5

Devus’s main goon had bonded out at three in the morning, and Lake crept in half an hour later, taking care in case I was sleeping. I wasn’t, and he summarized the low-life’s words. “He didn’t do nothin’ for nobody.”

My sleep was restless and I heard downpours in the night. A warm front had moved into Georgia bringing with it serious rainfall. The next morning, after our bodies relaxed and breathing became normal, Lake and I rose and ran our usual route to Piedmont Park; after which we ate at our favorite breakfast place, Fanny’s on Sixth.

When I checked my email, Linda had sent more information on Baxter’s premises. He lived in an historic home on Prince Avenue. Some of those historic register homes could be pretty run down, but being related to Linda and the owner of three popular restaurants told me Baxter Carlisle’s historic home wasn’t one. Linda et al would have kicked him out of the family for that alone. Linda wrote that he owned several condominium complexes. She also said he was expecting me.

* * * * *

I was correct, his historic home was quite handsome, all two stories of the Federalist with six columns across the front. The door opened before I rang.

Baxter Carlisle looked like a blond-haired movie star who I won’t name, lest the comparison conjures up and attributes to that star Baxter’s sexual anomalies. The Atlanta morning newspaper reported on Damian Hansel’s missing status along with a photograph of the young man. It didn’t run a photograph of Baxter, nor was he mentioned.

Baxter’s smile was knock-out. The dimples, the dentally-enhanced white teeth and not overly-full lips. Wisps of blond hair strayed onto his forehead, the way Lake’s dark hair often did. Hands out-stretched, he said, “Miss Moriah Dru, welcome, welcome.” I thought he was going to hug me, but he swept one hand aside like the courtly gentleman he appeared—longish frock coat and silk morning ascot folded crossed-band and held with a stick pin.

I almost asked if he planned to attend a wedding, but refrained. “Good morning, Mr. Carlisle.”

“Baxter, please. I’m not really this formal. I’m off to a brunch at the Athens Polo Ground.” That explained the ascot.

He took my navy peacoat, the warmest coat I own, and hung it on a quilted hanger in the foyer closet. I stepped over polished wood floors into a small sitting room with tall ceilings, set off by fifteen-inch crown molding. White wainscoting met pale yellow silk striped wall paper. It was a lovely room and not at all masculine.

On a marble coffee table, a tea and coffee service waited for a deft hand. The china cups had the kind of thin looped handles I can barely manage. “Coffee or tea?” Baxter asked.

I ached for a mug. “Coffee,” I said. “No cream, no sugar.”

He sat and pulled at the creases in his pants so that they hung just so. Then he laughed. “These little niceties we do as preludes to grand overtures are humorous, don’t you think?”

I frowned thinking silence was best, then grinned and nodded at the charming man.

He said, “I prefer Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C-Sharp Minor.” He raised his hands like a pianist. His left hand rode down the imaginary keys. “Boom, boom, boom.” His low voice hit the base note forcefully yet harmoniously. He looked up and grinned. “Then we’re off into the heart of the matter.”

Indeed, and it was me to go first. “I assume Damian Hansel hasn’t turned up.”

“You assume correctly, Miss Dru. And, before you ask, I will be interviewed by the police this afternoon. I believe the Georgia Bureau of Investigation is involved.”

“Inevitable,” I said.

“Linda told me you hunt for children and that you are very successful at it.” He sat back in a chair that must have cost thousands. His body language said smug, but his mouth said amused.

“If that’s all she said, I have some ‘splainin’ to do.”

He projected an aura of genuine tenderness. “You do not. I made up my mind the minute you walked in the door that I can trust you.”

“Yet, you’re wondering why I’m here to find Damian Hansel, age nineteen, a young man considered to have left childhood at least a year ago?”

His smile bloomed. “That had occurred.”

I couldn’t help grin back. “I find young people who have disappeared through no device of their own.”

He appeared puzzled. “You don’t know that about Damian Hansel, do you?”

“From what I hear, and that’s from an Atlanta police detective and Linda Lake ...”

He held up a finger. “That police detective wouldn’t happen to be Rick Lake, would it?”

“One and the same.”

He beamed; then looked serious. “I don’t often bond with men. I attribute it to a daddy thing. I didn’t live with mine, and my step-father was a nice man, but not my daddy. He made sure I knew that.”

“So you bonded with Lake.”

“As have you. I saw it in the mention of his name. Lucky Rick. His common sense and dedication to what he believes in speaks for him as words cannot.”

“Let’s talk about your relationship with Cho Martine.”

By the small twitches in his facial muscles, this was the part he was hoping to avoid. “She’s not missing,” he said.

“How did you come to know her?”

“I came to know Damian.”

“We can start there if you’d like.”

