Waiting for Willa Read online

  So if she were caught now, it must be because she had wanted to be. Was it the father, the mysterious Gustav, who wasn’t so enthusiastic about the situation?

  This was all pure speculation. Grace only hoped that Peter Sinclair would be able to clarify matters. How much did a secretary confide in her boss? Depended on the boss. Perhaps Willa had some girlfriends in the embassy, though she had never been one to make close friendships with women. In a foreign country, where they all were exiles, it could be different.

  Could it?

  Absently, Grace opened her suitcase and began to unpack. Expecting a visit of no more than a week, she hadn’t brought many things. Wardrobe space should be no problem—except that the wardrobe in Willa’s bedroom was crammed with Willa’s clothes.

  Hadn’t she taken anything to wear on her honeymoon? Or had she gone mad about clothes and bought everything new, ignoring the perfectly smashing glittering gold cocktail dress, the fashionable silk jersey culottes, the little red suit that looked brand-new, the slacks and tops, the shaggy black fur coat (just the thing for the country in this chilly weather), the rows of shoes with hardly a scuffed heel among them.

  Was she marrying a millionaire?

  With a hand that trembled slightly, Grace began opening the drawers of the dressing table. It was hard to guess how much makeup had gone—Willa had always had dozens of mysterious pots—nor did Grace know about her jewelry, although there were two or three pieces of quite good junk stuff here. Lingerie she couldn’t possibly judge. It stood to reason that Willa would have bought a sexy new negligee and nightgown. And the dressing gown hanging behind the door had seen better days.

  But the clothes in the wardrobe were definitely puzzling. Had Peter Sinclair or anybody ever seen Willa in that gold cocktail dress. It wasn’t exactly standard wear for a shorthand typist at an embassy party.

  “Oh, Willa!” Grace burst out aloud. “Why on earth have you become so secretive? If you didn’t want me to know what you were up to, why did you send me that SOS? Now I suppose I’ll find the frig full of food?”

  Which was exactly what she did, although it couldn’t be said that it was overstocked. Just the usual basic things such as butter, frozen vegetable, eggs, a half loaf of bread, the remains of a joint carefully wrapped in polyethylene.

  The kinds of things one would leave if one were going to be away only a day or two. Or had left too suddenly to attend to details like that.

  Chapter 2

  THE DOOR OF THE flat in Vasahuset was opened by a little girl, freckle-faced, plain, pig-tailed. Behind her stood a little boy, equally plain.

  “Hello,” said Grace. “Does Mr. Sinclair live here?”

  The children burst into giggles.

  “Of course he does. He’s our father,” said the girl pertly, and the boy, less pert but not to be outdone by his sister, said, “Fathers always live with their mothers and children.”

  “Be quiet, Alexander! The lady knows that. My brother is only four,” the little girl explained to Grace, at the same time adding politely, “Won’t you come in?”

  A voice shouted from the living room. “Georgy! Alexander! Don’t keep Miss Asherton standing on the doorstep.”

  “She’s coming in, Daddy. I just invited her.”

  A man appeared, smoothing thick fair hair. He wasn’t handsome, his skin was sprinkled with faded freckles (which his children had inherited), he was a little too pudgy, but the smile he gave Grace had charm.

  “Miss Asherton? Do come in. These talkative brats are in the process of being taught to be seen but not heard, if you can believe it. We should have begun years ago. Go upstairs, both of you.” He held out his hand for Grace’s coat. The children were already protesting.

  “But, Daddy, it’s only six o’clock. We haven’t had our supper.”

  “Upstairs!” roared their father, pointing.

  The children, acknowledging defeat, fled. Peter Sinclair gave a rueful smile, motioning Grace into the living room.

  “Not my best diplomatic effort. Those kids are spoiled. My wife says it comes from always living abroad. What will you drink? Sherry, gin, the drink of the country, snaps. No, you’d better not have that. The Swedes are rather fanatical about only having it with food. And very good it is then.”

  “I’d love a Scotch,” Grace confessed. “I must admit I’m absolutely all at sea. Coming here to see Willa and finding this mystery.”

