“Young lady, I thoroughly detest this insinuating tone of yours.”
“My guess is you’ve tracked his every step,” Kirsten continued. “The only problem was, it simply isn’t done in your circle.”
“What isn’t?”
“Going after your own husband.”
The woman on the other end was silent so long Kirsten feared she had hung up. Then Evelyn said, “Obviously you are addressing the wrong person. But whoever it is that has acted in such a manner, I would say they had an uncommon appreciation of the cold sweet taste of careful revenge.”
“I’m not looking to blame anyone,” Kirsten said. “I just want to find the child.”
This time the pause was even longer. “Not here.”
Then the phone went dead.
CHAPTER
———
60
EVELYN LLOYD TOOK GREAT CARE with her dress and makeup. Everything she selected bore the invisible stains of memories made bitter by lies and deception. The gown was a Dior one-off, designed for the first reception they had given after completing the renovations of Kedrick’s family castle in Wiltshire. The work had taken three years and almost four million of her dollars. They had brought in woodworkers from the Garonne region of central France, the only place they could find people still skilled in the Jacobean style of paneling. The step-in fireplace was carved from massive blocks of white Grecian marble, sculpted as close to the original sketches as they could manage in this day and age.
Her diamond-and-emerald necklace had also been a gift from Kedrick—acquired with her funds, of course. They had celebrated their ninth wedding anniversary with a weekend getaway to Paris. They had taken a suite at the Ritz and walked across the Place Vendôme to the same jewelers who had served Kedrick’s great-great-grandfather, back in the family’s heyday. That same weekend had been Kedrick’s first occasion to hear Erin Brandt sing. The young diva had lit up the Paris Opera House with a brilliance that had outshone even these fabulous gems. Evelyn fastened the necklace into place, grimacing at the bitter irony of such tainted and poisoned joy.
She gave her makeup a careful check, then crossed the foyer to Kedrick’s office. The servants all had been given the afternoon off. The apartment was uncommonly still. The only sound came from Kedrick’s sound system. She recognized the muted strains of Tchaikovsky’s tragic opera Eugene Onegin. Even here was a note of fatal correctness.
Evelyn pushed open the doors and entered the stage.
Her husband was seated behind his massive stinkwood desk. His cell phone lay open and waiting upon the leather blotter. His hair was a scattered sheath of winter wheat. His face looked ravaged with strain. He cast her a glance, then started to look away. Then it gradually registered. She stood with regal dignity, both hands holding the handles to the double doors. “Yes?”
“I came to inform you,” she said, “that this particular script will not play out as you intended.”
He sought to gather himself, but failed. “I beg your pardon?”
She started to walk over and turn off the music, but decided it suited the occasion more than silence. The final act was building now. Onegin was about to confront the utter depravity of his misdeeds. “Let me guess. You and your minions can’t locate the child.”
Awareness dawned within that burning gaze. “What are you saying?”
“You couldn’t possibly think that I would let you get away with all this. My only regret is that I did not think you capable of murder. But then, I have always sought to believe the best in you. Even when you have constantly sought to prove me wrong.”
“My dear, you are not making—”
“The authorities are seeking your Mr. Jones and that strange little German fellow as we speak.” She rose up to her full height, wishing there was some sense of satisfaction to be found in this moment. Some vindication. “And both Marcus Glenwood and Kirsten Stansted are alive.”
He took the news as he would a blow to the heart. “What?”
“I failed to protect Ms. Brandt, though heaven knows she deserved her fate as much as anyone. But as for these two, my guess is they are now sharing their suspicions with the proper authorities.”
The rage she had always known was there gradually fueled the ravaged features. “Then there is nothing to keep me from exacting my final revenge upon you.”
“Revenge for what, Kedrick? Remaining blind to your deceit for far too long?” Evelyn stepped back enough to call into the foyer, “Come here, please.”
The muscled young detective stepped in alongside her. Evelyn watched her husband descend into the dust of defeat. She then pointed to the sound system. In this production Onegin confessed to his life of misdeeds, then shot himself in the temple. “Perhaps you should consider the wisdom of your one and only love.”
CHAPTER
———
61
JUDGE RACHEL SEARS pointed Kirsten into the seat directly in front of her desk. They were in Sears’ private office on the district courthouse’s ninth floor. Photographs of her husband and child were situated on her desk and the two window ledges. The sofa upon which Marcus sat was beige leather. The feminine tone was matched by the three chairs and the Indian carpet and the desert scenes on her walls. Kirsten tried to keep from paying Marcus any attention, but it was hard. He looked increasingly pale, as though his strength continued to seep from some undetected wound. She wanted him back in bed, resting and comfortable. She wanted the same for herself. But not yet.
Judge Sears had the gaze of too many hard days compressed into too little time. She did not shout. She did not need to. Her presence was commanding, even here in her personal space with the judge’s robes hung on the back of her door. “You want to tell me what has happened here?”
“I don’t know,” Kirsten replied. “But I can guess.”
Wilma Blain was seated beside the court stenographer over by the window. Kirsten was alone in her front-and-center position, taking the full brunt of Sears’ gaze. “Erin Brandt and Kedrick Lloyd had a long-term affair. Kedrick was spellbound by her. Erin was Erin.”