“Damian Hansel started hanging out in Carlisle’s. He came in with his father the first time, then started coming regularly by himself. I didn’t know quite what to make of the young man. He’s quite an aggressive boy. Some would say upbeat, I saw aggressive.”

I waited an upbeat or two myself. “And?”

“He wanted to re-do the interior.”

Baxter explained that Damian was in the Fine Arts program at the university, and that he’d brought back grand ideas from artsy European trips and was eager to remodel Carlisle’s.

Baxter said, “To my taste, he’s a ham-handed young man. I’m happy with my impressionists, thank you. He wanted me to take on the Classicism look, Diana the Huntress, and all that. Said it implied grander fare for the restaurant, rather than light stuff. Bunk, of course. Who eats deer any longer?”

“Is he a good artist?”

“For one thing he’s an artist in search of a specialty, and what he has created so far is bad.”

Baxter tried explaining what he meant, then gave up and said I could see for myself at the art school’s gallery.”

“Baxter, Cho Martine?”

He lifted his chin. “I must take myself off to brunch, Miss Dru.”

“I’ve come to help you at the request of Linda Lake.” I paused and leaned forward as if to stand. “If you don’t want my help, fine.”

He hesitated, then spread his hands, palms down. “I don’t know that I’ll need it, but anyone can use a sympathetic ear.”

“My ears are open to all facts, observations and emotions, sympathetic or not. I do not judge.” I wish that were true.

He got up and so did I. “I’m not dismissing you, Miss Dru, but I must be on time. I’m a known punctuality freak.”

I held out my hand. “Nice to have met you, Mr. Carlisle. I wish you luck.”

He snapped his fingers like he’d had a brainstorm. “Why didn’t I think of this immediately?” I leaned my head to one side. “Come with me to the brunch. I chose not to invite a friend, but I can certainly change my mind. I contribute enough to the organization.”

I looked down at my sensible shoes and wool slacks. My turtle neck came from Saks, but it was old. I said, “Peacoats aren’t polo attire.”

He waggled a finger. “Never a worry with me. I have the proper attire for you.” I was about to dissent when he said, “I’d say size six.” He looked at my booted feet. “Shoes, eight?”

“Correct, but ...”

“No demurring,” I followed him to the straight staircase that divided the entrance hall and led to the second floor. “Upstairs, on the right, two doors down, is a guest room with a guest closet. You will find a costume that will be perfect.”

Costume. “I don’t know about this,” I said, one foot already headed for the steps.

His white smile dazzled. “Call it a bribe. If you say you’ll go, I’ll answer your questions about Cho Martine.”

“Bribe taken.”

The room contained four closets with male and female costumes for any occasion.

* * * * *

The wind had picked up and a light mist sprayed Baxter’s Lexus. As Baxter chatted I felt as if I’d known and loved him all my life. He explained that today’s affair was the kickoff to the upcoming polo season and for a charity sponsored by the Athens Polo Ground. Angel Dreams Care Center, he told me, was a non-profit charity established for children with physical or emotional disabilities. It had been shown, he said, that their interaction with horses had a beneficial effect.

My own interaction with those magnificent creatures has never been positive. I believe they think I’m too tall and awkward. They see me check out their skinny legs and take offense. How can they run on them?

“Do you ride?” I asked. “Play polo?”

“Heavens no. The beasts had no use for me when I was growing up. Linda rode like the wind, though. She was truly fearless.”

Our Linda Lake, fearless in fashion and fearless on a horse?

He said, “I am a charity case. I belong to every charity and civic organization from Atlanta to Augusta.”

“Good for business.”

“Can’t say it’s not.”

I asked if we could cruise by Damian Hansel’s place, and he readily agreed since it was on the way. There was nothing to see but a two-story brick apartment building with green-painted doors looking as forlorn as Cinderella before the ball. Food wrappers drowned in gutters while plastic cups frolicked in the wind. Damian’s apartment looked familiar. When Portia attended the university during her first couple of years, she lived a block away on South Milledge Avenue, and lot of partying went on between those buildings. I wondered if I could get into Damian’s place for a gander into his life. Probably not, but then I had an idea. “Baxter, how well do you know the cops in this town?”

He grunted, an inelegant sound coming from him. “Not well enough for them to believe I’m incapable of doing something to Damian.”

“All the years you’ve lived here ...”

“Different time and state of affairs. The ol’ boy guard was thrown out and the new regime was sworn in. Our present gendarmerie consists of ex-GBI agents and Atlanta tough guys. Don’t you know—they’re going to shape up the city? We’ve had our share of murder and mayhem in the last four years.”

“Maybe there’s a connection.”

“To the missing Damian?”

“The cops don’t tell everything they know.”

“They’re not telling me anything, and I’ve told them everything I’ve told you.”

