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"You know anything about the ancient Greek myths? You know, Zeus, Hera, Leda -- all those incestuous and philandering paragons of pre-history?" When my expression was as blank as my mind on the subject, one of my two prospective clients rolled his eyes at the ceiling while his twin brother, the one asking this off-the-wall question, stared at me with the obvious hope of a faint glimmer of intelligence to appear on my brow. In that he was disappointed for I hadn't the proverbial clue. "You'll have to excuse my brother, Mrs. Casey," said the other. "He spends his life blundering about under the misapprehension that he is funny. It's his little contribution of humor, I guess, to a situation that is far from humorous." "And you, beloved sibling and wearer-of-the-collar-of-propriety, always were my own personal cross to bear. Lighten up, bro. We gotta do this." Each of the young men grinned nervously at one another but also with obvious warmth; this was, I was certain, an example of the banter and closeness I'd always heard was common among twins -- in this case the pair of Claude and Paul Castor. But for all its charm, it wasn't moving things right along, and I butted in to nip this digression in the bud before it could blossom into a time-killer as it was looking to do. "Aside from entertaining me, why are you here? You said something, Father --" "Just 'Paul,' please, if you don't mind. I'm 'Father' to my flock and in my church. Everywhere else I'm Claude's baby brother." My raised eyebrows prompted an explanation from Claude that he was supposedly just under three hours older than Paul. And he continued that much as they looked almost like two peas in a pod, there were some important discrepancies and, thus, more than just a question about their actual claim to twinhood, if there is such a word. After a quick but pointed glance at his brother, Claude got down to it. Paul's tightened face showed he didn't much care for this part, but I surmised they'd already decided if I could help them, I'd have to be provided at least a glimpse of this particular closeted skeleton. I didn't understand then why, but as it turned out, their decision was the correct one. "You see, both of us were born in Italy, supposedly in 1963. My birth certificate specifies May 15th at 11:35 p.m., and Paul's shows May 16th at 2:15 a.m. The problem is, Paul's papers bear minute but convincing traces of some tampering with the date. None of this would have caught anybody's attention had it not been for a medical emergency which necessitated blood tests, the result of which stunned everybody except, to our surprise, our mother. "It's not at all pertinent what was the reason for the tests regarding why we're here -- really. The only important thing is to know it's been proven to our satisfaction we cannot be twins, no matter the resemblance, because of different fathers. That led us to the birth certificates and ultimately to a documents expert who assured us Paul's record was -- not bogus, which is what I started to say, but tampered with." All during this explanation Paul Castor looked around him with studied nonchalance, allowing his brother to do the explaining on his own. Claude was about to continue when I spotted Barbara Fox, my good right arm, bearing down on the office on her return from lunch. After a quick question of the brothers, I intercepted her progress, suggesting to her mixed enthusiasm she might like to use the next hour shopping for a wedding gift she'd mentioned. I say 'mixed' because Barbara is as nosy as the next -- probably more than most; and aware as I was of how good her hearing was, it wouldn't do to simply instruct her not to listen from upstairs, her normal perch when I've clients who desire privacy. Knowing Barbara, she'd probably injure an ear pressing it against the wrought iron cage of the elevator while not listening. Still, a free hour on the clock wasn't to be sneezed at, and she rotated in place and waddled down the street with good grace. I returned to the office and closed the inner door again against unwanted intrusion. "You're sure about this parentage business then, are you?" I asked as I resumed my place. "Yeah, sure as it's possible to be, I'm sorry to say. We're half-brothers all right, but different fathers -- no doubt about it. Our mother and my father went to great pains to see to it that we were raised as twins for reasons of their own -- probably pride, I suppose. We returned to this country when we were reported to be five. I'd been a preemie; and Paul having been a really big newborn, we were at that age about the same size." "Any idea who -- well, put another way, who's --" "-- 'the bastard'?" asked Paul. "Ah -- I'm sorry; I just didn't know how to ask that, and I guess it really doesn't matter, for that matter," I apologized, slightly embarrassed to have fumbled that ball so badly. "Oh, but unfortunately, it does matter," Paul said. "Claude wouldn't ever put it so baldly, but I'm the illegitimate son, I'm afraid, and probably about a year younger than Claude rather than three hours. The documents expert said she thought the altered date on the birth certificate was in 1964; and whatever