A Tangled Web

by Judith Michael

  “You’re probably going to own Blackford’s, too. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  “Blackford’s? It’s gone downhill.”

  “That’s one of the reasons you’re getting it for fifty thousand pounds. You’ll do wonders with it; even from Brazil, you’ll do better than Nicholas has.”

  “Probably, but I didn’t even know I wanted it. Well, good Lord, another mystery. You’re sure you won’t take me with you to see Denton?”

  “No, and you didn’t really expect us to. We’ll call you tomorrow, after we see him. It may be late afternoon.”

  “Then I won’t be here. I’m going to Paris.”

  “Oh.” So am I, to have a week with my husband. But when he finds out I’ve lied to him, when he finds out that Stephanie is alive—

  And what happens before that, when Stephanie and I finally talk about everything we’ve avoided for three days?

  “We’re going, too,” Stephanie said, and avoided Sabrina’s swift, surprised glance. “We’ll be in Paris tomorrow night. We can call you there.”

  “Oh, good. Why don’t we have dinner together? And really eat it this time. I’ll be at Relais Christine; where will you be?”

  Stephanie looked at Sabrina.

  “L’Hôtel,” Sabrina said. Her hands were clenched in her lap.

  “Perfect; we’ll be just a few blocks from each other. I’ll call you tomorrow night. No, Antonio meets me tomorrow night, and it’s beyond his understanding that I’d be able to think of anything but him on the night of our reunion. How about Saturday morning?”

  “Fine,” Stephanie said. “We have all day Saturday.”

  Sabrina was silent. All day Saturday. Before Garth arrives on Sunday. All day to talk, to decide what will happen on Sunday, at least the part of Sunday we have any control over.

  Sabrina signaled for the check. “Listen,” Alexandra said abruptly, “I want you to know I love you both. I guess if I knew Stephanie better I’d see differences between you, but to me, right now, you’re both Sabrina and I love you. I’m sorry, I know how crazy that sounds, but—”

  “It’s all right.” Stephanie said. She put her hand on Alexandra’s arm, almost as if to steady herself. “I don’t know who I am, either.”

  * * *

  That night, as she did every night at midnight, Sabrina called home. They were ready for her: Cliff on the couch in the kitchen. Penny in Garth’s study, and Mrs. Thirkell waiting nearby to say a few words when Cliff let her have the telephone.

  “You sound excited,” Sabrina said to Cliff. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” There was a warning note in his voice that was clearly meant for Penny on the other telephone, and Sabrina knew that something was indeed going on. Her heart sank, because she was sure it was some kind of homecoming surprise, and there might not be a homecoming if Garth would not allow it. Maybe he’ll banish me as he did before, she thought, as he has a right to do, and I’ll lose them, lose them all, and Penny and Cliff will think I deserted them, just as I did last December.

  But if she did not come home, would Penny and Cliff know it?

  If Stephanie went home with Garth, would Penny and Cliff know it?

  Would they see differences even greater than the ones they had found excuses for a year ago?

  Would they demand an explanation because they’d know something was wrong, that the mother they loved had changed?

  Tears stung her eyes. “Cliff, if you’re planning something for when I come home—”

  “We’re not,” he said, sounding relieved, and Sabrina was taken aback. What were they up to?

  She listened to their talk about school and friends and a painting contest Penny had entered, and she laughed at their small jokes and puns, and when she hung up, she told herself that she wouldn’t think about whatever they were planning. It was probably a present they were making at school, and there was nothing she could do about that. They’ll give it to me or they won’t. I’ll know on Sunday.

  At six the next morning, as she did every morning, she called Garth in his hotel at The Hague. Seven in the morning there; his only time to talk before his conference sessions began. Curled up in her sitting room, with Stephanie in the guest room down the hall, Sabrina knew that her voice was subdued, almost strained with the effort of measuring every word, but she could not make herself sound carefree and lively, even when she concentrated on trying.

