by Gayle Lynds
As her hands relaxed into her lap, she felt a sense of peace descend upon her.
There was a hush in the den. Again she felt the sun's warmth.
"That was nice, Julia," Creighton said. "Lovely."
"Yes, splendid," added Brice.
She turned. Immediately she knew the room was filled with people. She blinked, stunned. How—? Then she remembered the vague sense of others crowding into the den as she'd played.
She calmed the sudden surge of fear that came when she realized she wasn't paying attention to her other senses. No longer could she afford the luxury of complete absorption in her music. She had to find her mother's killer, and that meant she must use every skill she had. All the time.
She put a smile on her face as her family congratulated her, thanked her for the impromptu performance, and left, largely bewildered by why she'd chosen that sensitive moment, when all of them had gathered to grieve, to play the piano.
"Very nice, Julia," David told her. "But take my arm now. Let's sit over here. We have things to discuss."
As they sat, Brice closed the door. They asked about Marguerite's last days, the tour, and London. She talked with an equanimity that surprised her. Even Brice, whose maverick streak had led him into a business of which his brothers hadn't approved, seemed unaware the nocturne had been a tribute to her mother. They were untouched by Julia's musical language, which might as well have been Greek or Serb or Martian.
Saddened, she asked them, "Tell me what happened the night of my debut."
"What?" She heard the surprise in Creighton's voice.
"I'm not sure I understand," David said.
"You were all there, right?" she insisted. "I went on at eight o'clock. The program was finished at ten. Then what happened?"
Creighton cleared his throat. In his best judicial tones, he said carefully, "Of course, my dear. Well, there were all the people who came backstage. After you greeted them, we went out to the limos, remember? Then we drove here. We celebrated. We had a late dinner. Champagne. No one knew you were so talented—"
"Only because she'd never given a real concert," David corrected him.
Only because none of you ever bothered to go to the smaller ones, Julia thought. The Redmonds liked big winners. Now they "liked" her, although they didn't understand what she did, and because they didn't see any use to music, they were uninterested in getting to know who she was.
Creighton added, "I think Daniel Austrian gave you a gift. He usually did on occasions like that. A ring. One of his wife's rings—"
"The alexandrite," David agreed. "Probably worth a hundred thousand today."
Creighton continued "—so we stayed on. Of course, in the morning we learned about the double tragedy—your blindness and Jonathan's car accident and death."
Julia nodded. Her throat burned with the sudden need to weep. She fought back the tears. "Was there a fight that night?"
"A fight?" Creighton's voice registered surprise and was followed by a moment of thought. When he spoke, it was slow and measured. "There was no fight. Everyone had a fine time, as I recall. Stimulating conversation. The usual good food and drinks."
She sensed something odd about her oldest uncle. She'd learned to read nuances in the tones of speakers, to listen to pauses and silence, to pay attention to word choice. Sometimes the words were the simple truth, but other times they weren't, and not necessarily were they a deliberate lie. This was one of the times she particularly missed her sight, because she might have been able to see something in his face to tell her what he was really saying. She recalled the Italian womanizer in London, whose duplicity might've fooled her if she'd been unable to see him.
She heard David drum his fingertips on his armchair. "Perhaps you're thinking of your father's death, Julia. Remember, he drove Daniel out to Southampton and was returning alone to Arbor Knoll about four . . . five AM when it happened. Terrible." Daniel Austrian was Jonathan Austrian's father—Julia's grandfather.
Brice agreed quickly. "That must be it. Don't dwell on it. You've had enough tragedies. Why think about it at all?"
"And you certainly shouldn't go back to the city yet," Creighton continued in his most reasonable voice. "I've ordered your Steinway brought here so you can practice. The Secret Service has taken over the large cottage. You can have the small one. We'll put the piano in there for you. Or you can have one of the suites here in the big house." He added grandly, "You can stay anywhere you like. We won't take no for an answer." She could hear his charming smile in his voice. "You need to be taken care of, doesn't she, David?"
