| |
BRIAN
––––––––
THE MORNING AFTER THEIR return, Lily and Azem joined me in my office to give me a detailed account of their trip to Rosenthal.
By the way they ignored each other, I knew they hadn’t used the previous weekend as an opportunity to improve their relationship.
Lily took a seat across from my desk and fired away, “She’s a vardanni, Brian!”
That’s what my instincts were telling me. “You know for sure or you’re guessing? You didn’t conduct your little experiments on her, did you?”
“You told me not to and I didn’t. She senses something, but she doesn’t know how to explain it. I could tell by the way she sometimes looked at me.”
Azem pushed his chair closer to Lily’s and sat down. “She didn’t need to be a vardanni to become suspicious. She wondered about the nature of your relationship with Brian. One time you’d call him ‘Khalid,’ next time ‘Mr. Nouri.’ Every time you hesitated. Elizabeth’s an intelligent woman; she noticed it.”
Lily tilted her head and threw Azem a dirty look. “There was nothing to notice, Azem, save for the warning glances you shot at me every time she asked me something. That would tip off even a less intuitive person than Elizabeth Chatwin. You made her wary, not me.”
“I did not!”
“Yes, you did!”
“Lily, she got you when she asked you about the nightingale floor.”
I raised my hand to stop their quarrel. “Hold on. What nightingale floor? What happened?”
Lily opened her arms. “Out of the blue Elizabeth asked me about the nightingale floor in Astrid’s old house. She tried to ambush me, but I knew she was up to something because her breath caught, and her heart sped up. I had about a two-second warning.”
“Nightingale floor? Really?” An uguisubari in a small town in Oregon? No wonder Elizabeth was suspicious.
“Astrid had it built for additional protection.”
That made sense. I guessed only wizards could walk on a nightingale floor without making a sound. “So, what happened?”
“We were in the middle of a conversation about your antique furniture when she asked me if I knew why Astrid had a nightingale floor in her house.”
“What did you say?”
Lily shrugged. “I played dumb. I said, ‘What’s a nightingale floor?’”
“You said it too quickly, and she knew it,” Azem said.
“It wasn’t too quick, and she believed me.”
“I don’t think you fooled her, Lily,” Azem said. “She was about to continue her query, but Charlotte Fontaine, bless her heart, heard Elizabeth’s question and distracted her.”
“You heard her asking about the floor. Why didn’t you distract her?” Lily asked.
“You were talking about furniture,” Azem said. “I didn’t know Astrid had a Japanese floor in her house.”
Lily shrugged. “Given the circumstances, I handled it well. I only regret I had to lie to her.”
“Sometimes we can’t avoid it. Since when have you had a problem with that?”
“Since I realized I like her,” Lily said. “And you like her too, but you didn’t have a problem lying to her.”
“Out of necessity,” Azem said. “She’s a human. And she’s not our close friend or anything, so what’s the big deal all of a sudden?”
Lily crossed her arms. “She might be soon.”
I sighed. It’d be great if Lily and Azem admitted they were in love with each other while they were still on speaking terms.
“I hope you weren’t arguing like this while in Rosenthal,” I said. “It would be bad for business. So, Lily, you say Elizabeth was asking questions. What else did she want to know?”
Lily smiled. “Smart people ask questions, Brian. Super-smart people question the answers, and that was what she was doing.”
I expected Azem to rebut, but to my surprise, he turned to Lily and smiled. “I’m sorry, Lily. You’re right. There was nothing you did or said that should’ve raised a flag for an average human.” Then back to me he said, “Brian, the problem is, that Elizabeth Chatwin is anything but average, her perceptiveness included. If you plan to continue working with her, you should take it into consideration. Just in case she’s not a vardanni.”
The fragile truce initiated by Azem’s apology lasted long enough for Lily and Azem to fill me in on the rest of their visit. There they were finally in sync: both were impressed not only with Elizabeth Chatwin’s professionalism and expertise but also with her personality. She was a smart and well-educated young woman, with a good sense of humor, they said.
“Did you ask her about the furniture appraisal?” I asked Lily.
“Yes, and she’ll be glad to do it ... Have you had a chance to read Elizabeth’s file?”
It was the second time she had asked me the same question, and I wondered if there was something there that Lily thought I should know. “No, I haven’t yet.”
Azem had similar thoughts to mine. “Is there a particular reason why you want Brian to read it, Lily?”
