Free Capriccio by Joan Smith

apartment in Toronto, he doesn’t have a bulging bank account.”
    Sean heard me out patiently. About midway through my speech, he dropped his hands. “I don’t know, but whoever’s got him sure as hell isn’t keeping him locked up for no reason. He must have something that’s pretty valuable.”
    “His talent is his most valuable possession, and no one can steal that.”
    I cudgeled my brain all the way home, hardly noticing the stunning scenery. What did Victor have that was worth stealing? The capriccio he’d written for me (maybe for me)? That wasn’t very likely. He wasn’t much of a composer. And if he’d meant to perform it in public, he’d have copyrighted it first. He wasn’t a rank amateur. He traveled internationally, which drew forth the specter of spying. A formula, a microdot film? No, thieves wouldn’t look under beds for that. Some sort of new computer secret in the form of software? When I suggested this to Sean, he gave a disbelieving stare.
    “I think we can rule out international espionage,” he said very firmly.
    Hunger pangs assailed me as we drove home. I could hear Sean’s stomach complaining, too, and looked hopefully at the McDonald’s signs. I was already salivating and totaling up the calories in a Big Mac and fries. He noticed the second time I craned my neck around to gaze longingly at the golden arches.
    “Keep your eyes peeled for a health food joint,” he said. “I could go for a Big Mac right about now myself.” It must have been ESP.
    I could hardly remember how I’d talked myself into this vegetarian corner. Oh yes, it was his comment about hunting.
    “Don’t let me keep you from eating. I can have some fries and a milk shake.” But it was a cheeseburger I craved, with the cheese melting in an orange river over the beef.
    Sean pulled in at the next McDonald’s, and proved to be a perfect gentleman after all. He brought me a Big Mac, and insisted I eat it, just this once. “You need protein to keep up your strength,” he ordered quite severely.
    I was so pleased with him that I told him what Betty Friske had said. “He might have given her a key!” Sean exclaimed.
    “He might, but what worries me is why she wants to see him. She threatened him, Sean. What could she be going to the police about? I know perfectly well Victor didn’t steal anything or something like that.”
    “How old is she?” he asked.
    “The shady side of thirty-five, I’d say, but well preserved. Why?”
    “Leave her to me. I have a way with older women.”
    “Older women go for that macho line, do they?” It was petty of me. “The balding head probably helps.”
    “Bald!” The howl caused heads to turn three tables away.
    “I didn’t say bald. Balding—there’s a difference. You still have quite a bit of hair. You probably won’t be bald for four or five years.”
    “Jeez, you really know how to wreck a guy’s appetite,” he complained and ate on with no noticeable decrease in either speed or pleasure.
    Everything was just as we’d left it when we got back to the apartment including Victor’s Corvette parked in the garage. I didn’t see Betty’s door open when we went into the apartment, and after about two minutes Sean said he was going down to talk to her. “I’d better put my hat on,” he said, patting his hairline and glaring at me.
    “And leave it on,” I urged.
    I kept my door ajar and heard him charm his way in like a snake oil salesman. He thickened up his accent a few degrees.
    “Howdy, Ma’am,” he said. “The name’s Bradley, Sean Bradley. A friend of Victor Mazzini—the gentleman that lives next door. I can’t seem to get a line on him. The rascal’s run to ground and forgot to pay me a little old debt. It’s only a couple of hundred, but I’m visiting in your fine city and find myself a bit short.”
    The next thing I heard was her door open and Sean’s boots shuffle in. I waited ten minutes (twelve and a half, actually), and when he came