A Matter of Taste

Chapter 1

Angie Hoban found Valentine Kaiser waiting for her just where he had said he would be, occupying the end booth in a busy street-level coffee shop just off Michigan Avenue, a little south of the Water Tower. From outside she could see through the window that he was watching the entrance, and as soon as she came in through the revolving door he got to his feet, smiling. Tall, youthful, and actually one of the handsomest men she had ever seen. He was pulling a business card out of his vest pocket now, and as soon as she came within reach he handed it to her. A flashy printing job, she noticed, red on yellow. The message was simple enough:

Valentine Kaiser

Celebrity Publicist

At the bottom were two phone numbers with different area codes, both of them somewhere in California, if Angie could trust her memory on such matters; she'd visited the West Coast a couple of times. There wasn't any address on the card; the implication seemed to be that Valentine Kaiser moved fast, so did his business, and if you had to mail him a message or travel to his office, you weren't going to reach him in time anyway.

She dropped the card into her purse, thinking that she could always throw it away later.

"And you're Angelina Hoban. Even prettier than you sounded on the phone." He spoke in a low voice, as if musing to himself, and didn't wait for her reaction; any way she wanted to take it was quite all right with him.

In another moment she was sitting opposite him in the booth, and ordering coffee. In front of her companion stood another cup, almost untouched, or perhaps it had been diligently refilled by the hurrying waitress. Outside the plate-glass windows, faintly steamy with October chill, Chicagoans were hurrying past as Chicagoans generally did. Inside the coffee shop things were comparatively slack, the weekday lunch-hour rush having abated hours ago.

"So, what's this all about, Mr. Kaiser? You said something about a talk being to our mutual advantage?"

"Call me Val," the man across the table said, smiling. Then he paused, as if he were trying to plan his answer carefully. His behavior in the flesh reinforced an impression she'd formed during their brief phone conversation. Certainly this was not a man who'd try to drown her in a gush of salesman's or press agent's babble. The sincere type. Angie suspected that he was some kind of salesman, though, and that he could be very convincing if he did lie. The scar of some old injury, or blemish, spread over a large part of his right cheek, but too faintly to destroy his looks. Dark, Mediterranean type, though not tanned—she'd heard somewhere that tan had been out for a couple of years now among Hollywood people, among celebrities in general, she supposed. And what exactly did a Celebrity Publicist do?

Sizable shoulders, and a lean waist under the vest of his three-piece, blue-gray suit. Most likely a college athlete somewhere, only a few years ago, and still in very good condition. Red tie, white shirt, all in all a sharp dresser, though a little more conservative than she would have expected from California, which she sometimes tended to identify with Hollywood.

"I understand," said Kaiser, evidently having completed his mental preparations, "that you're going to have the pleasure of paying a visit to Mr. Matthew Maule this evening."

"Who told you about that?"

"And, you may well ask, what business is it of mine? You're quite right, I can't argue." Valentine Kaiser smiled engagingly, displaying excellent teeth, probably not capped. "I'd love to tell you who told me, but the fact is I promised I wouldn't, and I keep my promises. I do happen to know you're engaged to John Southerland—right? And the Southerland family, as you know, has a connection with Mr. Maule. And—let me just put it this way—certain members of the family would like to see that Mr. Maule finally gets credit for a lot of the great things he's done over the years."

"Gets credit?"

The self-proclaimed publicist spread his hands. "There's the hospital for burn victims he endowed in California—I could show you pictures. There's the Retired Stage and Screen Actors' Fund; there's—well, I could go on all day. The thing is, I'd like to be able to get in to interview him." Having revealed that much, Valentine Kaiser shut up suddenly, as if reminding himself not to babble like a salesman.

As if, thought Angie, he were trying to mold himself into a brash extrovert, but it didn't come naturally to him. She felt a growing sympathy. "So you want to—write an article about him?"

"That's about it. Yes." Kaiser looked relieved.

Still an element of suspicion persisted. "If you want to interview this man, have you tried just asking?"

