Jane Vows Vengeance (7 page)

“Jane and I have to go to this cocktail hour,” Walter explained. “I’m wondering if you would mind taking my mother with you to—”

“I don’t need a babysitter, Walter.”

Jane jumped at the unexpected sound of Miriam’s voice. When she turned she saw Walter’s mother approaching, Lilith in her arms. They were wearing matching red sweaters. Lilith, to her credit, did not look particularly pleased.

“Oh, hi, Mom,” Walter said. “Nobody said you needed a babysitter. I just thought you would be more comfortable going to dinner with Lucy and Ben than you would be hanging around with Jane and me and a bunch of people into old houses.”

“Well, you’re right about that,” said Miriam. She smiled at Ben. “I’m sure the rabbi will be excellent company.”

Ben glanced at Lilith. “I don’t know if they allow dogs in restaurants here,” he said.

“Nonsense,” Miriam replied. “They adore dogs here. You can take them anywhere.”

“You’re thinking of Paris,” Jane remarked before she could think to stop herself.

Miriam pointedly ignored her. “Anyway, I’ll just tell them she’s a helping dog. She senses when I’m about to have a seizure.”

“But you don’t have seizures,” Walter objected.

Miriam’s face suddenly twisted in a rictus of pain. She began to shake, and her tongue protruded from her mouth as a series of groans poured forth.

“Mother!” Walter cried.

Miriam’s facial expression returned to normal. “See?” she said. “Seizures.”

“Good God, Mother,” Walter said. “Don’t go doing that in a restaurant, or anywhere for that matter.”

“If my seizure dog is with me, I won’t,” Miriam said. She took Ben’s arm. “Now, shall we go find something to eat? I’m famished.”

Monday: London

T
HE MAN SITTING AT THE PIANO WAS PLAYING
“A F
OGGY
D
AY
”
AS
Jane and Walter entered the American Bar. The air was filled with the sound of laughter and murmured conversations and ice tinkling in highballs. The light was flattering and the atmosphere was gay. It was impossible not to feel glamorous in such surroundings.

Which of course meant that Jane did not. For one thing, her shoes pinched. They were new, purchased just days earlier in a frenzy of last-minute shopping. Seeing them on display in the store, Jane had imagined herself wearing them while sharing scintillating conversation with her fellow travelers. This thrilling possibility had blinded her to the reality of the shoes, which was that the heels were entirely too high. They caused her to tip forward, much like the famed Pisa tower, as a result of which she felt as if she were always just about to topple over. But they looked wonderful, and so she’d insisted on wearing them, even though it meant she had to keep a firm hold on Walter’s arm or risk a fall.

She was hoping that perhaps she and Walter could take up a position somewhere central, so that the others could circle them like bees around a flower. And so it was with great relief that she
soon found herself seated at one of the tables scattered throughout the room, waiting as Walter ordered a gin and tonic for her and a Manhattan for himself. She used the time to look about her and try to put faces to some of the names Walter had rattled off when reading her the roster of participants.

“Have you identified any of them yet?” Walter asked, handing Jane her drink and taking a seat.

“I think so,” said Jane. “That one over there. I think she must be Genevieve Prideaux.”

She indicated a tall, thin woman of about thirty-five. Her hair was pulled into a tidy knot at the back of her head, and she was wearing a chic dark suit with a pale green silk blouse. Jane noted with some jealousy that Genevieve’s heels were higher than her own and that the woman had no trouble whatsoever walking in them.

“I think you’re right,” Walter agreed. “I remember seeing her picture in one of the trade magazines.”

“I’m not surprised you’d remember
that
one,” said Jane. “She’s stunning.”

She waited for Walter to contradict her, and was oddly pleased when he didn’t. She liked that he didn’t try to deny the beauty of other women simply out of a sense of duty.
Then again
, she thought,
he could have denied it a
little.

“Ah,” said Walter. “I know that fellow. It’s Brodie Pittman.”

