Puppet (42 page)

“Take it easy, Amanda,” Ben cautions, as he has been cautioning ever since Mrs. Thompson’s startling announcement.

“It doesn’t make any sense.” Amanda taps her feet with impatience as the traffic light at Bloor and Spadina turns from orange to red. “Just go through it,” she urges. Ben ignores her, bringing the car to a full stop. “Come on,” Amanda directs the stubborn traffic light, tapping her feet in growing frustration. “What’s the matter with the damn thing? You think it’s stuck?”

“It’s only been a few seconds.”

“Just go through the damn thing. Nobody’s coming.”

“Take it easy, Amanda. We want to get there in one piece.”

Is it possible that old Mrs. MacGiver is right? That Mr. Walsh didn’t have a daughter? That the person who used to dangle her from her arms, like a real live marionette, was someone named Lucy?

The light goes from red to green. “Go,” Amanda instructs before Ben has a chance to react.

Is it possible that what Mrs. Thompson said is true? That Lucy is her sister?

“Hayley Mallins better have some answers for us.” Amanda stares out the front window, chagrined by the number of cars that have suddenly materialized, as if for the express purpose of slowing her down. “I’m not leaving her room until she starts telling us the truth.”

And if Hayley Mallins isn’t Mr. Walsh’s daughter, but someone named Lucy, and Lucy is her sister …

“Just remember you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,” Ben says.

“What?”

“I’m just saying—”

“I know what you’re saying, and if I wanted advice from Ann Landers I’d ask for it.”

 … then that means Hayley Mallins is her sister.

Ben’s fingers grip tightly on the wheel. “We’ll be there in two minutes,” he says, staring straight ahead.

Which is impossible.

It doesn’t make any sense. So why is she snapping at Ben when he’s the only thing in her life that does?

Does what happened between them last night make any sense at all?

“Sorry,” Amanda apologizes, recalling the softness of his lips as they brushed against hers, the sureness of his touch. She shakes the unwanted memory aside. How can she be thinking about such things now?

“It’s okay,” he says, his hands relaxing their grip on the wheel. “And just for the record, I’m pretty sure Ann Landers passed away. We have
Dear Ellie
to advise us now.”

Amanda nods. “I’ll be sure to write.”

Dear Ellie, I’m having a wee bit of a problem. You see, my mother, from whom I’ve been long estranged, has been charged with killing a total stranger in a hotel lobby. Except she now claims that this total stranger was actually her ex-husband, from whom she stole vast sums of money. As well, the possibility has just been raised that the dead man’s widow might actually be my sister. Added to my woes is the fact that I seem to be falling in love with my very own first ex-husband, who just happens to be my mother’s attorney. What should I do? Follow my heart or follow my mother’s example and simply shoot everyone involved? Signed, In Trouble in Toronto.

A minor logjam slows them down to a crawl. “Where are all these cars coming from?” Amanda asks between tightly gritted teeth.

“It’s rush hour,” he reminds her.

If only she hadn’t offered to buy Mrs. MacGiver that stupid tea. If only she hadn’t answered her knock on the door. If only she hadn’t mentioned damn Mr. Walsh. She and Ben could still be rolling around in front of the fireplace, instead of stuck on Bloor Street in the middle of rush-hour traffic. Amanda checks her watch. Barely eight o’clock. “It’s always rush hour,” she says as the light they’re approaching at the corner of Bloor and St. George turns from green to orange. “Step on it, Ben. We can make it.”

Ben steps on the gas, plowing right into the back of the dark blue Toyota in front of him. “Shit,” he says over the sound of metal colliding.

“I don’t believe this,” Amanda mutters.

“Are you all right?” Ben asks Amanda as the driver of the Toyota jumps out of his car and marches angrily toward them, arms flailing wildly in the frigid air.

“I don’t believe this,” she repeats, as behind them cars start honking their displeasure.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going in such a damn hurry?” the Toyota driver demands. He is about forty, wearing a black suede coat and a black hat with sheepskin flaps that cover his ears. Only his nose is clearly visible. It is large, and already turning red with the cold. He paces back and forth beside their car, flapping his arms like a giant crow.

Ben gets out of the car. “I’m sorry. I thought you were going through.”

