Tainted by Ross Pennie Page B

she left the house without putting on her cologne or her eye makeup, I knew something was wrong.”
    “Did you notice anything else?”
    “She’d go shopping and not remember where she’d parked the car.”
    Natasha reckoned it might be safe to smile, to relax the conversation just enough to squeeze a few more details from this icy man. She smiled, nodded, and ventured: “I’ve done that, too.”
    “But not every time you take the car out.”
    “Oh dear. I see.” She paused. Her eyes caught a painting on the wall — hounds goring a fox. She gripped the hem of her skirt, pulled it straight, and looked at Vanderven. “When did you become aware of these things, Mr. Vanderven?”
    “For God’s sake. I don’t know. I’m a busy man.” He stared at the office door, as though expecting someone important to walk through it. After a moment, he frowned, as if joggled out of a distraction. “Look — she was fine in Rio. That was February. Carnivale. It must have been after that when she started forgetting things.”
    Now that he seemed prepared to provide a few answers, Natasha went quickly through her checklist. Where did Joanna grew up? Oxford, England. Where did they meet? Milan. When did she move to Canada? Three years ago. Was Joanna vegetarian? Certainly not; not even when she was a model.
    When Natasha asked where they purchased their food,Vanderven’s bull neck flushed above his shirt collar. “Christ. How the hell should I know?”
    Natasha’s cheeks burned, and her eyes stung with tears. She gripped her pad with both hands, stared at the polished brass carriage clock on Vanderven’s desk, and swallowed hard. Her cheeks stayed dry.
    “All I can tell you,” Vanderven said, “we ate a lot of pork and Angus beef.”
    He must have seen something in her face. Determination? Anger? Vulnerability?
    “Joanna was big on salads,” he continued, a hint of softness in his voice. “I hate chicken. Get too much of it at dinner meetings.”
    The telephone rang. He grabbed it before the second ring. “Yeah? Who? That guy from Detroit? Good, I’ve been expecting him. Park him on hold for a sec.” He pulled a business card from the desk drawer, scribbled on the reverse, and thrust it toward her. “Show this to my housekeeper at this address. She’ll let you in and tell you everything you want to know.”
    He picked up the phone, pressed a button, and started talking auto parts before she had time to stand.

CHAPTER 6
    A half-hour later, Natasha had typed and printed her page-and-a-half report. “Mr. Vanderven didn’t give me much to work with, I’m afraid,” she said, handing the two stapled sheets to Zol.
    “I’ll say,” he replied after scanning each line. As usual, he found her wording concise, her points crystal clear. “Not nearly enough to get Trinnock off my back. I’m dreading him getting wind of this CJD business before we’ve made some decent headway.”
    “I’m hoping to find something more useful tomorrow at Vanderven’s place.”
    Zol’s phone began to flash on his desk. He picked it up.
    “It’s Dr. Trinnock,” said Anne, “calling from Huntsville.”
    Zol scowled. The moment of truth had arrived. He’d been counting on Trinnock being too distracted and too well-oiled by his cottage-country blab-fest to pester him for a day or two. He took a deep breath as Anne transferred the call. “Hello, Peter,” he said. “Having a good meeting?”
    “It’s okay, but too cold for golf.” Ice cubes clinked in a glass, then Zol heard a burst of baritone laughter. “And you?” Trinnock said. “Anything exciting happening down there?”
    “Couple of things we’re still sorting out.”
    “Look, it’s all a bit hush-hush,” Trinnock continued, “but rumour has it there are two or three cases of variant CJD somewhere in southern Ontario. Tell me they’re not in Hamilton.”
    Zol’s stomach tightened. His hands turned cold. Had Banbury squawked? “Well, actually . . . yes. We had