Lily ignored Azem’s question. “If she’s coming here,” she said to me, “it’s a great way to get to know her better.”
“She’s coming here?” Azem asked.
“How do you think she can do it? Using her third eye? She can do a preliminary evaluation based on photos, but she’d need to see the physical objects for a documented appraisal.”
“I heard what she said, Lily. I thought someone else would take over after that initial stage.”
I raised my hand. “Hold on, you two. There isn’t too much to do before the bidding is officially closed and we start on the renovations.” Well, there was, but that wasn’t the point. No need to rush. “Elizabeth will have enough time to do the appraisal. From here.”
“But if she is a vardanni—” Azem started.
“If she is a vardanni,” Lily said, “she belongs among us.”
I let out a deep sigh and rubbed my neck. This must stop. They cared for each other; why they argued all the time was beyond me.
If they continued to work side by side, I reasoned, they’d have to communicate more; the more they communicated, the faster they’d sort out their problems and feelings.
“Lily, I would like you two to share Azem’s office,” I said. “If Elizabeth agrees to come, she’ll use your current office.”
“That’s great,” Azem said eagerly. “I’ll need Lily’s help. Sam Wakefield’s ex-wife filed for custody of their son. I offered to represent him, and he agreed.”
I expected Lily to start arguing, but she just smirked, then nodded.
“Glad you did,” I said. “From what I heard from Elizabeth, Sam’s a great father.”
“Mr. Vandermeer will act as the second chair,” Azem said. “I’ve already spoken to him.”
“Then Rosenthal’s deputy sheriff has got the ultimate legal team,” I said. “Excellent!”
“I’ll help you,” Lily said. “I like the Wakefields and Molly.” To me, she said, “Now, back to Elizabeth. Where is she going to stay?”
“We’ll prepare the green room for her. Lily, can you and Harriet choose some nice pieces of furniture for her?”
“Er, the green room? Next to yours?”
“Yes.” There was only one green room, as Lily was perfectly aware, it was next to mine, and had a connecting door.
Lily cleared her throat. “All right then. There is a set in the attic that I really like.”
“Please. Make it pretty.”
“If that’s all, Brian, off I go,” Azem said with an amused smile and stood up. “By the way, the paperwork for your Cessna is done. Jason rented an old barn for its hangar. She’ll fit there perfectly. He can go as soon as tomorrow to fly her here.” His eyes moved to Lily. “So, when can I expect you to move into my office?”
“Later this afternoon, when I return from Red Cliffs. It’ll take an hour or so to hook up my equipment.” She gave him the sweetest smile. “I’m a good roommate, you’ll see. You won’t even notice I’m there. Just don’t expect me to make you coffee and bring you lunch. I’m not your secretary. And I want your desk, it’s away from the window. I don’t want a glare on my screen. It’s bad for computers.”
“I also have a computer, did you forget?”
“You have a laptop. You can put it anywhere, even on top of your lap.”
Fortunately, they were walking toward the door.
“Well, I prefer my laptop sitting on my desk. Why can’t we move you in now? Why are you going to Red Cliffs, by the way?”
“I promised Adam we’d go out for lunch.”
They stopped at the door and for a moment I thought I was about to witness yet another one of their quarrels.
“I’m sorry to spoil your fun, Lily,” Azem said, “but we need to talk about a background check on Sam’s ex-wife. Leave no stone unturned.”
“Now you don’t mind my search methods?”
“If you google her lawyer, you’ll understand why I need it to be bulletproof.”
They finally left the room. I could still hear them arguing, but I quickly tuned them out and enjoyed the silence.
––––––––
I HEARD MANY TIMES that Elizabeth was a beautiful woman. I’d taken it at face value since I’d never seen her picture.
I opened Lily’s report with a mixed feeling of thrill and embarrassment. The file started with personal information: DOB, place of birth, nationality and her address in Montreal. She shared a house with her friends and partners, Alain Besson and Richard Barclay.
Her middle name was new to me. It made me smile: Bertrada. It was an old Frankish name, popular in eighth and ninth-century Europe among noble women and queens. It was easy to see Elizabeth’s mother, an accomplished medieval historian, behind it. Her academic work included comprehensive research on early Middle Age women, particularly on Bertrada of Laon, Charlemagne’s powerful mother.
The next was a section about Elizabeth’s parents.