  “Was she expecting you?” Peter Sinclair asked, his back to her as he stood at the cocktail cabinet.

  “No. I came on the spur of the moment.”

  “Well, then. No mystery. Willa didn’t expect you, therefore wasn’t waiting to meet you. Did you say you were her cousin?”

  “Yes. But we’re more like sisters, actually. We have a very close relationship.”

  Peter Sinclair had turned to hand her the drink. He looked at her critically.

  “You don’t look alike. Not in the least.”

  He was emphatic about that. Grace thought he was dismissing her quieter appearance as uninteresting. So it was, not only in comparison with Willa’s tendency to flamboyance, but because she had always been withdrawn with an introspective, often scowling face, hair that for all its shaping and brushing usually took on an appearance of untidy spiky ends, a body that was even thinner than Willa’s, and small, blunt-fingered hands.

  “I didn’t say we were alike. I merely said we understood each other. Told each other everything. Or most things, I guess.”

  “But not an important thing like marriage plans,” the man said thoughtfully, dropping ice into another glass. “That’s what’s worrying you?”

  “Of course. Wouldn’t it you?”

  “I suppose it would, if I were as close to somebody as you say you were to Willa. I don’t know. In the big things, I find people can be extraordinarily secretive. For fear of opposition to their plans, perhaps.”

  “Why do you keep saying ‘was’? And ‘were’?” Grace asked. “You did on the telephone, too. You said Willa was a fantastic girl. Now you’re saying I was close to her, not that I am.”

  “Good gracious, you are sensitive about small things, aren’t you? I didn’t mean anything. I suppose I’m already seeing Willa in the past. After all, she’s been gone ten days, and I’ve got a new girl, a Miss Jenkins, fantastic typist. I can’t give her enough work. But she intimidates me. I think I preferred your cousin’s slapdash methods.” He shrugged. “Secretaries come and go. Didn’t you know that? You’re not one yourself?”

  “No.”

  He was waiting to be told what she was. Grace didn’t oblige. She had the feeling that he was deliberately keeping off the subject of Willa’s disappearance, cleverly leading her down other trails. This came from being a diplomat, she supposed.

  “Please, Mr. Sinclair, tell me about this Gustav. Or whoever he is.”

  “That’s what Willa always called him. And my name’s Peter. Let’s be friendly. What’s yours?”

  “Grace. But did you never meet him?”

  “No. I was only Willa’s boss, you know. I didn’t pry into her private life.”

  “Of course not. I understand that. But knowing what a chatterbox Willa was—and with something as important as being married, I’d have thought she would have told you more.”

  “Isn’t that what I just said? The bigger the thing, the more secretive a person can be.”

  “If there’s something to hide,” Grace said uneasily.

  “Such as a runaway marriage?”

  “Is that what it was?”

  “Looks like it, doesn’t it?”

  “But why?”

  “Who knows? Opposition from the man’s family, perhaps. Perhaps he was already married and had to get a divorce. Perhaps he wanted to present everybody with a fait accompli.”

  “Don’t you really know anything more than that?”

  Peter sat on the sofa beside Grace. He had large, very sincere blue eyes, which now looked into hers. She imagined him look
ing in the same way at a recalcitrant secretary or at a foreigner who failed to understand the British point of view.

  “I’ll tell you exactly how much I know, which is damn little. Willa was quite a party girl. I expect you knew that. Lately she had been having too many late nights, arriving late to work, and making shocking mistakes. Really, her work was getting to be a ballup. I had to tell her off several times. She said she was sorry. She was involved with this character Gustav. He never wanted to go to bed. No, what I meant was that he let her get precious little sleep. I don’t know whether they went to bed or not. That wasn’t my affair. I was only worried about badly typed letters and unpunctuality. It was a pity. We all liked Willa. My wife did, too. She used to come here and baby-sit for us. Until she met Gustav, and then she never had time.”

  “Gustav is Swedish?”

  “Seems so, doesn’t it? A name like that.”

  “But Willa never told you anything about him?”

