A Brush With Death (24 page)

Gino came panting into the room, looked all around and smiled. “I told you she'd be all right, Weiss. Cassie's a smart lady. Let's face it, we fumbled the pigskin and she recovered it. Handcuff time, folks,” he said, and merrily jingled a pair of cuffs from his pocket, but when he saw the culprits were tied up, he didn't bother to use them. Instead he went to the phone and called for his car.

When John recovered, he noticed I was undressed. “Maybe you'd better put some clothes on,” he suggested.

I had forgotten I was in my half-slip and bra. He followed me into the bedroom, just to make sure nobody assaulted me on the way. “What happened?” he asked. “Rashid didn't show at the mountain. He left the hotel at eleven-thirty all right, but the guy following him said he went to mass. We made a stop at the church, and there he sat, just looking. Wasted ten minutes seeing who came to sit beside him. It was a pair of teenagers. So I decided I better call back here and see if you were all right. When you didn't answer..."

“Rashid doesn't know what's going on. She masterminded the whole thing. I was afraid they'd escape if I let myself be distracted, so I didn't answer the phone.” I shimmied into slacks and a sweater. “Tell you all about it later. Let's join the party.” I grabbed his hand and pulled him forward.

There were a few points I wanted to clear up, and I asked Bergma when Ayesha learned John was an insurance investigator, since there was no point asking her.

“She found some papers the day you read the tarot cards. I learned only this afternoon when I met Weiss in the bar. She never told me anything. We were afraid to meet.” I interpreted that to mean he was afraid to meet her. He was the one who warned her off on the phone.

“How about yesterday afternoon when she went to the museum?"

“I saw her there, but we didn't speak. She gave Ms. Painchaud a note for me in the washroom, saying we had to meet. She said she was setting something up, and she'd call me, but for me not to call her in case her phone was bugged. After I met Weiss I
did
call her, but I was careful what I said. When she said the sheikh was out, I knew she was being cautious. I learned only tonight that she was trying to pin it on Rashid. Her phone calls didn't make any sense. I decided to risk coming to the hotel and slipping up the fire stairs to her room."

Ayesha gave a bored look in our general direction; then looked away. She didn't look frightened, or angry, or anything, just bored. But I imagine she must have been a cauldron of anger and regret inside. Perhaps she was a better actor than any of us had realized. Or perhaps she was incapable of registering emotion, even when she truly felt it.

Someone should speak to the sheikh,” I mentioned, feeling sorry for him.

“I'll take this pair downtown. You want to speak to the sheikh, Weiss?” Gino asked.

John nodded. Gino handcuffed the pair together and led them out the door, with Export A along to help keep an eye on them. I didn't think he'd be needed. Ayesha had shackled herself to the wrong helper for this job.

“Want me to go to Rashid's room with you?” I asked John.

“I wouldn't mind the company, if you have the stomach for it.''

“I'll go. Worse things happen to me when you leave me behind,” I reminded him.

He squeezed my hands till they ached; then gave me a gentle kiss on the lips. “You don't have to remind me, darlin'. I have enough nightmare material to last me a lifetime.

Rashid was nearly as impassive as Ayesha when John told him. His face didn't move; his eyes didn't blink. He looked inscrutable, like a Buddha.

“I had begun to suspect she no longer cared for me,” he said. “You must not judge her too harshly. She was not like other women. There was a wild, headstrong streak in Ayesha. A part of her appeal. I hoped to bind her to me with—things.” He gave a futile hunch of his massive shoulders. “She liked pretty things. Too much, perhaps. But she liked danger and excitement more."

“What is her background?” John asked.

“She comes from a good home. Her father was a diplomat.” So she had told the truth about that, then. “She ran away from school when she was sixteen, when her mother divorced her father."

“The mother didn't commit suicide?” I asked.

“No. She was a flighty woman. That's where Ayesha gets it. She amused herself with drugs, guitar players, who knows what else? She still manages to find drugs wherever we go. They are so easily available nowadays to someone like her, with cosmopolitan connections. I refuse to give her cash, but I suppose she sells things. Even
my
things, sometimes. A watch was missing recently and a little ornamental dagger I keep for sentimental reasons. She buys a great deal. I don't know. What will become of her?"

