Sole Remedy Ch 5

Chapter 5 – She Said: The Same Night, From Michele’s Point of View

Michele dined at an Appleby’s that night. She typically ate out because restaurant food was so much better than microwaved TV dinners, although she had her freezer stocked with them for emergencies. Long story short – Michele Bravo did not cook.

Returning to her apartment, she took an alarm clock into the bathroom and set it for 7 pm. Then, she took a shower and soaped off the grime and sweat of the day. Then, Japanese style, she filled the bath with hot water and lay back in the tub with a sybaritic sigh of pleasure.

She relaxed completely, opening her eyes only long enough to lean forward and refresh the hotness every ten minutes or so, until the alarm clock rang and told her it was time to get busy.

She dried herself with a large, sumptuous towel, slipped into her panties and bra, and then walked into her bedroom, where she performed a few stretching exercises – the splits with legs extended front and back, and the splits with legs extended from side to side. She performed a couple of slow motion backward somersaults, feeling the strength in her legs, her buttocks, her stomach, her arms…the controlled power that she possessed…it was a great feeling.

And hopefully it would all be put to good use tonight.

One wall of her bedroom was fitted with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. This was not because Michele and her lovers liked to watch themselves having sex (indeed, she never invited anybody to this particular apartment – it was her private domain), but because when she put on her disguises, she liked to have a view of every inch of it, from every angle.

She dressed now in a tuxedo…black, low heeled boots, black slacks, a white vest over a boiled lobster shirt with a white bowtie, and a black jacket over all, with a crisp white handkerchief in the chest pocket. She twirled the silver-topped cane a bit, judging its weight and heft, and then nodded her approval. “Marlene Dietrich to the life, dahling,” she murmured. All that remained was her blond wig and her high top hat.

Now the only question remained….at what time should she arrive at the party?

She was well-versed in European art, and could talk knowledgeably about Japanese ukiyo-e, but knew nothing about Pretorius’ apparent particular area of expertise -- the paintings made by the two Japanese artists who had been trapped in England after the enactment of Sakoku in 1633 (an edict by the Japanese Shogun that no foreigners would be allowed in the country, and no Japanese citizens could leave it, on pain of death. Those Japanese who had left the country were not allowed to return. The edict lasted until 1853, when American Commodore Mathew Perry sailed into Yokohama Bay with his seven “Black Ships” and forced Japan to open itself up to trade with the West.)

However, she well knew that her lack of knowledge on any subject was not a drawback – get someone talking on his or her favorite theme and keep nodding in appreciation, and they’d be delighted to hog the whole conversation themselves. She wouldn’t have to say a word all night.

The Pretorius party was due to start at 8 o’clock, the unveiling of the lost Tetsujin painting was due to take place at 11. It would be around that time that Seaforth would strike, Michele was sure. But would he arrive at the party on time…or would he come in late, to lose himself in the crowd.

Well, hell, she’d better get there precisely at 8 o’clock. The best thing to do would be to cut Seaforth off at the pass, i.e. just when he walked in the door, rather than give him a chance to get close to Pretorius.

Alas, the best-laid plans of mice and men g’ang oft agley. As she drove toward Westchester she encountered a traffic accident, with no way to drive around it. It delayed her for an hour, and so she had to put the pedal to the metal of her Codatronca Italian sportscar, and it was at 9 pm precisely – an hour late—that she drove up to the front gate of the Pretorius mansion. “Name please, miss,” the guard said, “and may I see your driver’s license?”

“Taran Tula,” she replied in her Italian accent, and handed over both her International Driving License and her European Union Driver’s License, designating her as a resident of Italy.

The guard checked her name off from a list, returned her documents, and waved her through. A parking valet was waiting in the circular drive to park her car for her.

The valet looked at her car with lust in his eyes.

“I wish to park my car myself,” Michele told him. The light in his eyes died.

“Well, ma’am, just follow this road about a mile down the road….”

Michele stared at him. Normally a mile would be nothing, she could sprint it in 5 minutes or so. But she didn’t have time to waste, Seaforth might already be inside.

“Oh, very well,” she said, giving the valet a brilliant smile. She dropped into a German accent. “This is my Codatronca. I don’t want any dings, dents or scratches, or I’ll have your ass.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the valet, taking her keys gingerly and handing her a ticket in return.

That was going to make things dodgy if she had to make a quick getaway, she thought. Of course she had an extra key in her shoe, but she’d have no idea where precisely her car was parked, and it was at least six minutes away.

A butler just inside the door welcomed her, and gestured toward the open doors of the ballroom, from which sounds of merrymaking were emitting.

“Three, two, one and….action,” Michele murmured to herself, walking through the door.