  “A lot of talking to people,” she said, avoiding outright lies. “Nicholas is selling Blackford’s . . . Oh, Alexandra is here, getting organized at Ambassadors with Brian, and she’s buying Blackford’s, too.” She talked about London and the weather and packing up the furnishings and art at Cadogan Square and shipping them to Evanston, and then she said, “I don’t really want to talk about me; tell me what you’ve been doing.”

  As he talked, she could tell, because she was so familiar with every nuance of his voice, that he knew something was bothering her. But after the first night, when she had been evasive, he had not pressed her. He described the scientists at the conference and their papers, the attention his own talk had received and the little sight-seeing he had been able to do; he told her he had heard from Claudia that the Chicago Tribune was doing an investigative series on Congressman Leglind and the effect congressional hearings had on university research, and Sabrina asked enough questions to keep him talking about all of that and more for almost an hour.

  “And that’s enough,” he said at last. “Everything else will wait. You haven’t told me your hotel in Paris.”

  “L’Hôtel. It’s on the Left Bank, near the Boulevard Saint-Germain. Do you know what time you’ll be there?”

  “Early. Probably about nine-thirty. I have a surprise for you; I’m telling you now so you can wonder about it for a couple of days.”

  “You too? Penny and Cliff are planning something . . . Garth, what’s going on?”

  “Were they mysterious? I’ll have to ask them about that. My love, you’ll have to wait until Sunday. I’ve started counting the hours.”

  “It will be here before we know it,” Sabrina murmured. “Oh, Garth, I love you; you’re so much a part of me, my life, my dreams . . . I’m sorry,” she said and willed her voice to lightness. “I’m being dramatic. I miss you. I love you. I’ll call you tomorrow from Paris.”

  When she came downstairs, Stephanie was waiting in the kitchen with café au lait and croissants. “Not exactly an American breakfast,” she mused. “Isn’t it odd how French I’ve become? Do you know, for ten months I didn’t speak English or hear English spoken. Now and then a word would break through and I’d find that scary because I had no idea what it meant, but otherwise everything I said and thought was in French and I never thought twice about it. Isn’t that unbelievable? Even my language was lost.” She was concentrating on carefully folding napkins. “Were you talking to Garth this morning? I came down early and I heard your voice when I went past your room.”

  “Yes. And I talked to Penny and Cliff last night. They’re fine: busy and happy and brewing some kind of mischief.”

  “Mischief?”

  “They denied it, but I could hear it in Cliff’s voice. I suppose they’re making something in school; they’ve done that before.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  Withdrawn again, they ate their breakfast and then the telephone rang. Stephanie went to answer it, because every morning at ten—how ritualized we have become, Sabrina thought—Léon called.

  She looked up when Stephanie returned. “What is it?”

  “He wants to buy a house.” She sat down and held her cup in both hands. “He found an old house high up, near the basilica, and he wants to renovate it. There’s a building about fifty feet away that would be perfect for his studio; he’d make a covered passage to connect it to the house. It’s very big, the house is; he says it has . . . plenty of room for children.”

  With a small gasp, Sabrina shrank into herself. Stephanie was staring out the window,
her thoughts far away. And then the telephone rang again and after a minute Sabrina rose to answer it.

  “Stephanie? Denton Longworth here. I understand you called, you wanted to come over at two? Of course you can, but you could just tell me now what it is you want; you don’t have to come all the way here . . .”

  Alert now, hearing the thread of alarm in his voice, Sabrina glanced at Stephanie, and mouthed, Denton, before saying calmly, “It’s not that far, and I don’t like to have important conversations on the telephone.”

  “Well, then, why not come right away? You don’t have to wait; I mean, I’m here, and I don’t have any plans . . . I got back early, you know, and there’s nothing on my calendar until later . . . You can come now!”

  “What a good idea. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  In the entrance hall, she and Stephanie stood before the tall mirror. They were wearing tweed slacks and gray cashmere sweaters they had found in Sabrina’s bureaus: not identical, but close enough. They both wore a strand of pearls and pearl earrings; they both pulled on long charcoal gray coats, one belted, the other not—“but he’ll never notice,” Sabrina said. Their makeup was identical; their long chestnut hair, falling below their shoulders, was identical. “We’ll do fine,” Stephanie said. And they left the house to walk to the taxi stand.

