The Million Dollar Detective (5) "Elizabeth." "Does anyone ever call her B--" "No!" Bart interrupted. "She's Liz, Lizzie, or Eliza. No one calls her that name. We don't even call her Beth because it's too close. She has ready access to far too many sharp implements for us to risk her wrath." The greenhouse delighted Meredith "Oh, Bart, it smells fabulous in here!" she said. The air was perfumed with the combined fragrance of citrus trees and roses. "It's so much larger than I expected. It's like a miniature forest." She nearly danced from one planting to another, burying her face in roses and orange blossoms. "Thank you for sharing this with me." She smiled out of pure joy. Bart inhaled a huge breath and smiled, too. "I love this place. My father first built this as a gift for my mother. She started the roses. Mrs. H. added the citrus trees. We expanded the greenhouse twice. I try to budget for at least one home improvement project every year." "What's this year's project?" "Mmm, something in the poolhouse." He took her to the poolhouse next. Plywood covered a few of the window openings. Sawhorses and power tools sat beneath. "This isn't what I expected, Bart. When most people say poolhouse, they mean a little building out by the pool in which to change one's clothes. They would call this a natatorium." "Yeah, you're right. I call it the poolhouse because this used to be an outdoor pool, and I had the house extended around it. Having the pool enclosed made more sense to me. You can use it year round, and it doesn't get bugs and leaves in it." It was larger than Sheila's pool, with marked lanes for swimming laps, twenty-five meters long (half the Olympic distance). A diving area had one- meter and three-meter boards. Wisps of steam rose from a jacuzzi in a near corner. Doors at the far end led out to the back yard. The high windows would make it difficult for any outsiders to see in, unless they were Bart's height. A delicate geometric spiderweb of metal trusswork supported the roof several meters up. Bright lights hung from the trusses, and more lights shined under the water. The number of switches Bart threw when they walked in suggested he could adjust the lighting level from bright and cheery to dim and romantic. The constant hum of the filtration system and the smell of chlorinated water detracted from the room's charm, unfortunately. "I'm sorry, Bart, but this room reminds me of a hotel too explicitly," Meredith said. "Yeah, me too," Bart agreed. "It's good for exercise, but for pleasure, I'd rather walk in the greenhouse. I'm not really sure how to fix this." Meredith gladly left the humidity and chlorine smell behind as they proceeded back into the main house to view his artworks, displayed in various hallways, alcoves, and stairways. He favored paintings and sculptures of heroic figures. His "second favorite" was a large painting by Rubens mounted high on a wall in the foyer, best viewed from partway up the main staircase. "I did a report on Peter Paul Rubens in high school," Bart said. "His work has had a special place in my heart ever since. He was a diplomat as well as a painter, you know. He was knighted by both the king of England and the king of Spain." "Remarkable," Meredith said, politely, but with scant enthusiasm. "He's certainly fond of cherubim and seraphim, isn't he?" "Yes, he packs a lot of detail into his paintings," Bart said, with real enthusiasm. "And it's such a large painting, too. Yet he painted it in less than a day." "What?" This surprised Meredith. The artist's skill was obvious, but the speed of its production truly impressed her. "Bart, shouldn't an Old Master like this hang in a museum?" "This one will eventually. I display special pieces for a year or two, then pass them along. My father acquired this one for me last year. I think I'll be ready to let it go in a few months. Do you think it's too selfish, me keeping it that long?" "No, selfish would be if you kept it for yourself forever. The museum patrons will survive the wait." She thought it decent of him that he didn't want to be selfish. So many business people she knew embraced selfishness, often trying to justify it by misquoting Ayn Rand. In their poor scholarship, they did not appreciate the difficulty of the ethical calculus involved in determining their "true self-interest," nor know that Albert W. Tucker's "prisoner's dilemma" from mathematical game theory decisively refuted Rand's claim that everyone would be better off if each one followed his or her own selfish interest. She didn't expect Bart based his thinking on the historical development of ethical theory. Rather she attributed it to him simply having a good heart. His favorite painting made her burst into laughter the moment she saw it. It hung across from the doorway