“Were you shocked when—”
“Oh yes—I mean, it made quite a splash after all. Cal would have hated it. After all, it’s so gauche—to be shot like that. He would have hated it.”
“Do you have any idea who—”
“Killed him?” she suggested. “No. I’m sorry. A man like that can acquire any number of enemies, though I have to say I wouldn’t have thought any of Cal’s associates would have been such… cowboys.” She hesitated. Leaned forward, and whispered. “Have you talked to Mamie?”
They looked at each other. Shook their heads. “Who’s Mamie?” McBride asked.
The old lady laughed, a deep chuckle, then took a sip of iced tea. “Mamie was Cal’s paramour.”
“Really.”
“Oh yes. And she’s not a bit like Cal. In fact, I quite like her—though what she saw in Cal, I can’t imagine. But they were lifelong friends. Met in London, during the war. He was OSS—she was some kind of liaison. The married kind, as it turned out.” Thea chuckled. “I used to call her ‘the little Dutch girl’ because… well, that’s what she was! Dutch, I mean. Her name is Marijke Winkelman. ‘Mamie’ is just what Cal called her.”
“And her husband?” Adrienne asked.
“Oh, he died—I think it was twenty years ago, now. He was with the Red Cross in Geneva. They both were. Refugee relief.”
“I see,” McBride said, though he didn’t, really.
“That’s where it started,” Thea added.
“What did?” Adrienne asked.
“Their affair. He was in Zurich. Geneva wasn’t so far away—though why she didn’t marry Cal after her husband passed, I can’t imagine. Too much bother, I guess.”
“Do you think she’d know about any papers he might have left?” McBride asked.
Thea Wilkins stirred her iced tea and took a dainty sip, patting her lips afterwards with the cocktail napkin. “Well, if anybody would know,” she told them, “Mamie would, though… I’ll give you her address, and you can see for yourself.”
“They didn’t live together?” Adrienne asked.
“Oh, goodness no. They always kept separate residences. Mamie has a splendid place, right on the beach. Villa Alegre.”
Villa Alegre was splendid, a low-slung pink stucco house with a barrel roof of terra-cotta tiles. It sat amidst lush vegetation in what amounted to a forest of old palms and banyans.
And she was nothing like her near contemporary, Theodora Wilkins. She wore shorts and a T-Shirt and Birkenstock sandals. While her neck might have been crepey, and her skin netted with wrinkles, she was still quite beautiful. She had wide-set, pale blue eyes, blond hair gone silver, and a wide, generous mouth. She led them around to the back of the house, pausing at a small pond filled with koi. “My fêng shui consultant insisted that I have them. He said the house needs motion. Anyway, they are terrific looking, don’t you think?”
McBride admired them. Adrienne smiled politely.
“You don’t like them, do you, dear?” Mamie asked.
Adrienne shrugged. “Not much, I guess. I don’t know why.”
“It’s probably the colors,” Mamie guessed. “Do you mind if I ask: are you a big fan of Halloween?”
“No. I’ve never really liked it.”
The old woman tossed out a high-voltage smile, pleased to have her theory confirmed by this sampling of one. “Well, there you are!” She took Adrienne’s arm in a companionable way, and led her up the flagstone path toward the house. There was something about the way she talked, Adrienne thought, the cadence or pronunciation… Then she realized what it was: “half in the bag,” as Deck used to say. Not drunk, but getting there.
She would not talk to them until they were all “settled down” out back. They sat down in white wicker chairs under a vine laden pergola and admired the waves lapping at the nearby beach. A dozen wind chimes trembled all around them as Mamie excused herself, returning a few minutes later with a decanter of martinis and a plate of cheese, fruit, and crackers.
Once she had poured the drinks into traditional stemmed glasses, added olives, and handed them out to her guests, she declared herself ready.
“So,” she said, raising her glass. “Salut.” The first sip almost knocked them over. “Now what is it about Cal you’d like to talk about?”
They stuck to the pretext about Adrienne’s late sister having a correspondence with Crane. Mamie said she didn’t know anything about that.
“He never mentioned a correspondence like that, but then,” she added, “he probably wouldn’t have.”
With the wind chimes tinkling all around them, they talked about the kind of man Calvin Crane was—which paved the way for McBride to inquire about “enemies.”
“Of course the police are asking me this same question,” Mamie told them, “but I have the sense they are just going through the motions, not really interested in my answer. So I don’t think about it. I mean, not seriously.” She took a tiny bite of cheese, and washed it down with a generous sip from her martini. “But I know Gunnar was unhappy with him.”
“Gunner?” Adrienne asked.
Mamie shook her head. “Gunnar Opdahl. He was Cal’s protégé at the Institute, but… are you all right, Mr. McBride?”
No, he wasn’t. He felt blindsided by the mention of Opdahl’s name. His heart leapt, and a bolt of panic shot through his chest. He must have flinched because Adrienne put a hand on his arm.
“You okay?” she asked.
A puff of air set the wind chimes clattering.
He nodded, and lied. “I got some dust in my eye.” Adrienne gave him a funny look.
To himself, he thought: What the fuck was that? Gunnar Opdahl was… what? Smart and urbane, a pleasant man to have lunch with. And yet, even as he thought this, he knew there was something else, something deeply unpleasant waiting to be remembered. Finally, he cleared his throat, and looked at Mamie. “You were saying… ?”
“Yes, I was saying they had a falling out. Gunnar and Cal.”
“Do you know what it was about?” Adrienne asked.
“Not really” Mamie replied. Despite her birdlike sips, she had downed most of her martini. “I left Switzerland before Cal did. The weather gets to you when you reach a certain age.”
“When did Cal retire?”
“In ‘93,” Mamie replied. “But their disagreement was more recent than that. I think it started—oh—maybe a year ago. A little more, perhaps.”
“Was it about the Institute?” Adrienne asked.
Mamie seesawed her head, frowned, and replenished her glass from the decanter. “I think it must have been. That was their only common ground, really. And, even retired, Cal was still active in certain things. As one of the founders, he still had a say.”
“What kind of say?”
“About the fellows, the research—and the clinic, of course. They do such very good work with troubled young people.” She paused, and then went on. “This contretemps with Gunnar might—” But then she shrugged, did not finish the sentence. “I shouldn’t say, really. Because I don’t know. I’m just guessing.”
“Tell us. Please?” Adrienne pressed. “We know so little…”
“Well, I was going to say I thought it might have to do with the money, with Gunnar feeling impeded in some way. That’s just the sense I got from some of the telephone conversations I overheard.” She fished an olive out of her glass and popped it into her mouth.
McBride leaned toward her. “Is there someone at the Institute who might be able to tell us more about the falling out between them?”
Mamie frowned. “Oh, I don’t think so. Cal was the last of the original group. And the new crowd… well, I don’t even know who they are.”
“Lew was a fellow,” Adrienne volunteered, with a sidelong glance at McBride.
“Oh, really!” Mamie exclaimed, her face cracking into a wide smile. “How exciting!” She reached out, pressed a girlish hand against his arm, and patted it in a proprietary way. “You must be jush… an outstanding young man!”