* * *
I made it home in time to find Uncle Lance and my father sitting at the kitchen table, drinking their coffee.
I walked over to the cabinet to grab a coffee mug. “Don’t you people have jobs?”
“Your father is the only legitimate job holder here,” Uncle Lance stated. “I, of course, work without benefit of a pay check.”
“Truer words were never spoken,” my father extolled. He rose from his place at the table and kissed my cheek. “You got Dallas off all right?”
“Fine,” I answered, trying to sound upbeat.
Uncle Lance probed my face with his fierce green eyes. “Why you didn’t go with him is beyond me.”
“Please, Lance,” my father said. “Nicci wants it this way so we have to abide by her choices.”
Uncle Lance raised his eyebrows at my father. “Since when have we ever done that?”
My father shot his brother a dirty look.
“So what were you two talking about?” I asked.
“I was telling your father about the moron’s funeral. They buried him a few days ago. Private funeral, no one was invited. The Fagles have gone underground for the time being.” Uncle Lance shrugged. “I guess the shock of having a psychotic for a son was too much for them.”
“Well, we can finally put all of that behind us,” my father declared as he put his coffee mug down on the counter. “I have to go to work, unlike some people around here.” He winked at me and headed to the door. “Oh, and Nicci…” He turned back to me. “That real estate agent for the house in Hammond called. She said you need to call her, something about paperwork.” He then exited the kitchen.
“So you are selling the place in Hammond?” Uncle Lance questioned.
“Yes, after everything that happened…” I left the words hanging. “I just can’t live there anymore.”
“And what will you do now?”
I walked over to the coffee maker and poured myself a cup. “I’ll finish working on the next Nicole Beauvoir novel.”
“Got an idea for something?” he persisted.
“Yep. Ever since I came home from New York, I’ve been working on something.”
“About Spy Boy?”
I took a sip of coffee. “In a way. It’s about searching for a famous painter’s killer in post-Katrina New Orleans.”
Uncle Lance rose from his chair. “Then I guess Dallas left you with something after all. But it’s not quite what you were hoping for, is it, kid?”
I gave him a stern reproach with my eyes, took my cup of coffee, and headed upstairs. I wanted to avoid any more talk of Dallas and the constant ache his memory had created inside of my heart.
Chapter 26
My father arrived home from work one evening a few days later to find an overstuffed suitcase waiting by the front door. I was sitting in the living room on the sofa with my feet curled under me, watching the fire burning in the hearth when he came in.
“Where are you off to?” My father asked when he entered the living room.
I turned to him. “New York. Dora called today. Hamper wants to do a press junket. She says the book is doing very well and they want me there tomorrow. Sent me a ticket this morning and they’re even sending a car to meet me at the airport, can you believe it?”
He came over, sat down next to me, and started undoing his tie. “That doesn’t surprise me. The local papers have picked up the story about Michael murdering David. It’s probably all over the East Coast by now. Your book will be getting a lot of attention over the next few weeks.”
“It figures.” I shrugged. “Hamper wants to capitalize on all the free press.”
“Well, he’s a businessman. His motives I can understand.” My father raised his eyebrows at me. “What are yours?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know you. You would not run off to New York just because your publisher asked you to. Takes more than that to get you out of this city. Could there be another reason for your wanting to return to New York?”
I frowned and turned my attention back to the fire.
“That’s what I thought,” my father commented as he started folding up the tie in his hands. “Nicci, for over two years I’ve watched you live buried beneath the memory of David. Grief can do that to a person. I’ve been where you are. I know how you feel, but you are young. Don’t blow another chance at happiness with someone else because of what was.”
“Happiness?” I almost laughed. “Happiness was what I had, what was taken away from me. I was orphaned by happiness a long time ago. I don’t think Dallas and I ever had a shot at being happy together.”
He patted my leg. “That’s still up to you.”
I cocked my head to the side and eyed my father. “It’s not up to me, Dad. It never was.”
He stood up from the couch, grinning at me. “He’s yours if you want him, Nicci.”
“Dallas doesn’t want me,” I stated, feeling my heart sink as I spoke the words. “He made that very clear when he went back to New York.”
My father turned to the portrait above the mantle. “Dallas is not David, Nicci. He will not come running back to you without being prodded. I don’t think he’s the kind of man who knows how to show his feelings.” His green eyes were again on me. “In many ways he reminds me of you. That’s why the man bothered you so much. And like you, I’m afraid he may need some encouragement to…how should one say…follow his heart.”
I looked up into my father’s face, feeling the sudden urge to change the subject. “You had lunch out again today?” I asked as I pointed to the rolled up tie in his hands. “I saw the ketchup stains.”
He nodded at me.
“With Betty?”
My father just shrugged and turned to go.
“I’m not the only one with a second chance,” I called out and watched as he turned back to me and drew his dark brows together. “She’s yours if you want her, Dad.”
He smiled. “I’ll take you to the airport in the morning.”
* * *
The black limousine that met me at JFK airport seemed vaguely familiar, but I figured all black limousines looked alike and climbed into the backseat.