to the master bedroom. A spotlight shone on it from above and left of center to mimic the lighting in the painting itself. Bart explained, "It's a forgery, of course, one I commissioned from a local artist. He makes a significant portion of his income from painting, um, let's call them 'homages' of famous paintings. We call this one 'Mona Lisa with Eyebrows.'" She laughed again at the title, and at the thin, mischievously arched eyebrows added to the famous face smiling cryptically at her. She threw her arms around Bart's waist to steady herself. It was the first time she put her arms around him. He felt strong and solid, which she needed to keep herself upright, but she was laughing so hard, she couldn't fully appreciate the hug. Bart gently placed a massive arm around her and smiled a smile remarkably like Mona's. Meredith laughed even more, and gave him a delighted squeeze before tearing away. "What's next, you bizarre, charming man?" "Um, my room, or rooms, I guess." He hastily added, "I promise you, I have only honorable intentions. Besides, Sheila would never speak to me again if I tried to take advantage of you. I just want to show you where I live." She smiled up at him, tried hard not to laugh at his nervousness, and said, "It's all right, Bart. We already agreed that you're trustworthy, remember?" Inside the double doors, past a miniature foyer and up two steps, Meredith stopped, gaping, as she swung her head one way, then the other, taking in the vastness of the "room." "My word, Bart," she said. "This is your bedroom?" "Well, yes, technically," Bart agreed. "There's a bed in here somewhere." [Author's note: A king size, craftsman style bed, with matching side tables, and a blanket chest/bench stretching across the entire foot of the bed.] "I believe a real estate agent would call it a master suite." "It's bigger than my entire flat!" Chapter Eight Bart's room was really a large luxury apartment. The "sitting area" was an enormous living room with sectional sofa and a number of overstuffed chairs, all with plush cream colored upholstery, arranged around a glass-topped coffee table, and aimed generally toward an elaborate home entertainment complex. Another sofa and set of chairs with side tables and lamps focused on a stone fireplace. The kitchenette opened off the sitting area. A sturdy six-seat craftsman style dining room table and chairs made of white oak glowed golden under track lighting. The kitchenette did not contain a conventional oven, but did have every other major appliance. The countertops were polished granite. The spacious cabinets were oak, finished to match the dining table. A wine rack held about twenty bottles. Meredith checked a few labels. Some were quite good, but some were not even French. She would have to change that. "No island?" she teased. Kitchen islands were all the rage in modern suburban kitchens. Bart said, "I really like the table." One "corner" of the sitting area had rounded walls. It had to be one of the two towers. A spiral staircase curved upward clockwise around a metal pillar. She asked Bart, "May I?" At his nod, they started up. Meredith said, "You're right-handed, aren't you, Bart? I note this staircase is configured to give a right-handed defender freedom to wield a sword if defending the tower against an invader." "Number one, this is not a medieval castle." Meredith rolled her eyes and said, "More counting." "Number two," Bart said, "who do you think could chase me up a staircase? Number three, this is the last place I would pick to make a stand. And number four, if anyone invades this house, they'll have guns, not swords." "Wow, you counted all the way to four that time. Good show." At the next level, she found the smallest room in the house, unlike any she had seen elsewhere. Releasing a catch allowed the stair rail to open. A throw rug, with tassels, covered part of the floor. On the rug sat a rocking chair, a frail-looking, spindly chair that might collapse under Bart's weight. It had calico cushions edged with ruffles. Two benches, again of spindly wooden construction, with ruffled cushions, sat against the wall. A small, round table next to the rocker held a delicate looking lamp, sitting on a lace doily. An ornate, tasseled lampshade topped the lamp. On the walls, where tapestries might hang in an ancient keep, handmade quilts and framed pieces of needlework hung instead. Embroidery materials, yarn and knitting needles filled a wicker basket. Everything in this room looked so feminine. "Bart, what is up with this room?" she asked, puzzled and slightly concerned. Surely he wasn't this eccentric. And were his eyes watering? "This is my mother's sewing room," he said quietly. Oh. This room was a shrine. Meredith found herself blinking back tears of her own. After a