"Angelina—what do your friends call you? Angie? Angie, if it was only that easy." The man sitting across from her shook his head. "A lot of people have tried just asking Mr. Matthew Maule, over the years. Let me tell you right up front why I invited you to have a talk with me. What I really hope to have you do is, eventually, put in a word for me so I can get an interview."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. I don't even know him."

"But you're going to know him. Right? All I say now is if, having met me, and having met Mr. Maule and talked to him, you think you can put in a word for me with a clear conscience. See, we think this man deserves to get his proper recognition."

Angie's coffee had arrived. She added a little nondairy creamer, picked up the heavy cup, and sipped at it absently. Not as bad as you got in a lot of these places.

She was intrigued by the man across from her, but had the feeling that she wasn't close to understanding him. She said: "You know… some people might say you have a hell of a lot of nerve."

"I know." Kaiser let his gaze slide over her shoulder. His forehead wrinkled as if the mild accusation pained him. It was hard to tell how much, if any, of the pain was real "People do say that, all the time. It's one of the hazards of my business, and so far I've managed to live through it." Then suddenly he looked directly at her, grinning. He had an engaging grin.

Angie found herself hesitating between annoyance and laughter. "I tell you, I don't even know the man, this Mr. Maule," she said at last. "How in the world am I supposed to persuade him to give you an interview? Assuming that I wanted to?"

Her companion nodded thoughtfully. He raised his cup to his lips—she noticed now that he was wearing a golden wedding ring on one strong finger—then put it down as if struck by a sudden idea. "If you don't want to risk offending the reclusive Mr. Maule by helping me boost his reputation—then how about just helping me defend it, for a start? You won't have to ask him anything."

"Excuse me?"

Kaiser shook his head and put on the expression of one forced to contemplate something distasteful "There are a few rumors about him—I don't believe them for a moment. And I wouldn't pass these stories on to anyone I didn't know was going to be his friend. They're ugly things, and I'm not going to repeat them in full even to you. But there's one in particular—it has to do with the way his condo here in Chicago is said to be decorated. Outrageous, sexist, obscene—you get me, I'm not talking about art here. I'm talking exploitation."

"I'm sorry, I don't—"

"I'm not talking artistic nudes. I mean really exploitive pictures of women. Bondage and sadism. Photographs and paintings, even murals painted right on the walls. Let me repeat, I don't believe the truth of such a thing for a minute. But if I can't get in to see the place, how can I deny it authoritatively?"

"Mr. Kaiser, I hope you don't think I'm going to try to sneak you in there. To snoop around his paintings and pictures, I suppose you'd want to take photographs too. Whatever your good intentions. As I keep telling you, I've never even met the man myself, I—"

"Sure, sure." Her companion's tone was soothing, and he made sideways brushing motions with his large, capable-looking hands. "No, no, I'm not trying to push you into doing anything like that." The way Kaiser made it sound now, that he might talk Angie into sneaking or smuggling him in must have been really the furthest idea from his thoughts. "But let me say this. If you, after having actually been in the apartment, would consent to talk with me once more, very briefly, just to verify that these terrible rumors are all so much crap, excuse me, I'd be very pleased. See, believe it or not, I am very conscientious about what I do. And to kill these rumors I'd like to have the direct testimony of a reliable witness. I'll never quote you directly without your permission, I'll never use your name."

Later, Angie was to wonder what might have happened if she had simply got up at that point, or some point earlier, and walked out. But it didn't matter, because that was not what she did.

She did slide out of the booth and stand up, but she wasn't angry. There was something almost irresistibly attractive about the man, and his story sounded just wild enough to have the possibility of truth.

"You already have my phone number at work, Mr. Kaiser," she said. "However you got it. If you want to call me again, in a few days, I'll tell you then whether I want to talk to you again or not. If my answer is no, then I expect you not to—"

"Great. Excellent." It seemed that the young man was genuinely pleased. He stood up gracefully now to shake her hand. "That's all that I can ask of you now. And when you get into that apartment, just look around. Keep your eyes and your mind open. That's all I ask."

