Act of Evil (10 page)

Then planted itself firmly back on the chair.

Trent's hands rose, deftly removing the noose from his neck. He flipped it aside, leaped to the floor—and executed a broad, theatrical bow.

“End of performance. Applause, applause!” He said with a goofy grin. “So—what do you think? Aren't I as good an actor as my famous brother?”

eleven

On Sunday morning, Mattie woke feeling a lot better. The angle of the sun, dazzling through the east-facing bedroom windows, showed that the hour was more than decent for rising. So she got up, feeling a lightness of spirit which, considering recent events, was remarkable. She headed downstairs and had barely reached the kitchen when the telephone rang.

Sylvie
! Mattie thought, the idea scarcely intuition; her friend had been due to return from a trip, and often called on Sunday mornings. “Hello?”

“Good morning, darling girl,” drawled Sylvia Skeffington's grand English tones. “Is the coffee on?”

After all these years, Mattie's heart still warmed at her friend's voice. “Hi, Sylvie, I thought it might be you.”

“Oh, the joys of being anticipated. Just called to say I'm on my way—but I'm sure you knew that? See you in ten. Ciao, dear!”

Mattie put on coffee and it had scarcely brewed when there came the sound of a vehicle approaching fast: Sylvie piloted her minivan like a rally driver. Then the screen door thwacked and Sylvia appeared, striding in as if concluding a brisk hike. She was five years younger and five inches shorter than Mattie, built like an athlete, brown-limbed and sturdy, with curly blond hair, rosy cheeks, and a perennially cheerful countenance. As usual, she wore a flowing dress and stout boots, a combination she somehow managed to make appear both sensible and stylish. She threw her potter's well-muscled arms about Mattie and hugged until her friend gasped.

“Whew!” Mattie laughed, as she was released. “It's good to see
you
, too, Sylvie. How was Arizona?”

“New Mexico,” Sylvia corrected. “The pueblo potters are something else. Didn't learn much I didn't already know, of course. But just being around them was an inspiration.”

From a pocket of her dress, she produced a tiny, beautiful pot, two inches tall by three wide, jet-black, with a sheen so deep it seemed almost to have an internal fire. “For you!”

Mattie took the pot, eyes bright, caressing the delicate surface as if it were alive. “It's beautiful. Oh, Sylvie—you shouldn't.”

“Don't I know it, ducks,” Sylvia grinned. “Scandalously expensive, actually. Those Navajo ladies are scary business women. I only wish I was as good at marketing
my
old tat.”

Sylvia's “old tat” was fine and very original pottery. She had great talent and considerable reputation. Working like a slave, with only one assistant, she made a healthy living. “Oh, come on,” Mattie said laughingly. “Your work's terrific, as everyone knows. But thanks so much for this. It's lovely.”

Mattie poured coffee and they sat. After a few minutes' chat, Sylvie rose and refreshed her own cup. Plunking herself back down, she said without ceremony. “All right darling girl, now we've done the bullshit. Time to tell mama what's been going on.”

Mattie raised an eyebrow. “Is it that obvious?”

Sylvia sniffed and laughed simultaneously, an oddly expressive combination. “Darling, how long have we known each other? Have I suddenly grown blind? I think not. Out with it.”

Without further argument, Mattie obeyed. Sylvie already was familiar with her father-in-law's obsession with his property and the mini-saga that had been going on regarding outside attempts to acquire it. She also knew something about the old man's history of drinking. But when Mattie got to the part in her story when, just thirty-six hours previously, she'd stood staring down the barrel of a shotgun, then had it go off almost in her face, Sylvie's face was slack with horror. “My God, Mattie,” she breathed. “How terrifying. What did you
do
?”

This being the first time she'd told of the experience, Mattie was unprepared for the severity of her reaction in reliving it. Cathartic it might be, but in retrospect its effect—no longer shielded by the numbness of shock—seemed even more distressing than originally. Tears welled up in her eyes and her hands shook by the time she reached the conclusion. “Oh, God, Sylvie, I‘ve never been so scared in my life. Luckily, I
did
realize that Fitz wasn't mad. Just drunk and half asleep. And in the glare of the lights he didn't recognize me. After the first shot—so close I swear I felt the wind—instead of running, which probably would have been fatal, I managed to stay still. And finally I made him understand that it was me.”