  “No. I have the idea he lived in the country. Though where I got that from, I don’t know. Willa used to go off for weekends. Then one morning two weeks ago she burst into my room, five minutes early for once, and she said she was giving notice. She was going to be married, and would it be highly inconvenient if she packed up and left there and then?”

  “That very minute!”

  “Practically.”

  “Did you agree?”

  “I couldn’t do much else. I could see I wouldn’t get any sense out of her if she stayed. She knew I could get a temporary girl from the pool. She wasn’t interested in another week’s wages—or what was owing to her, come to that. She went off without leaving an address, and there’s still a check waiting for her to collect.”

  “So actually no one at all knows where she is.”

  “As of now, no. But don’t look so alarmed, Grace. She’ll turn up. Have another drink.”

  Grace let him take her glass. She was trying to think of all the practical things she should ask.

  “Tell me this, Mr. Sinclair. I mean Peter. Do you think she was pregnant?”

  He was slow in answering. He was lifting ice with silver tongs, dropping it with a plop into the glass.

  “That could be,” he said at last.

  “Are you guessing? Or did she tell you so?”

  “No, she didn’t tell me. She made only an oblique remark about getting to the altar in time. Not so oblique if you analyze it. I expect her meaning was crystal clear.”

  “She apparently had several months in which to get to the altar,” Grace said dryly. “If she didn’t even look pregnant.”

  “Yes. I think the implication was that Gustav might change his mind. She was catching him in the way she would catch a train.”

  Peter suddenly began to laugh, his blue eyes merry.

  “I don’t know why we’re being so doomlike. This is surely a happy occasion. Willa has caught the man she wanted. If she hadn’t wanted him, she wouldn’t have let a little mistake like a pregnancy drive her into his arms. Before long she’ll turn up, a blooming bride.”

  “Did he want to be caught, I wonder?” Grace murmured. “Are Swedes honorable about these things?”

  “As much as most men, I should think. Mind you, if a girl sets out deliberately to trap a man in that way—”

  “Willa wouldn’t do that,” Grace said indignantly. “I know. I know her. But she wouldn’t have an abortion, either, to please anybody.”

  “Why wouldn’t she do that?”

  “Because she had one once, and it nearly broke her heart. She was guilt-ridden for ages. She said the baby would come back to haunt her.”

  “Goodness me. That’s a side of Willa I didn’t know.”

  “Should you have?” came a voice from the doorway.

  They both turned to see the woman standing there, a slight dark-haired person with curiously lackluster eyes.

  “Kate,” said Peter, springing up. “Come meet Grace. Willa’s cousin. I told you she was coming. My wife, Kate, Grace.”

  They shook hands. Kate’s hand was limp. She looked tired. There were dark circles around her eyes.

  “Hello,” she said. “You’re not like Willa, are you? How did you happen to come to Stockholm so soon? Did Willa send for you?”

  “No. Well, not exactly. She wrote me a letter that I didn’t understand.”

  “Goodness, you must be fond of each other if you would fly here because of a mysterious letter.”

  “She didn’t answer my telegram,” said Grace. “That isn’t like her. And yes, we are close.” Her tone was slightly aggressive. Why should this blasé woman think emotion in families strange?

  “You didn’t tell me about the letter,” said Peter.

  “I hadn’t got around to it. Is it important?”

  “Only according to what was in it.”

  The cry for help? Grace had no intention of telling that secret arrangement to a stranger. At least, not yet. If things got more mysterious or alarming—but they wouldn’t, of course. Kate was taking the drink her husband handed her and drinking it as if she were thirsty. Her dark eyes watched Grace from over the top of the glass.

  “There was nothing much in the letter,” Grace said. “Willa just said she had got into a situation that she couldn’t get out of. I expect it meant, as Peter says, that she was pregnant. Did you think so?” she asked Kate.

  “Yes, I did. Since you ask me. Not that she told me so. She kept that confidence for my husband.”

  Was the flatness of her voice hiding bitterness? But this young woman’s attitude was all downbeat, as if nothing pleased or amused her. She was quite a contrast with her husband with his direct, persuasive smile.

