Imperfect Strangers Page 8

  Sandy reached out and put his hand on top of Martindale's. "Make very sure of that, Peter, because once she's dead, if I ever hear from you again I'll make it my business to kill you. Do you understand me?"

  "Of course, dear chap," Martindale said, getting to his feet. "I'm surprised you hadn't thought of that before now; I certainly was ready for you to try. But you see, I knew you'd realize that you might as well kill Helena as me. Much safer, and you'd have my help."

  "Let's get out of here," Sandy said.

  "One more thing: In the event that you're still thinking about trying to kill me, you should know that I've handwritten an account of our little arrangement, complete with gory details, and had my signature notarized. That document, along with the keys to your basement and storeroom, are in an envelope in my lawyer's safe, and written upon the envelope is an instruction to open it in the event of my death. Once Helena is out of the picture, I'll retrieve the envelope and give it to you for disposal."

  "Let's get out of here," Sandy repeated.

  "You've got it all, then?"

  "All of it."

  "Good. You go back the way you came." He glanced at his watch. "The group should be back where they started in a couple of minutes; I'll catch them up from behind. You first."

  Sandy left the cell and walked back toward the tour's starting point. He gazed up at the tiers of cells around him; his steps echoed around the abandoned prison. Truly, he thought, this would be hell on earth. He resolved not to end up in a place like this. Shortly, the group appeared from around a corner, and he joined the rear of the crowd and worked his way up to the middle. As he boarded the boat for the trip back he saw Martindale get on.

  On the trip back, the sun came out.

  CHAPTER 14

  Sandy stood in the dusty soil of a Napa Valley vineyard and listened to Mario Scotti, its owner, extoll the virtues of his latest vintage.

  "I tell you, Sandy, it is the best I have ever made!" Mario was saying.

  Mario said this every year, of course, in his slightly accented English. He had been born in Tuscany and had come to California as a child, but he had never entirely lost his accent. Sandy bought Mario's wines each year, and in increasing quantities, but this year he had come for advice, as well. "Mario, I will increase last year's order by twenty percent if you will find me a vineyard to buy." Sandy knew that if there was a vineyard in Napa to be bought, Mario would know about it, and he was not disappointed.

  "Larsen," Mario said.

  "Lars Larsen?"

  "What would a Swede know about wine? Vodka, maybe, but not wine."

  Sandy knew the property: it was a few miles south, well located, pretty. "Why does Larsen want to sell?"

  "The same as anybody else; he's spent all his money. The difference is, Larsen has spent it replanting with phyloxera-resistant vines."

  The phyloxera parasite, scourge of European vineyards, had come to California, and every vineyard was faced with the huge costs of planting and maturing new vines that would resist the pest.

  "What's his equipment like?"

  "Beautiful. The man is obsessive about having the best this, the best that; always has been. Larsen was never one to make do the way I have to."

  "I've drunk a bottle here and there, and it was good."

  "He makes a pretty good cabernet and a pretty good merlot. Larsen is a technician; I think he believes that if he could reduce the best wine to a chemical formula, that he could duplicate it endlessly, like ink. He has a good, young winemaker over there; an artist, if he wasn't working for a chemist."

  "You know how much he wants?"

  "I can find out."

  "Find out."

  Sandy sat in the walled garden of the restaurant, Tre Vigne, and sipped the Larsen cabernet. Larsen sat across the table from him, watching for his reaction.

  "Very nice," Sandy said.

  Larsen's face fell. "That's all? Very nice?"

  "It's excellent," Sandy admitted.

  "It's superb," Larsen said. "You won't get my price down by bad-mouthing my wines."

  Sandy shrugged. "So why isn't the merlot living up to its potential?" He knew he had struck home by Larsen's expression.

  "So, I haven't been making it as long," Larsen said grudgingly.

  "Tell you what I want to see, Lars-the books, the machinery, the figures on replanting, the lot. I want you to put a package together and send it to my bankers in New York." He wrote down Sam Warren's name and address. "And in a couple of weeks I'll get back to you. If we like what we see, we'll make you a substantial offer-I'm not out to steal you blind, I just don't want to pay a dime too much."

  "I guess I can live with that," Larsen said. "I'll introduce your banker to my lawyer; we'll see what happens. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and labor in my vineyard." Larsen shook hands and left.

  When Sandy was sure he had left the restaurant, he whipped out his portable phone and called Sam Warren.

  "How are you, Sandy?" Warren asked.

  "I'm wonderful, Sam; I've found a property in Napa, and it's a gem."

  "So soon?"

  "My contacts are good." He told Sam about Mario Scotti.

  "So why doesn't Scotti buy it himself?"

  "For the same reason nobody else around here can afford it at the moment-they're all investing heavily in replanting. I've asked Larsen to send you a complete package on the place, and I'd like you and your people to go over it as soon as possible."

  "Of course. We'll research what other Napa and Sonoma properties have brought recently, too, and if you can get us the package quickly, we'll have a ballpark figure for you within a few days."