Judge Sears had the ability to bark at scarcely above a whisper, “What is that supposed to mean?”
Wilma Blain said mildly, “Why don’t we just let the lady tell her tale.”
The judge and the DA exchanged a long glance. Then Sears turned back to Kirsten and rolled her finger. Go.
“Erin Brandt was a magnetic, alluring, beguiling diva. More than anything, she wanted a starring role at the Met. She considered it the jewel in her crown. There were obstacles. She thought Kedrick Lloyd, as a Met board member, was in a position to give her what she wanted. She used him.”
“The child is Kedrick’s?”
“Kedrick thought so. And that was enough for Erin. But still Kedrick could not get Erin a debut at the Met. So to punish Kedrick, she married Dale.”
“Why?”
“Dale Steadman is Kedrick’s best friend.”
Wilma gave a soft unh unh. “That was some woman.”
“It gets worse. Kedrick contracted a rare form of cancer known as CML. His only hope lay in a bone marrow transplant from a blood relative. And there was only one.”
The DA snapped her fingers. “The attempted kidnap we figured for a burglary.”
“This alarmed Erin so much she returned to Wilmington, drugged Dale, set the house on fire, and abducted her own child.”
“All this so she could sing?”
“By this time, I think she was after revenge. Kedrick couldn’t give her the debut she wanted. So she hit him where she knew he could still be hurt. She demanded money. A lot.”
Marcus spoke weakly from the sofa. “The hotels.”
Kirsten resisted the urge to turn around. “He was busy selling them by the time we entered the picture. Which means Erin was holding his supposed child up for ransom.”
Judge Sears opened the file on her desk, fiddled with her pen a long moment, then turned to the court reporter and said, “
You ready?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“All right. This court is now in session. I have before me a request from the district court of Manhattan requesting the extradition of Dale Steadman. I am hereby turning this down.” Knowing Marcus was beyond reach just then, she glanced from Kirsten to the DA. “Can I leave it to you to pass on the information?”
Wilma smiled. “With greatest pleasure.”
“Okay. Next, there is a charge of murder one. I am dismissing this case. All charges against Dale Steadman are hereby dropped.”
She closed that file and opened the next. “The case entered against Dale Steadman by Health and Human Services is dismissed. Marcus, if you wish I will consider charges against the young man.” When he did not respond, she observed. “He’s fallen asleep.”
“Let him rest.” This from the DA. “He’s had a hard day.”
“I have a variety of charges filed by Hamper Caisse on behalf of the former ex-wife, Erin Brandt.”
“Hamper’s dance card is gonna be full for a while yet,” Wilma offered.
“Fine. Then I am issuing a blanket dismissal of all charges related to the custody of one Celeste Steadman.” She signed a form, then turned to the court reporter and said, “Perhaps you would give us a moment here alone.”
When the court reporter had departed, Sears went on, “There is the matter of the child’s actual parentage.”
Kirsten spoke with utter certainty. “Dale Steadman is that child’s only real father.”
Wilma met the judge’s gaze with an easy shrug. “Works for me.”
Judge Sears closed the file. “I have no trouble holding the information we have disclosed here in camera.” She looked at Kirsten. “Do you know what that means?”
“I have a year of law school.”
“Tell me you’re going back.” This from the DA.
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Do more than think.” She rose, shook the judge’s hand, then turned to help Kirsten lift Marcus to his feet. “When you’re done, come find me. We’re always on the lookout for somebody good as you.”
CHAPTER
———
62
IN ALL HIS TIME AT THE MET, this was Kedrick Lloyd’s first visit to the Family Circle.
The stage was five levels below, a greater distance than he would have imagined possible. The Standing Room section at the back of this level was reserved for poverty-stricken fans. These people were so loyal they braved any weather, long lines, endless waits, for the chance to see what otherwise was far beyond their financial reach. Though they shared his passion, Kedrick had never felt any need to meet and greet. They were beneath him. Far more than distance and four thousand higher-priced seats separated them. Until now.
The stage was set for Mozart’s Idomeneo, a production he had seen perhaps three dozen times. The entire back wall was formed into a pastiche mask of the god Poseidon. The god looked not merely forbidding. He seemed hungry in the manner of one who ate souls yet never grew satiated. His mouth was open and waiting. The dim lighting turned the black eyeholes alive and watchful.
Carefully Kedrick took the dark stairs down to the front railing. His bones were increasingly fragile. Even this descent of nineteen steps was enough to leave him gasping. He used both hands to grip the seatbacks, pausing now and then for air. It would be such a mockery, to come this far and be defeated by a tumble and a broken limb.
He reached the balcony’s carpeted front barrier. The brass railing across its top was impossibly cold. He gripped it with both hands and chuckled over the thought that he really should register a complaint. Order the cleaning staff to warm the rail up for the next one to pass this way.