"Absolutely," David agreed.
Brice said, "You'll be safe here, Julia. You'll have company. And you'll have people to help you get around."
But no one to help her recall what had happened the night of her debut to cause her blindness, or to help her recover her sight some other way—if there was one. In her mind, she saw again her mother's face and her sparkling joy when she'd realized Julia's vision had returned. Then she saw their attacker fire the gun. Her mother slam back against the seat. The horrible geysers of blood. The heartrending strangling noises as her mother fought for air but instead drowned in her own blood.
Her mother had died in excruciating pain, knowing there was no hope. And Julia hadn't been able to help her because she'd gone blind. She had to get her sight back again so she could find the murderer.
She thought about the big apartment on Park Avenue, how the rooms would echo with emptiness. First her father, now her mother. Both dead. Without brothers or sisters, a husband or children, she was alone except for the Redmonds. And Orion Grapolis. Orion was a psychologist who lived in her building. Whenever she and her mother were in town, he and his wife stopped by for drinks and long talks. She liked him a lot. He'd described his therapeutic approach—he called it naturalistic hypnosis. She'd considered consulting him about whether he could help her recover from her conversion disorder. But at first she'd had a fine psychiatrist, and later she'd lost faith in any doctor. But now—?
Maybe she should talk to him now. The more she thought about it, the better it sounded. Orion had always hinted he thought perhaps he could help her. It was another reason to return to the apartment.
She had no intention of staying at Arbor Knoll, in any case. Since her father's death and her blindness, she'd never been comfortable here. She wouldn't tell her uncles that, and she couldn't tell them she'd witnessed her mother's murder and that her complete focus was now on regaining her sight so she could make certain the killer was caught.
Instead she explained, "I need to face the apartment. I need to learn to take care of myself. Besides, I changed your order, Creighton. The Steinway's going to our . . . my place." There were many advantages to wealth. Just as her uncles could order their wishes fulfilled, so could she. She felt a moment of deep satisfaction.
The room seemed to reverberate with astonished silence.
"You countermanded my order?" Creighton said quietly, but surprise and fury roiled him. "How interesting. That's unwise, Julia You really must let us make the decisions. I've already contacted the estate's lawyer and asked him to pull out the will. He'll get it into probate so you can collect your inheritance. You may not realize it, but you're to receive everything. All the Austrian money. Every penny of it. Plus Marguerite's, of course—"
"And a sizable amount it is, although it would've been a hell of a lot larger if Dan hadn't retired so early," David interrupted, barely able to keep his annoyance at the financially irresponsible Daniel Austrian from his voice. "More than five hundred million dollars, as I recall. And that's after the IRS gets its cut, of course—"
Julia said, "Thank you. I'm grateful for everything you want to do to help. But I'm taking over my life. I'll stay here a few more hours. But I'm leaving this afternoon. Of course, I'll come back for the wake and funeral. I've told Scotland Yard to call me, not you, when they release Mother." She paused. "I can get around the streets near the apartment, and I'll take taxi
s otherwise. There are ways. I'll find out what they are, and I'll be fine. I have to hire a manager, of course. And eventually I'll go back on tour." She'd never had any manager but her mother.
Brice muttered, "Good for you, Julia." He understood intimately her need to work.
Creighton was stunned by her sudden independence. "It's bad enough we've lost Marguerite. Think about us." He pulled his chair close to study her. He ignored the small features, the delicate nose, and the lush lips. What he was looking for was a clue to what was going on in her mind. "Consider how we feel. We want to know you're all right. If you're here, we'll be certain you're okay." He made his voice soften. "You mustn't be selfish about this, Julia. With Marguerite gone, we have to take over."
"I advise you to turn control of Marguerite's trust fund back to me," David added. "It's one less thing for you to worry about. Marguerite never did anything with it anyway. And of course I'll manage your inheritance, too."