Angie spent most of the next two hours at the Museum of Contemporary Art, which was only a few blocks from the coffee shop, over on Ontario east of Michigan. On her way over to the museum, where she was to meet John Southerland, she several times slowed her walking pace to look up thoughtfully at the gigantic multi-use building in which John's mysterious Uncle Matthew lived—where he maintained a condominium, at least, and spent some of his time. Immensely tall, formed gracefully of bronzed steel and glass, it stood among its twenty-, thirty-, forty-story neighbors like an adult among small children. The Southerlands had plenty of money, and evidently this kinsman, old friend, or whatever he was, did too.

She wondered which of the Southerlands, if any, had really called in a Celebrity Publicist and had given him her phone number at the hospital. John's mother, most likely, if anyone… well, she, Angie, wasn't going to say anything about Valentine Kaiser to John just yet. It wouldn't hurt just to wait until she'd seen what Uncle Matthew's apartment really looked like.

She was in the museum, in front of an Andy Warhol, wondering if there might be some deep meaning that she was missing, when her fiance caught up with her. John was twenty-seven, four or five years older than Angie. They'd met several months ago, at a party, a fundraising kind of thing really, given by some of John's friends. Angie had been present as an administrator, attractive and knowledgeable, if somewhat junior, of St. Thomas More's, the hospital which stood to collect most of the raised funds.

John was a little under six feet, half a foot taller than Angie, strong-jawed, and sturdy, as befitted a former amateur wrestler who'd once made it to the state finals. His light brown hair, cut fairly short, still retained a tendency to curl.

They kissed. The embrace was a bit on the casual side, appropriate for a couple who'd already been sharing an apartment and a bedroom for a month. He asked her: "How was your day?"

"Interesting, so far." She didn't tell the most interesting part, not yet, but mentioned a couple of incidents having to do with her job. "I'm looking forward to the evening."

John grunted something. It was not precisely an agreement.

Twice, as they walked back toward the looming tower that housed Maule's condominium, it was on the tip of Angie's tongue to tell her fiance about her encounter with Valentine Kaiser. But each time she bit the impulse back. Later, of course, she'd tell him—and tell Uncle Matthew, too, most likely. Most likely the three of them would have a good laugh about it. That is, they would provided that Uncle Matthew didn't turn out really to be the kind to put up photographs of—but of course he wouldn't. No one who Johnny felt so close to could turn out to be like that. And in any case, Angie wanted to handle the matter of Valentine Kaiser herself, not simply turn him over to the menfolk.

"So," she said instead. "Uncle Matthew is taking us out to dinner?"

"Yeah." John, walking beside her, sounded preoccupied, almost as if he might be developing belated doubts about the evening's plan. "He's not actually my uncle, you know," he added, almost absently.

"Yes, I know that." Angie felt vaguely troubled. "Because you've told me about half a dozen times over the past month."

"I have?"

"Yes. Every time you say he's not really your uncle, and then you get stuck, as if you don't know how to continue. So what is it about Uncle Matthew? Obviously he's important to you, if you're bringing me to meet him."

"Well, he is," said John, and then appeared to get stuck again.

"Do you want to invite him to our wedding?" It was the first time she'd raised the point.

"I do," he said at once, then waffled. "But there's some question…"

"Yes, there seems to be. He's some old friend of your father's?"

"Well. Actually, no, he isn't. Dad's met him, but he doesn't even… he's an old friend of the family." John seemed pleased at having found that way to express it. "He was a good friend of my grandmother, who died during that episode when I was kidnapped. When I was sixteen."

So then, thought Angie, we are making progress. Non-Uncle Matthew must be quite elderly. She was growing increasingly curious about, and anxious to meet, this man who was not quite an uncle, who had known John's family for many years, but whom nobody in John's family liked to talk to her about, even when it was certain that she and John were getting married.