He paused once he managed to lift himself onto the barrier. More than the exertion was causing his breathing to rasp like wind through dry reeds. For there upon the stage stood an ethereal diva, a lovely woman seemingly trapped in the amber of ageless youth. She wore the full regalia of an opera queen. Her arms were outstretched, her mouth opened wide, her empty eyes focused upon the very last row. But there was no voice to this aria, no lilting power to the silenced voice.
Kedrick released his grip upon the railing and offered the apparition a mock salute. Any place as exalted as the Met really did need its own resident ghost.
He pushed himself to his feet, his hands outstretched like feeble mockery of wings.
He looked down, and decided the orchestra seats were a satisfactory distance away. Now that he was here, he wondered why he had not done this long before. It would have saved everyone so much bother.
He glanced at the stage once more, and stared at the god and his glaring pits for eyes. And the open, hungry mouth.
He then addressed the empty hall for the final time. “Tonight’s performance is unavoidably canceled.”
CHAPTER
———
63
FOR ONCE, the weather was with them. A breeze more in tune with the autumn months ahead blew out of the north, chasing frayed and frothy clouds across a gloriously cool sky. They were back at the border of the private airport, watching the small jet taxi toward them. Kirsten waited a short distance from Marcus’ wheelchair as he talked softly with Omar Dell. The court reporter grinned and scribbled busily. A photographer lounged farther back, waiting for the pictures to come. When fatigue began to stain her fiancé’s features, she walked over and said, “I’d like a private word with Marcus, please.”
Omar signaled to the photographer. “One picture of the two of you together.”
The photographer snapped three and would have taken more had Kirsten not declared, “That’s enough.”
“A word for the record?”
“Marcus has already done that.”
The reporter was too full of coming glory to object. “Great to have you two still around and kicking.”
Wind and roaring engines from the commercial airport offered them an illusion of privacy. Marcus squinted into the empty sky and asked, “How much longer?”
“They’re due any minute now.”
The act of reaching for her hand brought the bandages covering his wrists into view. “I never thought I could be so happy being weak.”
Kirsten blocked her motions from the others as best she could. She used her free hand to stroke his face, his neck, his shoulders. The proprietary gestures of a woman in love. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” He raised the hand he held and nestled it on his cheek. “Are we okay?”
She leaned closer, kissed him softly. “We’re better than that. A lot better.”
A shout from the onlookers drew her around. A sleek private jet taxied off the runway and headed straight for where they stood. Kirsten walked over to where Dale stood by the cars. The man’s entire being was focused upon the jet. A tremor rocked his frame, revealing the suppressed anxiety of one who had been forced to live on the edge for far too long.
She said to him, “I’d like to ask a favor.”
His gaze did not leave the plane. “Name it.”
“Ask Goscha to stay here as the child’s nanny.”
He looked at her then. “Erin’s maid?”
“Yes. Have you met her?”
“Once or twice, and not for very long. Erin had her stay and to watch over the house in Düsseldorf. When we went there, Goscha played the ghost.”
“She loves your baby, Dale.”
“This is the same woman who refused to release my own child to me.”
“Same reason, different action. She only knew you in Erin’s company. Goscha trusts me to make the right decision for Celeste.”
“If I remember correctly, she also butchers the English language.”
“I doubt seriously,” Kirsten replied, “that Celeste will mind.”
The jet’s engines whined down, and the side door flipped open. Kirsten said apologetically, “I’m supposed to do this alone.”
Dale did not actually push her forward. “Go. Hurry.”
She wal
ked toward the gray-cloaked nun who stood blinking in the sudden sunlight. The nun spotted her approach and descended the stairs. “You are Kirsten Stansted?”
“Yes.”
“I am Sister Agnes. Please, that is the father?”
“Dale Steadman. Yes.”
But the sister made no move toward him. “That horrible man who was with Erin came back and demanded the child. Who was he?”
“Just what you said. A horrible man. He’s been arrested.”
“Then I acted correctly when I refused to hand Celeste over to him.”
“Yes.”
“I knew something was very wrong as soon as he appeared. He claimed Erin had sent him. She didn’t, did she.”
“No.”
“The attempted break-in at our convent, it was for the child?”
“Probably.”
“Then it is good we hid her. And the news I heard from Goscha is true, Erin is really lost to us?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Goscha was very explicit in her instructions. I was to hand the baby only over to you. The father she did not know. But you she said I could trust. You would know what to do. You would know where the baby would be safest.”
Kirsten liked her. So much she was able to confess, “There is a problem.”
“Let me guess. Who truly is the child’s father.” She smiled at Kirsten’s surprise. “I knew Erin at her beginnings.”
“My fiancé and I don’t know how much we should tell the man who believes Celeste is his child. Especially since we don’t know anything for certain.”
“Your fiancé. How nice. That is the gentleman there with the bandage on his head?”
“His name is Marcus Glenwood.”
“And you love him.”
“So much.”
The gray-clad nun cocked her head to one side. “I detect an unfinished thought. So much it frightens? So much it brings forth truth?”
“Both.”
“So there is to be honesty between us. Good. I consider honesty one of my dearest allies.” Soft eyes inspected her with the calm of centuries. “Tell your beloved this. All God’s own have been adopted to his clan. He will understand this?”
Winner Take All Page 37
