wondered what sort of art he collected. I asked David, “Have you seen his art collection?”
“No. Neither has Mary-Alice. We have it on good authority, however, that it is one of the finest collections of its type in the country.” He smiled, leaving little doubt as to the source of the authority. “Walter can be something of a bore on the subject, so perhaps you would be wise not to bring it up.” He shook his head and smiled ruefully. “Although, of course, that’s the point, isn’t it? Oh, well. Nothing for it, I suppose.”
“Mm,” I agreed.
He leaned close and rumbled wetly into my ear. “Oh, and, Tom, be careful of your language. Neither Walter nor his wife care for profanity. She’s become quite religious since she found God.”
“That’s typically what happens,” I said. “I’ll try to limit myself to scatological or anatomical references.”
He grinned. “You know, I think they’re both faintly embarrassed by my speciality.”
“What was she before she found God?” I asked.
“Something of a wild child, I understand,” he said. “Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll, although in Elise’s case it was a jazz musician, I think. There are rumours of a — well, never mind, it’s just gossip. She settled down after her father died and saddled her with the foundation. Running it suited her. It was she who refocused it on the plight of children in the Third World. Walter is also deeply committed to its cause.”
David used his bulk to shoulder through the knot of women surrounding Moffat and a slim, severe-looking woman of about forty-five. Walter Moffat’s head seemed unusually large in proportion to his body. So, evidently, had been Albert Einstein’s. In Einstein’s case, the extra size had been necessary to accommodate his larger-than-average brain, which some believed contributed to his genius. I wondered if Walter Moffat was a genius. I didn’t think so. Geniuses did not, in my opinion, go into politics. Politics was a game that attracted only the stupider of the species. The proof, if any was required, could be found in any newspaper or on any television news program, or observed directly during question period.
“Excuse me, ladies,” David said. The matronly throng melted away. “Walter, Elise. There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Tom McCall, Walter and Elise Moffat.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. McCall,” Walter Moffat said as he gripped my hand. He had a deep, smoothly resonant voice. Up close, he was still a handsome man, but his age, which I knew to be fifty-five, was beginning to show, particularly in his face, which was starting to sag here and there, under the eyes and his jowls. A quick visit to a plastic surgeon would take care of the dewlap, I thought. It also looked as though he was wearing makeup. You never knew when a news camera might show up.
“Mr. McCall,” Elise Moffat said as she placed her hand in mine. Her voice was as tentative as her grip. Her eyes were a deep, rich brown and quite lovely despite the complete lack of makeup. I realized as I looked into her eyes that she was a very attractive woman who tried hard to make herself look dowdy. Her complexion was pale but flawless, and her fine, shoulder-length hair was the colour of wild honey. She wore it straight, parted in the middle, and secured at the nape of her long neck. She was dressed plainly but well, in a long wool skirt and matching jacket over a white blouse, demurely buttoned to her throat. The suit didn’t completely disguise what appeared to be a fine figure. She wore a silver brooch of a crucified Christ upon her lapel, a beatific grimace on the tiny face.
“Tom’s my brother-in-law,” David said.
“Yes, of course,” Walter Moffat said, feigning interest as only a politician can. “The photographer.”
“That’s right,” David said.
“Mary-Alice is a charming woman,” Moffat said. “You must be very proud of her, Mr. McCall.”
“Indeed I am,” I said. “She married very well.”
David laughed, a little hollowly, I thought, but Walter Moffat’s smile was as weak as my attempt at humour. Mrs. Moffat didn’t appear to get the joke. She looked as though she wasn’t there at all.
“Do you live in Vancouver, sir?” Moffat asked.
“I’m one of your former constituents,” I said. “Except that I didn’t vote for you. Either time.”
He laughed easily. “No?” he said. “Well, I lost by more than one vote, didn’t I?”
“Perhaps you’ll do better next time,” I said.
“Thank you,” he said, with a glint in his eye.
He took his wife’s arm. Did she flinch slightly? Perhaps he’d caught her off guard. She impressed me as a very guarded and nervous woman. “It’s been a pleasure making your acquaintance, Mr. McCall,” Moffat said.
I’d been dismissed, and would have gratefully retreated, but David wasn’t done. “Walter,” he said, “Tom was just asking me about your collection.”
“Oh? Are you interested in art, Mr. McCall?”
“Um, well, not really, it’s just that, um, well …” I could see he was losing patience. “I was looking forward to the opportunity of working with you on the photography for your exhibition catalogue,” I blurted.
“Ah, yes, that,” he said, glancing quickly at his wife, whose expression perceptively hardened. “I’m very sorry,” Moffat went on. “But we have decided not to go ahead with the exhibition. It was all very last-minute, I’m afraid. Please accept my sincerest apologies for any inconvenience it may have caused you. If something else comes up that you can be of assistance with, I won’t hesitate to contact you.”
“Thank you,” I mumbled.
“Now, if you will excuse us, we should circulate. David.” He took his wife’s arm.
Before he could drag her away, Elise Moffat extended her hand to me again, and said, “Mary-Alice told me of your associate’s assault, Mr. McCall. I’m very sorry. I shall pray for her full and speedy recovery.”
“Yes, yes, a terrible thing,” Walter Moffat added quickly. “She will be in both our prayers.”
“Thank you,” I said again, with more sincerity. Prayer wasn’t something I personally put any faith in, but what could it hurt?
“Walter,” David said. “Last week, when you were telling me about the latest additions to your collection, you mentioned that you knew Samuel Waverley, did you not?”
“I may have,” Moffat replied. “I don’t recall. I’m acquainted with him, of course. I’ve purchased several pieces from him over the years. Why do you ask?”
“It’s a coincidence, I’m sure,” David said. He looked at me. “Perhaps Tom should explain.”
“Explain what?” Walter Moffat wanted to know, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“On Tuesday a woman calling herself Anna Waverley hired us to take photographs of a motor yacht called the Wonderlust, which she claimed to have received as part of her divorce settlement. I had to meet with another client, so Bobbi, my partner, kept the appointment. She was attacked later that night. The attack evidently took place on the boat.”
Mrs. Moffat’s pale complexion grew even paler, except for highlights of colour on her cheekbones. Her lips moved as she uttered what I assumed was a silent prayer.
“I’m certain that neither Mr. Waverley nor his wife had anything to do with your partner’s attack,” Moffat said. “Besides, if I’m not mistaken, he is out of the country. And while the Waverleys do own a boat, I believe it’s a sailboat.”
“I’m sure Tom didn’t mean to imply that the Waverleys were in any way involved,” David said.
“No, of course not,” I said. “The woman who hired us wasn’t Mrs. Waverley and the boat