I am writing an article about your life and exploitsfor the Star. If you wish to discuss what ought to go into it, meet me tonight at nine o’clock at the east end of the sculpture garden. There is a bench in between the four pillars standing alone and the plump, self-satisfied gentleman on the horse. A fitting spot, I thought. I will be there.
You still look pretty athletic these days. It’s not far from your hotel, and you’ll find there’s enough light for walking. E.
‘‘Who in hell is E.?’’ she said, crumpling up the paper and then smoothing it out again over her thighs.
The telephone rang and she jumped like a frightened cat. ‘‘Yes,’’ she said in a cracked, uncertain voice.
‘‘Ms. Brady? Kate Brady?’’
She murmured agreement.
‘‘Rob Martin, from the Sight and Sound committee. I hope you had a good trip. Look, most of the others came in yesterday and we laid on a dinner for them. We thought you deserved a good meal as well. How about tonight? Can I pick you up at the hotel at six thirty? Or have you made other plans?’’
It was like talking to a bulldozer. By the time he gave her a chance to answer, it was too late. She had agreed to meet him downstairs, said she would be wearing black with a red leather jacket, and hung up.
Rob Martin appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties. He was balding slightly, but that suited his rangy, athletic-looking frame. His smile was friendly, his grey eyes cool and assessing. If he hadn’t been a little young for her, she might have considered him as possible-very possible-light relief during the next four days. She still might, she thought, glad that she had dressed with care.
‘‘Where are we going for dinner?’’ she asked, bracingherself for the worst. She couldn’t remember there being a whole lot of decent restaurants around here.
‘‘To the Art Gallery,’’ he said, with a quirky smile that-annoyingly-reminded her of someone.
‘‘Isn’t that carrying the idea of the weekend a bit far? Do we bring sandwiches and munch as we troop through the exhibits? Or are there benches to sit on?’’
‘‘There’s definitely someplace to sit,’’ he said coolly. ‘‘The gallery has a restaurant with interesting food, artistically presented, of course. I thought you might like it. If you prefer a burger somewhere, we can do that, too. But the Art Gallery is just along the street. We can walk there in two minutes.’’
Kate brooded over the menu, hovering between the venison espiritu and the duck breast vestido de fumar. ‘‘I have to admit that I wasn’t expecting this sort of food,’’ she said. ‘‘It doesn’t fit exactly with my image of the city.’’
‘‘Try the venison. It might change your image,’’ said Rob. ‘‘Ms. Brady will have the venison,’’ he murmured to the waitress. ‘‘And I’ll have the duck.’’ He turned back to Kate. ‘‘But haven’t people around here always appreciated good food?’’
‘‘Do you come from here?’’
‘‘I grew up in a town near London, came here to go to university and never left. What about you? Have you always lived in Chicago?’’
‘‘Winnetka,’’ she said. ‘‘It’s not quite Chicago. But it’s on the lake as well. I like living near water.’’
‘‘So do I,’’ he said. ‘‘Sometimes. It’s fascinating. It has its dark and destructive side, though, don’t you think?’’
The arrival of the wine relieved her from having to respond to that one.
Lunch had been a cup of coffee and the venison was superb. She ate everything on her plate except for a sprig of fresh herbs and the flower, and sat back, turning her wineglass around and around, staring at it. ‘‘Why invite me to speak?’’ she asked abruptly. ‘‘Along with the pretentious arty types. My junk doesn’t exactly fit the image. I write ‘bodice slashers,’ as my editor calls them-pink perfumed scary porn- to make a living.’’
‘‘We all have to make a living,’’ he said smoothly. ‘‘I suppose someone on the committee likes your books and thinks it’ll be fun to have you on the list. I don’t know. I’m a messenger boy, that’s all-not one of the powerhouses. Why did you come?’’
‘‘Curiosity, I suppose,’’ she said.
‘‘Killed the cat,’’ he replied with a lazy grin. ‘‘What are you up to tonight? I could take you around to the nightspots, or if you prefer, there’s a poetry reading at the Capitol Theatre.’’
‘‘I’d love to,’’ she said, injecting all the sincerity at her command into her voice, ‘‘but after driving all day and eating this spectacular dinner-you know, it really was terrific,’’ she added, in normal tones. ‘‘But I’m going for a walk along the river with a friend. Like I said, I have a thing about rivers.’’
‘‘I thought you didn’t know anyone here.’’
‘‘He’s from Detroit. I said I’d meet him at eight thirty.’’
Kate went back to her hotel room and put on the pale yellow outfit she wore for her daily two- to three-mile walks. It showed off her legs-still one of her real assets-making them look even longer than they were. She flicked a comb through her shiny hair, snapped her pouch with cab fare and room key around her waist, and set off.
She crossed the broad drive that separated the hotels and the Art Gallery from the riverside park and plunged from light into darkness. Trees blocked out the streetlights, swallowing up the ambient glow of the city and the water. She had forgotten how dark it could be down here and ran down the broad path in a mild panic. When she reached the riverbank, she slowed to catch her breath. The water ran smoothly along beside her, murmuring reassuringly, giving her back her strength and courage. She stretched her legs out and began walking quickly and confidently toward the meeting place.
She passed the four pillars and looked up the hill-side. There was the wooden bench, halfway up the hill. A figure on the bench was silhouetted in the light from the street above, arms spread out, head tipped back, long legs, crossed at the ankles, stretched out in front of him-the essence of relaxation.
She stopped dead halfway up the slope and gasped. ‘‘Omigod.’’ It came out between a squeak and a scream. ‘‘Jack! No-it can’t be.’’ She clapped her hand over her mouth to keep herself from saying more. The man looked over at her. The headlights of a passing car swept over his face and she laughed. ‘‘Oh. It’s you. For a minute there, I thought you were someone else. You really gave me a turn. What are you doing here?’’
‘‘Waiting for you, Estelle.’’
‘‘Sorry. The name is Kate, or Katie, if you must.’’
‘‘That’s up there, on the other side of the road. Down here by the river you’re Estelle. Beautiful Estelle Leblanc. You know, in this light you look almost the same.’’
‘‘Almost?’’
‘‘Lithe, slender, graceful as a deer. And strong.’’
‘‘I still am,’’ she protested. ‘‘I haven’t gained a pound in thirty years.’’
‘‘Maybe. But you’ve turned from a schoolboy’s fantasy into something nasty, hard and stiff. It’s sad. But no matter. We’re not here to talk about the ravages of time. I saw you that night with Jack, you know. Down there. On the far side of the railing.’’
‘‘I don’t know anyone named Jack,’’ she said. ‘‘You’re crazy. And I think I’ve heard enough.’’ She tried to move away and found that her wrist was caught in a grip of steel.
‘‘I don’t know how you got him down there on the rocks. Remember how terrified he was of water? But you did, and you pushed him in. I saw you.’’
‘‘That’s crazy. Why would I push him in?’’