He saw one of the waiters holding something, striding rapidly toward him. "The young lady's purse," the waiter said. "She left it on the banquette."
"I'll take it." Sighing with exasperation—he only wanted to be through with these people—the maitre d' laid it on the shelf within his podium. Later, when he had time, he would look through it for her name and address, so it could be returned. Or she would come to retrieve it. It was all the same to him.
Asshole, Brix thought as he stood on the curb, waiting for a lull in the traffic. In another minute he walked across the street and into the hotel. He went to the registration desk. "Did my friend come back to the hotel.-^ Emma Goddard."
"She's in her room," said the clerk. "She seemed . . .unwell."
"She was upset. You know, when they want to get married, that's all they can think about. Even if the other person doesn't want to."
The clerk nodded shortly. His view of the world was strict and uncompromising. He would never abandon his girl the way this guy had, letting her run around drunk and falling apart. Of course the clerk would never go out with a girl who drank herself into a stupor, but if a girl did drink a little too much one time, and was crying and unhappy, too, any decent man would stay with her and at least get her back to her room. It's a shame we have to let that kind of people into our hotel, thought the clerk.
"My key," Brix said. "Brix Eiger, fifteen oh nine."
"Good night, sir," the clerk said, handing Brix his key. He watched him go to the elevator. At least the guy took a separate room; most of them didn't do that anymore. You could give him credit for that, the clerk thought, but not much else.
In the elevator, Brix made a comment about the cold weather to one of the strangers standing beside him. "I'll say you must feel the cold," said the stranger. "Wearing one coat and carrying a spare."
For the first time Brix realized he was carrying Emma's coat. He chuckled. "A friend left it in the restaurant. I'll give it to her tomorrow. She won't need it tonight; she's too busy sleeping off a very lavish dinner, which she drank very lavishly."
The stranger smiled uncomfortably. There was something forced and unforgiving in Brix that bothered him. He was silent, as were the other two people in the elevator. "Good night," Brix said genially at the fifteenth floor, and turned to walk to his room. He'd watch television for a few hours, he thought; he was too edgy to sleep. Then, about seven in the morning, he'd call Emma, and when she didn't answer, he'd call the desk or security or somebody. The more people he could get involved the better. It was amazing how easy it was to do what had to be done: simple, straightforward, and smart. No complications. That was him, Brix Eiger. Smart. His father's indispensable right-hand man.
EIGHTEEN
Q
^^ DENTIN'S house was brilliantly lit: lanterns
blazed along the cobblestone front walk, the porch lights on either side of the white front door, and all the paned windows, shone, and even the lights in the backyard were at full strength, illuminating the trees towering above the house. "A party," Alex murmured as he stopped at the curb. "Or he's afraid someone might sneak up on him."
Claire saw the house as if for the first time. She was not revisiting a place filled with memories, she was thinking of Emma, and so all that occurred to her as she looked at it was how sleek and self-satisfied it looked, the perfect house for its owner, who could walk through troubled families, ruined relationships, perhaps even criminal acts, and remain unscathed. It looked like a mansion from another time that would house lesser royalty, a place more sheltered from the whims of fortune than her own. But we re not sheltered at all. We can't buy what Emma needs now; we can't even buy the time it will take to get to her.
"You go in," Gina said from the back seat. "I wouldn't be anv help at all."
"I hope we won't be long," Alex said, and he and Claire walked to the front door between low, square-cut hedges lined up like squat sentinels guarding the house. He rang the doorbell, but it was Claire whom the butler saw first, when the door opened.
"Mrs. Goddard!" he exclaimed, showing, by his surprise, that Claire had been thoroughly erased from Quentin's guest lists.
"Mr. Eiger didn't tell me . . ." He saw Alex, and confusion spread over his face. "I'm so sorry; we did not expect you, or. . . anyone else."
"We're not staying, we just want to talk to Mr. Eiger for a few minutes," Claire said. She pushed past him, with Alex just behind her. "Is he in the study.^"
"No, madame, in his bedroom. If you'll wait, I will tell him—"
"It's all right; I know the way." Without any sense of irony, Claire moved familiarly through the foyer, past tall vases of ginger flowers and lilies, past the open door to the dining room where she caught a glimpse of a lavish buffet, then up the wide staircase to Quentin's bedroom. The door was ajar and she and Alex stood to the side as she knocked.