  Denton’s tall gray town house was so narrow it reminded Stephanie of a passenger on a crowded bus, his arms clamped to his sides. It stood on a street of equally narrow houses near Saint James’s Square and within walking distance of the Monarch, the club where Sabrina had seen Alan Lethridge. Closed drapes and a deeply carved front door made it look as if it were fending off visitors, but before Sabrina and Stephanie had a chance to lift the brass knocker, the door was opened wide and the butler stood before them.

  “Mrs. Ander— Good God!”

  Decidedly un-butlerlike, Stephanie thought in amusement. She had been tense and fearful, in spite of Sabrina’s confidence, but the thought came to her that this, too, was a game, another game among all those they had played as children and in the past year, and alongside her fear a spark of anticipation flared up.

  “Good afternoon, Bunter,” said Sabrina. “I believe we’re expected.”

  “Mrs. Andersen?” His eyes, wide and staring, slid back and forth so he did not have to declare himself speaking to one or the other.

  “Yes,” Sabrina said simply and walked past him into the house.

  She remembered it so well it was as if she had been there the day before. Nothing had changed; it was furnished exactly as it had been when Denton’s parents bought it for them as a wedding gift. Even the floral arrangements seemed the same. With Stephanie close behind, she walked through the echoing marble foyer, ignoring an archway that led to the main salon, heading instead for a closed door that, she knew, led to a small study. Less room for Denton to maneuver.

  “Please, if you would . . .” the butler said helplessly, standing in the archway, indicating they should follow him into the salon.

  “We’ll wait in here.” Sabrina opened the door. Across the room, standing beside a leather-topped desk, Denton was on the telephone, his back to them. He heard the door open and turned and saw Sabrina and Stephanie side by side. There was a suspended moment that seemed to stretch endlessly; then a small sound escaped him, the telephone fell from his hand, and he crumpled to the floor.

  “My lord!” The butler sprang to Denton’s side, lifting him to a sitting position on the floor. “My lord, my lord!”

  Still wearing their coats, Sabrina and Stephanie sat on one of the leather couches and waited. The room felt like a cave, Stephanie thought, with brown velvet drapes pulled tight across the high windows and a brown and black Bokhara rug stretching from the heavy mahogany door to the brown marble hearth of the cold fireplace. She watched Denton’s head roll against the butler’s arm, and saw his eyes open and look toward the doorway where he had seen them. When he found it empty, he looked slowly to the left and saw them sitting together on the couch, two identical women, their heads tilted at exactly the same angle, watching him with interest.

  He closed his eyes, then slowly opened them, willing the vision to disappear. “Denton, we want to talk to you,” Sabrina said briskly. “Get up now. Perhaps Bunter will bring you some tea.”

  “Scotch,” Denton said automatically. He stayed where he was, his eyes moving from Sabrina to Stephanie, his small mustache quivering in the round face that usually was rosy and smiling but now was stiff and pale, the lips barely moving. “You were dead. I saw you.”

  “My lord, let me help you up.” The butler stood, bringing Denton with him. He lowered him onto the other leather couch, then hung up the telephone, which had been dangling over the edge of the desk. “I’ll bring tea, my lord.”

  “Scotch.” His eyes were on Sabrina and Stephanie. “You found someone—a double—God, it’s a perfect match. What was it, plastic surgery? What for? Christ, you could have killed me . . . the shock . . . I could have died. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “But we didn’t die,” Sabrina said.

  “We’re both here,” Stephanie said.

  “Stephanie Andersen and Sabrina Longworth.”

  “You see, two people got off the yacht before it went down.”

  “And they’ve been living in France.”

  “Quite well, and very anxious to talk to you.”

  They looked at Denton expectantly.

  “Got off the yacht . . .” Denton echoed hoarsely. He cleared his throat. “It’s a lie. I saw your body. I identified you.”