I didn't think she had left Rashid's dagger there on purpose to involve Rashid. That would bring suspicion too close to home. It was probably an oversight, but when she remembered it later, she put it to use.

“She'll spend a long time in prison. You don't walk away from murder,” John said.

“I'll hire a lawyer; do what I can. I shall miss her.” I saw, or imagined, a tear glazing his eye. “I daresay the police will want to speak to me before I leave."

“Mr. Parelli will be in touch with you tomorrow."

“Make it in the morning if possible. I am very anxious to get to London—business."

He had no crushing business in London. He had planned to go to the Laurentians until Ayesha talked him out of it. Whatever he felt for her, it wasn't love. But then he knew her better than any of us. He knew whether she was capable of being loved. He would continue footing the bills, and that was apparently all she had ever wanted from him. There seemed no point in telling him she had tried to blame it on him, though he might learn about the dagger eventually.

Christmas morning away from home wasn't so bad. I had John and Victor, and such an abundance of presents that I felt a little like Ayesha. Victor was piqued at being left out of last night's excitement, but as there had been no media involvement, he was able to forgive us.

So you tied up all the loose ends without me,” he said, shaking his head.

“Not quite all,” John said. “We still haven't found the forged paintings. Ayesha hasn't talked. Rashid hired her the most expensive lawyers in town, and they're not letting her say much."

“She said last night she left them with a friend,” I mentioned, “but that's obviously not true. She doesn't have any friends here."

“Poor girl,” Victor said. “Alone, friendless. No wonder she got into trouble. What would a woman like that do all day long?"

“Shop,” John said.

“And have her fortune told,” I added. “The only person she met all day was Madame Feydeau, and—John! Did you question Madame Feydeau? Ayesha was seeing her before we started watching the sheikh and her."

John blinked. “I must be going senile! I forgot all about her."

“Ayesha gave me Madame's phone number."

“We won't call. Madame might be more deeply involved than we think. I'll find out her address and take a run over."

“I'll go with you.” He opened his mouth to object. “Instead of being left behind and nearly killed,” I reminded him.

“1 have a feeling I'm going to be hearing a lot about last night, in the future."

“Not if you learn the lesson fast. We'll be right back, Victor."

Madame was in the yellow pages. John got to drive the big Caddie limo, as he'd been dying to all along. Madame lived in the district called Saint Henri. It wore the traditional face of old, lower middle-class French Montreal. Duplexes with black iron stairs leading to the upper story are a feature. The houses are mostly brick, with trim painted in lively shades of orange, turquoise, or mustard. Large numbers of children used to be another feature.
La Revanche du Berceau,
they called it (The Revenge of the Cradle). Having lost the war to the English on the Plains of Abraham, they would win it by sheer numbers. Double-digit families were the rule until the pill generation. I didn't see many children in the streets.

The Caddie looked out of place, parked in front of Madame's little duplex. A sign in the lower-level window announced her calling. We went to the door and tapped. Madame was entertaining family or neighbors. Her little house was alive with people, a Christmas tree, and assorted holy pictures on the wall. A large crèche was on a hall table. The trappings of religion persisted, even though Madame was into the occult.

She was dressed in black, all six feet of her, enlivened by a vivid shawl. Free of its customary turban, her black hair was frizzed out in an Afro. Her cheeks were heavily rouged. “I'm not working today, sorry,” she said, in accented English. She began closing the door with her gnarled, ringed fingers.

“Ayesha sent us to pick up the parcel she left with you,” I said.

“She did? I wondered when she didn't come herself. I was afraid she'd run off and forgotten it. She's leaving today for the skiing, isn't she?"

“Yes,” I said. “She's a bit rushed, and I said I'd get it."

“I won't be a moment."

She disappeared, and soon came back with a large, soft-sided suitcase. “She was afraid the sheikh would peek,” she said, smiling conspiratorially. “His Christmas gift,” she nodded. “I'm sure he'll love it. Did she tell you what it is?"

I smiled back. “No, she just said it was his present."

