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Thesoundproofingwassuperbinhisapartment,so it wasn’t until they opened the door that they heard Egyptian general Ramades singing at the top of his lungs about the celestial beauty of his beloved Aida.
Van exchanged glances with Mary. They would have to read lips to figure out what each other was saying.
“IguessCyn’shome,”Marysaid.“Ididn’tknowshe was so fond of opera.”
“Always has been. What I didn’t know is she likes playing anything at that volume. My tools are down this hallway, in one of the spare rooms I turned into a workshop.”
“A workshop in a bedroom?”
“So speaks the woman with a basement and a garage. Apartment dwellers do this kind of thing.”
“Mmm.” Mary walked with him down the hall.
Three closed doors lined the sides of the hall, and Mary caught a glimpse through an open door of an elegant master bedroom down at the end.
Van shooed the dogs inside the nearest open door andclosedit.Goodidea.Itwouldkeepthemoutfrom underfoot while he gathered his tools.
Next came two closed doors on either side of the hall. He opened one, and Mary stood outside the doorway,marveling.She’dswearthisworkshopcontained not a single speck of either dust or sawdust. Clearly, Van had made a place for every thing in the shop, and every thing was in its place. Thank goodness he was easing up on the neat-nik thing in her house.
Van stopped in the doorway for a kiss, then brushed past Mary into the workshop. As he picked up one tool and headed for another, the music stopped. She knew that opera. It had played through to the end.
She half turned. “Van, what’s in this room across the hall?”
“One of the bathrooms. That one’s Aunt Cynthia’s favorite. It has a clawfoot tub you might as well call a swimming pool.”
As a writer, Mary’s bump of curiosity was about the size of Mount Everest. She moved closer to the bathroom door, listening. Cyn must be home. Mary could hear voices. Wait a minute — voices? Plural?
Maybe Cyn had switched from the opera to a radio station. One of the voices in there was male. In fact, he was doing most of the talking. The more Mary listened, though, the less it sounded like a disc jockey’spatterbetweensongsandcommercials.She made out only the odd word, but the rhythm was all wrong. It sounded like —
“Van, come over here for a minute, will you?” Mary said in a low voice.
He did, and Mary moved closer to the bathroom door. “What do you hear in there?” she whispered.
“What on earth?” he growled. “You can’t eavesdrop — ”
“Well, I know. And I wouldn’t normally. But I think she has a man in there.”
“A man? It couldn’t — We haven’t — I don’t believe — ”
“Stop sputtering and listen,” Mary ordered.
“It is Aunt Cynthia in there,” Van reported reluctantly, “and some man whose voice I don’t recognize. What’s a man — We were going to find a husbandfor her, not a — ” Van executed a spectacular blush.
“Can you make out what he’s saying?”
“No.”
“I think this guy is reading her poetry. English Romantic poetry. I think I’ve caught a few words from George, Lord Byron. You know who I mean: She walks in beauty like the night — ”
“You’rekidding.You’vegottobekidding.Thisismy aunt — ”
“Shhh, keep your voice down, Van. They’ll hear us.”
“Let’s get out of here before they find out we’re here.”
“Yeah. Pull those tools together, and we’ll run.” And then, Mary added to herself silently, she’d call Cyn and see whether she wanted to talk. Mary’s curiosity was killing her, and so was her hope that herfriendhadfoundsomeoneimportant.Amanwho readpoetrytoherinthebathtubsoundedlikeagood start.
Mary hovered near the bathroom while Van searched for a missing tool. If they got advance warning of Cyn and her guest coming out, Mary and Van could hide in the workshop until the coast was clear.
