by Brenda Joyce
The terrace where, just an hour ago, her guests had been dancing beneath the moon and the stars.
Frantic, territorial barking sounded from the terrace.
Claire needed a flashlight. She didn’t have one and couldn’t think where one was. Filled with fear, Claire headed after her dog. She reminded herself as she turned the corner of the house that her neighborhood was absolutely safe. But she knew something had happened, otherwise her dog would not be so upset. It crossed her mind to call the police, but what would she say? She reached the terrace, and fortunately, the lights she had turned on inside the living room shone directly upon it. Relief filled her.
David was passed out in a chair at the terrace’s farthest end.
Damn him! Claire thought furiously, not knowing whether to cry or shout.
Jilly had halted a dozen feet from him, and she continued to bark wildly. Now the other dogs came barreling over to her, and they began to bark as well, causing pandemonium. They were barking at David.
Claire stiffened. Why were the dogs so upset? “David?” She hesitated as the barking escalated in urgency. David did not move, and granted, he’d had a lot to drink, but shouldn’t the noise wake him now? She broke into a run.
Claire reached David and had a flashing premonition, but she grabbed him anyway and his head fell back—and that was when she saw the blood.
His throat was sliced open. Bloody and sliced open.
Blood covered his neck, his shirt, his chest.
He was lifeless.
She screamed.
CHAPTER 2
Claire sat in a chair at the table in her kitchen, clasping a now ice-cold mug of coffee in her hands. She was in shock. Sunlight was streaming into the room through the many wide windows; it was six or seven in the morning. Voices were everywhere, surrounding her, washing over her. Hushed tones. Tones of reverence for the dead and the grieving. Mostly they came from the other room, where detectives and policemen were in various huddles, while other officers where gathering up God knew what kind of evidence in tiny plastic bags. Someone had been taking pictures. Someone had drawn that stupid white line on her terrace where David had died. Someone had even cordoned off the living room and terrace with crime-scene tape. And someone had removed the body, hours and hours ago, loading the covered corpse onto a gurney. David was now a corpse.
Was this really happening?
Other voices drifted into her numb mind, too. Claire knew that Elizabeth wanted her to go home with the Dukes. Jean-Léon hadn’t countered, and William kept murmuring “Shocking, simply shocking,” over and over again.
Claire stared at her milky coffee. David had told her that he was in trouble. Big trouble. Why hadn’t she insisted he tell her just what kind of trouble? Maybe, somehow, his murder could have been prevented if she had known the facts. But what kind of trouble could he have been in?
The kind that resulted in murder, clearly.
To make matters even worse, she had been on the verge of asking him for a divorce.
Claire choked on the guilt. It was suffocating. She could not bear it.
Jilly came over and sat down, lifting one slim brown paw. She was an incredibly intelligent animal, and she knew Claire was distressed. Claire looked into her wide brown eyes and felt tears gathering in her own eyes. She smiled at the poodle and accepted the paw. “Good girl, Jill,” she managed brokenly. The short tail with the puff of fur at the end wagged enthusiastically.
“Mrs. Hayden?”
Claire heard a man’s voice that was unfamiliar. She twisted to look up, stroking the big poodle.
It was the tall, heavyset Irish-American detective in charge of the investigation. Muldoon, or something like that. He had already asked her hundreds of stupid, meaningless, irrelevant questions.
“It would be great if you could find that guest list for us now,” he said, his eyes kind.
Claire heard him but couldn’t focus on the words. Had David been murdered while she was upstairs flirting with Ian Marshall? Claire felt sick enough to retch.
She looked at him as he waited for her answer, and then she leaped up and ran to the kitchen bathroom, where she was violently ill.
She was never going to forget the sight of David sitting there in their iron lawn chair with his throat slashed open. She clung to the toilet bowl, now heaving dryly, for a very long time.