Matthew Maule. And now, not for the first time, she had the feeling that somewhere, before ever meeting John, she had heard that name, or read it… that could easily have happened, she supposed, in the case of a man of wealth and power, no matter how reclusive he tried to be.

The building in which the mystery lived admitted Angie and John somewhat awkwardly at street level. Feet thumping on a temporary wooden sidewalk, they skirted the barricades of a construction area before arriving in a small retail mall of shops. Next came a busy lobby. Presently the two of them were alone in one of the express elevators, beginning a long ascent.

John suddenly raised his hands, drawing her attention to them. On the night they had first met, Angie—feeling then, at the discovery, more than pity, a vague thrill of mystery and romance—had realized that both of John's little fingers were missing. His hands had only three fingers and a thumb apiece, almost as if they might belong to some character in an animated cartoon, where economy in the number of digits to be drawn was of some importance. But it was obvious as soon as you looked closely at John's hands that he hadn't been born that way; dots of old scar tissue, the tidy residue of surgical repair following some much cruder damage, marked each knuckle where a finger should have been.

"I've already told you something about how I lost the fingers," John said, with the air of someone about to take a plunge.

"About how you were kidnapped when you were sixteen. Yes, that must have been so horrible. My poor darling! I was too young then to pay much attention to stories in the news." And since they were alone, Angie reached for his hands, one after the other, and impulsively kissed the scarred knuckles.

John murmured something that was almost a groan. Further exchanges of affection followed, until the young man with an air of urgency disengaged himself. They were passing the sixtieth floor now, and going up faster, feeling the change of pressure in their ears. There was not much time left to talk in privacy.

John said: "I've been putting off trying to explain something. About Uncle Matthew."

"Really? Don't tell me! He's not really your uncle?" Angelina, wide-eyed, was nodding as if in an exaggerated effort to give encouragement.

"You're not making it any easier."

"All right, I'm sorry, darling." She felt contrite. There must be some genuine difficulty. "Start again. Could it be—something about the way he decorates his apartment, maybe?"

"Decorates his apartment?" John was looking at her vacantly. "I don't have any idea what that means. I've never been up here before."

"Oh. I'm sorry. Never mind, go on."

John drew a deep breath. "Well, as I was trying to say, one thing you don't know yet, Angie, is that if it weren't for this man you're going to meet, the rest of me would doubtless be in about the same shape as my two missing fingers." He raised his hands again, wriggling the eight digits he still possessed. "I mean I wouldn't be here now."

This was unexpected news; but it did sound vaguely as if it might connect with the image of the eccentric philanthropist. Angie said: "No, you didn't tell me anything like that."

"Now that I've told you, forget I've told you. I mean, it stays within the family, okay?"

"You mean within the small segment of the family in front of whom it's safe to mention Uncle Matthew's name."

"Ah… yeah."

She gazed at him hopefully. "Okay. But surely there's nothing shameful about his having somehow saved your life. Why should it be a secret?"

"Nothing shameful. No. Just don't mention this man to my father, okay? Judy is okay to talk to, and Kate and Joe." John leaned back against the elevator wall with his arms folded. The numbers on the floor indicator over the door kept creeping higher.

Suddenly John had a new idea. "By the way, if he doesn't want to eat or drink anything at dinner tonight, don't pester him about it, okay? Often he's on a—special diet."

"Sure." She paused. "John, are you under the impression that you've explained anything to me? Because I think I'm still right in there with your father. I mean, as fitting into the category of those who don't understand at all."

John stared past her, obviously nervous and trying to think. At last he said: "Maybe it'll be better if you meet him first."

"Maybe it will. Meet him and see his apartment."

"Sure," John agreed, looking puzzled, obviously wondering why she kept mentioning the apartment. And now Angie and the man she loved seemed to be on the verge of quarreling.

Angie liked John's two older sisters, Judy and Kate, though she had seen very little of Judy. And she liked Kate's husband, Joe, who used to be a Chicago cop, before he married into the Southerland money, and even for some time afterward. Was there perhaps a trend in the family to marry people who didn't have nearly as much money as they had?

