The Proprietor's Daughter Page 12

  “What do you want to talk about?” Franz asked.

  “About you and the children. You’re complete strangers to each other. Franz, it has to be you who makes the first move.”

  Franz’s eyes turned damp. “Katherine, you will never know how much I want to make that move. But they rejected me once —”

  “When?”

  “That first time I came home for the weekend. I could feel their rejection when they rushed up to kiss me and give me their presents. At the last moment, they held back, and it was like someone had stuck a knife in me.”

  “Franz, you have to try again.”

  “Do you understand what it feels like to have your own children frightened of you?”

  “It’s because they don’t know you. You were away for eight months before you first came home. Ten months altogether, and in all that time you would not let them see you in the hospital.”

  Franz blinked away tears. “Katherine, how do Henry and Joanne remember me?”

  “As you were, of course.”

  “Perhaps it is best that way. Children should always think of their father as strong. Not like this.”

  “All I’m asking is that you try.” She stood up, then stooped to kiss him. He turned his face slightly, so that her lips met his cheek. Ever since his return home, he’d offered her his cheek. Perhaps the children were not the only strangers in his life; his wife merited that title, too.

  She walked toward the door. As she reached it, she turned around. “When I said I wanted to talk to you, why didn’t you ask Jimmy to leave immediately?”

  “Because I wanted him here.”

  “Why?” she asked, although she was certain that she already knew the answer.

  “Jimmy Phillips knows me as I am now. You, the children, your father, everyone else . . . you all knew me as I was. I feel most comfortable with Jimmy, because he cannot make comparisons.”

  Katherine went to the kitchen, where she found Phillips sampling some of the fruitcake Edna Griffiths had just baked. The housekeeper stood waiting for the attendant’s words of approval. When they came, her huge, round face beamed with happiness. Katherine noticed that Edna’s hair was no longer in a tidy bun. It was down, resting on her shoulders. And she was wearing makeup; just a touch of lipstick, a trace of eye shadow, a little color in her cheeks, nothing more. But it was the first time Katherine had seen the housekeeper use any cosmetics.

  “You can go back to Mr. Kassler now,” Katherine told Phillips.

  The attendant returned to the television room with a tray bearing two cups of tea and some fruitcake.

  Katherine waited until Phillips had helped Franz into bed in the converted ground-floor room before she went upstairs. She lay quietly, staring up at the ceiling, her mind a meeting place for a thousand jumbled thoughts. There was a surreptitious air of romance in the house. Edna Griffiths, the long-established housekeeper, and the newly arrived Jimmy Phillips, who had become a part of the household as Franz’s full-time attendant. When had that relationship started? And why, Katherine asked herself, did she feel jealous of the middle-aged couple for the little bit of happiness they had found to share?

  It wasn’t romance as Katherine had known it with Franz, a fiery, passionate love affair. This was quiet, refined, limited to a word of approval over a piece of cake, and gratitude that such approval had been forthcoming. God . . . she smiled at the notion of Edna and Phillips making love as she and Franz had made love. That was like thinking such thoughts about one’s parents — surely they didn’t do things like that! Yet whatever the housekeeper and Phillips shared, it was more than what had passed between Katherine and Franz for a year now; or what, barring a miracle, would ever pass between them again.

  She stretched out in the bed, closing her eyes, and recalling how it had been. Franz next to her, hard, muscular, assertive, and, simultaneously, so gentle and caring. Her skin caught fire, burning the satin sheets that caressed it. She pressed her thighs together, stretched her arms to clasp the brass rails of the headboard in a rigid grip. And then, as memory alone drove her to the point of climax, she wondered whether or not she still loved Franz. Or was that love now tinged with pity? She did not honestly know. Her hands released the rails, and she let out her breath in a long, tired sigh.

  Before sleep came, she considered the newest member of the household. No wonder Jimmy Phillips’s pugilistic career had been a flop — he was too easygoing, too likable. Katherine liked him. Edna certainly did. The children as well, because he frequently found the time to play with them. Most of all, Franz liked him, felt most comfortable with him, because Phillips had never known Franz when he had been whole. He’d always known him as a handicapped man, so he couldn’t make comparisons.