  “Yes, we’ve been wondering why you did that,” Sabrina said. “How closely did you look at the body?”

  He stared at them helplessly. “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, come now, Denton, of course you do. What did you see? Hair that looked like mine? A face that looked a little like mine?”

  “But it would have been bruised and swollen,” Stephanie said. “And there would have been cuts all over it. That’s what we’ve been forgetting; that’s how I looked when they took me to the hospital. It took weeks for the bruises to disappear and the swelling to go down.”

  “So someone could have resembled you—”

  “There was someone!” Stephanie turned to Sabrina. “There was a woman on the yacht who did look like me. She was taller and thinner, but there was definitely a resemblance, and her hair was almost the same as mine—in fact, Max teased her: he said she’d obviously found my hairdresser and had it colored and styled like mine, and someone else asked her if she’d hired my dressmaker so she could look like me. If she was badly bruised—”

  “Two people?” Denton demanded, and they turned to him.

  “What did you tell the undertaker?” Sabrina asked.

  “Two people got off the boat?” he asked. “Who was the other one?”

  “One thing at a time,” Stephanie said. “What did you tell the undertaker?”

  “Who was the other one?”

  The butler came in, carrying a tray with glasses, an ice bucket and a bottle of Scotch. “If the ladies wish a drink, or tea . . . ?”

  “Nothing,” Sabrina said. “And I think we won’t need to be disturbed again.”

  “Christ, you sound just like her. Christ, I can’t believe—it can’t be . . . you really are Sabrina?”

  “Really,” Stephanie said solemnly. “I got off the yacht before it sank. What did you tell the undertaker?”

  “Christ. Sabrina. Christ. I was so sure . . . It looked like you. Not a lot, I suppose; you’re right, the face was all bruised, the eyes were swollen shut, and they’d cut your—her—hair; it was so matted they couldn’t comb it, they said, and there was a lot of confusion, people all around, the press, you know, and relatives of all those other people, so I just glanced—you know I can’t stand the sight of dead people, it makes me sick—and said it was you, and then I gave them a picture of you and told them to do the best they could with makeup and whatever tric
ks they have, for the funeral, you know. I thought it was the least I could do.”

  He took a breath, adjusting, adapting. “But this is fantastic! Incredible! Wonderful! It was a terrible shock, terrible, terrible, to all of us, Sabrina”—he looked from one sister to the other, reluctant to ask outright which of them had once been his wife—“everyone felt it; we all were devastated. What happy news we have to tell everyone now! A miracle! I’m glad you came to tell me, though I must say it was not kind of you to play that shocking trick, showing up without warning . . . I really might have had a heart attack, you know, and there was no reason for it. We’re not enemies, you know. By the way”—it came out carelessly now—“who was the other person who escaped from the yacht?”

  “But you already know the answer,” Stephanie said. “You know that Max escaped and you know he’s been living in France ever since it happened.”

  “Max? Good God, how would I know that? Escaped? Alive? My God, my God, another miracle. It’s almost too much to believe. But of course I knew nothing about it; how could I? Why would you think that?”

  “Because we know a great deal about you,” Sabrina said. “We’ve talked to Nicholas about Westbridge Imports and he told us about Max’s partner—”

  “Partner? Wait, this is . . . Nicholas said Max had a partner? He’s lying. I knew Max and I never heard him talk about a partner. Never. Westbridge was all his: his money, his ideas . . .”

  “Nicholas didn’t say anyone else had money in Westbridge. He said someone was lining up customers for smuggled antiquities and giving Max information about them, and places to find specific works of art to be stolen and smuggled out . . . that sort of thing. Someone who moved in wealthy circles. Someone like you.”

  “I would never do such a thing. It would be a betrayal of my class.”

  Sabrina and Stephanie gazed at him in contempt. Denton poured more Scotch, the neck of the bottle rattling against the edge of the glass. “Max and I were friends. That was all.”

  “You worked together,” Stephanie said, and coldly lied. “Max told me that.”

  “When? What are you talking about?”