Her father, Conrad Chatwin had been a professor of Oriental Studies and a scholar with a brilliant academic career. There were several pictures of him, from different periods of his life. He was a good-looking man with light-brown hair, blue eyes and an open smile.
There was a printout of a photograph of Conrad and Elizabeth when she was about eight or nine. Conrad was already completely grey-haired. I quickly calculated: when Elizabeth was born, her father was fifty-nine. The picture had been taken in a living room. Conrad Chatwin sat relaxed in an armchair; his eyes, filled with fatherly pride, were resting on his daughter, sitting on the armrest, her arm around her father’s shoulder and her tilted head leaning on his. The camera had caught her big, happy smile and rather large front teeth behind red lips, big, shiny eyes and a mane of thick, curly dark hair. All elbows and knees, she wore a blue summer dress and matching flat shoes. I checked her eyes again. It was hard to tell their color: they seemed grey, but they could have easily been brown or green.
She looked like a happy child.
I turned the page. Elizabeth’s mother, Hedy Chatwin, née Oppenheim, had been a countess by birth. Hedy’s family from both sides belonged to old German nobility, so-called Uradel, which meant that their noble rank predated the Crusade times. (Since Hedy was the daughter of a count, according to German tradition, she held the female equivalent of the same title.) Neither rich nor influential anymore, but well-educated and liberal, Hedy’s parents had immigrated to the States the same month Hitler had become the Reich Chancellor.
Countess Hedy had possessed the glamorous beauty of a 1930s movie star. Her sleek black hair and dark, almond-shaped eyes were a striking contrast to her fair skin. With her wide forehead, perfectly arched eyebrows, high cheekbones, straight nose and full lips Hedy bore a stunning resemblance to her namesake, the alluring Hollywood goddess Hedy Lamarr.
Ten years younger than her husband, she had become a mother at the age of forty-nine. Both Conrad and Hedy had died two years ago, less than a year apart.
Next I read about Elizabeth’s education, both formal and informal. She was a brilliant student, from kindergarten to her PhD studies. Lily had even found out Elizabeth’s IQ, tested when she was sixteen: 160. Wow!
There was a list of the schools Elizabeth had attended, in different cities and different counties, some private, mostly public, but always for gifted kids.
She had taken cello lessons and liked classical music.
She had been an athletic child. Pictures showed her playing soccer, swimming, riding. For a whole decade, between the ages of seven and seventeen, she had trained in fencing. Quite successfully, it seemed. She had been a regional champion twice: at age twelve and at seventeen, her final competitive year. There were two photos of her receiving the gold medals. At the age of twelve, Elizabeth was still cute, but her skinny, long and slightly out-of-proportion body was obviously getting ready for the physiological rearrangement of adolescence.
In the picture taken at the same place five years later, only the pose was similar: the fencing mask under her left arm, a foil in her right hand, squared shoulders, right leg a half-step in front of the left and the gold medal around her neck. Flashy smile, perfect teeth. The classic tale of metamorphosis from childhood to adulthood: a sweet, gawky little duckling had turned into a breathtakingly beautiful swan.
She’d had a dog, a German Shepherd named Clovis. Later, when he died, she’d had a cat, Clotilda.
Further down I read that she’d been admitted to Boston University at the age of sixteen. Graduated three years later. Her Master’s and PhD studies were completed in Italy.
Her resumes, her first jobs, annual evaluations—all stellar.
––––––––
I STARTED WORRYING about Lily’s comprehension of the term “public record” when I came to the next entry, titled Financials.
Here I learned that Elizabeth Chatwin was quite a well-to-do young woman. Besides a house in the most expensive part of Boston and a two-bedroom flat in Rome (both paid off), Elizabeth’s property included an impressive art collection of paintings, sculptures, rare books, decorative art, antique furniture and jewelry, worth roughly twelve to fourteen million dollars.
But then there was a catch-22.
“Most of Elizabeth Chatwin’s monthly income goes to covering insurance of the artwork she inherited from her parents and grandparents,” Lily had written in the notes below. “She refuses to sell anything from the collection.
“Her house in Boston has been rented to the Norwegian consul and his family,” the note continued. “The market-price rent generates almost no income. It is sufficient, though, to cover the cost of the maintenance and property taxes. The house was built in 1911 and it’s proven to be costly to keep it in good condition. Miss Chatwin turned down several reasonable offers to sell it.”
