The Tax Haven

That evening, the restaurant at the Crescent Bay Beach Club, or “The Club,” as it was called, was not quite full when Lewis entered the dining room. The maitre’d took Lewis to a table that Sir Gordon had permanently staked out years before, and, presumably, for years to come. It had a grand view of the beach, yet Sir Gordon always chose to sit with his back to the sea, facing the foyer of the dining room, as if to survey comings and goings through the entrance. Lewis found this odd because most patrons jostled to find a seat with an ocean view. Not Sir Gordon. Depending on who entered the dining room, he was positioned to be able to either rise and greet someone he was eager to see, or be forewarned and escape those he wished to avoid. The obvious conclusion reached by Lewis was that the Fairweathers were eagerly sought out by most members, another sign that made Lewis feel comfortable that he was among respectable company and was most fortunate to be so.
Sir Gordon’s new wife, called Bunny by everyone, was, at fifty, a grand-looking woman. Must have been smashing in her youth, Lewis thought. He was influenced more by her body than anything else because, for her age, she was incredibly fit and shapely. She played a mean game of tennis he was warned and he’d seen her strike the ball while playing golf. Bunny was extremely fit and carried her age well. He interpreted her behavior toward him as flirtatious but resisted any response. Off limits, he warned himself, despite Bunny’s increasingly provocative overtures.
Sir Gordon’s midriff hung too far over his belt. There was a flabbiness to his face, possibly the result of too many client dinners with ample amounts of booze. His face bore the brunt of his lifestyle: blotchy red skin, a double chin and unkempt nose hairs that Lewis felt the urge to pull out every time they met. But Sir Gordon more than made up for his pedestrian appearance with his bon homie approach to people in general. No one could dislike Sir Gordon; at least that was what Lewis presumed.
Tonight was not a particularly special night; it was simply de rigeur to be seen dining at the Club. Lewis felt honored by the Fairweather’s inclusion of him for more than the occasional dinner. He always enjoyed the lively banter and introductions to other ‘desirables’ on the island, as Sir Gordon unapologetically labeled them. Thus, it was a sudden surprise to Lewis when Sir Gordon bolted out of his chair after scribbling a note and handing it to his wife. It wasn’t the sudden departure that struck Lewis as odd; it was the look on Sir Gordon’s face as he hurriedly left the table...a troubled one.
Bunny Fairweather tried to be unobtrusive as she glanced at the note, but when she wrinkled her eyebrows unconsciously and stared like the proverbial deer in the headlights, Lewis was quick to notice it. She glanced, only momentarily, at the note which read: Trouble. Arthur’s in the lobby. Makes excuses for me and leave as soon as you can. Similar to Lewis’s assessment of Sir Gordon’s demeanor, Bunny’s was also a look of discomfort, if not alarm. What’s going on? Lewis wondered as he waited for what might come next. It didn’t take long.
A tall rakish man was approaching the Fairweather table at a fair clip. He brushed the maitre’d aside without so much as a nod when challenged at the entrance to the dining room. Well-dressed in a tan summer suit with matching tie, spotless shoes and well-coiffed graying hair, the stranger reminded Lewis of the old British actor Basil Rathbone, the epitome of Sherlock Holmes in the made-in-Hollywood series about Arthur Conan Doyle’s famous private-eye. The stranger had a narrow hawkish nose, quite aquiline, but long, under which was a pencil-thin moustache that added a sinister touch to his appearance. He immediately turned to Bunny.
“Good evening Bunny. Sooo good to see you. Where’s Gordon tonight? Off doing one of his ubiquitous deals? I hope he’s not away for long. I’m anxious to chat with him.”
“I’m afraid I have to disappoint you, Arthur.“
“Why’s that, Bunny?” said the stranger, eyeing her suspiciously.
“Gordon’s been called to bit of an emergency. I don’t expect we’ll see him any further tonight. Is it something I could help you with?” she asked, in a conciliatory tone.
“Nothing that you need to concern yourself with Bunny; it can wait. Perhaps I could drop by your residence later, tonight.”
“I shouldn’t imagine so, Arthur. These meetings often take on proportions larger than life. I really don’t expect to see him before I retire.” The look on the stranger’s face left no doubt as to his displeasure.
“As you wish Bunny; but please tell Gordon I have something very important to discuss with him. He knows where to reach me.” As the stranger rose from the chair, he forced a smile and then added a quite unexpected remark, “You have met my wife Delia, haven’t you Bunny?” Before she could reply Arthur beckoned to a stunning woman approaching from the maitre’d’s desk. “Never mind; here she comes now. I’d like you to meet her.”
Lewis’s reaction was one of delight. It was the lady in the yellow hat from The Crescent Bay Club...sans the yellow hat! Surprised, he withheld any greeting that would suggest to her husband or Bunny Fairweather that the two had already met...that he’d tried to pick her up, in fact. No...better to play stranger himself and avoid any embarrassment. Fleming rose, turned to greet his wife and made the introductions.“Bunny, may I present my wife Delia. Darling, this is Bunny, the amazing wife of my good friend Sir Gordon Fairweather, but I’m afraid I do not know this gentleman,” he said, turning to Lewis.
Bunny was quick to respond. “Pardon my poor manners, Arthur…this is Lewis Ainslie, a frequent visitor from Canada and a friend of Sir Gordon’s and mine. He occasionally joins us for dinner at the club when he visits San Sebastian. Lewis, may I present Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Fleming.” Following nods and smiles and the shaking of hands, Arthur Fleming sat down in Sir Gordon’s vacant chair without invitation, and beckoned a waiter to bring another for his wife. “Why don’t we join you?” the stranger asked, rhetorically. “Anything particularly good on the menu tonight? I do love rockfish.”
Lewis had earlier picked up on the tension between the parties and wondered how this stranger might be connected to the Fairweathers. Bunny pretended to read the menu and Delia stared vacantly at the centerpiece of the table. It portended to be an uncomfortable experience, Lewis surmised, but Bunny’s ingrained habit of polite hosting dictated her deportment for the next hour. The banter was sparing and meaningless, but polite nevertheless, and Bunny and Arthur kept up this charade throughout the meal. When Delia excused herself to go to the ladies room, Lewis used this opportunity to excuse himself, as well. He’d leave Bunny and Arthur Fleming to their own devices.
Lewis lingered near the washrooms waiting for Delia to appear. When she spotted him, she approached without hesitation and said, with an unmistakable European accent, “Well, this is a surprise. I thought you said you weren’t a member of the Club when we met today.”
“I’m not. But I do get invitations to dine here from some of the locals I’ve met. Your husband seems to know the Fairweathers quite well. How are they connected, do you know?”
“Arthur is quite secretive about his business relationships but...