She paused briefly, her eyes scanning the room, noting red-jacketed waiters behind a bar and behind buffet tables, a small chamber orchestra, and a dais on which was placed a velvet-draped object – that had to be the painting that had caused all the fuss – and about 75 people milling around.

Wandering around the crowd looking for Seaforth was pointless…she needed a vantage point from which to watch…the bar? Everyone went to the bar, and Seaforth would probably need to nerve himself up before doing …whatever deed he planned to do…

She walked over to the bar and spoke very softly, in her Italian accent… “I would like a glass of water, please. In a martini glass, with an olive.”

The well-trained bartender evidenced not an ounce of surprise, but did as she requested. She took her glass, took the slightest of sips, and then turned and saw the stairs leading to the second floor. From a vantage point up there, she realized, she could watch this entire floor with ease. That would be the place.

She moved quietly through the crowd, then mounted the steps with a jaunty swing of her cane. There were a few people up here, drifting past the paintings and discussing them in low voices. Michele propped her cane up against the balustrade and leaned her forearms on the balustrade, gazing out at the activity below.

It all depended on if he were wearing a costume with a mask, she thought. She hadn’t seen anyone who was yet…except…yes there was a guy dressed as Zorro, but he was too short and fat to be Seaforth…

Michele sensed movement beside her. Someone was leaning on the balustrade right next to her.

“I love your costume,” said a voice with a slight drawl….Texan? she wondered automatically. “But then I love Marlene Dietrich.”

She glanced and smiled at him briefly – Michele was never one to snub someone – and then returned to her search. But…that brief glance had been interesting. The man had Siberian husky eyes, pale blue in a tanned face. She turned to look at him with more attention. Mmmm mmm. His face was just the way she liked it, tanned, square chin, good teeth…and those eyes…

“Thank you,” she said, with a German accent. She smiled at him again, a little more warmly.

“Get a grip,” she told herself, returning her gaze to the floor below. “You’re working here.”

“You seem to be looking for someone,” he said, “Can I help?”

“No, I thank you. I am looking for a friend. I will find him.”

“What kind of costume is he wearing? I’ll help you look.”

Michele felt an inner glow. She knew when she was being chatted up by a guy. She directed another smile at him. “I don’t know. It was very careless of him not to tell me. But I suspect he will be carrying a totschlager.”

“A what?”

She waved a hand. “Nothing. I joke.” (A totschlager was a “death maker”, or morning star. A club with a spiked iron ball on one end.)

“It’s another hour or so before the unveiling. I hope your friend will be here before then.”

Michele grinned at him. “I hope so, too.”

“If he doesn’t show up, I’ll be pleased to escort you. As a matter of fact, I can get you a close up view of the unveiling, if you like.”

“Can you?” she said, giving him another look, an appraising one. “This means you are…”

She stopped, and turned to look down at the floor below, where a sudden silence had descended.

Most of the guests had been clustered near the walls of the room, in close proximity to the food and the music, or gazing at the paintings or talking amongst themselves.

And a man had just shrugged out of a cowl and robe, to reveal black slacks and turtleneck sweater, and stood four-square in the middle of the room, holding a pistol pointed toward Pretorius.

There was no screaming, just shocked looks and every frozen as if in a tableaux.

“Son of a bitch,” Michele screamed in her mind, while she simultaneously flicked her wrist to bring the cane up a little bit in her hand. She yelled “Colin!” and simultaneously through the cane like a javelin.

Seaforth’s head jerked up towards her, even as her cane hit him in the shoulder. He dropped the gun, and immediately started to run.

Michele grabbed the balustrade and flung herself into space. An experienced rock climber and rappeler, she held onto the balustrade with her fingers just long enough to slow her descent so that she landed cat-like on her feet. First she went for the gun – she needed that gun – but she didn’t have time to go for the cane. Grabbing up the gun she sprinted out of the room.

In the hallway, the butler had Seaforth in a hammer lock. Without hesitation, Michele swung the gun at his head, and there was a satisfying thunk. She grabbed Seaforth’s arm. “I’m from your daughter,” she hissed. “Come with me.” She pulled him down the hallway and through the first available door, which she closed and locked behind her.

“Let us sit down and compose ourselves,” she told Seaforth calmly.

Wordlessly, he did as instructed. All passion spent, he was now just an old, sad man, who realized what he’d almost done.

“Damn, damn, damn,” Michele told herself savagely. It was absolutely typical. She had taken her eyes off the floor to look at a cute guy for just thirty seconds…thirty seconds!...and that was when Seaforth had chosen to make his move. Had she not been dallying, she would have seen him before he’d taken the gun out, yelled to him then, sounding like a drunk to excuse her lack of manners, invoke the name of his wife and his daughter and talk some sense into him.

But no…. now they were trapped in the Pretorius mansion, and her was car six minutes away across open ground that was even now probably seething with security guards an cameras. How was she going to get him out of here?