I had decided on the plane that the meeting and press interviews would be good for me. The diversion could help put all the events of the past few weeks out of my head. But just as I had convinced myself that I was going to benefit from a bunch of reporters and their intrusive questions, the limousine pulled up in front of the Cuomo Towers.
I gazed curiously up at the glass and steel structure. “What’s this?” I asked the driver.
“Mr. La Roy, ma’am,” the driver explained. He turned to face me from the front seat. “He’s expecting you.”
* * *
“Welcome back, Ms. Beauvoir,” Gerard announced as he shut the front door behind me. “Mr. La Roy is on the terrace.” He pointed down the hall. “Just through the living room, second door on the right.” I took a step down the hallway and heard the butler’s voice behind me again. “Would you prefer your coffee and chicory again, miss?”
I turned back to him and smiled. “No, thank you, Gerard. I won’t be staying long.”
I made my way down the hallway to the second door on the right and stepped across the threshold. The room was small but elegantly decorated with cream-colored upholstered mahogany furniture that complemented the different hues in the pale blue wallpaper. Directly in front of me was an open patio door, covered with sheer cream curtains billowing in the morning breeze.
I walked through the curtains and found Simon La Roy dressed in a dark blue suit, sitting at a glass table. He was reading the newspaper against the backdrop of the Manhattan skyline.
“Ah, so you have made it.” He folded the newspaper, reached for his cane beside him, and stood for me. “I’m so glad you came.” He eyed my pale green silk dress and said, “Very pretty.”
“So what is this all about, Simon?” I asked, admiring the view.
> Simon smiled over at me and then took his seat again, resting his cane against the table once more. He then picked up the newspaper before him and handed it to me.
“There is a very good article in here about David and how justice has finally been served.”
I came over to the table and read the headline his stubby fingers were pointing to. After the first few sentences of the article, a wave of disgust swept over me and I could not continue.
“I was afraid of this.”
“Yes,” Simon said with a frown. “The story was picked up nationally from one of your local papers. It seems even reporters read police reports. But word would have gotten out eventually.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “Flo was very upset this morning when she called me and told me of the article. She does not want David’s memory exploited any more than it already has been.”
“But you like the story being in the press, don’t you, Simon?” I asked as I watched his frown turn into a smile. “Your little organization is cleared and your clients will be pleased that the murderer of such a prominent artist did not hail from this side of the Mason-Dixon Line.”
He nodded at me. “Very good. I’m glad to see there is a brain to go with all of that beauty. Empty-headed women are such a bore.”
“You did not fly me all the way to New York to read a newspaper article, Simon.” I paused. “Why am I here?”
He tapped his fingers on the table before him. “I’m afraid I have been rather devious.”
I rolled my eyes at him. “Now there’s an understatement if ever I heard one.”
“I had Hamper arrange the press junket to lure you back to New York so we could talk.”
“Lure me?”
“I knew you would not come if I asked you, so I had to improvise. But please, Nicci.” He motioned to the chair next to him. “Sit and we will have some coffee together.”
“I already told your butler I wasn’t interested in coffee.” I took a seat at the table and folded my hands in my lap, trying to stay calm. “Why did you send the ticket?”
Simon sighed. “Yes, down to business,” he agreed and then sat back in his chair. “First I need to tell you that Dallas has left my employ.”
There was an odd moment of silence. I examined Simon’s face, trying to discover the depth of his concern for the loss of his prized specialist. But not a single line of worry appeared on his small brow.
“And that has got what to do with me?” I finally asked.
“Nothing,” Simon said, looking over at me, “yet.”
I sat back in my chair and stared into his beady brown eyes. “Ah, that’s it then. You want me to get him back for you, don’t you?”
“I do not want him back.”
I frowned. “You don’t?”
He waved a dismissive hand in the air. “A man like Dallas is no good to me anymore. Just like David, once a man finds something to live for, something to fight for, he loses interest in other people’s battles. Such is the case with Dallas. His heart is no longer with me, it is with you.”
“What exactly did Dallas do for you, Simon? I have to know.”
Simon sat back in his chair, looking me over intently before he spoke. “I would have thought your time with Dallas would have enlightened you, my dear girl,” he finally said. “Dallas has a talent for reading people. He gets to know their weaknesses and then uses those weaknesses against them.”
“You make him sound like a shrink.”
“Not quite. More like a virus. He’s very good at getting under the skin and then attacks. It’s quite an effective method, but it also means that Dallas must spend a great deal of time with his subject. That is why I saved him for only the most difficult of situations. Time is a luxury where secrets are concerned.” He shrugged. “He will be missed.”
“Exactly what do you want from me, Simon?” I asked, trying to figure out his angle.
“I want to make you an offer,” he replied, clasping his hands together. “You are very pretty, well educated, and skilled in all the social graces. Plus, you are a famous face among the rich and powerful, thanks to David’s artistry and your own writing talents. And we already know the effect you have on men.” He grinned as he sat back in his chair. “In addition to all of that, your nursing skills could prove to be an asset among the sick and dying. You could gain access to people and secrets that even some of my most experienced specialists cannot aspire to attain.”
“What are you saying, Simon?”
“With Dallas’s departure I have an opening. I’m offering you a job in my organization. After your adventures in New Orleans, you have proved to me you can handle yourself in sticky situations.”