He pointed to a handsome man leaning against one of the bars. He was very large and very loud, gesturing with a cigar as he argued some point with his companion, a much smaller and far less handsome fellow. Brodie Pittman was wearing khaki pants, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up past the elbow and the neck open, and braces that attached to the pants not with horrid metal clips but with proper buttons. His hair, which was thick and fell rakishly over one eye, was of a sandy blond color, and he had a mustache. He was perhaps forty-five, and Jane liked him immediately.

The smaller man had little to recommend him. Dressed fussily in an ill-fitting gray wool suit complete with waistcoat and a dreary, firmly knotted tie that appeared to be strangling him, he had pale skin, fine brown hair that was plastered down with copious amounts of grease, and tiny, sinister eyes that made Jane think he was someone who spent the majority of his time lurking about and the rest of his time plotting and scheming.

Walter waved to Brodie, who bellowed hello and came charging toward them. Regrettably, the other man followed.

“Walter!” Brodie said. “Good to see you again, mate.”

Walter shook Brodie’s hand. “Brodie, I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Jane Fairfax. Jane, Brodie Pittman.”

“How do you do?” said Brodie, engulfing Jane’s tiny hand in his enormous paw.

Jane winced instinctively, expecting to feel her hand crushed, and was surprised when Brodie’s grip was firm but gentle. “Very well, thank you,” she said, not a little relieved. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“You say that now,” Brodie said, winking at her. “You might change your mind once you’ve known me a day or two.”

“Brodie is an architect,” Walter told Jane. “He designed Wexley House.”

“Oh,” Jane said, having no idea what Wexley House was. “How exciting.”

“Not at all,” sad Brodie. “It’s a monstrosity. But the rich old fool who hired me to design it paid me enough to kill off any sense of guilt I might have felt for my role in bringing it to life.” He laughed loudly and drained his drink.

“I think we owe it to the world to give birth only to buildings that speak with strong, clear voices,” said the little man standing beside Brodie, his voice as thin and unctuous as his hair. Jane had almost forgotten about him, but now she turned her attention to him. He looked back without blinking.

“Walter, Jane, let me introduce you to Bergen Frost.”

“Faust,” the little man said. “Bergen
Faust
.”

“Bergen is German,” Brodie said, as if that explained everything.

“I have a blog,” Bergen added.

Jane looked at Walter, who looked at Brodie.

“Apparently it’s read by a bloody lot of people,” Brodie said. He cleared his throat. “Shall we order more drinks?”

“None for me,” Bergen said. “I’m going to retire now. I want to be rested for the morning.”

“What’s happening in the morning?” Walter asked, sounding slightly concerned. “I thought tomorrow was a free day.”

“Yes,” said Bergen.

When no further explanation came, Walter said, “All right, then. Good night.”

“Good night,” Bergen said. He nodded at Jane before turning and walking away, quickly slipping into the surrounding crowd.

“Rum little fellow, isn’t he?” Brodie said as he took a seat. “I have no idea why he’s here. Probably a friend of Enid’s.”

“Enid?” Jane asked.

“Enid Woode,” said Walter. “One of the two organizers of this adventure.”

“Who’s the other?” asked Jane.

“Chumsley Faber-Titting,” Brodie said. “Enid’s ex-husband.”

“How interesting,” Jane said. “Well, they must get on well enough to be able to work together.”

Brodie guffawed. “Can’t stand the sight of each other,” he said.

“Then why would they do this?” asked Jane.

“Because they’re only good as a pair,” said Brodie. “They used to be the most successful design team in the UK. Married right out of school and started their careers together. After they divorced neither of them could design a thing that wasn’t crap. They had to get back together, at least as architects. Their offices are in buildings on opposite sides of London. They communicate
only through e-mail, and when they’re in the same room each pretends the other doesn’t exist. Their work is extraordinary.”

Jane, intrigued, looked around the bar. “Are they here?” she asked.

“Oh, they’re somewhere about,” Brodie said. “Neither wants to be the first to arrive, so they’re probably both peering around corners waiting for the other one to show up.”

“I can’t wait to meet them,” said Jane. Suddenly the upcoming trip seemed not nearly as dull as it had earlier in the evening.

