bergma. I came to attention to see what Bergma did, now that he was free. He was busy greeting assorted socialites, mostly female. The men didn't seem crazy about him, but the women were fawning. No handshakes for them; they pushed their powdered and rouged cheeks forward for a kiss. I discovered, or imagined, that he was nervous. That was the only thing I could come up with. I stuck close enough to hear what was being said, and it was all perfectly innocent stuff about how marvelous and fantastic and exquisite the exhibition was, and what a treasure they had in dear Jan. A few mentioned Mrs. Searle's party and other holiday festivities to which he was bid.

It all seemed like a waste of time, except for the pleasure of watching Jan's matchless face and form. My eyes were glued to him when he suddenly gave a leap like a wounded animal. His head shot up, his body turned rigid, and his pale face suffered a sudden infusion of blood. I followed the line of his eyes and saw him staring at an Arab.

At least I think the man was an Arab. He wasn't dressed in a burnoose or anything, but his skin was swarthy and he had those impenetrable, black eyes, like Jan himself. His hair was black, combed straight back. He looked about fifty years old, stocky of figure. He was wearing an impeccably tailored dark suit, and on his arm hung a highly ornamental young lady. I had an impression he was glaring at Jan in a meaningful way. He turned his head, spoke to his partner, and they moved on.

My next interest was in the partner. I decided he had either robbed the cradle or was with his daughter. The shy, wilting violet air suggested a daughter on her best behavior. She too had that dusky skin and black eyes; her mane of hair was long and curled, but the color matched her partner's. The eyes had a slightly oriental cast though—maybe his wife was an Oriental. As to the rest of her, she was just plain sexy, beautiful. One of those dainty women who appeal to men's chivalrous instincts. Beside her, even Hot Buns would look like a Clydesdale. She wore a deep-blue clinging gown that reeked of Paris. I thought the blue-and-white stones around her neck would be the real McCoy. There'd be a sable or some expensive fur parked at the coat check.

“It wouldn't take a Don Juan to fall for that lady!” Gino exclaimed. Odd how he gave that illusion of slavering without actually drooling. “More curves than a corkscrew. I wouldn't mind snuggling up to that.” Only his physical repulsiveness saved him from promiscuity, I fear.

My eyes flew back to Jan. He had more or less recovered. The pink in his face was receding. I found it significant that he purposely turned his head directly away from the newcomers. Agatha Christie used the tingling of her thumbs to alert her to mystery. With me, it was more like the gang from
Chorus Line
doing kicks in my stomach. I had to notify John. I caught his eyes and gave him a wildly imperative toss of my head. Hot Buns was by his side, but chatting to someone. He spoke to her and nonchalantly weaved his way to me. “What's up?"

“The old guy in the dark suit, the one with the siren in blue. I think he's our third man. Jan nearly croaked when he came in. He seems to fill all the requirements. He's an Arab; therefore he's probably floating in money. He's interested in art, since he's here. And he glared at Jan. Jan leapt when he saw him. What do you think? Can you work the Bic-Pic on them?"

John studied the man as he mingled with the crowd. The Arab seemed to know an awful lot of people, but none of the ones I recognized from newspapers. It wasn't politicians or actors or singers he was talking to; therefore it must be the social set. And that suggested contacts in the world of high finance.

“Get a load of the lady!” Gino said, a piece of advice that was hardly necessary.

“I wonder who she is,” John said, eyeballing her with the keenest interest.

“Aren't two at a time enough for you?” I snipped.

“More than enough. It just happens I enjoy a better rapport with women. I'll tell you later what I've learned from Denise.” His hand went into his pocket and he drew out the lighter-camera, but there really was no excuse to use it in this room. There were signs plastered all over the entrance forbidding smoking.

“Better not use it here,” I said. “He might just notice a flame being lit for no reason. We don't want to make him suspicious."

“Here, use my pen,” Gino said, and pulled out a ballpoint, one of the cheapest ever manufactured.

“Is that a camera too?” I asked in a low voice.

“Are you nuts? It's a pen. I always use a lighter to heat up the ink when it doesn't work. Lots of people do. Here, I'll give you one of my cards, John, and you pretend you're trying to write something.” The card said Joe's Quick Lube. Fast, Cheap, Good.