“Claire, you poor dear.” It was Elizabeth. Claire felt her hand on her back, between her shoulder blades. “Come, let me help you up.”
Somehow Claire stood. Elizabeth still wore her red jersey gown, and Claire was in her gold lace slip dress. She wore one of David’s terry bathrobes over it. “He told me he was in big trouble,” Claire whispered. “Why didn’t I make him tell me all the details?”
“Because you are human,” Elizabeth said gently. “Because you didn’t know what was going to happen just a few hours later.” Her eyes were filled with concern.
“Maybe I could have seen this coming—and this never would have happened if he had told me what was going on!” Claire cried.
The two women hugged, hard. “This is not your fault,” Elizabeth said fiercely, tears shimmering in her eyes. “Do not blame yourself, Claire!”
Claire knew it was her fault. Maybe if she had been a better wife, they would have had a better marriage, and David wouldn’t have gone outside alone.
What had he been involved in?
Claire had no idea. It had been years since she had been his confidante.
Claire let Elizabeth lead her out of the bathroom. She could not think, much less make even the most mundane of decisions. The detective was patiently waiting for her. Claire could not recall a single word that she had said to him earlier. “My husband was in trouble,” she began. “He told me earlier this evening, for the first time—and he was frightened. I saw it in his eyes.”
“You told me all of that, Mrs. Hayden,” the big man said gently. “I need the guest list. It’s urgent.” He smiled encouragingly at her.
Claire blinked. “The guest list. You mean for the party?”
He nodded at her.
Claire blinked. “You don’t think . . . that one of the guests . . . could do such a thing?” She had assumed the murderer to be an intruder, catching David unaware when he had wandered outside.
“Just get me the guest list,” the detective said.
“He’s asked you three times, Claire,” Jean-Léon said, coming over to her. “I’ll help you look for it. It must be in the office, right?”
Claire stared at her father. He had been the first one she called after finding David dead, and he had been the first to arrive after the initial squad car. “Dad, I want to go home with you,” she said impulsively. She had no intention of staying in her own home. In fact, she would never stay there again.
“You know that your old room is always waiting for you,” he said. “Come, Claire. Let’s look for the party list.”
Claire didn’t move. Why couldn’t he reach out and touch her? It would mean so much just now. It would mean everything.
When she was a little girl, she fantasized about his hugs. She imagined falling off her tricycle, skinning elbows and knees, and then rushing into his study. He would look up from his papers and work, and upon seeing her, he would leap to his feet, concerned. He would rush over to her, lifting her into his arms—holding her tightly, like a real father would.
Claire reminded herself that she was a grown woman. “Sure, Dad.”
She headed into the hall. Claire could hardly look into the living area or across it, at the terrace, as she passed. Her home looked more like a Hollywood movie set than a home. The policemen, the detectives in their jeans, the tape forbidding entry, the white line gruesomely depicting David’s body where it had been found . . . Claire hurried past, refusing to see any of it, refusing to see anyone. Words filtered to her—“Helluva party . . . yeah, real good time . . . and no one saw . . . copycat . . . a hundred suspects . . . a hundred and one”—followed by coar
se laughter.
There had been exactly 101 guests, including her.
How could this be happening?
“Claire?” Her father stood by the office door, waiting for her to precede him in.
Claire stepped into the sunny corner room and shivered violently. “I wanted a divorce, Dad.”
His eyes widened. “You? You asked him for a divorce?”
Claire shook her head, going over to the large desk centered before one window. One corner was stacked neatly with all of her mail, much of it bills, which she had yet to open. Somewhere in the looming pile was the guest list, she thought. When David worked at home, he usually worked on the PC, which was on a smaller, catty-corner table. By mutual agreement, they had divided the larger desk almost in half. His papers and work remained on the left side.
Her space was impossibly neat; his was cluttered and wildly disorganized. Claire had never been able to figure out how he could find anything when he sat down to work.