“It’s a fucking red light.”

“It was my fault,” Amanda admits, climbing out of the car, and surveying the damage to the two cars. She
sees only a few scratches, all of them on the bumper of Ben’s white Corvette. Thank God, she thinks. This means we don’t have to involve the police or the insurance companies. We can just apologize and get the hell out of here. “It looks like your car’s okay,” she tells the Toyota driver. “You got lucky.”

“I got lucky? I’ve got news for you, lady. I’ve got a bad back. God only knows what this has done to it.”

He can’t be serious, Amanda thinks, fighting to keep her temper in check. “You seem to be moving around pretty good for a man with a bad back,” she tells him dismissively. She doesn’t have time for this. She has to get to the Four Seasons hotel. She has to see Hayley Mallins, also known as Hayley Walsh, also known as Lucy, also known as …

Who the hell is she?

“There’s nothing wrong with your car, and there’s nothing wrong with your back,” Amanda tells the man flatly.

“Oh, really? Are you a doctor?”

“No, I’m a lawyer. We both are. So if you’re thinking of suing, which is the feeling I’m getting here, I’d seriously consider thinking again.”

“Is that some kind of threat?”

“Amanda …”

“I don’t have time for this crap, Ben. You want to stay here and argue with this jerk, fine. That’s up to you. I’m out of here.”

“Lady, you’re a real wack-job,” the man says.

“Yeah? You should meet the rest of my family.”

“Amanda. Just calm down. I’ll call the police. They’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“I don’t have a few minutes.” She is already running down the street.

“Amanda …”

“You know where to find me,” she calls back without slowing down.

The elevator comes to a stop on the twenty-fourth floor of the Four Seasons hotel. Amanda vaults out, stopped only by the imaginary touch of Ben’s hand on her shoulder.
You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar
, she hears him say.

She stops, takes one deep breath, then another. “Okay, listen to Ben. Slow down. Take it easy.” She then proceeds briskly down the corridor, where she takes another deep breath before knocking gently on the door to Suite 2416. No one answers. After a pause, Amanda knocks again. This time the knock is slightly more insistent.

It’s still early, she reminds herself. They could be asleep. Give them a minute to wake up, to realize someone is at the door. “Come on,” she whispers, the gentle knocking growing louder, losing its hold on civility. “Come on. I haven’t got all day.”

No response.

“Hayley,” Amanda shouts. “Hayley, it’s Amanda Travis. Open up.” She kicks at the door with her foot.

Still nothing.

“I’m not leaving till I talk to you.” Amanda presses her ear against the door, waiting to pick up even the tiniest of sounds. But after several minutes, she is forced to the realization that no one is there. Is it possible the grieving family went out for breakfast? And if so, where?

Amanda runs back to the elevators, holding her finger down on the call button until an elevator finally
arrives. Then she pushes through the doors before they’re fully open, stumbling into the arms of two men standing in the center of the car. Normally she would have cracked a vaguely risqué joke and walked out with at least one invitation for breakfast, but this morning is far from normal. “Sorry,” she says simply to the two men, not quite looking at either of them, and pressing the button for the Studio Café on the second floor.

The Studio Café is a long, narrow space, with lots of windows overlooking the shops along fashionable Yorkville Avenue. The furniture is modern, as is the decorative art hanging from the walls, and brightly colored glasswork occupies prominent positions throughout the room. Perhaps a dozen people are already seated, reading the morning paper and enjoying breakfast. The smell of food reminds Amanda she hasn’t had anything to eat.

“Good morning, miss.” The maître d’ gathers several large menus into his hands. “Will someone be joining you for breakfast this morning?”

“Actually, I’m just looking for someone.” Amanda’s eyes flit from one end of the room to the other. “A woman and two children. A boy, around ten, and a girl, maybe thirteen.”

“Looks like you’re the first one here,” the maître d’ proclaims. “I can seat you, if you’d like.”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll check downstairs first.”

“Certainly,” he says, as if his approval were required.