Brodie pointed his cigar at Walter. “I’m guessing you’re on Chumsley’s team,” he said.

“Team?” Walter said. “What do you mean?”

“Everything Chumsley and Enid do is a competition,” Brodie explained. “As I understand it, they’ve each chosen half the guests for this little expedition of ours. Who invited you?”

“Chumsley,” Walter said.

“There you are then,” said Brodie. “He invited me as well. Genevieve Prideaux was invited by Enid. Told me so earlier. And as I said, I’m guessing that Bergen fellow is one of hers as well. I was going to ask him, but he started talking about how Cold War Soviet architecture doesn’t get the respect it deserves, and then all I wanted to do was kill myself.”

“All that concrete and grimness,” Jane said, shuddering, and Brodie raised his glass to her.

“Who else is on our … team?” asked Walter.

“Orsino Castano,” Olivier said.

“I don’t think I know him,” said Walter.

“Nice fellow,” Brodie said. “There he is over there.” He indicated a man of average height and slightly more than average weight. His black hair and beard framed a pleasant face, and when he saw Brodie waving at him he smiled warmly and waved back, then returned to the conversation he was having with a woman wearing what looked disconcertingly like a kimono.

“Oh yes,” Walter said. “I recognize him now. He won the Krassberg Prize last year.” To Jane he added, “For excellence in restoration of historic properties.”

“Maybe you’ll win that one day,” Jane said.

Walter laughed. “I restore houses,” he said. “Orsino restores
castles
.”

“What’s a castle?” Brodie said. “Just a big house made out of rocks.”

“Who’s the woman Orsino is talking to?” Jane asked Brodie. “She’s very unusual-looking.”

“No idea,” said Brodie. “But I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough. I do know she’s one of Enid’s, though.”

“How do you know?” asked Walter.

“Because there’s four to a side, so to speak,” Brodie explained. “If I’m right, Enid’s got Genevieve, Bergen, that one, and Ryan McGuinness.”

“McGuinness?” Walter said, lifting an eyebrow. “That’s interesting.”

“Why?” asked Jane, sensing a story.

“McGuinness is the reason Chumsley and Enid divorced,” said Brodie.

“How scandalous,” Jane said, taking a sip of her gin and tonic. She looked at Walter. “How come you never told me your field was so exciting?”

“It never occurred to me,” Walter said. “Who’s our fourth?” he asked Brodie.

“Old friend of yours,” Brodie said. “And another Yank. Sam Wax.”

“Sam?” said Walter.

“Do you know him?” Jane asked, detecting something in Walter’s voice suggesting familiarity.

“Her,” Walter answered. “Sam’s a woman. We worked together on a couple of projects when we were both starting out,
but I haven’t seen her in, oh, fifteen years or so.” He looked around, and Jane, to her surprise, felt a pang of jealousy. “I didn’t see her name on the list.”

“She was a last-minute addition,” Brodie told Walter. “But she isn’t here yet. Comes in tomorrow.”

“Sam Wax,” Walter said. “Wow. It will be nice to see her again.”

“Too bad we’re getting
married
tomorrow,” Jane said, rattling the ice in her now empty glass.

“What?” said Walter, looking up. “Oh. Yes. We are.”

“Married?” Brodie said.

“Yes,” said Walter. “I’ve arranged for us to be married in the chapel in—”

“Walter Fletcher?” said a woman’s voice.

The woman who had been talking with Orsino Castano now stood beside the table. As Jane had thought, she was wearing a kimono. It was made of red silk and embroidered with dragons done in white and yellow thread. The woman’s jet-black hair was pulled back into a thick ponytail secured with a circle of leather pierced by a single ivory pin. The delicate bones of her face were covered by flawless skin, and for a moment Jane thought she might be wearing white powder.

“That would be me,” Walter said.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” the woman said. “I am Suzu.”

“Suzu,” Walter repeated. “What a lovely name.”

“Thank you,” said Suzu. “I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your work. I saw the article about you in
Spaces
last year and thought what you did with that house was wonderful.”