the month was, it was no three- or four-letter one -- more like seven or eight letters, whatever it is. She couldn't be more precise than that. It seems the forger did a good job, one that wouldn't raise any questions to the casual eye." Going back to what he'd said earlier, I asked, "And why is that important for me to know -- the fact of your illegitimacy? What has that got to do with why you both are here?" Another couple of looks passed between them, and Claude again took up the story. "We want you to find our sister Eileen Dryden. She's the youngest of us and has a rightful claim to the Castor name, apparently. She was born just under a year after our family's arrival back in the States." "How long has she been missing?" "About three months now, and not a single word from her -- not a peep! She wouldn't do that unless she simply couldn't do otherwise." "Has she been reported to the authorities as missing?" "Yes, but they're a bunch of idiots! No matter what we told them, how well we knew her, that she wouldn't ever just disappear without saying a word to either of us -- or her mother, for that matter -- they were positively convinced we just couldn't face the fact she'd run off with this low-life hophead who had been after her ever since her husband died in a car accident two years ago." Both of the men were leaning forward in an unconscious gesture that said planer than mere words that I shouldn't believe such a thing, either. At this point I, of course, had no cause to believe or disbelieve. "Eileen couldn't stand the guy, you see? Oh, he threw money around like it was confetti, and he was absolutely gorgeous -- all muscles, Armani suits, sun-bleached hair, blinding teeth, and even dimples, so help me God! Bastard drove a Porsche and knew which maitre d's hands he could stroke and how much it would take. Impressed the impressionable no end, no doubt. "But he had a seriously irritated sinus condition. 'Nose candy' was never far from his schnozzle. And he played the ponies, the wheel, poker, the slots -- and lost money doing everything, I might add. Where did he get the money? As far as anyone could tell, he never worked a day in his miserable life. "Now Paul and I have a theory about this guy, about where he got his financing, about why he kidnapped -- yeah, that's the word I want to use -- our sister, about who stands to gain from it other than he himself, and so on." He paused for a moment, for the first time apparently unsure of where to go next. Into the void I asked a question. "What's the name of this paragon of manhood?" "Stefan -- Stefan Goode, although that last name's a misnomer if ever I heard one." On my notepad I added the name of Stefan Goode to that of Paul Castor, Claude Castor, and Eileen Dryden. "Which explanation does her father accept? He agree with your mother or with the two of you?" I asked. "Dad -- should have mentioned that. Dad died nearly eight years ago following a stroke. Mother won't talk about him, either," Claude added. After a longish pause, Paul sighed and suggested Claude quit pussy-footing around about it, to get it over with. "Okay," he agreed. "Mrs. Casey, we know who Paul's father is. It wasn't really too hard to figure it out, once we set our minds to it. Mother steadfastly refuses to discuss it, and my father has been dead for several years. Mind you, she didn't say we were wrong when we confronted her with what we've come to believe, she simply won't talk about it. She tends to cloud up and storm, taking herself off to the church for 'meditation and prayer regarding my sins,' as she puts it. After a few tearful sessions ending that same way, we saw nothing was to be gained in that direction. In her own way, she's the most stubborn of a very stubborn family. "Anyway, in early 1963 Laura and Mitchell Castor moved to Livorno, Italy. He was an agronomist whose specialty was the composition of soils found in the finest vineyards in the world. He was offered a heady amount of money to relocate himself and his pregnant wife to micro-manage an old vineyard there which was galloping downhill due to unexplained changes in the soil. The owner wanted a fresh insight since his resident manager was long in the tooth and decidedly loathe to change anything at all. "Once in Italy, my father spent his days in the fields and his nights in the lab built for him by the owner. My mother did not know the language and, therefore, had entirely too much time to herself -- literally. She had one friend only, and that was the older sister of the owner's wife, a maiden lady who spoke a little English. As to the owner's wife, for some reason we didn't originally understand, she despised our mother on sight. It was only later that we learned that her husband, the man who had brought the young couple to his land, had this -- remember me asking you if you know about the Greek myths? About the out-of-wedlock goings on? Well, as far as we can tell, this man has fathered at least eight children beyond the two he gave his wife, and these by six different women! So who's to blame her for instantly hating any beautiful younger woman her husband so much as looked at? "And 'beautiful' fit my mother -- indeed, even at over fifty, she's still an