Amanda hops on the escalator that runs from the second floor to the lobby. A second restaurant is located at the foot of the escalator, but a quick glance reveals Hayley and her children aren’t there either. “God, don’t tell me she took them to McDonald’s,” Amanda whispers
into the collar of her coat. She just passed one on Bloor Street. Is it possible she’d run right past them? That they were enjoying Egg McMuffins and hash brown potatoes while she was fleeing the scene of an accident?

She pictures Ben standing beside his beloved Corvette. He’d always taken such good care of that car. Never an accident, never even a dent. Until now. And it was all her fault. She was the reason he’d driven his car into the back of that stupid Toyota, that he was forced to make nice to that odious little man. And what had she done? She’d announced she didn’t have time for such nonsense and run off. Something Ben should be used to by now, she thinks, wondering what to do next.

There are dozens of restaurants in the area. She can’t very well check them all out. It’s hopeless. She’ll just have to make herself comfortable in the lobby, relax, and wait for them to come back. Just like her mother, she realizes with an audible groan, deciding to check with the front desk instead. It’s possible someone might have seen them leave, noted the direction they took. Perhaps Hayley even spoke to one of the clerks, told him where she’d be. Admittedly a long shot, but then, it never hurts to ask.

Sometimes it does, Amanda corrects, thinking of all the questions she’d asked her mother, the questions she has yet to ask Hayley Mallins. Sometimes it does hurt to ask.

She takes off for the lobby, practically pouncing on an unsuspecting clerk behind the reception desk. “This is an emergency,” she tells the startled young woman, who takes a wary step back. “I’m trying to locate Hayley Mallins. I know she’s staying in Suite 2416, but I’ve just been up to her room, and she’s not there, and it’s urgent I get in touch with her. Did you see her?”

The young woman quickly types something into her computer. “I’m sorry, but Mrs. Mallins has checked out.”

“What do you mean, she checked out? That’s impossible.”

“It appears she checked out last night.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Amanda feels sick to her stomach. Is it possible she took her children and returned to England? “Shit. Shit,” she says again, louder the second time.

“Is there a problem here?” a man asks, coming up beside the young woman and glancing at the computer screen. The name tag on his lapel identifies him as William Granick, Hotel Manager. “Can I help you with something?”

“I’m trying to locate Hayley Mallins. It’s urgent that I speak to her.”

“I’m afraid Mrs. Mallins has checked out.”

“Yes, so I’ve been told. But surely she left a number where she can be reached.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you.” The tone of William Granick’s voice says he wouldn’t help her even if he could.

“I don’t think you understand—”

“Amanda!” Ben’s voice suddenly calls out from somewhere behind her.

She spins around to see him walking toward her. His face is very red, an indication he’s been standing outside in the cold for some time. “Ben, thank God.”

“What’s happening?”

“They checked out last night.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“What happened with your car?”

“Guy decided he didn’t want to involve the police after all. I think you scared him.”

Amanda smiles, the smile immediately flipping into a frown. “Do you think they went back to England?”

“It’s a good possibility.”

“Can we find out?”

“Let’s get some coffee.” Ben leads Amanda toward the lobby bar. “Two coffees,” he orders, pulling his cell phone from his pocket, and checking his watch as he punches in a series of numbers. “Hi. It’s me,” he says, his voice unnaturally low. She can tell by the guilty hunch of his shoulders that he’s speaking to Jennifer. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t get home till really late.… Actually, I didn’t get home at all,” he admits after an uncomfortable pause. Then: “Yeah, she’s still here. Yes, I’m with her now.” Another pause, this one even more uncomfortable than the first. Amanda wonders if it’s as uncomfortable for Jennifer as it is for Ben. She watches his face, sees the sadness in his eyes, hears the regret in his voice. Is he having second thoughts? About Jennifer? About her? “Can we talk about this later?”

“Is there really anything to say?” Amanda hears the other woman ask.

“It’s a complicated situation,” he tells her. Then: “Look, I need to ask you for another favor.”

Certainly not what the other woman was hoping to hear, Amanda knows, holding her breath and saying a silent prayer that Jennifer will be curious enough to listen to his request.

“Can you find out if Hayley Mallins has gone back to England? We’re at the hotel now, and apparently she checked out last night.” Ben waits for several seconds
before dropping the phone to the small round table between them. “She hung up.”

The waiter brings their coffee, asks if they’d like anything else.