“Thank the Lord. What did he do?”

“Oh, you know—gasped, swore—dropped the gun. It was all over so quick, it was almost like a bad dream. I was so shocked I didn't even get angry. Just put him to bed—would you believe?—like a naughty kid.”

“Gracious! I bet you gave him hell when he sobered up next morning.”

“Not really. If fact, we've hardly talked about it. I don't know how much he remembers. Enough that he's pretty mortified, I think. And he
has
apologized in a general way. But I don't believe he's aware of how near things came to—you know.”

“But that's no good, ducks. What if he gets smashed and tries it again?”

“He can't. I've buried the gun.”

Sylvie gave a surprised chortle. “Really? Good for you. But what's to stop him getting another?”

“Unlikely. Despite what happened, guns aren't Fitz's thing. That one was an heirloom he'd only recently dug out of the attic. Also . . .”

“What?”

“In spite of everything, in his own way he cares about me. He's certainly wild about Jennifer, though not too thrilled that she's—as he puts it—‘run off to Froggieland.' But he's already lost a son and . . .” There was a small pause, which was not lost on her friend. “. . . and his only grandson. I'm sure he doesn't want to add to the toll.”

At some time during the narrative, Sylvie had taken hold of Mattie's hand. She gave it an encouraging squeeze and let go. “Darling, of
course
he doesn't. Stupid of me to suggest otherwise. Fitz may be a cantankerous old fart occasionally, but he's also a sweet man who'd be lost without you.” Sylvie rose and administered a swift peck to her friend's cheek. “As would we all, my lamb. So it's over and everyone survived. We must just thank our lucky stars and carry on. Actually—funny as it may seem, after what you've just told me—it was also Fitz I came to see.”

“Oh?”

“On my way through Phoenix, I visited some super galleries. One of them had an exhibition of animal carvings that reminded me of Fitz's work, though not nearly so good, I might say. And I suddenly thought, why on Earth doesn't Fitz
show
his wonderful work? And then later I thought, hey, maybe Fitz and I could have an exhibition together. In Victoria. Vancouver, even. What do you think?”

“
I
think it's wonderful. Not enough people see his stuff. But what
he'll
think is another matter.”

“I know. I had this idea I might use my feminine wiles to try to persuade him.” Her enthusiastic expression faded. “But, after what you've told me, I can see that today isn't the best time. So . . . what else has been happening?”

Before Mattie could reply, the telephone rang. It was an old landline handset, situated on a shelf at the far end of the kitchen, with a harsh bell that could be heard all over the house. When the racket commenced, both women jumped. “Lawks, my heart!” Sylvie laughed.

Mattie headed for the phone. “I don't know who it could be. No one but you ever phones on Sunday morning.”

“Probably a telemarketer. They're getting bloody shameless. I'd tell him to go to hell.”

“I bet you would,” Mattie smiled, picking up the phone. “Hello.”

“Hi,” said a voice Mattie instantly recognized. “I hope you really
did
want me to call.”

twelve

Hal turned off the Trans-Canada Highway at Duncan. This was the second time in two days he'd made the trip up-island: yesterday to see his brother, now to visit with someone who, somewhat more surprisingly, had managed to turn up again in his life. Having prodded himself into finally making that phone call to Mattie, he'd checked out of his Victoria hotel. Whatever happened, later that day—not much later, if the meeting turned out to be a disaster—he'd be taking the ferry to Vancouver, to get on with things in the real world. Strangely though, the thought of the forthcoming gig didn't fill him with the usual buzz of anticipation.

The road to Maple Bay was pleasantly winding, with a lake off to one side and some new-looking subdivisions clustered on the hills nearby. Hal felt that he must have been out this way in the old days, but he had no memory of it, which was hardly surprising considering the elapsed time. Passing yet another development, where many large homes could be glimpsed under construction, on level after level ascending the flank of a steep rise, he began to realize just how much money must be pouring into this favored island. That put him in mind of the visit to his old friend Vince's Malahat mansion. No wonder the clever bastard was rich; Vancouver Island seemed to be in the process of huge expansion. This was no surprise, since it had a great climate, low crime rate, and relatively unspoiled natural beauty.
Not for much longer
, he thought glumly, then sighed resignedly. A paradise such as this could hardly hope to remain undiscovered forever.