They had passed the eightieth floor and now were slowing to a stop. The door opened. Angie, disembarking from the elevator, caught a glimpse out of a window at the end of a corridor, looking down now on most of the smog and muck of the city's atmosphere, with a startling panorama of Lake Michigan, shoreless as an ocean. She supposed that from up here on a very clear day the Michigan shore, fifty miles away, would be visible.

John found the door number he was looking for, and pressed the button, then without waiting for a response knocked lightly. His left hand came over and took hold of Angie's right, as they stood together in front of the viewer centered in the upper panel.

Fully thirty seconds had passed, and Angelina was about to wonder aloud whether they should ring again, when the door opened.

Whatever tentative, imaginative image of Uncle Matthew Angie had been beginning to form went glimmering. Surely a friend of John's late grandmother ought to be older than this. The man in the doorway was no more than forty at the outside. Lean, a few inches taller than John, putting him a shade over six feet. Straight black hair cut rather short, a chiseled face, high cheekbones, arresting eyes that at once fastened on her expectantly. Even as he opened the door he was still shrugging his solid shoulders into a gray-brown sportcoat.

"Good evening," he said in a low voice, still looking directly at Angie. There was a suggestion of some European accent in his voice, of formality in his manner despite relatively casual dress.

"Good evening," said John, and paused perceptibly, perhaps to swallow. "Uncle Matthew. This is Angelina. We're going to be married."

"Ah. Ah!" Uncle Matthew must have been expecting them, but still gave an impression of genuine surprise. No matter, he was pleased. "Come in, come in! And such a beautiful young woman. Congratulations are certainly in order!"

As soon as she had stepped across his threshold, he reached for both her hands. A moment later she was being embraced and kissed on both cheeks. John and Uncle Matthew were pumping each other's hands. And then she and the two men had all burst into a pleasant babble of phatic utterance, even as Uncle Matthew, with a city-dweller's routine caution, made sure that the door was closed and bolted behind his guests.

"Angelina, John, you must each have a drink to celebrate. But no, later perhaps, dinner reservations have been made on the ninety-fifth floor, and it would be good to be prompt."

There wasn't much time to look around the apartment, But, for the time being, enough. Angie noted with relief that of naked women, exploitive photographs, pornographic paintings, there was no sign, not at least from her vantage point near the entrance.

In fact, at first look, what she could see of the entry and the living room struck her as almost disappointingly ordinary, except for the unusual number of bookshelves, and a crossed pair of wooden spears, or harpoons, serving as wall decorations. She could heartily approve of bookshelves.

The furniture was unobtrusive, generally modern, with the notable exception of an upright piano. Living room, with a half bath off the entryway, small dining area, and a glimpse of what must be the kitchen beyond Two closed doors were visible down a hallway, before it angled out of sight. Those must lead, Angie supposed, to bedrooms. Maybe the bedroom walls were covered with raunchy pictures, but somehow she doubted it. One thing that struck her as something of an oddity was the art. To judge from the modern furnishings, you might have expected to see contemporary art framed on these walls, but instead, along with the spears, hung mostly reproductions of Renaissance masters. My God, they were reproductions, weren't they? Skillful copies? Or might they be… but that was silly. These paintings, with the piano and all the books, gave the apartment a vaguely old-fashioned air despite the modern furniture.

In a matter of moments they were all three back out in the corridor, then striding, all arm in arm, toward the elevators again.

They reached the elevator lobby just as an upward-bound car opened its door to discharge a fortyish lady with an elaborate dark coiffure, smartly gowned for indoors, carrying a bag of groceries in one arm. She smiled and nodded to Uncle Matthew, and he returned the smile with a small gentlemanly bow. I bet, thought Angie, there are days when he has to beat them off with a stick.

"Neighbor of yours?" John asked, making conversation, once they were in the car and on their way up to the ninety-fifth floor.

"Yes… devoted to the residents' association, in which she persists in trying to interest me. Well meaning, I am sure." Uncle Matthew's expression conveyed a subtle irritation, which soon disappeared.