“I doubt you’ve told me everything.”

“You’ve asked me different things, but at least not over and over.”

I thought about the things I didn’t ask him—about his Lolita complex. Tough subject to bring up to so charming and sensitive a man.

We arrived at the hotel in the Historic District. I got out and stood tall in black suede three-inch heels. I smoothed the velvet pencil skirt that fit me like my skin. It was a luscious shade of violet and matched the barely pink silk blouse. The cut away jacket caressed my arms and back, and I tried to think how I could steal it when Baxter put his hand at my elbow. “You must have that ensemble.”

I hadn’t realized I was preening. “Thank you, but I can’t think when I’ll attend another polo luncheon.”

He laughed. “You are gorgeous, you know. That black hair, so wild. You must be the envy of women who spend countless hours trying to look like they just got out of bed.”

“Not so. When I pass a hair salon, the personnel rush out to drag me inside and start in on my wild black hair.”

We sat at a $32,000 table. Eight people filled the seats, so, if everyone paid, these brunchers ponied up $4,000 for a buffet featuring caviar, smoked salmon, sushi, champagne flowing from a fountain, eggs Benedict made to order, crepes and desserts rich and fat and sugar. Lake would be in heaven. Bax introduced me to my tablemates, and that’s when I started thinking of him as Bax. Everyone called him Bax.

One man, I noticed, avoided looking at Bax for the entire meal, and I wondered if word had gotten around town that Bax had a connection to a student’s disappearance. The man, name of Edwin Hardy, played polo. Probably around thirty, he had the look of a young Prince Charles—the eyes and nose combination with dark hair hiding wide ears.

I met father and grandson attorneys, Anthony Desmond DuPlessy, Sr. and Anthony Desmond DuPlessy, the Third. Senior was mid-seventies. He looked like his hair started to recede in his twenties and left permanently in the next decade. Anthony Three Sticks was a handsome man with a full head of blond hair and assessing gray eyes that fastened on me. I knew I looked good, really good. Today made up for the times I don’t, really don’t. As Baxter noted, I have thick, black hair that curls naturally. I stay slender because I run every day that I can and work out at the Y. My skin is my best feature. My nose is rather long and narrow, but my eyes are large and blue, thanks to my Irish ancestry. A man who once hired me asserted that I was a descendant of the Druidha—my last name being Dru—the ancient Irish religion that put enemies in baskets, hung them in trees and burned them alive. If Devus Johnson continues to harass me, I’m taking up basket-weaving.

The younger Anthony, who had told me to call him Tony, interrupted my thoughts. “I know you by reputation,” he said. “You’re a godsend to foster children in this state.”

Granddad Anthony, who I continued to call Mr. DuPlessy, said, “How would you like to defend the scum she goes after for abusing children?”

“I don’t take losing cases,” Tony said, adjusting the knot in his perfectly tied tie. “That why I don’t do criminal law.”

Baxter inclined his head toward the older lawyer. “Anthony has been my attorney for decades. Now that he’s retiring, Tony will handle my affairs. I’ll be the elder and expected to act like it.” He smiled, giving his dimples permission to delight.

I looked at Anthony, Senior. “Retiring to a life of golf?”

“A little golf, but mostly boating.”

Tony said, “Daddy has a sailing yacht he keeps in Savannah. He and Mama plan to see the world via the seven seas.”

“Your mama is not so delighted as all that,” Anthony, Senior said. He turned to me, “Our Baxter here just returned from Europe, touring from Moscow to the Baltic States. The last time I was on the Baltic Sea there was a nine force storm.”

“Nothing so dramatic for me,” Baxter said. “Rather calm.” He showed off his white teeth again. “Would you like to come this evening and view my slides?”

Granddad and grandson laughed at the same time the president, F. W. Lord Buttonworth, rose to open the meeting. It became obvious, the difference between those who came as boosters and those who played in the matches. Edwin Hardy gave Bax a couple of black looks when Bax made comments during Buttonworth’s rundown of meeting dates and regulations. When Bax put his hand on my shoulder or took my hand, which he often did, Hardy stared at me. I interpreted Hardy’s sly stare to mean I was way too old for Baxter.

We, like the DuPlessys, ducked out early. While we waited for the valet to bring the cars from the underground garage, I asked Bax if he’d paid for me, and he said that he’d given a healthy donation in my name. When I began to object, he said, “It’s a write-off. Ask Anthony.”

Anthony confirmed that it was a legitimate deduction. The DuPlessys’ cars arrived and they departed, I asked Bax, “Where’s Anthony Junior in the DuPlessy family tree?”

