Elizabeth Hunter: A Hidden Fire

When he reached it, he saw the slight flare of the cigarette as Caspar leaned against the black Mercedes sedan.

“A good evening, Gio?”

Giovanni frowned at his old friend, flicking the cigarette out of Caspar’s mouth as he approached the door. He stood in front of the man, looking down on him as he spoke.

“I don’t like the cigarettes. I thought you had given them up.”

Caspar looked up with a mischievous grin. “If I’m only living for eighty years or so, I’m going to enjoy them.”

Giovanni opened his mouth as if to say something but then shook his head and slid into the dark interior of the late-model sedan. Reaching into his messenger bag, he slid on a pair of leather gloves and crossed his arms while his friend got behind the wheel.

“Any requests?” Caspar fiddled with the stereo as Giovanni’s eyes scanned the dark parking lot.

“Are the Bach fugues still in the changer?”

“Indeed they are.”

Caspar switched the CD player on. In a few moments, the sedan was filled with the alternately lively and melancholy notes of the piano. Giovanni sat motionless, listening with pleasure to the modern recording of one of his favorite pieces of music.

“Mrs. Martin was not in the library this evening,” Giovanni said, his voice low and bearing more than its usual light accent.

“Oh? Everything all right?”

He shrugged. “Look into it tomorrow. Call and find out why she’s changed her hours. If it is simply a family issue, then it is no concern of ours.”

“Of course.”

The car was silent as it turned toward Buffalo Bayou.

“Inform me if it is anything other than that.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

A few moments later, they pulled up to the gate, and the wrought iron swung aside at their approach. Giovanni pulled out his pen and used it to push down the button for the automatic window, enjoying the smooth rush of air into the vehicle as it made its way toward the house. The grounds were suffused with the scent of clematis and roses that night, and the air smelled strongly of cut grass.

“The gardeners came early,” he noted.

Caspar nodded. “They did. We’re supposed to get rain tonight.”

“There is a new employee at the desk.”

“Is that so?” Caspar stopped the car near the rear courtyard, shifting the car into park so his employer could exit the vehicle before he put it in the garage behind the house.

“A girl. A student. Beatrice De Novo. Check on her, as well.”

“Of course. Anything in particular you want to know?”

He opened the door, reaching down for his leather bag before he stepped out. “There’s something about the father. He was killed ten years ago in Italy. Let me know if anything jumps out at you.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Giovanni climbed out of the car, resting his hand lightly on the door frame. Leaning down, he spoke again to his friend.

“I’m swimming for a bit, and then I’ll be in the music room for the rest of the night. I won’t need anything. Good night.”

And with that, he stood up, nudged the car door closed, made his way across the courtyard with the bubbling fountain, and strode into the dark house.

Caspar drove the car back to the garage, parked it, and sat in the driver’s seat, petting the steering wheel lightly.

“He’s getting better, darling. Only one little short on the door panel this time. Not that he noticed, of course.”

Chuckling, he exited the vehicle, locked the garage, and made his way into the house, flipping on all the lights in the kitchen. He thumbed through the mail again, separating the household bills from the extensive correspondence of his employer, before he shut all but one of the lights off again and made his way to the library on the second floor.

Pouring himself a brandy, Caspar settled down with the first edition of A Study in Scarlet that Giovanni had given him for his sixtieth birthday. Forgoing a fire, he opened the window facing the front garden and enjoyed the closeness of the night air, which smelled of the grass clippings the gardeners had raked that afternoon.

An hour or so later, he paused when he heard the door to the music room close as Giovanni shut himself in. Caspar wondered which instrument would catch his attention, praying it wasn’t one of the louder brasses. He breathed out a sigh when he heard the first notes of the piano struck. From Giovanni’s thoughtful mood earlier in the evening, he expected to hear Bach, so he was surprised to hear the strange Satie melody drift up from the first floor.

“There’s something about the father. He was killed ten years ago in Italy.”

Caspar frowned as he remembered the familiar light he’d seen in Giovanni’s eyes. He hadn’t seen that light for almost five years. Part of him had hoped to never see it again.

“What are you up to, Gio?” he muttered as he stared out the open window.

The gentle dissonance of the piano was unexpectedly disturbing to the man as he sat in his favorite chair. A breeze came through the window, carrying the earthy smell of coming rain to his nose. Caspar stood, walked to the window, and shut it just before fat drops began to fall.

Houston, Texas

September 2003

“Grandma! I’m going to be late for class.”

“One more shot, Mariposa , just let me…there. All done. The light was exactly right on that one.”

Isadora Alvarez De Novo set down the camera and smiled. Beatrice stood up from the small table near the windows and plucked her bag from the floor.

“Are you painting this afternoon?” she asked as she bent to kiss her grandmother’s wrinkled cheek.

“Yes, yes. I’ll be in the studio all day. Will you be home for dinner?”

“Nope. Wednesday, remember? Night hours.”

“Oh, of course, handsome professor day!”

She snorted. “He’s not a professor, Grandma. He just has a doctorate and does research at the library. I’m not sure what he is, to be honest.”

“Besides tall, dark, and handsome?”

Beatrice rolled her eyes. “You mean fastidious, formal, and silent?”

“Oh, you say that, but he’s probably just shy. Maybe it’s because he’s European.”

Beatrice shook her head before she filled her travel mug from the small coffee press her grandmother had prepared for her. “I don’t know. He is mysterious, that’s for sure.”

“He never talks to you?”

The young woman shrugged. “Sure, a little. He’s always polite. I’ve tried making conversation, but he’s very…focused. He always looks absorbed in his work. But, I could swear I’ve felt him watching me more than once.”

Her grandmother smiled. “You’re a beautiful girl, Beatrice. He would have to be blind not to notice.”

Beatrice chuckled. “I really don’t think it’s like that. No, it’s not like he’s checking me out, more like he’s…observing.”

The old woman’s eyes widened. “Could he be gay? Oh, what a disappointment. Though, maybe I could introduce him to Marta’s boy then-”

“Grandma!” she laughed. “I have no idea. It’s none of my business. I should be embarrassed gossiping about patrons like this. And I really have to go.”

“Fine, but you need to find some nice boy to have fun with. The last one was so boring.”

Beatrice walked out the door. “I’ll see what I can do,” she called out. “Bye!”

She sped out the door and down the steps of the small house near Rice University where she had grown up with her grandparents. Passing the oak tree that shaded the driveway, her eyes caught the dark, twisted grooves cut into the trunk close to forty years before.

S.D.