  And everyone, Katherine thought, as she rolled over and buried her face in the pillow, knew that comparisons were odious.

  *

  Christmas was the most miserable holiday Katherine had ever known, a complete reversal of previous years’ joy. The trappings of the season were all there — the tree, the gifts, the visit to her father’s home for lunch — but all feeling was missing. Franz, Katherine saw, did his best to communicate with his son and daughter. He had been out with Jimmy Phillips to buy presents, a talking doll with several changes of clothes for Joanne, and a large toy truck for Henry. Even at Katherine’s prodding, the children received the gifts with little more than a cool courtesy; they displayed none of the enthusiasm and love that small children normally show for a parent.

  The traditional Christmas Day journey to Stanmore Common was a crowded one. Phillips drove the Jaguar, while Franz sat strapped into the front passenger seat. Katherine and Edna Griffiths shared an overflowing backseat with the children. When the family arrived at Roland Eagles’s home, the children rushed into the house, making straight for the Christmas tree in the drawing room. When they found the toys Roland had bought for them, their affection was overwhelming. He stooped to let them kiss him. At that exact moment, Franz was wheeled into the room. Katherine caught the expression on his face — wretchedness, with just a trace of anger that life had treated him so unfairly — before he replaced it with a bland mask.

  The Christmas meal was another of Peg Parsons’s culinary masterpieces — traditionally English this year, smoked salmon, a hearty soup, turkey with spicy stuffing, and roast potatoes — but Katherine kept her attention on Franz, who sat opposite her. Bracketed by Phillips and Sally Roberts, he barely touched any of the food that was placed in front of him. It came as no surprise to Katherine when, just as Arthur Parsons prepared to serve the Christmas pudding, Franz said, “I really do not feel well. Would you think me very rude if I asked to be excused?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Phillips. “Please take me home.”

  Katherine started to stand as though she, too, would leave. Roland’s voice carried along the table. “Sit down, Kathy, there’s a good girl. Mr. Parsons will drive you, Edna, and the children home later on.”

  Katherine watched Franz and Phillips leave. She heard the trunk lid slamming on the collapsed wheelchair, the chatter of an engine starting. Cries of excitement distracted her. In the Christmas pudding, Henry and Joanne had each discovered an old gold sovereign, which Roland had bought just for this occasion. The noise of the children was something new, and suddenly Katherine understood just why Franz had chosen that particular moment to leave. The children would never be able to enjoy themselves while sitting at the same table. He was their father, and he loved them too much to spoil their Christmas.

  After the meal, Sally suggested that Roland and Katherine accompany her on a walk across the common. Before they’d gone a hundred yards, Katherine learned that the walk wasn’t just to work off calories.

  “Katherine, Gerry Waller’s been muttering complaints about ‘Satisfaction Guaranteed!’ in my ear,” Sally said.

  “What kind of complaints?” Katherine’s voice, honed with an edge of defensiveness, was sharper than she’d intended it to be. “Why hasn’t
he made them to me?”

  “Because you’re never there, and that’s part of the reason he’s complaining. The column’s going downhill in a hurry. You’re pushing too much onto your assistants’ shoulders. They’re too inexperienced to handle it, and they’re certainly not being paid enough to carry that kind of responsibility.”

  Roland took over from Sally. “Kathy, while Franz was away, you were terrific. You soldiered on just like I did after your mother, God rest her soul, passed away. But now that he’s home, you’re beginning to fall to pieces. I saw the way you jumped up before, when Franz said he wanted to go home. You were ready to go as well, take the children with you, and spoil everyone’s day. Maybe you think that because you’re Franz’s wife, you also have to be his full-time nurse. He has an attendant, Kathy, and Jimmy seems like a very capable person. Franz doesn’t need you tailoring your life to suit his needs. The best thing you can do — for yourself, for Franz, for everyone and everything you come in contact with — is to remember that you have other obligations.”