The apartment in Rome was rented to four students for a rent that barely covered the essential care of it.
Consequently, Elizabeth’s bank account didn’t reveal a rich person.
Lily was right: Elizabeth had to work hard to keep her inheritance intact. The insurance bills almost matched the monthly salary she received from me. The only accessible money she had was the small inheritance left after she had invested most of it in her company, a tiny amount of low-risk investments and a few thousand in her checking account. In spite of the millions she had in artwork and properties, she had to be careful with every dollar she earned. She was a millionaire living on a budget.
Yet still, I discovered, there were regular generous contributions to several charities that supported children and women in need.
Smart as she was, Elizabeth didn’t seem to know a lot about money or didn't care about it, but I felt enormous respect for her stubborn refusal to sell her heirlooms and for her humanity.
The rest of Elizabeth’s financial history disclosed more interesting details. She’d never had a student loan since her parents had paid for her education. Her biggest current expenses, although not frequent, had been for shoes, clothes, hairdressers and—I really liked this part—designer lingerie. She opted for small and efficient cars. Her most recent vehicle was a year-old Audi 3, which she had bought with cash. She had left it in Montreal.
––––––––
I FELT LIKE A VOYEUR, but I kept reading. The next section was Health, etc. but fortunately it was short.
Lily started off by emphasizing that she had avoided Elizabeth's confidential medical records, which only confirmed my earlier suspicions that her sources hadn’t always been strictly public. Anyhow, according to Lily’s research, Elizabeth, otherwise healthy and strong, suffered from painful and heavy monthly periods, accompanied by migraines and other symptoms. Both conditions ran in her family; her mother and grandmother had had them, too. I made a mental note to ask Ahmed or Astrid more about it. She’d also had her appendix removed.
The most recent update to the file, dating less than a week ago, was very interesting: “In the last eight months,” Lily wrote, “Elizabeth may have contacted at least one Donor Insemination Clinic, requesting its brochure.” The source was the actual brochure, with Elizabeth’s notes in it. Lily had found it tucked as a bookmark in the book Elizabeth was reading when she and Azem visited Elizabeth in Rosenthal. It had prompted Lily to dig deeper. “The clinic had requested preliminary tests, and the results were within normal parameters, despite the medical history of low fertility and late first pregnancies on Elizabeth’s maternal side.”
Was she panicking because of her age and family history of low fertility, or was she getting tired of waiting for her Prince Charming and deciding to take the matter of her motherhood into her own hands? An image of Elizabeth Chatwin pregnant with my child flashed through my mind, making me feel euphoric and scared to death at the same time.
I shook my head and kept reading.
If Lily wanted to impress me with the wide range of information the report covered, it was a complete success. The next paragraph focused on Elizabeth’s skin, “very fair, with body hair on the arms and legs so fine it’s invisible and doesn’t require removal. Source,” Lily quoted, “Hamman Beauty Salon in Montreal.” My next thought, naturally, was about a very particular part of Elizabeth’s body: a neatly trimmed triangle of silky, dark hair between her white legs that I kept dreaming about night after night. I shifted in the chair in an attempt to release the pressure of an instant erection. Damn.
I turned the page. The next section was Personal Life.
I let out a deep breath and closed the file. I already knew far more about Elizabeth than she knew about me—about her childhood, her parents, her school years, the languages she spoke. She had dark eyes, she had been a brainy, skinny girl, she’d had a happy childhood. She was a happy young woman. She had the sexiest laugh. The sheer thought of her could keep me aroused for hours, not to mention her nightly visits in my dreams.
Did I need to know more? I did, but I wanted Elizabeth to tell me, not to read it from this file.
She had been quite open about herself, and she had never lied to me. At the same time, I was forced to tell her half-truths. She could find only parts of me in my fabricated virtual biography. She didn’t even know my real name. I knew she had wanted to know more about my son, but sensing my reluctance, she hesitated to ask. How could I tell her that Jack was born in 1894? Or when I was born? Or that I was still legally married to another woman, who was refusing to give me a divorce?
My curiosity was losing the battle against my conscience. I had opened the drawer to put the file back when I heard the ping of an incoming email.
Lily was sending me an urgent message: “You don’t need to go through the whole report, but please read pages 37-45. Please.”
“What the hell is going on here?” I murmured, jerked the file from the drawer and found page thirty-seven.
“Oh, fuck!”