  "That's what I wanted to hear," Sandy said. "Scotti could be of help to you in setting a price. Talk to you next week." He hung up and addressed the remains of his pasta; he could not believe his good fortune in locating such a good property so quickly. He looked up at the trees shading the garden and at the blue sky beyond. That particular bit of sky was the roof over one of the world's premier wine-growing regions, and soon he would own a piece of it-his life-long dream.

  Then he remembered what he had agreed to do that night, and it was as if the sun had left the sky. He forced himself to consider going to the police. He could call Duvivier right now, from his table, and spill the whole story. After all, the concierge at the Pierre would back him up on the message he had given to Martindale.

  And that was all. There wasn't another person in the world who could substantiate his story. Martindale could simply deny the whole proposition, laugh it off as the rantings of a madman, and Sandy could prove nothing. And he would still have Martindale to deal with.

  The man was ahead of him all the way; he had known that Sandy would come around to thinking of killing him, instead of his wife, and he had taken precautions-or, at least, said he had taken precautions. It was a bluff that Sandy could not afford to call. Martindale had the upper hand all the way-he could incriminate Sandy, but Sandy could not touch him.

  Suddenly, Sandy had lost his appetite. He passed up dessert and asked for his check. It was a ninety-minute drive back to his hotel, and he had a decision to make. He had to decide just what he was capable of.

  On the way back, he stopped at a men's store in Napa and bought a lightweight, reversible raincoat, a tweed cap, and a pair of thin driving gloves.

  CHAPTER 15

  Sandy picked at his room service dinner, washing small bites down with large swigs of Lars Larsen's cabernet sauvignon. He had always held his alcohol well, especially wine, so he didn't feel drunk. He was looking for a level of buzz that would make him reckless.

  Not careless, however. A bottle of wine put him in a place where confidence was a given. He could say anything to anybody, take nearly any risk, meet any challenge on one bottle of red. Finally, he was there.

  Sandy got into dark gray trousers, a black turtleneck cashmere sweater, and his blue blazer. As an afterthought, he took the bright red silk pocket square from the breast pocket
and tossed it into his suitcase. Nothing distinctive, or memorable, to catch the eye of an unwelcome spectator. He stuffed a tweed cap into one pocket of the reversible raincoat and the driving gloves into the other, then he rolled the raincoat into a tight wad and tucked it under his arm. What else? If he'd had a false moustache he'd have worn that. Glasses. He rummaged into his briefcase and found an old pair of heavy, black-rimmed spectacles that he hadn't worn for years. He didn't much need glasses, except for reading in dim light. He slipped them on and regarded himself in the mirror. A sad but altered face stared back at him. He put the glasses into the breast pocket of the blazer and left his room.

  • • •

  On the street, he declined the offer of a taxi from the doorman and walked in the opposite direction from his last visit to the gallery. Moving quickly, he walked down the street, then turned two corners and doubled back toward the gallery. Half an hour later he had one more turn to make, one more block to go. He stepped into a doorway, unrolled the raincoat and put it on, plaid side out, then donned the tweed cap, the gloves and the glasses. His reflection in the shop window revealed a different man. Different than he had ever been.

  He found himself short of breath. He stopped for a moment, took some deep breaths, and forced himself to continue at a slower pace. The streets were deserted.

  He turned the last corner. In the middle of the block, where the gallery was, stood a little group of people, and one of them seemed floodlit. There were other lights, too; red and blue. He kept to the opposite side of the street and moved down the block. On the other side of the ambulance were two police vehicles, one a black and white, the other an unmarked car. Mesmerized, Sandy stopped across the street from the gallery and watched. Inside, a clutch of men stood talking, and there was the flash of a camera. The photographer was shooting down, at something behind the desk.

  The television crew began moving toward the ambulance, and Sandy caught the eye of the cameraman. "What happened?" he asked.

  "Lady got herself snuffed," the man said without slowing down. He positioned the camera at the rear of the ambulance, and after a moment, he was able to photograph a stretcher covered by a blanket as it was slid into the rear of the vehicle. Sandy started walking again, keeping it slow, not wanting to attract attention by seeming to hurry away. When he had gone a couple of blocks, he removed the raincoat, the cap and the gloves, wadded them up and stuffed them into a wastebasket. A find for one of the homeless. He put the glasses into his breast pocket again.

  Back at the hotel, Sandy waited impatiently until the eleven o'clock news came on. The story did not run until just before the weather. Sandy recognized the reporter from the scene.

  "Police are withholding the name of the victim pending notification of next of kin," he was saying. "All they will say at the moment is that a gun was used."

  A police detective blinked into the bright light. "The victim was a Caucasian female in her late thirties," he said. "There was a single gunshot wound to the head."

  "Will the position of that wound make identifying the body difficult?" the reporter asked.

  "Probably not," the policeman answered. "We have identification materials from a handbag that had been emptied onto the floor. The perpetrator was probably looking for money; the desk had been rifled."

  The reporter faced the camera again. "The owner of the gallery Peter Martindale, did not answer the phone at his residence, and his car was not in the garage. A neighbor said he believed that Mr. Martindale had gone to Los Angeles earlier in the day for a speaking engagement at a university there."