  “You’re wrong, love,” Peter said easily. “She didn’t tell me. She only hinted. But I can put two and two together.”

  “She nearly passed out here one evening,” Kate said. “After only one drink. She said she was tired. Too many late nights. But if you’ve had a baby yourself, you know the look. When she gave her notice the next week, I could put two and two together. Besides, she was suddenly wearing that ostentatious ring.”

  “Kate means that it looked like a family heirloom.” Peter explained. “It was a man’s signet ring, actually, lapis lazuli with an engraved coat of arms. Willa had to wear it on her middle finger. It was too big for her.”

  “Would this be the coat of arms of Gustav’s family?”

  “Haven’t the slightest clue,” Peter said cheerfully. “I’m not up on the old Swedish families. We don’t move in those circles. Do we, darling?”

  “So what do you plan to do, Grace?” Kate asked. “Stay here until Willa turns up?”

  “Yes. I do.” Grace made the decision in that moment. “I can stay in her flat. The caretaker is a jolly Swedish lady with eyes like white marbles. She tells me the rent is paid until the end of the year, so of course, Willa will be back. Anyway, she’s left practically all her things behind. A marvelous Gustav the Third bed. I can see Stockholm while I wait.”

  “Enjoy yourself,” Kate said ironically.

  “Don’t you like it? I thought it a very handsome city from the view I’ve had from taxi windows.”

  “Wait until the winter. Wait until it’s never daylight, and the snow falls, and the night goes on forever. I’ve had one winter here, and I don’t know how I didn’t go mad.”

  Peter put his arm around his wife in an affectionate gesture.

  “Kate still hankers for Surbiton, don’t you, love? You were the same in Cyprus, where there was plenty of sun. It isn’t only the great northern winter; it’s permanent homesickness.”

  Kate made a sudden movement, snuggling her head into his shoulder.

  Peter looked over her head at Grace.

  “I’ve applied for a home job after my tour here is finished. But I’ve got another two years, and you’ll have to stick it, darling, or have me a junior clerk all my life.”

  “I absolutely dread the winter,” Kate muttered. “The children indoors all the time,
the noise they make, and every time you look out of the window it’s dark. It gives me the willies.”

  “Oh, come off it, love, it isn’t as bad as that. You get to plenty of parties.”

  “Embassy parties.”

  “Well, they’re not too bad. Duty-free liquor. Plenty of new faces. We have one here right now. Grace, will you come to a small do we’re having tomorrow evening? As my wife says, it will be mostly embassy people, but you’ll meet everyone who knew Willa. Someone might be able to tell you something.”

  “I’d love to come,” said Grace. “How nice.” She rose to go.

  “I’ll drive you back,” said Peter. “Okay, darling?” He gave his wife another squeeze. “Won’t be long. Tell the kids I’ll be up to say good-night.”

  In the car Peter gave a barely perceptible sigh and said, “I’m sorry Kate put on her act. I’m afraid she usually does.”

  “Is she so unhappy here?”

  “I suppose she is. It’s really more a matter that she won’t be happy. She knew this would be our kind of life when she married me. She’s a great family girl, is Kate. Wants everyone around, Mum, Dad, aunts, the lot. Especially when it’s Christmas or the kids’ birthdays. She’s unalterably suburban at heart, bless her.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “Oh, God!”

  “But don’t get me wrong,” he said after a pause. “We belong to each other. We take the bad with the good. She stays here another two years; then I do a stint of home duty. But hey, what am I doing, airing my problems, when it’s yours we’re supposed to be sorting out?”

  “Not mine, Willa’s.”

  “Oh, Willa hasn’t any now. Mark my words. What do you do, Grace? For a living, I mean.”

  “I write.”

  “Do you now?” His voice was full of admiration. “Books?”

  “Novels.”

  “Aha! So that explains your flights of imagination.”

  “About Willa? But I have only been sorting out facts.”

  “With a highly melodramatic turn of mind, if I may say so. Flying off to Stockholm like this. Nice for us, though. You’re an attractive girl, Grace. Different from Willa.”