few silent moments, she said, "Bart, may I see your cannon?" Bart smiled, then leered at her. "Well, I've never heard that euphemism for it before. But I kind of like it." "Bart," she said firmly, "you know perfectly well I meant the field piece on the roof. From what I've seen, I hardly think any part of your anatomy is of sufficient caliber to warrant the appellation 'cannon.'" "Ouch," he said. He led the way up the last coil of stairs to open the trapdoor above. The parapet was about shoulder high on Meredith at its highest, waist high at the low points of the crenellations. The cannon sat on a reinforced elevated platform too small to allow for recoil. A small pyramid of cannonballs rested next to the wall. Meredith scrambled up onto the platform to more closely examine the gun. The wheels were surprisingly large, the cannonballs surprisingly small. Bart said it was a nine pounder, she thought. That would be one hundred forty-four ounces. Twenty-eight grams per ounce gives--oh, dear--thirty times one forty-four is four three two zero. Minus two eighty-eight leaves four zero three two. Iron is about eight grams per cubic centimeter. Four zero three two divided by eight is five zero four. Oh, that works out neatly. Spherical volume is four thirds pi r cubed, just about four times r cubed. Five oh four divided by four is one twenty-six. Good. The cube root of one twenty-six is . . . damn. She knew it was peculiar to do arithmetic in her head for amusement. She suspected Bart wouldn't mind. He seemed fond of numbers himself. "Excuse me, Bart, you wouldn't happen to know the cube root of one hundred and twenty-six, would you?" Bart blinked at her several times. Now he must be thinking I'm the eccentric one, she thought. But he said, "Five is the cube root of one twenty-five. Is that close enough?" "Oh, of course. How silly of me." Sor is five centimeters, and the diameter is ten. That matched the cannonballs closely enough. Still she said, "I'm surprised somehow, Bart. I expected bowling ball size cannonballs. These appear more like croquet balls." "Well, again, this is a field piece, not a garrison gun. A team of horses pulled this and its ammunition caissons and had to keep up with the infantry. Fortresses could accommodate larger caliber weapons. Even then, bowling ball size sounds too big. That would be, what, twice the diameter of these? Twice the diameter would be eight times the volume and the mass. That's seventy-two pounds. The loaders would have a hard time with that." Meredith foresaw having conversations with him that would require a calculator. "The gun itself must weigh an enormous amount. How ever did you get it up here?" she asked. "I slung it over my shoulder and carried it," he boasted. He flexed his arms for her, showing off. She appreciated it, and gave his biceps a squeeze, but didn't believe him for a moment. He finally admitted, "I had to endure a crane operator nearly busting a gut laughing at me. The gun alone weighs more than a thousand pounds. With the wheels and the carriage, we're looking at about a ton. We lifted it in pieces and reassembled it up here, after strengthening not just the platform, but the structure of the whole tower. It was one of those projects that sounded simple at first, but sprouted complications like weeds." "You must have been pretty determined. You know, you could have simply displayed it in your yard." "That's pretty much what everyone says." Meredith sighted along the barrel. "Bart, are you aiming this at Sheila's house?" "That general direction. I thought she'd complain less than the other neighbors." Meredith put a finger on his chest and gazed way up into his eyes. "If we're to become involved romantically, I would prefer you not direct your cannon at other women." She raised one eyebrow at him suggestively. She looked back at the gun, considered for a moment, and said, "It is aimed generally in the direction of my flat. Perhaps you could increase the elevation somewhat, however." "It doesn't have the range to reach Birmingham from here," he said. Then he frowned. "Wait. Were you still talking about the field piece, or were you being euphemistic?" At her version of the Mona Lisa smile, he said, "Oh, okay. Meredith, would you like go back inside and . . . negotiate further?" She laughed at his word choice. "I absolutely would, Bart. Do come along." She led him to the trapdoor and down the spiral staircase. In the sitting room, he stopped himself just short of sweeping her into his arms. "Bart, why are you shy?" she asked. "I do want to move ahead with you," he said, "but I don't want to go too fast, either. We haven't even finished the tour of the master suite." She stared at him, puzzled, but hopeful, too. "You really are a gentleman, aren't you? Well, then, chop, chop, show