  The weather report came on, and Sandy switched it off. What had happened? Had Martindale killed his wife in a fit of anger? Surely not, not when he was expecting Sandy to do it for him later that evening. This was baffling. Had Martindale contracted with more than one assassin, just to be sure? Made no sense at all. What the hell was going on?

  The telephone rang. Sandy picked it up. "Hello?"

  "It's Bart."

  "Yes?"

  "How was your evening?"

  Sandy hesitated. "I think you must have the wrong number," he said.

  "I was calling a pay phone," he said.

  "This is not a pay phone; it's a hotel room."

  "Will I find it necessary to call again?"

  "I should think not," Sandy replied.

  "All is well, then?"

  "That depends on your point of view."

  "Don't play games with me," he said.

  "The game is over," Sandy replied, then hung up.

  It was, he thought; it was over. And he was not a murderer.

  CHAPTER 16

  Sandy walked out of the front door of the hotel into the bright sunshine, rested, fresh, and looking for his car.

  "Mr. Kinsolving," the doorman said. "Your driver has just phoned in; he's had a flat on the freeway, and he looks to be a good half-hour late. Shall I phone for another car, or will you take the hotel car with our compliments?"

  Sandy looked at the stretch limousine with the back door open. "That will do nicely," he said.

  "I hope you won't mind sharing with another guest."

  "Of course not."

  The doorman put the luggage into the trunk, and Sandy climbed into the forward rear seat, just to have the experience of riding backward. A moment later a long female leg entered the car followed by a tall woman. She gathered herself into the rear seat and opened a New York Times.

  Sandy looked her over quickly: mid-thirties, auburn hair to the shoulders, hazel eyes, good clothes. He thought of saying something, but she seemed purposefully absorbed in her Times.

  Sandy, himself, was more interested in his San Francisco paper, which he had just bought in the hotel lobby. He flipped through the pages impatiently, looking for the story. It was on page three, and small; nothing much new from the earlier evening's television report, except that the police had disclosed that a cash box had been found in a wastebasket two streets away. Sandy hoped it wasn't the same basket in which he'd deposited his disguise. The gallery's owner still had not been located and thus not interviewed. The woman across from him finished the first section of her Times and placed it on the seat beside her.

  "Excuse me," he said. "May I have a look at your Times?"

  She glanced at him briefly and nodded.

  "Thank you." He dove into the newspaper and remained there all the way to the airport, except for an occasional surreptitious glance at his distant traveling companion.

  Sandy checked in at curbside, but the woman followed her bags inside the terminal. Probably off to Europe or Asia; the last he would see of her. He realized, to his surprise, that she was the first woman he had found attractive since the moment he had heard about Jock Bailley's stroke.

  He reached the gate just as first-class boarding was announced, took his seat and ordered orange juice. He was pleased, a few moments later, to see the woman from the car pass his seat and enter the tourist compartment. Pity she wasn't flying first class, he thought.

  Twice during the flight he got up to go to the john and caught a glimpse of her in a seat a few rows back, her long legs spilling over into the aisle. He noted that she was not wearing a wedding ring.

  At LaGuardia the limo driver was waiting with Sandy's name scrawled on a piece of cardboard. He beckoned the man to follow him to baggage claim, and the wait was nearly half an hour. The woman stood across the carousel, waiting just as impatiently as he. Her bags came a moment before his, and he hurried to catch up with her as she walked toward the taxis. As he had expected, there was a long line, and she looked annoyed.

  "May I offer you a lift into town?" he asked. "Seems the least I could do, since I shared your car in San Francisco."

  She turned a looked at him. "Where are you going?"

  "Madison and Seventy-fourth, but the driver will drop you wherever you're going."

  "Thank you, yes," she said, offering him a tiny smile.

  He held the door of the car, a sedan this time, as she
got in. Neither of them had a newspaper now.

  "My name is Sandy Kinsolving," he said, offering his hand.

  She took it. "I'm Cara Mason."

  "Where are you headed, then?" he asked as the car pulled into traffic.

  "Sixty-third, between Park and Madison."

  "Nice block; have you lived there long?"

  "A while."

  "What brings you to New York?"

  "I live here."

  Oops. He was nervous. "Of course. What do you do in the city?"

  "I'm an interior designer."

  "With a firm?"

  "With a partner."

  "What do you specialize in?"

  "Everything from the domestic to the industrial."

  "Are you any good?"

  She turned and regarded him coolly. "I'm very good indeed."

  "As it happens, I'm in the market for a designer."

  She looked doubtful. "Really?"

  "Are you available?"

  "For design work?"

  Sandy reddened. "Just that."

  "When?"

  "Immediately."

  "Why are you interested in me? As a designer, I mean."

  "As it happens, you're the only interior designer I know, and I have to start looking somewhere. Do you think you could show me some examples of your work?"

  "I suppose so."

  "Not if it's an imposition," he said, looking out the window.

  "What sort of work are you looking to have done?"

  "I have a fourteen-room apartment that was decorated by my late wife. Our tastes didn't agree."

  "I expect I could give you a few ideas."

  "I also have a wine business on Madison Avenue that needs attention. Some years ago I bought an old shop in London that looks simply wonderful. What I had in mind was making the New York shop look more like the London one."