"Yes," Quentin said, and opened the door. His face froze; Claire had never seen him taken so completely by surprise.
"I'm sorry to bother you," she said, speaking quickly to forestall anything he might say, and also to mask her own surprise: she had not thought she would be so stunned by the impact of his presence, even now, after weeks away from him. "We won't take much time; we only need to talk to you for a minute. We're trying to find Emma and Brix. Emma said she had a scheduled photo session in New York, but we don't know where they're staying tonight and—"
"I haven't the faintest idea where they are." He was wearing his tuxedo pants and shirt, and a silk robe Claire had bought him for his birthday. He saw her glance at it, and his mouth curled briefly in amusement. Then he looked directly at Alex.
"Alex Jarrell." Alex held out his hand, realizing how ridiculous it was to be formal, but Quentin took it.
"The novelist.^" he asked.
Alex's eyebrows rose. Somehow, it had never occurred to him that the man Claire had rejected would know his books. "Yes," he said.
"And when you barge into a stranger's bedroom, do you call that research for a new book.-^"
"This is not something I'll put in a book," Alex said evenly. "I'm here because Claire asked me to come."
Quentin turned his look on Claire. "You were afraid to come alone.^"
"I'm not afraid of anything here," Claire repHed, an edge to her voice. "I'm worried about Emma, and we came for your help—"
"How touching. I have nothing to tell you."
Claire took a few nervous steps across the hall to the study, dimly realizing that she was desperate to get away from the bedroom. "We only want to ask you—"
"I don't know anything about your daughter." His face dark with anger at having to follow her, Quentin strode past her, into the study. "She's not my responsibility. Call Brix's secretary; she always has his itinerary."
"I did call. She said it was the first time she could remember that he hadn't left—"
"Well, he forgot. I'll talk to him about that; he knows better." He was standing beside a large globe of the world that rotated within a mahogany stand, and he gave it a shove and watched it spin. Claire had seen him do that hundreds of times, and for a brief moment she felt she was back with him. It made her feel as if she had lost her way. "If they did go in for a photo session, you can call Hale tomorrow."
"We called him," Alex said. He was standing beside Claire, and when he spoke, his voice pulled her back from the tentacles of memory and Quentin's presence. "He told us Brix sometimes stays in a friend's apartment and you might have the phone number."
Quentin ignored him. "I told you: call Brix's secretary," he said to Claire. "I don't keep track of my son's friends or of his travels. What the hell is wrong with you.'' They go to New York all the time, and they're both adults. I suggest you leave them alone."
"We can't do that!" Claire exclaimed. "Quentin, please, we've got to find—"
"Then do it, whatever way you want. I can't help you."
"You might, if you'd let Claire finish a sentence," Alex said. "Are you telling us that you have no
idea who Brix's friend is.'' I don't believe you couldn't call him at that apartment if you needed him."
"Who the fuck do you think you are.''" Quentin exploded. "Get the hell out of my house. Now! Get out! If (Claire wants to talk to me, she can do it herself. You're not part of this."
"Yes, he is, he is part of it," Claire said. "We're both worried about Emma. Quentin, help us, please!"
Quentin had pulled himself in; his voice was under control. "You threw away the right to ask me for help."
"My God, why do you cling to this vindictiveness.''" she exclaimed. "You should be worried about Brix, too."
His face grew wary. "What does that mean.''"
"He could hurt Emma! If he does, he'll be—"
"Hurt her.'' What the hell are you talking about.''"
"He may, if he's angry. Oh, God, this is taking so much time . . . Listen, we think he may be angry at her. We don't know for sure, but he could be angry, and afraid, and if he is, Emma could be in danger."
"She's not in danger; she never has been; and you know it. You've let her go running all over the countryside with him, without a word, while you were in my bed. If you think I'm going to listen to this hysteria—"
Alex took a step forward and started to say something, but Claire put her hand on his arm. If Quentin was crude enough to talk about his bed, she would have to bear it; there was no way Alex could help her with that. "He's done it before," she said to Quentin. "You know he has. That student in college; the one who's paralyzed—"
Quentin's head jerked backward. "It never happened." He stared at her, smoldering. "I told you that story. It was over and done with long ago. Brix wasn't involved."
