The Proprietor's Daughter Page 13

  “I’m here on behalf of customers of yours, Mr. Skrone. Tony Burgess and his wife. They claim —”

  Skrone’s courtly manner disappeared. His voice turned hard. “I know exactly what they claim.”

  “And what do you have to say?”

  “Only that I am amazed that a newspaper of the Daily Eagle’s stature would even give credence to such trash.”

  “Did your service department simply adjust a clutch while claiming to have replaced it?”

  Skrone drew himself up to his full height. “Madam, I will not dignify that question with a reply. Please leave.” He ushered Katherine from the office to the front door. As he held it open for her, he said, “You would do well to remember that Skrone Motors is a regular and generous advertiser in both the Daily Eagle and the Sunday Eagle. If you persist with this, I will have to reevaluate my company’s advertising strategy.”

  “Don’t threaten me, Mr. Skrone. Eagle Newspapers places more value on the truth than it does on advertising revenue. Besides, didn’t your service department have some similar trouble three or four years ago?” Heather had done her work well. The young reporter had stayed at the newspaper until after twelve the previous night, digging up any dirt there was to know about Skrone Motors. She had come up with a scandal from 1974, when the service department had made a habit of charging for genuine replacement electrical parts while using reconditioned units.

  “Whatever happened then is history, Mrs. Kassler. It was a mistake on the part of my former service manager, who was dismissed the instant I learned what he had been doing. Any profits went into his pocket, not mine. Good day to you.”

  Skrone stepped outside the showroom, as if to be certain that his visitor left. Katherine signaled with her right hand. The passenger door of the Triumph Stag popped open and Sid Hall jumped out, camera aimed at the showroom door. The photograph he took was of Skrone escorting Katherine from the premises.

  “Pompous ass,” Katherine muttered as she started the Stag’s engine. “Have that picture developed right away, Sid. I’ve got a meeting with the editor at noon.”

  Sid Hall had the print on Katherine’s desk by eleven-thirty. Skrone had his arm raised, finger pointing. Katherine took the photograph to her meeting with Gerald Waller.

  “Who is this gentleman telling you never to darken his doorstep again?” Waller asked.

  “That’s Edward Skrone, chairman of Skrone Motors. They got into trouble a few years back for misrepresentation, billing customers for new parts while using reconditioned parts. Seems like they’re up to their old tricks again.”

  Waller lit a cigarette and listened closely to Katherine’s story. When she finished, he remained silent for a few seconds before saying, “Tell me one thing — where’s the satisfaction?”

  “We haven’t got it yet, but we will.”

  “Your next column is scheduled for Monday, which means you have to finish it by Friday, two days from now. How sure are you of having it wrapped up by then?” Stubbing out the cigarette in a heavy crystal ashtray, Waller added in a softer tone, “You need something really outstanding this time, Katherine.”

  “You don’t have to remind me that the last couple haven’t been exactly earth-shattering. Besides, even if we don’t get Skrone’s to make good by press time, we can still print the story, can’t we? Both sides.”

  “What both sides? From what you’ve told me, Edward Skrone hasn’t admitted or denied a thing. He’s refused to comment.”

  “Which means . . .? Edward Skrone is just doing what gangsters always do in American films — refusing to answer on the grounds that he might drop himself right in it.” Katherine gazed expectantly at the editor. “Gerry, we’ve got a report from two unbiased, independent mechanics. Both say that it’s impossible for a clutch to wear that badly in just one thousand miles. Besides, Skrone Motors has a history of pulling fast ones.”

  “Skrone Motors also has a history of advertising.”

  “Mr. Waller!” All of Katherine’s disapproval came out in the formal use of his surname. “I’d expect to hear that kind of reasoning from our advertising staff, but not from you.”

  “I know, I know. I should feel ashamed of myself. And I promise you I will do — the moment the price of a newspaper covers the cost of getting it out onto the street. All I’m asking you to do is proceed with caution.”