She refused to believe that one of her guests had murdered David. But automatically, she slipped the rubber band off the stack of mail, and sure enough, at the bottom was a neatly typed guest list, with addresses, phone numbers, and even company names and job titles included. Detective Muldoon would be pleased.
“Is that it?” Jean-Léon asked, coming over.
Claire nodded, suddenly aware of the very first lump of grief rising up within her. It came up from nowhere, hard and fast. In spite of their troubles, in spite of how far apart they had become, she had loved David. He had been a close friend for fifteen years. She would never see him again.
“Could you take this over to Muldoon?” she asked harshly.
“His name is Murphy, Claire. Sure.” Jean-Léon took the guest list and left the room.
Claire stared at David’s desk.
She had wanted out of her marriage—but not this way. And the biggest question remained. Why?
He had been in big trouble. Apparently he had felt it was his fault. Claire realized she had moved to stand in front of his half of the desk. She stared down at the various legal agreements and notes on the desk. Should she pore over everything? In her state of mind, it would probably be a waste of time. Claire was well aware that her utter daze was a state of shock, and she did not have a clue what she was looking for.
The police would find the killer. It was their job. But she sat down in David’s chair. There were half a dozen legal pads, scrawled over with David’s frantic handwriting, in front of her. She scanned one—but it was a business deal, and he had made notes involving some kind of merger. Lots of sums had been involved. She glanced at several more, and again, everything seemed to be about work brought home from the office. Claire felt certain that his job hadn’t killed him. David had been a damn good lawyer.
“Claire, dear?” Elizabeth was standing in the doorway. There was a hint of anxiety on her tone.
Claire turned. “I was wondering if I might find a clue to David’s death somewhere in this mess of his. Did he ever say anything to you, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth wandered over. “Dear, David wouldn’t have confided in me about that. He might have gone to William. You might want to ask him.”
“I will.” Claire sighed. It felt as if it was well past midnight; it felt as if she hadn’t slept in days. And the truth was, she hadn’t slept in a full day and more. The extent of her fatigue was beginning to sink in now.
“Elizabeth?” Claire heard William calling.
“Come home with us,” Elizabeth said gently.
“I appreciate the offer, but I am going to stay with Jean-Léon,” Claire said.
Elizabeth smiled. “Very well. At least let me make you some breakfast.”
Claire was hardly hungry, but she understood. “Thanks.”
“Scrambled eggs and toast? I think some protein might be a good idea.”
Claire nodded, and Elizabeth left the room.
Claire turned back to the desk and saw a large black-and-white photo sticking out from under David’s briefs, papers, and legal pads. Slightly curious, she pulled it free, and then she started.
The photo was clearly decades old, taken before the advent of color photography. If she did not miss her guess, she was staring at a photo taken during World War II. Two army officers were standing side by side, smiling at the camera. It wasn’t a clear shot, so Claire squinted and finally realized the uniforms were British, that one of the officers was of a higher rank than the other, and that both men were very young—no more than their early twenties. They were standing in front of a granite or stone building, so close to it that the building could not be identified. Claire turned the photo over and saw two names scribbled on the back: George Suttill and Lionel Elgin. Also written there were the words “probably the spring of 1944.”
Claire was thoroughly perplexed. She was looking at a photograph of two British army officers taken during World War II. This couldn’t possibly have anything to do with whatever David had gotten himself involved in, could it? Claire did not think so. But it was still so odd. David was not a World War II buff. In fact, he wasn’t a history buff at all.
Claire was about to dismiss the photo when she realized that another sheet of paper was stuck to its underside. She separated the photograph and the second sheet. For the second time in a minute or so, she blinked in real surprise.
It was a fax from an investigative agency in London.
Enclosed photo of Suttill and Elgin. Possible dead end. Please advise—WC.
Claire stared at the fax. What was going on? Who was Suttill? Who was Elgin? Then she looked at the date—it had been sent just two days ago. What the hell was this about? Why had David hired the Thompson Cantwell Investigative Agency, a firm based in London?