"Lorraine said he was. She said he—"
"Lorraine is a stupid bitch who has nothing to do with her useless life but tell wild stories. I told you not to listen to her."
"If she was wrong, there's nothing to worry about," Alex said. "We'll find Emma in good shape. But now you know what we're worried about and we're still waiting. Tell us how to find her."
"Why would Brix be afraid.''" Quentin asked. "Or angry.'"'
"He may not be," Claire said evasively, not wanting to tell Quentin what Emma had done. "Maybe nothing at all is wrong. I just want to know that Emma is all right. Please, Quentin, please give us the number of the apartment."
"Brix has his faults," Quentin said, staring at her flatly. "One of them is a weakness for inexperienced, dependent girls. But he wouldn't do anything that might risk losing my approval. I know
that. He won't hurt her. Tell me what you think he might be frightened of."
"I can't. I don't know enough about it. Quentin, for God's sake, please—"
"What the hell is he frightened oP" he roared. "You'll get nothing from me—nothing!—until you tell me—"
"He thinks Emma heard something about the earlv tests on PK-20," Alex said.
Quentin's face closed up. This time he looked directly at Alex. "How the hell do you know anything about PK-20.''"
"I don't know anything about it. I know that Emma picked up a lot of talk in her photo sessions at Eiger Labs, and we think Brix is worried about what she may have heard."
"There was nothing to hear." Quentin looked at Claire. 'There was nothing to hear! Where did you get this.'"'
"I didn't. We don't know what Emma may have heard—"
"This is a trap to destroy me. You and that woman, the lab technician; you set me up for this, didn't you.'' I gave her a job and she stayed a few months, and then she quit. She was your spy. Wasn't she.? WasntsheP''
"No, of course she wasn't. I don't want to destroy you, Quentin; I didn't send Gina as a spy; my God, how do you think of these things.'"' Claire was astonished. He had always dominated; now he seemed to have shrunk, his voice not as strong, his face not as firm. He's ver^ worried, she thought, and that made her even more afraid, because it must mean that what Emma had found was true and serious and threatening.
She looked at her watch. "We shouldn't be talking; we should be finding them." But Quentin's face had closed in and she tried to make him listen to her. "The whole time Gina worked for you, she never talked about her work. But Emma . . . Emma may have heard . . . or seen . . . or somehow gotten . . . involved . . ." She was fumbling, trying to find a way to say enough to satisfy him without giving away what Emma had seen and how much they all knew.
"There was some talk," Alex said smoothly and rapidly, as if spinning a tale, and spinning it in a way, even shading the truth, to keep Quentin calm enough to help them, "about problems with the early tests on PK-2(). Someone named Kurt talked about it, early on, and said he'd mentioned it to Brix, and Emma heard
about it one day when she was in Brix's office. You've probably resolved those problems; we don't know anything about that, but if you've scheduled a shipping date, you must be satisfied with your tests. What we're afraid of is that Brix may be worried about his responsibility for the product, and rumors of problems could compromise its success, or the way he's handled it, even though the problems probably were corrected long ago, and since Emma seems to have heard something about those problems, he might think she's a threat to him. We're concerned for Emma, and we've got to find her, and if you have any decency at all, you'll help us instead of dragging out this agonizing debate. It's causing Claire anguish and delaying our getting to New York and finding out one way or another whether we're right or wrong."
Quentin was scowling. The silence stretched out. "If it's the friend I'm thinking of," he said at last, "he sold the apartment a couple of months ago. They're probably in a hotel. I don't know which one, but Brix likes the Regency, the Helmsley Palace, and the Inter-Continental. When you get there, you can tell your daughter we'll be using another model from now on. Someone who doesn't cause trouble."
"I have to use your phone," Claire said, and went to the desk and began dialing. Quentin walked out without a backward glance. Alex stood with Claire, his arm around her, while she called the hotels in the order Quentin had named them. There was no Emma Goddard or Brix Eiger at the Regency or at the Helmsley Palace. But they were both registered, in separate rooms, at the Inter-Continental.