  Katherine left Waller’s office recalling her father’s advice when she had gone after John Saxon over what was happening at Cadmus Court. Roland Eagle’s advice had been the same as Waller’s. Use caution. And just look what had happened there! The story had turned out to be her big break. By the time she reached her own office, she was regarding Waller’s advice as a lucky omen.

  She traveled home that night in a rare bright mood. After tucking in the children with a good-night kiss, Katherine came downstairs to find Jimmy Phillips helping the housekeeper load plates into the dishwasher.

  “Would you two like to go out tonight? See a film?”

  “What about Mr. Kassler?” Phillips asked.

  “I’ll be able to take care of him.”

  After Phillips and Edna had left, Katherine entered the television room. Franz was sitting in his armchair, the plaid blanket covering his legs. “Where is Jimmy?” he asked.

  “He and Edna went out to see a film.”

  “Which one?”

  “They hadn’t decided yet. What are you watching?”

  “A documentary on Africa.”

  “I have a better idea. Why don’t I just turn off the set?” Before Franz could argue, Katherine walked to the television, and flicked the switch. Then she settled herself in the chair next to Franz. “I’d like to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “About a lot of things. Do you realize that we haven’t talked properly — just the two of us alone — for a year? I don’t know anything about you anymore, and you certainly know nothing about me. We’re strangers who just happen to share a house.”

  “We have been married almost eight years — what do you mean we’re strangers?”

  “I married a man filled with fire. Whatever he did, whether it was something as noble and romantic as supporting a cause, or as simple as reading a book, he did it with intensity. With passion. That man loved me the same way. Not with just his body, but with all of his heart.” She felt his hand move beneath her own, a frightened creature trying to escape from a trap. She held him tightly, refusing to let go.

  “This stranger with whom you share the house . . . he is filled with ice, is that it?”

  “How else would you describe him? He is so cold he will not even sit at the dinner table with his children.”

  Franz blinked, and for an instant Katherine felt regret. That last blow had been several feet below his belt, but, damn it, she was going to draw him out from the wall he’d built to hide behind.

  “Remember that first time we made love? At your place, just after you’d come to London. You drove me back to my father’s home shortly before dawn —”

  “Your father was waiting up.”

  Katherine saw the trace of a smile flicker across Franz’s face. “And you ran away, didn’t you? You drove off down the hill as fast as you could, while I had to face the music alone.”

  “Katherine, if there had been the slightest possibility of your father being harsh with you, do you seriously believe I would have left you alone?”

  “Of course not. Tell me, do you still feel the same way for me, Franz? Do you still love me?”

  “I will always love you, Katherine. But you know I am no good for you anymore. Not like this.” He forced a gentle smile onto his face. “Did you request Jimmy and Edna to go out for the evening, so we could be alone?”

  “Yes. I wanted to get to know you again. I wanted to smash down the wall you’ve been building up ever since the accident. I know you erected it to protect yourself, but you’re hurting your children, and you’re hurting me. I don’t like sharing my home with a stranger
, Franz. Please make the effort to become a part of this family again, because I can’t exist with the way things are right now. Forget about protecting yourself. Nothing can possibly harm you more than you’ve been harmed already. Having Henry and Joanne reject you can’t hurt as much as breaking your neck all over again. Just keep trying, because eventually they will accept you.”

  Chapter Seven

  ON THURSDAY, Katherine doggedly pursued Edward Skrone. She telephoned his main dealership at Colindale, only to be told that he had just left to visit his company’s Harrow showroom. The first three times she tried the Harrow number, she was informed that Skrone had not arrived. The fourth time, the receptionist told her that she had just missed him. The chairman had been and gone in a matter of minutes.

  “Where will I be able to reach him?” Katherine asked.

  “He has a lunch appointment, after which he’ll be driving to Surbiton.” The girl sounded bored, and Katherine could imagine her sitting at a desk, filing her nails as she spoke. “He won’t get there until midafternoon.”