The ninety-fifth floor was occupied by one of the city's finer restaurants. As far as Angie could tell, no one among the staff recognized Uncle Matthew, but, in some way she could not quite put her finger on, he seemed to convey to them a sense of his status and importance.

Once they were seated, Uncle Matthew conversed cheerfully and urbanely on a variety of subjects. Skillfully he drew out his guests with questions on their work and on their pastimes.

Until Angie seized the opportunity offered by a pleasant pause and cleared her throat. "Look, Uncle Matthew—shall I call you that?"

"You certainly may."

"We'd like you to come to our wedding."

Their host glanced with faint amusement at John, who was awkwardly trying to find words with which to second the invitation. "Thank you, Angelina. But I fear there may be a problem about the date—?"

"Twenty-fifth of next month," John blurted out.

"Ah, almost a Thanksgiving wedding. Too bad, but I shall be unable to attend. So, the three of us must celebrate this evening—we ought to achieve a memorable celebration of some kind."

And soon the two young people were relaxed, eating and drinking heartily. Uncle Matthew, true to John's prediction, but still to Angie's concern, ate nothing and drank almost nothing. He pleaded the requirements of a special diet. "But do not concern yourself, my dear. Enjoy yourself, and I shall feast my eyes upon your beauty."

John reacted to that with a swallow. Angie, feeling Uncle Matthew's gaze, found herself wondering how she would have reacted had she not been recently engaged.

Somewhat to John's relief, the waitress who was serving their table soon began to replace Angie as the object of Uncle Matthew's admiration.

This waitress was a statuesque and impressive redhead, somewhere in her middle or later thirties, Angie estimated. It was obvious that something about this dark haired, fortyish customer impressed and intrigued her. When he looked at her with interest, the woman was unable to keep her mind entirely on business.

Fortyish? Squinting at Uncle Matthew now, Angie decided she had better add a few years to the estimate of his age she had formed in his apartment. There was a touch of gray in his hair she really hadn't noticed before. Very distinguished.

During the lengthy intervals when the waitress was elsewhere, and Uncle Matthew's attention more or less fully available, Angie pressed him as subtly as she could for information.

"John tells me that you saved his life. I mean that time when he was kidnapped."

"Ah? And how much did he tell you? It must be a painful subject for him to talk about."

"He told me very little, unfortunately. Nothing more than the mere fact. I was hoping that you'd be willing to fill in some of the details."

Uncle Matthew was looking at John, who said uncomfortably: "Well, since Angie's going to be marrying me, well, I thought she ought to know, uh, all about family affairs."

"Apart from certain occasions—of which this evening is one of the more pleasant—I really have little connection with such affairs." Uncle Matthew's fingers, pale in slender muscularity, long-nailed, and somewhat hairy on the backs, toyed with his glass of almost untasted wine. There was a dinner plate before him too, but it had remained smooth and clean. He had unfolded his napkin, but that was about it.

John was stubborn. "I thought she ought to know," he repeated.

"That opinion certainly poses an interesting problem. She is not marrying me, John."

"You thought I ought to know what?" Angie demanded bluntly.

Infuriatingly, the two men continued to ignore her for the moment.

John was still hesitating. "Well…"

Uncle Matthew produced a winning smile, which he could do better than almost anyone Angie had ever met before. He reached across the table and took a hand of each of his young guests. "Come, come, we must not allow such questions to interfere with our evening. My affairs can surely have no crucial bearing on your marriage."

John heaved a sigh, as if a weight had been removed. "I guess you're right."

"Of course I am. Depend upon it." Uncle Matthew patted both hands and released them.

"It's not that I want to push into your affairs, sir, believe me. Far from it. But well, dammit, you saved my life. And I'm not going to forget that. I want you to know that—well, that you're welcome to come to our wedding if you want." The young man raised his head with a look of determination, ready to confront his parents and anyone else who might object.