Julia said quietly, "I'll consider it." Her chest tightened. The old feeling of claustrophobia swept through her, as if she personally were immaterial in the Redmond equation. She fully intended to take control of her inheritance and the trust funds, but she'd drop that bombshell later.
Creighton still stared at Julia. Before today, the few times he'd paid attention she'd seemed infused with some kind of sweet, excited innocence. That was gone now. Instead he saw resolute determination. As always, she sat very erect. But she wasn't wearing her tinted glasses, and her blue eyes seemed to blaze. Her hands lay like coiled springs in her lap, ready to clench into the fists of a fighter. He had a sudden sense of peril, that she could be as bad a troublemaker as her mother. Maybe worse.
Julia said, "Is Grandfather Redmond well enough to come to the funeral?"
"I'm afraid not," Creighton told her. "In fact, he's taken a turn for the worse. He actually seemed to understand your mother had died, which upset him a great deal."
She frowned. "She thought he might've sent a package to her. But it was in her shoulder bag, so the killer got it along with everything else."
Surprise tightened Creighton's chest. He said calmly, the lawyer questioning the client, "You sound as if you're not certain it really was from Dad."
"Mother thought it was possible. She said it came from Armonk, and the handwriting was wobbly. But there was no return name and address. She was thrilled to think he might be well enough to write."
Creighton relaxed. He already knew what the answer had to be, but still he asked, "So she never opened it?"
"No." Julia bit her lip. "She never had the chance."
Which meant Julia knew nothing. But Creighton continued to inspect her. She'd changed. Now more than ever he wanted to keep her here. He made his voice warm: "Julia, at least stay with us until the funeral. That should be only a few days. I'll call your old psychiatrist. He helped you before, and I'm sure he can help you now. After you see him, we can reevaluate what you should do next."
Her voice was firm. "I'm going home, Creighton." It wasn't an answer; it was an announcement.
"Julia—" he began.
"No. I appreciate your hospitality, but no. I'll leave this afternoon." Her face was rigid, her decision set in concrete.
He was shocked into silence. There wasn't time to drug her and force her to do what he wanted as he'd done with his father. She'd changed radically, which meant he had to come up with some other solution immediately. She'd seen the killer's face, and if she were ever to regain her eyesight again. . .
Inwardly he raged. He had an election to win, and the last thing he needed was to deal with a spoiled young woman with more obstinacy than common sense. He searched through his encyclopedic brain. There had to be some other way to guarantee she wouldn't get out of hand and interfere with his plans. Abruptly he realized David and Brice had turned to look at him as if they'd sensed something more was wrong than simply a stubborn niece who might endanger herself if she returned home.
He shrugged and rolled his eyes at them. They smiled and nodded.
What could he do?—
Then it came to him. A solution. It was bold and could be risky, but as he glared at his niece, he knew he had no choice.
With his usual self-control, he kept his voice intimate and concerned. "Very well, if it's that important that you go home, we'll help. I'll assign a chauffeur and limo to you, and we'll get you a personal companion, someone who can stay on the premises with you and help with errands, business, and clothes. Will you call the service in the village, Brice?"
"Glad to."
Creighton said, "Good. They can be your transition team, Julia. Then when you're ready to be on your own, you can send them back."
Julia hesitated. She thought about her clothes, which she'd never bothered to have marked in Braille. She'd memorized many of them for color, pattern, and style. But it was still possible she'd end up wearing mismatched garments and shoes. Then there was the kitchen. Again, nothing was marked. She'd be unable to decipher something as basic as the difference between a can of peas and a can of soup. She had a full crew to run the apartment—a cook, two maids, and a chauffeur who doubled as a houseman, but they were in Southampton helping the staff there ready the estate for winter.
She said, "Thank you, Creighton. I'll send the chauffeur and car back when I get home, but a companion could be useful. I'll keep her a few days to see if she fits in with my plans."