  “Could you give me the telephone number?”

  “I could,” the receptionist answered, “but I don’t think there’s really any point. When I told Mr. Skrone you’d phoned, he expressly said that he did not wish to speak to you.” With that, she hung up.

  Katherine was in a quandary. She had until five o’clock the following afternoon. If the column was not ready to go to press by then, an advertisement, or some innocuous filler, would be dropped into the space “Satisfaction Guaranteed!” traditionally occupied. That would probably signify the kiss of death for the column, and Katherine would have no one to blame but herself.

  She lay awake until late that night, turning the problem over in her mind, but it was not until the following morning, as she stood beneath the shower, that the solution came. So simple that she could not understand how she had failed to grasp it before. It was an either-or situation, and either way she could not lose.

  At nine-thirty, she was once more at the main showroom of Skrone Motors. Edward Skrone saw the white Stag drive onto the lot. Having failed to respond to Katherine’s calls, he had been expecting a personal visit.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Kassler. And where are you hiding your photographer this time?”

  “I no longer require his services. Despite your threats about cutting advertising, my column on Skrone Motors and the Burgesses will appear on Monday. I haven’t written the final story yet because, quite frankly, its contents are up to you.”

  “Oh, and what is that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m giving you a choice, Mr. Skrone. Either we have a happy ending, where Skrone Motors does the work properly on Angela Burgess’s car —”

  “For which you, of course, will take full credit.”

  “Or we print all the details as we know them, and the column ends with a loud challenge to you to put the matter right. That is” — Katherine gave Skrone a cool smile — “after our readers have been reminded that this isn’t really the first time strange goings-on have occurred within your service department.”

  “Mrs. Kassler, publish whatever you wish. I could not care less. But before you print a word, just make certain your newspaper carries adequate libel insurance.”

  “If I were you, Mr. Skrone, I wouldn’t worry about the Eagle’s libel insurance. I’d be more concerned about other dissatisfied customers of this company popping out of the woodwork once my column is printed!”

  Forty minutes later, Katherine was channeling all of her energy into a furious burst of typing. Standing behind her, watching, were Derek Simon and Heather Harvey.

  “Well?” Katherine asked, as she typed the final word and tore the sheet of paper from the platen. “Does that put Mr. Edward pompous Skrone in his place or not?”

  “Only if that place happens to be six feet under,” Derek answered. “You’ve absolutely buried the poor man.”

  “Which is precisely what he deserves.” Feeling pleased with herself, and more than a little relieved that she had come through with the story, Katherine sent the column on its way.

  Early in the afternoon, Edward Skrone telephoned her. Heather took the call and, at Katherine’s prompting, said she was at lunch.

  Skrone made five more calls that afternoon. Each time, while Katherine listened in, Heather had an excuse ready. A sixth and final call came at five-fifteen, just as Katherine was preparing to go home. This time, Heather told Skrone that Katherine had already left for the weekend.

  “Could you give me her home number?”

  “I could,” answered Heather, who had been carefully rehearsed by Katherine in case this particular scenario should occur. “But there really isn’t any point in doing so. When I passed on your earlier messages, Mrs. Kassler specifically said she did not wish to speak to you.”

  *

  After dinner that evening, Katherine told Franz about the Skrone story. “I’m looking forward to Monday,” she said, “because that’s when ‘Satisfaction Guaranteed!’ gets back on track.”

  “I prefer to anticipate tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  “Jimmy and I went shopping this afternoon.” He turned to the attendant. “Jimmy, show Mrs. Kassler what we bought.”

  Jimmy went outside to the car. He returned carrying a radio-controlled scale model of a World War II Spitfire. Attaching the five-foot wings to the fuselage, he held up the graceful aircraft for Katherine to see.

  “Are we going to the park tomorrow?” Katherine asked.

  “Yes,” Franz answered. “We are going to have a family outing at the park.”