“Sad to say his branch was cut short by a storm. I’m speaking literally here. He was parked, waiting for Tony, when a tree limb crashed through the windshield. He lived for a few days then passed. The old man’s been my lawyer from the day I arrived here. Junior was a fine man, determined to get elected to Congress, but ...”

“No more stalling,” I said, smiling at him so he wouldn’t think me obnoxious. “Cho Martine.”

Bax’s car arrived. Saved by the brake and shush of tires. The minutiae of getting on the road gave him time to gather his thoughts—slipping into seats, buckling up, starting the engine, reversing, looking both ways, finally pulling into the street.

“Bax?”

“I wonder ...” he began and glanced at me. “Will you be shocked when I tell you ...” He halted. Stalling.

I said, “That you’re in love with her?”

For a classy man, his guffaw sounded like a dandelion smiting a rose. “No, my dear Dru, I loathe the woman.”

I thought it odd to refer to a female student as a woman, especially in the South where middle-aged men and women were often called boys and girls.

He breathed in slowly, and then sighed out. “Fascinated by her, yes. So fascinated, I can’t stand to be around her.”

“That’s why you stalked her.”

“A very bald statement. And untrue.” He sucked air into his lungs and let it out slowly as he spoke. “I walk, you see. I am fifty-two years old.” He looked straight ahead as he spoke. “I hope to reach a hundred. Therefore, I walk.”

He vowed he didn’t peek in her windows or follow her in his car. That, quite the reverse, she appeared to be following him. “If she persists in nonsense accusations, I’ll file slander and throw in libel for good measure.”

“Are you saying she stalked you?”

He put a closed fist over his mouth and coughed into it. “Now, understand I can be quite vain, but I’m not being vain now. She seems to be as fascinated with me as I her. I’ve wondered if she doesn’t loathe me, too.”

He explained that he’d met her when Damian brought her to Carlisle’s to bolster his idea of remodeling the interior to reflect romantic Classicism. Cho waxed enthusiastic, but Bax had, he avowed, politely told her that he intended to stick with the Impressionists.

We’d reached Baxter’s garage. The door opened without prompting. We didn’t speak and I went to the stairs. Interrupting me in my climb, he said to keep the suit. I shook my head no.

He grinned. “I shall have to enshrine it then.”

I turned and looked down the steps at him. “The photographer at the brunch took our photograph. That should suffice.”

He waved. “Be aware, I shall box the suit and send it to you.”

I realized as I changed clothes, I’d never been more drawn to a man, his world, and his way of speaking as I had been to Baxter Carlisle. I also realized I wanted to save him. There was vulnerability about him, a trait he’d hidden deep within his core, yet so carefully that the care he’d taken showed.

He stood at the bottom of the staircase as I descended. “Cho Martine,” he said, taking my hand and leading me toward his beautiful parlor. “As promised.”

I sat on the edge of my chair, holding a glass of fine Chardonnay. He had me enthralled, yet I expected to be disappointed. He wasn’t going to tell me everything, just what he considered essential.

He said, “Cho Martine’s mother is Japanese and her father is French. The family makes its home in Paris and Savannah. Why Savannah, you might ask?”

I might, I thought, but didn’t.

“Viktor Martine is a naval architect. Renowned throughout the world. He travels—as a consultant.”

“What is Cho majoring in?”

“Mathematics. She also plays violin.”

“Any good.”

“Adequate.”

“How did you come to hear her play?”

“How?” he laughed and pulled at his right ear. “Don’t look so serious. I couldn’t resist.”

“I got the how. Where?”

“At Damian’s apartment.”

“Why were you there?”

“He pestered me until I went to see his art. Montages of human bodies are not appealing. Neither is Craft Art or Idea Art. He showed me a mess of colored ribbon and threads on canvas he called My Soul.”

“Where does Martine live?”

“A place on Willow.”

“You take your walks on Willow?”

He raised his eyebrows. “And have for thirty years.” He rose to refill his wine glass, but I put my hand over mine. He said that he owned a lot of property in Athens and Clarke County—from rentals to farm land. He employed property managers, but occasionally checked things out himself. “Spot checks are part of the lease agreement. You never know how a group of male students, or females for that matter, are taking care of your property.

“Do you own Martine’s apartment?”

“The entire building, yes.”

“Does she have roommates?”

“She’s not that kind of…” He shrugged. “Inevitably you will meet her.”

“Inevitably. Do you know her schedule?”

“Schedule?” His question was meant to buy thinking time.

“Her class schedule, do you know it?”

He looked at his watch. More thinking time. “I believe she’s in a math class now. She’s in the Honors program.”

I looked at him and instinctively believed he knew what I was thinking. “You know entirely too much about Cho Martine.”

“For a man of my age, you mean?” He put his wine on the coaster. “Let’s go.”

“I don’t have to change clothes, do I?”