Capriccio by Joan Smith Page A

ago.
    The oddest thing of all was that the police didn’t come or even phone, but my reaction at the time was relief. My boss from Casa Loma phoned—I’d given him the phone number myself—and agreed that I shouldn’t return to work tomorrow. He was very understanding. I managed to read Mom’s letter between calls—no important news there. Twice I remembered Victor’s bank statement and even got it from his studio, but before I had a chance to examine it, the phone was ringing again, so I stuffed the statement into my purse and picked up the receiver. Two friends from work called, and Ronald Strathroy arrived in person at five-thirty, hot from Bay Street.
    The well-oiled machine was less smooth this evening. His face looked drawn with little smudges beneath his eyes. Ronald wasn’t a very demonstrative person, but as soon as he was inside the door, he took my hands and kissed me lightly on the lips.
    “Poor Cassie,” he said, with a gentle smile, “this must be hell for you. I’ve tried a dozen times to get hold of you on the phone today. Where have you been?”
    I squeezed his fingers while he gazed into my eyes. I was touched to see the very real concern there. I had misjudged Ronald. His British air of frost hid his feelings, but he had them.
    “I drove up to Caledon, looking for Victor.” This didn’t seem the optimum time to mention Sean Bradley.
    “No luck, I take it?”
    "Someone had been there, but I don’t think it was my uncle.” I told him about the hasty search.
    “It’s such a strange thing,” he puzzled, walking me to the sofa with an arm around my waist. We sat down, and he ran a hand through his smooth wheat-silk hair, disheveling it attractively.
    “It’s weird. Can I get you something to drink, Ron?”
    “A Scotch would hit the spot."
    I made him a Scotch and soda and took a straight soda water for myself to control the calories. It was companionable, chatting with him on the sofa, his fingers just brushing my shoulder. The only discomfort was that time was ticking past, and I had to decide on and order dinner for Sean and pull myself into presentable shape. But there was time for a sociable drink at least.
    “What did the police have to say this morning?” he asked. I outlined their questions and my answers in less than two minutes. It was perfectly natural that he should next ask what else had occurred during the day, and though I felt some urge to tell him everything, I hedged. Whatever Victor was up to, I wanted to keep it in the family. My uncle had roamed the world long enough. Toronto was what he now called home, and he liked being a part of the established society. Eleanor Strathroy was his lifeline to it, and I didn’t want to sever this vital connection. So I spoke vaguely of the phone calls I had received within the past half hour, letting him think they had come over the space of the whole day.
    “But you were out this afternoon when I called,” he said.
    “I had to go to the bank.”
    “It’s rough, your being here alone during all this. Why don’t you go and spend a few days with Mom?” he suggested. “She’d be delighted to have you.”
    Every city has an exclusive area like Forest Hill where the old rich built stone mansions in the days when it was still possible, and their lucky descendants now have the luxury of living in them, close to the heart of a large city. I’d been to the Strathroys’ for a few dinners and parties and knew how formally they lived. When I thought of being a jet setter myself, I didn’t mean to run with that pack. I was interested in the livelier set. Actually nouveau riche would suit me better. But it was kind of him to offer, and I refused kindly.
    “I should stay here where I can handle the messages that come pouring in. I have to be available to Roy Thomson Hall and the police, and of course Victor, too, if he tries to get in touch with me. Or in case it’s a kidnapper, you know . . .” I let it hang heavy in the