14
MEMOIR ENTRY
I remember when they killed Maas. His blood looked unreal, like red paint sprayed on the white wall. His hands shook on his belly as he tried to pull his coat across to hide the bullet holes and blood, as if by doing so he could show it was all a mistake.
Belly wounds are terribly cruel. He suffered. But they did not care about that. Only greed was on their minds.
12:06 PM, SATURDAY
OYSTER BAY, NEW YORK
Every inch the presidential candidate, Creighton Redmond took his place outside Arbor Knoll's tall wrought-iron gates, facing a wall of state-of-the-art communications equipment. Microphones bristled in front of his heart. Recorders whirred. And shutters clicked nonstop as he made a touching speech about the admirable qualities of his sister, Marguerite Austrian, and the tragedy of her savage death. Tears glistened at the corners of his eyes, and his voice broke.
The cameras got it all. The reporters, showing their respect by not shouting as loudly as usual, asked about the funeral, the polls, and when he'd return to the campaign trail since the election was only three days away. They wanted Julia to say a few words, too, but she'd already told Creighton she'd do no more than stand at his side. No interviews yet. So he deflected questions from her, protective and presidential to the end.
Then he walked through a side gate and up toward the mansion, which was beyond the view of the road. With him were Julia, David, Brice, and a dozen other family members. Behind them came the campaign team, leaning close together and analyzing. He'd heard them agree he'd done a stunning job and must've helped himself with the voters. They were back in harness, dissecting and planning how to maximize the murder on his final whistle-stop through California tomorrow.
On the other side of the rise, Vince waited discreetly out of sight. In his casual cotton slacks and thick Pendleton shirt, he was smoking one of his Camel Lights. Creighton peeled off to join him, and Vince dropped the cigarette and pressed it out with the toe of his boot in the dying grass. They headed north past the main house to the cliffs above the bay, where they could talk without being overheard. Two Secret Service agents crossed ahead, following their rounds.
Once the agents were out of sight, Creighton swore. "Dammit! Do you see how Julia's changed? I don't like it!"
Vince nodded. "I thought she'd fall apart. Especially at the news conference."
"So did I."
Mulling what it meant, Vince and Creighton continued to stride on side by side until they reached Oyster Bay. Its great blue-green expanse growled, trying to calm itself after the rough sto
rm of the last few days. Vince liked the cold salt air, liked the icy chill puckering his skin, and particularly liked the edge of peril promised by the coming winter, because part of him believed he was bigger than it, whatever "it" was—nature or God. The idea was embedded within him deeply but unmistakably, a force with which others had to reckon but that had brought him a great deal of success.
Father and son turned left to follow the rolling cliff. They analyzed each detail of their plan to pull off the "miracle" of defeating Douglas Powers. All was in place. But they had a problem—Julia. Earlier, Creighton had told Vince his idea to contain her, since she refused to stay at Arbor Knoll. Vince had made the arrangements. Now he filled his father in, and his father nodded, pleased.
Finally, Vince said what they both knew: "We should start back."
"You think Stern's here?"
Vince checked his Rolex. "Anytime now."
He'd deliberately told Maya Stern to come at this hour because the press would still be busily adding details to their news stories, and the Secret Service was now worn down by the media conference and the avalanche of sympathy notes and flowers that had been arriving at Arbor Knoll. They'd give Stern no more than the usual inspection, and she had excellent fake credentials.
Creighton's voice bristled with irritation. "Do I have to see her?"
Maya Stern, their killer, made even him nervous. No matter how short the leash, her kind of methodical violence had that effect. Handled wrong, she could explode. What made it possible to work with her was her devotion to him. He'd inadvertently done her an enormous favor years ago. Her brother's death sentence for armed robbery and murder had gone to the Supreme Court on the issue of whether the trial judge should've thrown out some questionable evidence that seemed to prove her brother was not at the crime scene. The high court justices had been divided, and they'd hotly debated the issue. Creighton's had been the deciding vote. Because of him, the verdict was sent back to the original court. The brother was tried again and found not guilty.