“Sticky situations?” I laughed. “What do you mean by that?”
Simon’s eyes peered into mine. “Killing someone changes people. Some people can handle it. Some people can’t. You are obviously one of those who can handle it.”
But I wasn’t the one who had killed Michael and I was not about to share that information with Simon La Roy. The ghost behind the second bullet had been plaguing me since the shooting. But I had never been able to disclose my apprehensions to those around me. Dallas had refused to discuss the topic, further increasing my anxiety about what he was hiding, and my father and uncle were better off unaware of my suspicions, having suffered through enough. Perhaps Simon’s offer could prove useful to me. With his connections, I could set out on my own and discover the identity of the .357 phantom. I almost laughed aloud at my own audacity. Then a thought gripped me. Simon La Roy was offering me a job. Think of the stories I could write.
“What would I have to do?” I asked.
Simon La Roy smiled like a fisherman who had just reeled in a prized catch. “You will write your books, promote them, and live your life as usual. When I have a need, you will fill it. My jobs for you would probably be similar to your little adventure in New Orleans.” He paused. “Minus the bloodshed, of course. But before I could send you out, you would need some training. Self-defense and a few other skills that are essential in the field.”
“And when would you want me to start this training?”
“As soon as possible. If you agree, I can set you up with someone today.”
“That’s what this whole charade was for?” I stood from the table. “To make me a job offer?”
“I’m a businessman, Nicci,” he explained. He rose from his chair and reached for his cane. “I see opportunity in you.” He walked from the patio back into the living room.
I followed behind him. “You could be wrong about me, Simon.”
He stopped inside the entrance to the pale blue room and pressed a button on the wall by the patio door. “I don’t think so.” He tilted his head slightly. “Nicci, did you ever wonder why I involved you in all of this intrigue?”
“You said I was the key to catching the killer.” I paused as I recalled our conversation weeks ago. “You told me Dallas needed me to get close to his suspects.”
Simon looked down at the cane in his hand. “Dallas never needed anyone to catch David’s killer. I wanted to test you. See if you had the makings of someone who could join my team.” He paused and pursed his lips together. “But Dallas was adamantly against my even contacting you. I could never understand why he was so opposed to having you in our little caper until I went to visit him one day, quite unexpectedly, at his apartment. Then his reasons became very clear to me.” Gerard entered the room and stopped just inside of the door. “Please instruct the driver to take Ms. Beauvoir and her luggage to Dallas August’s apartment,” Simon ordered.
Gerard nodded at Simon, turned, and exited the room.
“What are you doing?” I asked, raising my voice.
Simon grinned at me. “Starting your training.”
“But you said Dallas left your organization! Why send me to him?”
Simon shrugged. “Because he’s the best. You can learn a great deal from him.”
I put my hands on my hips. “What in the
hell is going on, Simon?”
He tapped his fingers impatiently on the handle of his cane. “You should see Mr. August’s apartment, my dear girl. I’m sure you will find it very enlightening.”
Chapter 27
I was gazing up at another Jenny. She was dressed in a green velvet beaded gown, wearing a diamond and emerald necklace, and holding up a glass of champagne. The colors of green, gold, and deep brown seemed to radiate from the painting. But this Jenny was unfamiliar to me and very different from all of the others I had seen before. David had captured a more mature, more confident Jenny, a Jenny that had not yet existed when he had been alive.
On the mantle in front of me were some scattered pictures of an older blonde woman and a dark-haired man. They were sitting in a sailboat in one picture or toasting to the camera in another. There were three silver trophy cups placed next to the pictures. First prizes won long ago by Dallas August at different junior invitational sailing regattas.
His apartment was not lavishly decorated. The furniture was classical in style and functional. But on closer inspection the wood was mahogany, and the leather was of a finer quality than it appeared. Two other paintings hung on the walls in the living room. One was a modern piece of the New York skyline and the other was of a lovely yacht sitting out on a still lake. I inspected the name at the bottom of the paintings. They were both David’s.
There were odd little wood and steel puzzles spread out over the coffee table and on a few bookshelves. Games of skill that people bought for amusement. Dallas seemed to collect them. There was a flat screen television set hidden inside an entertainment center with a stereo and CD player. A desk off to the right of the entertainment center had a laptop computer, desktop computer, scanner, fax machine, and copier neatly arranged on it.
I had already investigated the two bedrooms and looked through the closets at his many finely tailored suits. Inside his bathroom cabinet, I had found his expensive cologne. In his small but immaculately clean gourmet kitchen, I had discovered a stocked pantry and an empty refrigerator.
It was the ordinary apartment of a single man, who had expensive tastes, but it told me nothing more about Dallas August than I already knew. I went back to the mantle and looked up once more at the Jenny above the fireplace. I thought back to the moment when he had brought me the green velvet dress and how I had marveled at the color of the gown. The exact same gown was looking down on me from David’s portrait. I wondered how he had found such a dress or if he had gone to the trouble of having it made, knowing one day he would see me as I was in the painting.
The Nicci Beauvoir Collection: The Complete Nicci Beauvoir Series Page 57