Bewildered, she put the fax and photo back on David’s desk. Maybe she was so dazed that her mind was failing her; perhaps there was an obvious explanation for David’s sudden interest in two army officers from World War II. Claire realized she was too tired to dwell on the subject. But of course, she must mention to Murphy what she had found.
Claire took both items in hand and went to find the detective.
David’s lawyer came to her the following day.
Claire sat stiffly and unfeelingly in the wide-open living area of her father’s vast Tiburon home, which overlooked the bay from the top of a hill in a very exclusive neighborhood of multimillion-dollar redwood homes. Jack Thorne, a tall, lanky, bald lawyer, sat on a chair beside the glass coffee table, where the housekeeper had placed two cups of coffee, a sugar bowl, and creamer. Neither one of them drank the coffee. He opened his briefcase and removed documents. He had come to read the will.
Jack Thorne coughed. “Claire?”
Claire wore a straight skirt and short-sleeved turtleneck with stockings and mid-heeled pumps; everything black. She was devoid of makeup, her hair pulled severely back in a twist. Claire knew she looked like a grieving widow, and it gave her a sense of satisfaction.
She felt like burning everything colorful in her closet. Soon she probably would. She also felt like throwing out all of her makeup—every single lipstick, blusher, and eye shadow.
She felt like rampaging through their home, turning over chairs and knocking over the furniture.
But nothing would bring David back or absolve her of the guilt for her role in his death. Nothing would take away the ball of fear she was trying to keep buried deep inside.
“Claire? I’d like to read the will.”
Claire looked at him—he was actually a family friend. She kept her hands clasped in her lap. “Is it really necessary? I assume I’ve inherited any assets David held singly.”
Thorne nodded. “There weren’t many, the estate is held jointly. There’s the car, the sailboat, a few minor stocks, and it’s all yours.” He smiled a little at her.
Claire shrugged. She did not give a damn about David’s Mercedes, Sunfish, or some small stock portfolio. “You didn’t have to come all the way out here just to tell me
that.”
“Of course I did, Claire. He also specifies that he wishes to be cremated, his ashes scattered over the bay.”
Claire nodded. “I know. He mentioned it once or twice.” She inhaled to fight sudden tears. “I just always thought I’d be scattering his ashes in fifty years or something.” Her voice broke.
“I know. This is terrible. Are there any leads?”
Claire shrugged and quickly recovered her composure. “I haven’t heard from the police since I left the house yesterday morning.”
Thorne nodded.
She looked more closely at him. Something was wrong. There was something in his eyes that she did not like. “Jack? What’s wrong? Is there something you have to tell me—that you don’t want to tell me?”
“Yes, there is, Claire. But maybe we should wait a week or so to go over some details that eventually you will have to deal with.”
Claire was as rigid as a board. She stared at his heavily lined face. “What kind of details?”
He hesitated.
“Jack?” Her tone was as sharp as any whiplash, and she heard it. But she was alarmed now. “If there is something serious that I should know about, then I must know, and so be it.”
He sighed. “Claire, David has been in trouble financially for some time.”
Claire looked at him, not quite understanding. “What?”
He repeated himself.
She fought to make sense of what he had said. “David told me we’d taken a hit recently. All of our money is held jointly. When I was twenty-five and came into my trust from my mother’s family, he took charge of that money. I hope you’re not talking about our mutual investments?”
“I am.”
Claire just stared.
“There’s not much left, Claire,” Jack Thorne said grimly. “What?”
“In the past several years, he moved most of your portfolio into technology stocks. You surely know what happened. There’s not much left.”
Claire was stunned. “What do you mean? My mother’s family left me a quarter of a million dollars, which David invested for us when I was twenty-five. That was over seven years ago. I believe he added a percentage of his earnings every year. By now, we should have close to a million tucked away.”
