"Oh, yeah. That Toscana fellow and his goons have been all over security this morning."
Grateful for the interruption and glad of the company, Caroline turned her back on the reporters and accompanied Dante up the drive toward the main lodge. Exhausted and drained, she walked in silence. As they passed the kitchen wing, the smell of food teased her nostrils.
"Mrs. Blessing, do you mind if I make a suggestion?"
Caroline had been thinking about her meager breakfast and how much she now regretted passing up the whole-grain Belgian waffles with fresh fruit in favor of some dry toast. Her stomach rumbled noisily. "What?"
"After you finish with Dr. de Vries, come see me." Walking slightly behind, he laid his hands on her shoulders. "You're tied in knots. Stiff. Your spine's coiled as tightly as a bedspring."
Caroline rotated her shoulders. "I know."
"I have an opening at three." He removed his hands. "Have you ever been Rolfed?"
Caroline laughed. "Rolfed? You're making that up, surely?" But when he didn't smile she said, "Is it anything like shiatzu?"
Dante shook his head. "Not at all. Rolfing's a deep-massage technique that works on the connective tissues. Quite frankly, it's not for everybody, but I've never seen anyone who needed Rolfing more than you."
Caroline smiled up at the masseur, thinking, What could it hurt? "I'll mention it to Raoul," she promised.
"Ordinarily, we suggest an eight- to ten-week course of treatment," the young man continued. "But let's do an introductory session and if it seems to work for you, I'll recommend a practitioner for when you get home."
Wherever home might be, she thought ruefully. Forcing her lips into a smile, she looked up at Dante. "Okay, then," she said. "Pencil me in."
Through the half-open door, Caroline could see that Raoul's office was the June cover of Architectural Digest, from the brocade draperies to the foil-backed wall covering right down to the oversized art books carelessly but expensively arranged on the Louis XV coffee table. To the right, built-in bookshelves held matched sets of leather-bound classics. To the left, a globe the size of a basketball, each country delineated by encrustations of semi-precious stones, was centered on a narrow credenza.
If Raoul had a medical degree, Caroline could see no evidence of it. On the other hand, a boasting, black-framed diploma would hardly have been in keeping with the decor. As proud as Caroline was of the diploma from Juilliard that hung in her own study, it wouldn't have taken much arm-twisting to persuade her to replace it with one of the Mirós or Klees that hung in carved, gilded frames over Raoul's credenza.
Near the fireplace, a tabby cat, undoubtedly chosen by the decorator to coordinate with the rusty gold medallions in the Turkish carpet, had draped itself casually across the back of an overstuffed wing chair. When Caroline entered, the cat opened an eye, studied her, determined she was of no importance, and returned to its nap.
Raoul was hardly napping. Piles of papers and what Caroline took to be case files littered his desk. He was shuffling through them frantically, oblivious to her presence.
"Raoul? You wanted to see me?"
"What?" His eyes were enormous behind his glasses. "Oh, Caroline. So good of you to come." He shoved the folders aside until the space on the desk directly in front of him was clear, anchored the tallest pile with a substantial brass paperweight shaped like a propeller, whipped off his glasses, and stood. "Sit down. Sit down."
Raoul emerged from behind his desk and motioned Caroline into the armchair. The cat didn't budge. The handsome widower arranged himself opposite Caroline on a two-cushion sofa, beautifully upholstered in a reproduction of a medieval tapestry. Considering the money that had clearly been lavished on this place, it could have been a medieval tapestry.
"Frankly, Raoul, after what happened yesterday, I'm surprised you're keeping office hours," Caroline ventured after a moment of uncomfortable silence.
"What are my alternatives?" He spread his hands wide. "I've got a spa to run, as your mother keeps reminding me."
"That surprised me as much as it surprised you."
"Surprise is not the word I'd choose," he said. "Surprise is for Christmas presents or birthday parties. It's fair to say I was shocked, appalled, devastated." He massaged the bridge of his nose with a thumb and index finger. "Claudia must have known something about your mother's financial interest in Phoenix. You must have suspected."
Caroline had no answer for him, so she changed the subject. "Why did you send that fellow to find me, Raoul? It wasn't just to discuss my treatment program, was it?"
"No." He flushed to the lobes of his exguisite ears.
"Well, what then?"
"I wondered if you could tell me what your mother's plans are for Phoenix Spa."
"Mother and I were never all that close." She paused to swallow the lump that had taken up residence in her throat.
Raoul bowed his head. "I feel like a fish out of water. When Claudia was alive, I knew exactly what I'd be doing every day. But now…" He looked up. "Your mother can be difficult."
"What did Mother say to you?"
"She ordered me to stop mooning about and get on with it." He shook his head, and Caroline could see he was close to tears. "Carry on with what, for Christ's sake. I have a wife to bury!"
Caroline reached across the coffee table and laid her hand on his. "I'm so sorry, Raoul. Sorry about Claudia. About Mother…" She took a deep breath. "About everything." She patted his hand, then settled back into the comfortable recesses of the chair. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Nobody can do anything until the police release Claudia's body, and who knows when that will be." He leaned forward, fingers laced together, his elbows resting on his knees. "They're not even sure how she died. Everyone assumes she was strangled." He shuddered. "But what if she was still alive when whoever shoved her face into the mud?"
"Don't even think about it, Raoul. It'll make you crazy."
"I can't eat. I can't sleep." He fixed his eyes, unseeing, on the wallpaper behind her head.
"Raoul…"
He shivered, seemed to snap out of it, then turned to look at Caroline as if seeing her for the first time. He reached across the table, covered her hand with his, and stood up, pulling her up along with him. "Caroline, Caroline! Please forgive me. I've been babbling like a fool."
Caroline thought the man was hardly a fool. Quietly, she extracted her hand and began to stroke the cat.
Raoul seemed unperturbed. "We're supposed to be talking about you."
That's a subject best avoided, Caroline thought. Aloud she said, "Tell me about that young man you sent to find me. Dante. He's booked me in for a deep-tissue massage after lunch."
Raoul beamed. "Splendid! Should do you a world of good. He's quite the expert, Dante. We hired him away from the Broadmoor in Colorado Springs. Claudia considered it quite a coup!"
While Raoul pontificated on the solid-gold credentials of Dante, otherwise known as Daniel Shemanski, and oozed on about macrobiotics, homeopathy, and the miracle of colonic hydrotherapy, Caroline inched her way toward the door, hoping to escape. "Join me at my table for lunch?" Raoul inquired.
Caroline felt her stomach knocking against her ribs. If she didn't get something to eat soon, she'd end up looking like Ondine. "Of course," she replied. "Why not?"