“A painting of herself. She had it done in Paris. I told her she should have it framed, but it's for the Paris apartment, and it would be easier to carry unframed. A lovely thought, wasn't it? She is a delightful woman. What an aura! So generous! I shall miss her."

She looked at the suitcase, much larger than a single canvas would require. “Of course she's giving him a few small gifts as well. One of those ski sweaters, and I think she mentioned a gold pen..."

My nerves were squealing to get away and open the case. “Thank you. Merry Christmas."

We drove a few blocks away before trying to open the case. It was locked, probably to prevent Madame Feydeau from snooping and discovering that the portrait of Ayesha had turned into ten forged Van Goghs. We took it to the hotel to open. Victor was still in John's sitting room, using his phone for a long distance call to Italy, where he frequently called to chat with the Contessa Carpani, to prolong the loan of her Stradivarius violin.

“Ah, I wish I could be there with you,” he said. “Toronto is feet thick in snow. I would have asked you to join me, but your delicate constitution could never take it. It would be cruel to ask you to come. So I sit here alone, dreaming of you."

He took a quick sip of his Irish coffee and winked. “February?” he asked. “Delightful! Just let me check my agenda and see if I'm free.” He rustled the phonebook. “Can you believe it! I'm booked up solid that month, in Los Angeles. A documentary the movie people are putting together on me. If only I had known you were coming to New York! Could you put it off till July? ... No, of course, I understand. The Italian Renaissance exhibition can't be rescheduled for my convenience. You must go, certainly. How about August?"

He talked on a moment longer, making excuses and feigning regret and lavishing compliments, while John pried the lock of the suitcase open with the corkscrew the hotel provided for each room. He opened it and took out a beautiful cerise mohair shawl. Wrapped inside it were the forged canvases. He spread them out on the sofa, one by one.

There was one of three cypress trees standing in a cornfield, under a blue night sky, which held either two moons, or the moon and the sun.

“A Saint Remy landscape,” John said, gazing at it.

Victor finished his call and came to peer over his shoulder. “Is this what all the fuss is about? The guy has no sense of composition. The tree's growing right out of the top of the canvas, for crying out loud."

“He learned that from the Japanese prints,” John said. “See how it forces our eye up. Cypresses are a sort of mystical symbol for Van Gogh, a link between earth and heaven."

“Looks more like a Freudian symbol to me,” Victor said. “I'll bet the original Van Gogh fit the canvas better."

“This is an exact duplicate,” John said. “I've seen the original. Amazing how Latour copied the brush stroke. You can almost feel the nervous tension, the hysteria, in the twist of those strokes. Van Gogh was in the asylum when he did the original of this. His colors are darkening again here, quite different from the palette he used at Arles."

“Let's see some of the brighter ones,” Victor suggested.

John lifted out one of the bedroom pictures. It seemed to glow from the yellow of the bed, the sunlight at the window, and the deep golden floor. “I even see a little tribute to Vermeer in here,” he said, pointing to the geometrical shapes of window, door, table, and a clutch of paintings on the bedroom wall. “All that geometry, especially the window, is reminiscent of Vermeer, don't you think?"

I agreed, but in fact had only a hazy idea what a Vermeer might look like. I determined on the spot that I'd start a crash course on art.

John gazed as though in a trance. “I remember reading in one of his letters to Theo that these bedroom scenes ‘ought to rest the brain or rather the imagination.’ But a good painting never does that. Quite the opposite."

“It does have a restful feel though,” I countered. “A happy, restful feel."

“He didn't use his passion colors. Van Gogh used reds and greens to express what he called ‘those terrible things, men's passions.’ The real passion of his own life was his art. When he used the complementary colors next to each other, he'd call it ‘a marriage.'

He turned to the painting of Mademoiselle Gachet. “Notice how he's speckled the green wall with red flecks. He wanted to marry her. The father, understandably, didn't approve."

Victor glanced at the painting of the woman and said, “Can't say I think much of the lady."

“Stick to the violin, Victor,” John said.

“I may not know much about art, but I know what I like. And I like a painting that looks like what it's supposed to be. You've seen my Alex Colville? Now
there
is an artist."

“One of the best,” John agreed. “He goes beyond realism. His women don't just look like a woman; they look like womanhood."