  When Katherine answered, the sharp edge in her voice was even more noticeable. “That’s ridiculous. Any problems I have at home stay there. I carry my weight at the Eagle just as well as anyone else does.”

  When Roland opened his mouth to respond, Sally touched his arm. Never mind right or wrong; tempers were becoming frayed on both sides. Christmas Day was not the time for a family argument, into which Sally knew she would be drawn. “All right, Katherine, enough said. It’s important that you should know what’s going through Gerry Waller’s mind these days, that’s all.”

  “Tell Gerry that he’s got nothing to worry about.”

  *

  When Katherine returned to work, she carried her personal Christmas mood with her. Not comfort and joy, but tidings of anger. For once, she barely acknowledged Archie Waters’s cheerful greeting as she boarded his elevator. Even Erica Bentley’s bright “Good morning, having a nice Christmas?” was met with nothing more than a grimace. It struck Katherine that a coolness had grown between her and Erica during recent weeks. Although Katherine had not ridden since the accident — she’d been too busy to even think about pleasure — the two women had remained close friends. Until . . . until Franz had come home, and destroyed the protective cocoon of reality and make-believe that I’d managed to build up, Katherine thought.

  When Gerald Waller arrived in his office, he found Katherine waiting. “How dare you complain to other people about the manner in which I conduct myself? If there’s something you don’t like about the way I’m working, you tell me. Don’t embarrass me by telling everyone else.”

  Waller leaned back in his chair and let Katherine blow off steam. Finally, he said, “I wasn’t trying to embarrass you. I was merely trying to do you a favor, by getting someone close to you to drop a word of advice in your ear.”

  “And they did just that. Now how about telling me exactly why you’re unhappy about my column?”

  “Your two assistants, Derek Simon and Heather Harvey, are extremely capable for what they are — a couple of young and very enthusiastic reporters. They’re also very inexperienced. They have to be told; they have to be led. During the past couple of months, you’ve let them lead themselves. Two good stories were messed up because of their inexperience — the jewelry insurance fraud, and the travel agency that was illegally holding on to deposits.”

  “Wait a minute, Gerry. Criminal prosecution has resulted in the jewelry fraud. And it was our investigation, the original tip to us, that led to police action.”

  “Damn the police! I’m only interested in the Eagle. Your assistants were too inexperienced to handle these stories on their own, so two good exclusives were lost to ‘Satisfaction Guaranteed!’ and to this newspaper. That’s all I care about.”

  “What about the stories that did come through?”

  Waller gave a deprecating wave of the hand. “Small stuff. A little old lady cheated out of a couple of pounds, a man in trouble with his local council because he built a wall an inch too high. Not even worth bothering about. Katherine, when we started ‘Satisfaction Guaranteed!,’ it was a high flyer. Now it’s staggering along like a punch-drunk fighter. You’ve got to make up your mind whether you’re going to give the proper effort to continue with it. If not, well, maybe we can find better use for the space.”

  The suggestion that “Satisfaction Guaranteed” could be heading for the spike was a shock to Katherine. It was all so sudden. Although she had taken liberties with her working habits, she didn’t think she had put the column at risk. Obviously she had. Maybe not while Franz was in the hospital, but ever since he’d come home. Damn it! Everything had gone wrong since Franz had come home.

  When she emerged from Waller’s office, it was already lunchtime. She invited Derek and Heather out to eat, taking them by taxi to London’s Chinese area, just north of Leicester Square. Over barbecued lamb, she said, “Gerry Waller’s threatening to close us down.”

  “Does it have anything to do with the two stories that got away from us?” Derek wanted to know.

  “Some. It also has to do with the quality of the stories that did not get away from us. They were nothing stories, certainly not the kind of help-the-public exposés the column was built on. It isn’t your fault, though. It’s all mine. I got myself too involved with my troubles at home. I let things slip. Now we have to come back with a real blockbuster. “What” — she paused for a moment, because the question she was about to ask demonstrated exactly how far out of touch with her own department she really was — “do we have cooking?”