"Of course you are," Angie agreed warmly. She liked Non-Uncle Matthew, was coming to like him better and better as the evening progressed, and it was her wedding, and if that scandal-mongering liar Valentine Kaiser ever dared to call her again…

Uncle Matthew said nothing for a moment. His face hardly changed, but nevertheless Angie had the impression that he was moved.

The dinner moved along. Uncle Matthew entertained his guests with stories of extremely odd people he had known years ago when he had lived in Paris and in London. Unlike many fascinating speakers, he was a good listener too. When Angie ventured an anecdote or two of her own, he seemed genuinely interested in the problems of hospital administration.

The food and wine and coffee were superb, and in Angie's perception time passed with amazing speed. As they were leaving the restaurant Uncle Matthew took the opportunity to return to the table to leave a cash tip, and at the same time to manage a few quiet words alone with the red-haired waitress.

Angie, looking on from a distance, nudged her fiance. "I wonder if something's developing there."

"I wouldn't be surprised." John's tone was dry.

Neither of them felt inclined to resist Uncle Matthew's invitation to stop in at his apartment for a nightcap.

Reentering the tastefully decorated condo a few floors down, Angie was on the point of starting to tell the two men about Valentine Kaiser. But at once she felt reluctant to mention the man and his ridiculous suspicions—or insinuations—for fear of spoiling the evening.

The party, having developed delightfully during dinner, continued in the same vein. The old piano was a natural conversation piece, and it proved to be in excellent condition when Angie picked out something on the keys.

"Do you play, my dear?"

"Very little. I should say, no, not really. I did have lessons once."

After he had served the drinks Uncle Matthew was not shy at all about sitting down at the piano, where he revealed an impressive talent. Within half an hour, Angie, a glass of amazingly good brandy in her hand, found herself singing what her host assured her were old Balkan folk songs, parroting from his instruction what he said were the words of the original language. John, not usually much of a singer, and somewhat flushed with brandy, was gamely joining in.

Time, in Angie's mind at least, was soon forgotten. Then her concentration on the music was interrupted by a savage slosh and rattle of sleet against the curtained windows, and the building could be felt swaying, minimally, in the wind. Their host, evidently a long-term resident, took no notice. Momentary uneasiness was quickly squelched by an obviously sincere invitation from Uncle Matthew, offering Angie and John one of his spare bedrooms in which to spend the night. During the dinner conversation, enough had been said to make it plain to him that they were already cohabiting.

They both accepted, with relief; and John was reminded of old times. "Remember the big snow we had, sir, about the time we had that—trouble?"

"Yes indeed. No storm like that tonight, fortunately, but plenty of freezing rain and icy streets." Thoughtfully he struck a chord, then began to pick out from memory yet another simple but lovely melody that Angie had never heard before. "Here is a song about winter. Hunters wandering in the snow."

John, his brandy glass in hand, had gone to the window and pulled back a curtain to peer out past its edge. "Yep, looks like rotten weather out there," he announced in the cheerful tone of a man who has already made his arrangements to stay in.

Angie yawned. Not so their host. Despite his years, he seemed to be getting only more wide-awake as the evening—actually for some time now it had been the morning—progressed.

Again she yawned, quite uncontrollably. The old man, she thought, perhaps subliminally noticing that he looked even a trifle older than at dinner, had probably slept till noon. But she'd had a tough day at work, and it was really getting late. And of course she'd been drinking, more than she ought, really, while he never seemed to drink at all.

"I hate to be the one to call it quits—but—" A helpless yawn preempted the explanation Angie had been about to offer.

There were actually three bedrooms in the apartment, she noted while making her way down the angled hallway to the one her host had specified.

John had lagged behind in the living room, where he was still talking with his energetic non-uncle. Angie groped inside the doorway at the hallway's end; a bedside table lamp came on when she found the wall switch. The bedroom she and John had been assigned was as neatly furnished as the living room, with no signs of recent habitation. A couple of commonplace paintings were on the walls. Certainly the room contained no more sign of disgusting pornography than did the more accessible areas of the apartment. Valentine Kaiser! she thought with disgust. What had that man's real game been? Angie had a notion to tear up his business card and flush it away. No, she was certainly going to tell the men about him. Only—it would have to wait till morning. She wasn't in the best of shape for any serious discussion now.