  Later that evening, Phillips went out with Edna. Katherine remained in the television room with Franz. The purchase of the model aircraft, and the plans he had made for flying it with the children, loosened the reserve he had built up. He found it easy, for the first time, to talk about his feelings.

  “In the hospital, while I was lying there,” he whispered, “I used to wonder what good I would be to you. In my mind, I asked you a thousand times if you wanted to divorce me, but I could never find the courage to ask you out loud. In case . . . in case you said yes.”

  The confession shocked Katherine so much that she was unable to speak for a minute. Divorce? The very idea was abhorrent. She had been brought up in her mother’s religion, as a Catholic. Roland Eagles had once told her how Catarina had made him promise that, should she die, their children would be raised as Catholics. It was some kind of premonition, Roland explained, a foreboding of death experienced before Catarina was even pregnant. He had made the promise, and after her death, he had honored it. Although he followed no particular religion himself, Roland had made certain that Katherine was denied nothing. What she did when she grew up and followed her own mind was her business, but Roland saw to it that she was baptized into the faith of her mother, and that she underwent Confirmation and First Communion when the time came.

  It was not her Catholic upbringing alone that made Katherine feel so stunned at the thought of divorce. Her own definition of right and wrong made it detestable. The marriage vows she had exchanged with Franz eight years before were so much more than mere clichés. In sickness and in health, to Katherine’s way of thinking, meant just that.

  “Did you really think I’d desert you just because you aren’t able to do some of the things you could do before the accident?” she asked him.

  “I did not say desert. I used the word divorce.”

  “Sometimes the two words can be interchangeable.”

  Franz looked away, unable to hold Katherine’s candid gaze. Somehow, she made him feel ashamed of himself for having even considered that she would be interested in divorcing him. In deserting him.

  “Hey . . .” Katherine touched Franz’s arm, forcing him to turn back to her. “Do you need a pilot’s license to operate that model plane?”

  A smile lit Franz’s face as he remembered the happiness he had planned for this weekend.

  Franz’s plans were almos
t thwarted by the weather. It rained all day Saturday, and all Sunday morning. It was not until Sunday afternoon that the clouds finally broke. Warmed by a hearty lunch of country vegetable soup and shepherd’s pie, the family traveled in the Jaguar to a nearby park. Jimmy Phillips started the engine of the model Spitfire. When it was buzzing fiercely, he hand-launched it into the light breeze.

  Franz’s limited hand movements prevented him from operating the controls. Phillips performed the job, turning the Spitfire in graceful circles. When the fuel supply ran out, he glided the aircraft to a smooth landing on the tarmac of the parking lot where they had assembled.

  “Would you like to fly it?” Phillips asked Henry. The boy nodded. Once the Spitfire was airborne again, Phillips squatted beside Henry. Guided by the attendant’s hands, Henry operated the controls.

  “Left,” Phillips urged, and the Spitfire passed over their heads at a hundred feet.

  “Climb, make it climb now.” The Spitfire pointed its nose at the cold gray sky, and grew smaller in their vision. “Level. Level it out.” Phillips made Henry’s hands perform the correct motions on the controls. The Spitfire cruised steadily for a few seconds, then it began to descend, the propeller still.

  While Phillips refueled the aircraft, Katherine spoke to the children. “Are you enjoying yourselves?”

  “Did you see how I made it fly?” Henry’s question was followed immediately by a demand from Joanne that she also fly the plane.

  “I asked if you were enjoying yourselves.” When the children nodded, Katherine added, “Don’t you think you should thank your father? He bought the plane for you.”

  The children’s excitement was replaced by perplexity. Katherine noticed how Henry, especially, kept looking from the Spitfire to Franz’s face. When Franz smiled, Henry gave the faintest uncertain smile in return. A few more flights, Katherine thought, and the gap between father and children would disappear completely.

  “Chocks away!” Phillips called out as he tightened the compression screw on the small engine. The noise increased to buzz-saw pitch, and Phillips launched the Spitfire once more.