The directions Mattie had given him were pretty simple. Shortly before reaching the coast, he turned south toward Genoa Bay, passed a marina, then swung onto a side road that skirted the ocean. Presently he came upon an unusually large section of undeveloped land sandwiched between the road and the water. A little later he spied a gate with the name
TRAIL
on a tipsy mailbox. Hal swung into the drive, which meandered through a stand of densely packed fir and coast maple, giving no hint of what might lie beyond. The approach was in the shape of a lazy
S
. After the completion of the second bend it emerged from the trees and there, on the far side of an expanse of parched lawn, was a house.

After all Hal had recently witnessed of new construction, this was like stepping back into another era. The building was large, solid, in a broad-gabled style which in the late nineteenth century would have been considered modern. Hal had seen such places in the venerable streets of Rosedale in Toronto, pampered and valued in the millions. This house, of no less grand lineage, was nonetheless in need of some
TLC
. And though it commanded an ocean view of breathtaking beauty, it also had an aspect that was more than a trifle forlorn.

The driveway curved around in front of the building, ending in a parking area that contained several vehicles. The nearest was a minivan with the words
SYLVIE'S POTTERY WORKS
painted in bold letters on the side. Hal parked beside it and walked back to the house.

The veranda, under the overhang of a second-floor balcony, was broad and cool. To the right, it was enclosed with mesh, giving it a tropical feeling; to the left, it was open, stretching the length of the building. The front door, of oak solid enough to repel Viking marauders, sported an iron knocker. Hal was in the act of reaching for this, when the door was opened by Mattie.

Prepared as he was, Hal nonetheless experienced a reprise of the shock he'd previously felt when, sprawled on his rear end, he'd first spotted his old friend. Momentarily, it was if he was transported back in time, looking at someone who'd been frozen, waiting two decades for his return. Then the illusion dissolved as Mattie smiled and reached for his hand.

“
Hal!
” Mattie said. “I'm so glad. I was such an idiot the other day, running off like that, I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd given up on me entirely. But you're here. Come in.”

Briskly she ushered him inside, and led him through a paneled hall, past stairs that climbed to upper regions and a large dining room, finally into a bright kitchen. Through high windows, Hal could again see the spectacular sea view. Mattie indicated the room's other occupant, an attractive women who, he discovered, was surveying him with frank amusement.

“Hello, Hal!” The woman said, in a plummy English voice, at once aristocratic and earthy. “I've been hearing a lot about you. And my-my! Aren't you the pretty lad.”

“This is Sylvie,” Mattie laughed. “My oldest friend. No tact at all, but a wonderful artist.”

“Crafty old craftsperson, actually,” Sylvie responded. “But I manage to keep busy.”

Mattie poured coffee and they sat around the big kitchen table. In contrast to the awkwardness he'd feared, the talk was as easy and light as if they were at a cocktail party. Hal wondered if Mattie had perhaps invited her friend for moral support. In any case, the exuberant Sylvie monopolized the conversation. She claimed she saw few movies, but nonetheless was familiar with most of his own, her comments critical, witty, and admiring in almost equal proportion. She asked him questions about show business, his career, and—with complete lack of embarrassment—his personal life. Hal was starting to think that she was coming on to him, when he tumbled to what was going on. This was a sort of set-up. Mattie was cleverly using her friend as a buffer, while extracting information in a way that was easy and painless. Hal didn't know whether to feel amused or embarrassed. But one thing was sure: for her to have gone to all this trouble, his reappearance must have created something of a stir.

He hoped it wasn't one they'd both regret.

Then, as effortlessly as she'd performed her inquisition, Sylvie broke it off. If she'd been booked as the opening act in this show, her performance was apparently concluded. “Well, duckies, I really must run,” she chirped, clapping her hands together and rising briskly. “Sunday it may be, but the potter's wheel never rests. Mattie darling, thanks for the tiffin. Hal, you hunk, as my Cockney nanny used to say ‘it's been corker.' And when you and Mattie get tired of reminiscing—
please
get her to send you along to me. Cheery bye!”