On second thought—it might be important.

She was on her weary way back to rejoin the men in the living room when the door chime sounded melodiously. Who would that be, at this hour of the morning? Probably some sleepless neighbor with a complaint about their noise, though Uncle Matthew had told them earlier that the building's soundproofing was excellent.

As Angie reentered the living room, her host had just admitted someone from the hallway and was closing and bolting up the door. Angie needed a moment to recognize the waitress from the ninety-fifth floor, whose red hair was now bound up under a scarf, and who naturally had changed out of her uniform. While the newcomer stood looking a shade hesitant and awkward, Uncle Matthew helped her out of her cloth coat as if it had been a mink, and indicated with gracious gestures and murmurs that she ought to come in and make herself comfortable.

Introductions were soon made. John and Angie, one after the other, shook hands with Elizabeth Wiswell. Angie thought she caught the faintest whiff of garlic, barely detectable, from the other woman. Well, if you worked in a restaurant, she supposed, that must be one of the least worrisome of the occupational hazards.

Angie decided that it would be hard to imagine Matthew Maule failing, once he had made up his mind, to put a woman at her ease. Mentally putting herself in the other woman's place, she would have expected to feel a certain embarrassment in this situation. But any tendency Elizabeth might have started to display in that direction had evidently been already overcome. The fair skin of her face was lightly flushed and she was smiling.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," she remarked, giggling.

"Very little, I should think," Uncle Matthew, looking and sounding fresh as a daisy, reassured her. "Please, sit down. Would you care for a spot of brandy?"

John, looking terminally groggy, murmured something, something that was going to have to serve as his good night to the world at large. Now he was tugging gently at Angie's arm. Her head spinning faintly, she allowed herself to be guided back down the hall to their assigned bed and bath. John softly closed the bedroom door behind them.

Five minutes later, Angie was sitting up in the double bed, still wearing her bra and panties, listening to her lover brush his teeth behind the bathroom's half-open door—new toothbrushes in sealed wrappings, along with a few other toiletries, had been provided. And Angie had just made the irritating discovery that she was probably going to have trouble getting to sleep after all.

Not that Uncle Matthew and his new girlfriend out in the living room were noisy; even when Angie listened, she was unable to detect any sounds at all from that direction.

Just out of sight, John ran water in the bathroom sink, spat, rinsed, and spat again. At last he appeared, in his undershorts. He looked tired, but not quite ready to collapse instantly.

He cleared his throat. "Honey?"

"Yes?"

"There's a tape recorder over there." He gestured economically toward a table against the room's far wall.

Angie turned eyes too weary for curiosity in that direction. "Yep, there sure is. Inform me of its relevance."

"Uh, the point is, that Uncle Matthew was saying a while back, while you were out of the room, that the tape in the machine holds a kind of story that he's working on. He suggested that maybe, if you were to listen to the tape, it might answer some questions for you."

"A story. He's working on. Then he's some kind of a writer?"

"Yep. Among other things. At least he's collaborated on some books." John came over and bounced down on the bed, flat on his back. He closed his eyes and sighed The bed was comfortable.

"Is the one he's working on auto-biographical?" After all that brandy, Angie experienced a momentary pride in what she felt was flawless pronunciation.

"I dunno. I guess, if he thinks it's relevant. Not that you have to listen to it tonight—but if you feel like it in the morning—"

But she was already out of bed and approaching the machine. Suddenly weariness could be fought off yet a little longer. The temptation to have some questions answered was irresistible.

When she located the proper switch and turned the tape player on, there was a moment of faint, hissing background noise, seeming to provoke a renewed rattle at the snugly sealed windows. And then she found herself listening to what was undeniably Uncle Matthew's voice.