absolute knockout." He stopped for just a second before adding, "And so is Saul Martinelli." "Saul Martinelli?" I blurted out, louder than I intended. "Are you saying Saul Martinelli is --" "-- Paul's actual father, yes." I looked at Paul for confirmation, and saw only resignation. "Well?" I asked Paul. He wasn't going to get away without stating his belief, one way or another. "We have no physical proof, of course," he at last muttered. "But everything pointed to him and nothing at all in any other direction." He fell silent again. "And how does he fit in with the disappearance of your sister? Are you saying he engineered it? For what reason, for Pete's sake?" Both men were shaking their heads, and I stopped babbling to listen. "No, no, not Saul, but Isabella Martinelli, his wife." Boy, that really helped a lot! "I'm sorry; I guess I'm dumber than usual. What in the world does she have against your sister? You say your sister was not 'born on the wrong side of the blanket,' right? Why on earth would you think Mrs. Martinelli would somehow exert influence over this Goode person to run away with your sister?" "She has nothing whatever against Eileen beyond the fact that Eileen is also a beautiful young woman, probably reminds her of our mother, and the fact that Isabella has the power to inflict grievous emotional harm against someone she has good reason to hate, at least according to her thinking. What could be worse for an enemy than to find a beloved, gentle daughter has been probably destroyed at the hands of a really awful, useless man, and to know if ever you find her again, it will still be too late? Does that sound like good revenge to you, particularly if you know your chance of paying for engineering the crime is next to nil?" He had a point there. And I added Saul Martinelli and Isabella Martinelli to my list, affixing a couple of exclamation points behind the names of two of Denver's most admired and worthy philanthropists, epitomizing the most beautiful of the beautiful people anywhere as they did. Horrors! Still looking for a large loophole, I asked just how they came to the conclusion there was a connection between Stefan Goode and Isabella Martinelli. The answer fired right back at me. "Oh, there's a 'connection,' all right, only this time I'm going to wax operatic rather than mythological. Do you know the story told in Der Rosenkavalier?" When I nodded my head, he continued. "There we have this wealthy noblewoman, a little over the hill, who has had a long-standing liaison with an exceedingly young man -- probably a teenager, truth be told. In the opera, she sadly but sweetly relinquishes him to the charms of a girl, and there I admit the similarity stops. "Old Isabella probably tired of Stefan's posturing and self-importance, and when the opportunity came to get quietly rid of him by handing over to him an unattainable young woman he was smitten with, and at the same time destroying an enemy, she jumped at the chance. Knowing Stefan, she probably turned over a fortune to him as well, something he was sure to demand. "And if you want my opinion, it wouldn't surprise me a bit to even suspect that neither Stefan nor Eileen will survive long, wherever they are. I wouldn't put anything beyond that woman -- even murder!" Paul looked pained, muttering to Claude he might be going a tad too far. But Claude was on a roll and wasn't to be denied voicing his opinion. "No, Paul, you tend to see only your Shepherd, not believing that there are wolves out there whose only desire is to rend all of us limb from limb. Nobody has believed us yet that Eileen never left voluntarily. That probably includes mother since she doesn't want to think about it at all." "Do you really blame her?" asked Paul. "Yes, goddamn it, I certainly do blame her," Claude answered hotly. "Her actions thirty-some years ago led to this whole goddamned mess, and now Eileen is only God knows how paying for it! Yes, indeed -- I blame her! I blame her for any number of things, only the last of which is losing my sister!" You could almost hear the pulse in his temple over the rasp of his breath when he suddenly stopped his tirade, looking wildly around him as if just waking from a nightmare. "God, man, I'm sorry! Sounds like I'm blaming you for something, and you know I'm not! Forgive my big mouth and my lousy temper." He laughed for a minute, transferring his attention back to me. "You see, Mrs. Casey, that's one thing Paul was lucky about in not having Mitchell Castor for a father. I inherited the legendary Castor temper, the one that got us all thrown out of Italy. When Dad suspected something fishy about the timing of Paul's birth, he confronted Martinelli -- Saul, that is -- and was told to be a man about it, be grateful he had two beautiful sons, one with nobility in his lineage. "Dad, of course, went ballistic and did his level damned best to kill Saul with his bare hands right where he stood. Saul, being sensible and fit to boot, just held him off until he wearied himself, and then compounded his crime by offering Dad money to just forget it. "When Dad regained his strength, he grabbed a pistol from a drawer and shot Martinelli. Sad to say, however, his aim was lousy; he grazed him