There was no answer in either room when the operator rang them.
"Come on," Alex said, and they raced down the stairs, past the butler and the waiters preparing for the party, and outside, to Alex's car. They had not seen Quentin on their way out. No more, no more, Claire thought. No more of Quentin and, please God, after tonight, no more of Brix.
"Where are they.'" Gina asked.
"The Inter-Continental," Claire said, and turned to Alex, who was backing out of the driveway. "Where is it.-^"
"Forty-eighth and Lexington." He smiled at her. "It won't be long. They're probably at dinner and we'll beat them back to the hotel. We'll be waiting for them in the lobby, the three of us,
sitting erect and stern-visaged, like the three Fates, confronting them when they walk in."
Claire could picture it. She smiled.
"Are they registered under Brix's name.^" Gina asked.
"They're in separate rooms," Claire said.
"What.?" Gina leaned forward. "Why.?"
"I don't know. Maybe they always travel that way; I never asked."
"They didn't. Emma told me." Gina was silent for a moment. "It sounds like he wanted a way to prove he was somewhere—" She stopped abruptly. "I could be wrong. About all of it."
"I hope you are," said Alex, and picked up speed as they left Darien.
The bellhop balanced Emma on one arm as he opened the door to her room. "In you go," he said cheerfully, and sat her in one of the wing chairs beside the window, propping her head in the corner of the chair. "Do you want me to help you get undressed.?"
"No . . . fine ..." Emma murmured. "Bed . . ."
"Sure thing. Oh, hold on." He knelt and pulled off Emma's high-heeled black shoes, his hand lingering on her slender feet, ice-cold in their silken stockings. His fingers curved around her ankle and moved up
her long, elegant leg. Emma murmured something, and he jerked back his hand. He put an arm around her and lifted her from the chair and laid her on the bed. Then he looked at her sheer dress, crumpled around her, and lifted her again, to pull back the quilt. Stretching her out, he covered her to her chin. Her eyes were closed. "You'll be okay," he said uncertainly. "You just had too much whatever." He backed away from the bed. "Sleep tight." He reached out his hand to turn out the lamp on the nightstand and saw the empty bottle almost hidden beside it. He started to pick it up, then pulled away. None of my business, he thought. He switched off the lamp and left the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
Emma heard the door slam. Who^s therei^ Did somebody come inP She felt the weight of the quilt, but she was still cold. Her body ached to be held. Mommy, I feel sick. Fragments of faces and bodies, and isolated words, tumbled through her mind: she saw Hannah's smile but not the rest of her and heard her say "oatmeal" and "pizza." How odd, she thought; why is Hannah talk-
ing about oatmeal and pizza? She saw Gina's legs walking through Roz's barn to the horse stalls; she saw one of Simone's eyes watching her while she tried on a new dress; she saw Hale Yae-ger's bald head shining under the lights in a photo session and Tod Tallent's grin when he said "nice, nice." They were all there at once, swooping in and out, swelling and shrinking, shrinking and swelling, circling in front of her and all around her. She was dizzy from the whirling colors and voices—they sounded so loud— and she felt like throwing up, but she could not move. She saw her mother's eyes, frightened about something. / feel so sick, Mommy.
"Cognac," Brix said; it was so clear she thought he was next to her, and she shrank inside because she thought he would hurt her. / love you, Brix. No, thafs not right. I loved you once, but you ruined it. Oh, Brix, why did you ruin it? "Riding," said Roz, and Em.ma saw herself on a beautiful horse, flying across Roz's farm, but then the horse crashed into her house, into their beautiful new house in Wilton, into Hannah, knocking her down— oh, Hannah, don t die —and ran over Toby— oh, Toby, Vm sorry, Vm sorry, just when you came back to me —and crashed into Emma's bedroom, and she fell and fell and fell into snow and ice, she was so cold, she was shivering, she could hear herself shiver and she thought everything inside her would break apart from shivering so hard; she saw a huge chunk of glacier break off and fall into the icy water with a thunderous splash, icy droplets suspended against the blue sky as if the world had turned to ice, and she felt her mother's hand on her forehead, and she heard her mother say, "Emma," as if she were calling her.
Pot of gold : a novel Page 44