That was what they did, after first edging close to our third man and taking careful aim. Neither the man nor his partner was paying the least attention to us. The man was deep in conversation with other businesspeople, and the woman was ogling all the celebrities. She smiled prettily at the TV show host and the conductor of the local symphony orchestra. John took pictures of them both; then tried to scribble something on the card with Gino's pen, which still didn't work.

“Okay, we've found out what we came for,” Gino said. “Can we split now?"

I looked at John. “Have you decided whether you're taking Denise home?"

“Not yet,” John said. “We want to be around if Bergma's friend makes contact. The friend will have to be followed when he leaves."

“You're the only one with a car. We'll all go,” I said.

He rubbed his chin. “The thing is, I think I can learn more from Denise if I can get another couple of glasses of champagne into her. You and Cassie better follow the Arab, Gino. Make sure Cassie gets home safe, huh?"

“Does Hot Buns have wheels, or will you be taking a cab?” I asked.

“I don't know. The subject hasn't come up. I'll call you tomorrow, Cassie."

“Sure,” I said airily, and cast a sheep's eye at Jan Bergma in retaliation. He actually noticed me, and smiled. “See you tomorrow then,” I said, and wafted toward Jan to join the carnivorous matrons gathered around him.

“Good evening,” he smiled. Every tooth a pearl. “I don't believe I've had the pleasure, Miss—"

“Newman,” I said, and took his hand.

“I didn't think you were one of the museum's volunteers. I wouldn't forget anyone so lovely."

I could feel myself glow. “Actually I've been wanting to join. I'm a student at McGill. I wasn't sure the museum would be interested in someone who doesn't live in the city all year."

“Summer is not the busy season. We have several students from McGill.” He went on to name the crème de la crème, all women. I knew some of them to speak to, and claimed friendly intimacy with them all, so he'd think I was somebody too.

“I'll certainly be in touch after the holidays then,” I said.

“Excellent. I may not be here myself. I'm just on sabbatical. I'll be leaving in January, but don't let that deter you. Mrs. Searle is in charge of the Volunteer Committee. I'll speak to her."

“Oh you're leaving!” I said with a moue. “Not too early in January, I hope?"

“My term expires the thirty-first of December. I plan to return very soon after. Just a little ski trip to the Laurentians first. Do you ski, Ms. Newman?"

“I love it. I may still be at Tremblant at the New Year myself. Where will you be staying?” Any tidbits might prove useful.

“With friends—the Mrs. Searle I mentioned earlier. They have a chalet there. Perhaps we'll meet on the slopes?"

“At the top of the Minute Mile,” I said gaily, and left, as he was beginning to show signs of impatience. One of the matrons had clamped a prehensile hand on him and was tugging. I didn't want John to see him walk away from me.

“Oh Ms. Newman!” he called after me, nice and loud. “Perhaps I could get your phone number?"

“I'm in the book,” I assured him, with a come hither look.

His smile was extremely dashing and flirtatious. “So am I,” he said.

This was great! Not only was I showing John how attractive I was, but in case of necessity, I had an excuse to phone Jan and dig for information. Best of all, John was scowling like a gargoyle. I walked unconcernedly back to the Erté exhibition, where he soon joined me.

“You realize that guy's dangerous,” he said through clenched teeth.

“That's probably part of his charm."

“I hope you haven't given him your phone number!"

“He asked me for it, but I just told him I'm in the book— like him."

“He's not in the book. He's unlisted. I wish you hadn't given your real name. Remember what happened to Latour."

That sent a little chill scuttling up my spine. I
was
in the book. “We know Jan didn't kill him,” I pointed out.

“He probably gave the order. We know he's in it up to his bedroom eyes. You're staying with me tonight."

“Will this be a ménage à trois or à quatre? You forget I'm with Gino."

He gave me a look that would freeze fire. “I knew I should never have told you anything about this business. Now I can't take Hot Buns home. I'll get back to her now. And I don't want you to leave Gino's side."

I smiled enigmatically. I was glad to hear “Denise” had become “Hot Buns.” She seemed less of a threat when he called her that. While John induced Denise to tank up on the cheap domestic champagne, Gino and I watched all our suspects. We could vouch that Jan and the Arab hadn't exchanged a word. The lady in blue had managed a few flirtatious words with him, but I imagine she mistook him for a movie star. And anyway, they said only a few words.