me the rest of the suite." They walked past the bed through a dressing area that could have served a large theater company. Meredith wondered if the number of mirrors reflected Bart's vanity, but she noted with approval that he didn't look at himself in any of them as they walked by. They poked their heads into a closet bigger than most living rooms. It had a double dresser in the center, an armoire-sized safe in one corner, lots of rack space (less than a third used), and rich ornamental woodwork. Meredith said, "Bart, you have crown molding in your closet." Bart spread his hands as if to say, "Doesn't everyone?" The master bath was enormous, naturally, with pale stonework everywhere, a two basin sink in a long counter, two person jacuzzi style tub, large shower enclosure with built-in bench, toilet and bidet behind their own privacy door, and two linen closets. Outside in the main room again, Meredith stopped, pointedly looked at the king size bed, then turned to Bart. "You said you didn't intend to seduce me, and didn't want me to seduce you. But what is your plan, Bartholomew? Where do you normally 'negotiate' with female guests?" Bart, charmingly nervous, rubbed his lower lip and suggested, "Um, well, we could get cozy in front of the fireplace." Meredith said, "It's a trifle warm for a fire, don't you think?" At Bart's disappointed expression, she said, "How about if we sit in front of the fireplace and just pretend there's a fire?" Bart smiled dubiously, but said, "Okay, great. Can I get you anything to drink?" "Yes, perhaps half a glass of wine? Red, preferably a Bordeaux. I'll try not to spill on your carpets." Bart scanned the rack in the kitchenette, pulled a bottle out and asked her, "Is this a Bordeaux?" "You really don't know wines?" she said. It disappointed her a tiny bit. She reminded herself that her mother had not raised Bart. She examined the bottle, a Mouton-Rothschild, hmm'd a little and said, "Yes, this will do." "I take it you know quite a bit about wines?" Meredith laughed. "My mother started me on wine while I was still in diapers. It's something of a family passion. She is extremely French." Bart poured, and handed her a glass. Meredith promptly sat on the floor in front of the sofa facing the fireplace. Bart smoothly lowered himself down beside her. Meredith leaned into his shoulder, and said, "It's a lovely pretend fire, isn't it?" Bart gazed steadily at her face and said, "I'm glad there's no fire. It would tempt me to glance away from your beauty." "Why, Bart," she said, "is that flattery? You find me beautiful?" "Ravishing. Gorgeous. You know you are. I feel silly saying it, it's so obvious." "Still, you have my permission to say it now and then," she said. She added, "I think you're gorgeous, too." "Gorgeous?" He gave her a dismayed look. "Men aren't gorgeous. Handsome, maybe. And my nose is all squashed and twisty, and my chest is all hairy." "I like the hairy chest," she purred, then closely scrutinized his nose. "Your nose is a bit squashed, but I shouldn't call it twisty. It gives your face character. You might be too pretty otherwise. Did you break your nose doing karate?" "You know about that? Ah, Sheila ratted me out, didn't she? Karate the first time, volleyball the second time. Dangerous game, volleyball. A guy spiked the ball right in my face. That actually straightened my nose some. It used to be like this." He put a finger to his nose and pushed it to one side. Meredith laughed politely. "Bart, why do you pretend to this false humility?" "I know I'm tall, and in pretty good shape. Okay, very good shape. But I certainly don't think of myself as gorgeous," he insisted. "You are, though. I think you look like that actor, Tom Selleck, without the mustache, and with less bushy eyebrows. And you don't have his dimples." "Except for being different in every way, we're practically identical," Bart laughed. "He's hairier. And older. And he's skinnier." "Skinnier? You mean his muscles aren't as puffed up as yours, I suppose." She ran a hand lightly over his chest, shoulder and upper arm. He obligingly flexed for her. "You do enjoy showing off for me, don't you?" she said. "Yes, I think I do," he admitted. "I suppose you have women chasing after you all the time." "Not so much," he said. "I'm picky. And I had a bad experience." Sounding almost embarrassed, he added, "And I believe . . . well, I want to believe in love." Chapter Nine Meredith searched Bart's face closely, as if hunting for any sign of trickery or mockery. "Are you really this sweet? They say chivalry died ages ago." In a softer voice, she continued, "I'd like to believe love is possible, too. I wish sex could be about love. I thought it was at one time, but then I
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