on the cheek, nicked off the lobe of the left ear, and gave him a 'dueling scar' that even drives the girls crazier than they still are about him, even at his age -- disgusting! "And instead of filing charges and getting Dad thrown in prison, Martinelli just laughed again, had his men move all four Castors, bag and baggage, off his land and out of the country. "He again offered Dad money, if you can believe it. And this time, I'm ashamed to say, Dad took it. He spent every dime of it, I understand, on getting Paul and me the education he couldn't have afforded otherwise." And Claude stopped again, lost in thought. "And just how do you know about all this?" I asked. "Who told you? Your mother?" "Mother? Lord, no! Martinelli told us both the day we marched into his home, demanding answers to a lifetime's worth of questions." Lord love us all! "And where was Isabella all this time?" "Standing right behind him as he sat on his throne, one hand on his shoulder, her black eyes positively distended in rage. Until that very minute I had no idea how much she hated my family, even after all these years. "And you know what? He offered to take us -- both of us -- into the family business since his legitimate son, Gordon, had no head for business and no desire to acquire one. Old Gordon is 'into horses,' or some such. "But as far as Saul's ego, can you believe it? He said such a move might help expiate a lifetime of sins, or some such drivel." "And how did Isabella react to that?" "How would you imagine? He actually winced as her bony fingers dug into the shoulder, finally looking up at her and smiled while patting her claw and removing its talons from his flesh." "And I take it neither of you took him up on his offer?" "Lord, no. In fact," he said while ruefully smiling at Paul, "Paul entered the seminary two days after that, and --" "You make it sound like cause-and-effect, Claude!" Paul smiled at me, explaining the decision had been made long before, even before figuring out who his father actually was. "It was a calling, you see, not a refuge," he added for my benefit. I asked at the end of this latest pause in the narrative, "Anything else I should know about your life's history before I jump in here with both feet?" They stared blankly at one another before Paul answered for both of them. "No, I guess not. We just wanted you to be aware of all the dirty linen before you found yourself up to your clavicle in it. We want you to be ready for all manner of venom and vitriol from Isabella, for vagueness and dissembling from mother, and for charm and -- well, be ready for Saul. I'm told by women I consider experts in the genre that he's a force to be reckoned with, sexually speaking." I smiled into the face of the handsome priest before me, saying, "My, such talk from a man of your calling." Literal-minded to a fault, Paul looked nonplused momentarily before realizing I was yanking his chain, albeit gently. "I'm a priest, madam, not a corpse." I laughed. My peculiar mindset always picking at loose threads, I couldn't resist commenting that so far his early aphorism regarding the Olympian gods was concerned, as yet there was no evidence of incest, at least. Another quick glance between them, and even as Paul tried to steer Claude away from it, the latter unearthed one more shadowy skeleton. "Well, in our climbing around on the family tree -- Martinelli's tree, that is to say -- it appears Isabella is at least Saul's first cousin, perhaps even his half-sister." "We have no proof of that, Claude, and you know it," said Paul. "There's enough rumors going around we can prove that we shouldn't mention that at all to anyone." Claude wasn't a bit impressed, making it clear there was enough proof as far as he was concerned. Heaven help us all! At that the retainer fee was discussed, accepted, and provided. Paul dug a fat envelope from the inside pocket of his blazer and handed it to me, saying it contained some snapshots of Eileen, of their mother, and even a few clippings including photos of the Martinellis. One showed them standing beside a statue in their garden, described as a priceless Greek treasure depicting Zeus complete with his thunderbolt. Both men now seemed more than eager to make their escape, and after receiving assurance I would contact one or the other on a regular basis, they quickly left, walking southwest on Nelson Street until they were out of sight. I found myself thinking as I watched them disappear that now that I knew better, they weren't actually identical. Both had curly, glossy black hair, both were around six feet tall, but Paul was blockier, somehow larger although they probably weighed nearly the same. They walked differently, Claude with less grace, more purpose, as it were, to each step. Paul, obviously the more athletic of the two, was lighter of foot even though generally the bigger of the two. Still, the familial resemblance was so marked, it was no wonder they had passed for twins all of their lives. Until that moment I'd been unaware Barbara Fox was returning from her shopping trip until she suddenly blurted from the door, "Tell me -- tell me everything!" After I got my heart rate back to normal, I did just that. Goggled her eyes, I did. |