  Heather’s answer prompted a feeling of relief. “We think we’ve got something good. A man named Tony Burgess contacted us the other day. Trouble with a car.”

  Derek took up the story. “The car belongs to Burgess’s wife, a woman named Angela. It needed some work done, and Burgess claims that the dealer — a company called Skrone Motors, where the car was purchased two years ago — charged for the work and never did it.”

  Katherine knew of Skrone Motors, a large dealership with branches on both sides of the Thames. Good, when you wanted to make a name for yourself — or, in her own case, remake that name — you didn’t pick a fight with a mouse. You slapped your gauntlet across a lion’s face. “Sounds promising. One of you set up a meeting with the Burgesses.”

  Derek made the appointment for that evening. Katherine called home and told Edna Griffiths that she would be late. Were the children and Franz all right? It occurred to her as she replaced the receiver that she had lumped Franz together with Henry and Joanne. Was that how she looked on him now — not as a husband, but as another child who needed caring for?

  While Heather remained in the office, searching through the files for information on Skrone Motors, Katherine and Derek drove to the North London suburb of Finchley, where the Burgess family lived. Tony Burgess, a short, stocky man in a gray flannel suit, was waiting for them. He led them into the garage, where a yellow MG Midget was raised up on axle stands.

  “The clutch of my wife’s Midget was slipping,” he told Katherine and Derek. “I took it to Skrone’s for a new clutch. It worked fine for three months, the length of the warranty, then it started to slip again.”

  “How many miles had been done in that time?” Derek asked.

  “About a thousand. I couldn’t understand why a clutch would go again so quickly, so I looked at it myself.”

  “Are you a mechanic?” Katherine wanted to know.

  “I’m an engineer. Technical director of a security company, burglar and fire alarms, et cetera.” Leading the two journalists to a workbench, he picked up a circular object, about the size of a dinner plate, with a hole in the center and four springs. “This is what I found inside my wife’s Midget. A very, very used clutch. There’s no way one thousand miles could have worn the linings this badly. I think Skrone’s just found some way to adjust the blasted clutch to make it stop slipping, and then they charged us for installing a brand new one. Accordi
ng to me, that’s robbery.”

  Katherine watched Derek take a closer look at the clutch plate, and nod his head. “I assume you’ve been back to Skrone’s. What did they say?”

  “Denied it, of course. Claimed any parts their men had installed were new. You try telling me that’s new.”

  “Have you tried any other means of solving this problem?”

  “Like what?”

  “Isn’t there some overseeing body, some trade committee to regulate garages?”

  Burgess laughed. “That’s like having the thieves police the thieves. No, I came to your newspaper because I figured that was the only way I’d ever get any satisfaction. That’s what you call yourselves, isn’t it?”

  *

  Skrone Motors had been founded twenty-eight years earlier in Northwest London by a man named Edward Skrone. Operating on a lot the size of an average backyard, he had bought and sold used cars of any make or vintage. Now he owned flourishing dealerships in Colindale, Harrow, and Surbiton.

  Skrone was a tall, portly man, with a mop of pure white hair. Although in his sixties, he still liked to get out on the selling floor. Which was why he was strolling around the Colindale showroom early in the morning when a white Triumph Stag wheeled onto the lot, and a blond woman wearing a fur-lined leather coat and brown boots climbed out. A burly, dark-haired man remained sitting in the passenger seat.

  Like a true gentleman, Skrone swung the showroom door open before Katherine could reach for the handle. “Exceptional car, the Stag. How long have you had it, Miss . . .?”

  “Mrs. Mrs. Katherine Kassler. And I’m not here to buy a car or sell one. I’m looking for Mr. Edward Skrone.”

  “You have found him. How may I be of service?”

  “I’m from the Daily Eagle, Mr. Skrone. Specifically, the ‘Satisfaction Guaranteed!’ column. May we speak in private?”

  “Of course.” Skrone led the way to his glass-walled office at the center of the showroom.