by Ellen Crosby
“That’s why who killed who?”
“Why, Maggie, of course. The others killed her. They covered up her death like they did with Stephen.”
“The others being the other researchers in the program?”
“That’s right.”
My head was spinning. “How do you know this?”
“I read it in her diary. Maggie’s niece brought it with her, thought I could explain some things. Maggie wrote that her boss threatened to do something if she talked,” Elinor said. “She was scared of him and he was … well, infatuated with her. So she played along, let him flirt with her. He told her that if she cooperated, he’d take care of her. He said what they were doing was important work and they needed to think of the greater good, not dwell on a minor setback.”
“I’m so sorry.” The “minor setback” had been Stephen. “Did Maggie mention any names—who these other people were?”
“Not in the diary. That’s what the niece was trying to find out. Except for Stephen—Maggie had a yearbook photo of him with his name on it and our address. Guess she wrote that down after she met me. The others she called by names of characters in fairy tales. Probably to protect their real identities.” Elinor lifted a weary shoulder. “What help could I be? The only one I knew was John Smith. Presumably the boss.”
“What did she call the boss in her diary?”
Her mouth twisted in an ironic smile. “The Pied Piper.”
That fit.
“So how did the niece figure out that the others killed her aunt? Maggie obviously couldn’t have written about it.”
“She found a letter with some other papers. From a woman who lived in Paris.”
My mouth felt dry. “Vivian Kalman.”
“You seem to know quite a lot, Miss Montgomery. It was an apology. Vague, but the gist of it was that Vivian claimed she had nothing to do with Maggie’s death, never wanted to go along with the cover-up. Said she’d been forced to do it. She asked for forgiveness.” Another small shrug. “Sounds like an admission of guilt to me.”
“Did Vivian say anything else in that letter? Anything about how Maggie died, for example?”
“Nothing. Only that ‘the others’ were still alive so she couldn’t talk about it.”
Elinor bent over in her wheelchair, seized by a coughing fit, something deep and rheumy. Alice reached in her apron pocket and pulled out a tissue.
“You’re exerting yourself too much, dear. Let me get your medicine. That bronchitis doesn’t sound good at all. I need to get you to the doctor.” She placed the tissue in Elinor’s shaking hand.
Elinor waved her away, still hacking. Finally the spasm passed. “I see too many doctors. They’re all quacks. Let me finish here.”
Alice flashed a warning look at me. “She shouldn’t be doing this.”
“I know, but please—?”
“Where was I?” Elinor was still wheezing.
“Vivian asking Maggie’s sister to forgive her.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Her voice grew stronger. “She wrote they’d been drinking, all six of them were stinking drunk. It didn’t excuse what they did, but no one was in their right mind. And she knew that they genuinely did try to save Maggie when they went back to the pier, but by then it was too late.”
“Six of them?”
“Yes, that’s right. Six.”
So Charles had been there that night after all.
Another coughing spasm shook Elinor.
“Miss Elinor, I’m taking you inside right now.” Alice unlocked the brakes on the wheelchair. To me, she said, “Please leave. It’s enough.”
“I … of course. Just two more questions. Please, do you know the niece’s name? What happened to her?”
Alice whispered something to Elinor, who nodded as she wiped under each eye with her finger.
“Wait a second,” Alice said. The screen door banged as she went inside the house. A moment later she was back holding a scrap of paper.
“Why don’t you talk to her yourself?” she said. “If you could find us, I’m sure you could find her. Unless she stayed in France.”
“Pardon?”
“She came through Washington on her way to Paris. Flew here from Oregon, just to see Miss Elinor. Told us she was leaving for Paris that night. She has family there. She also planned to look up Vivian, if she was still alive.”
Alice handed me the paper and I read the name and a Paris address—though I knew already who it was the moment she said the niece was from Oregon.
Maggie Hilliard’s niece was Jasmine Nouri.
Chapter 24
I called Eli the second I got back to my car after thanking Elinor and Alice for their time. Jasmine was babysitting Hope. She had no reason to suspect I knew anything about who she really was, and I sure as hell didn’t want to alarm her or tip my hand. But right now she was the last person I wanted to be looking after my three-year-old niece.
Eli’s phone went to voice mail and I left a terse message to call me. I thought about calling Dominique, but she was probably with Jasmine and Hope. What could I say that wouldn’t raise a red flag, especially if Jasmine was standing right there next to her?
I drove back to Atoka as fast as I dared, but it was Friday and the summer rush-hour exodus from the steamy city had started early. The first thing I intended to do was to find Hope and bring her home, if Eli hadn’t already picked her up.
After that, I didn’t have a plan. Especially since I still had no proof of anything, just a lot of speculation based on what Elinor had said. Jasmine had flown to Paris and, if I guessed correctly, she’d probably managed to track down Vivian Kalman. Within the next nine months, Vivian, Mel, and Paul all died. Vivian and Mel of heart attacks; Paul, an apparent suicide.
Maybe Vivian had given up the names of the other members of the Mandrake Society and Jasmine had visited the rest of her aunt’s former colleagues. At a minimum, she might have gotten that compromising photo of Maggie and Charles from Vivian, who had taken it. Plus she found Stephen’s yearbook photo in Maggie’s diary. Jasmine could have mailed the pictures to the others as the warning shot across the bow that the secrets and lies surrounding those two deaths had returned to haunt them all, and Charles had automatically assumed Theo was the one who had sent them.
But why would Jasmine do it? Why would she want revenge for the death of an aunt she never knew? Could she have committed murder that was passed off as a natural death—more than once— and gotten away with it? And how did Theo fit in? He was dead now, too, though his death seemed unrelated to any of this—a drug deal gone bad in San Francisco.
It was just before four when I turned off Atoka Road and flew past the stone pillars at the vineyard entrance on Sycamore Lane. My head throbbed with a tension headache and my jaw ached from clenching it. I drove straight to the Ruins.
Dominique was there, giving orders to half a dozen people setting up folding chairs, laying out tablecloths and place settings, and generally getting ready for tonight’s sell-out event. Jasmine and Hope were nowhere in sight.
My cousin saw me heading toward her. “Thank God you’re here. I could use a hand. We haven’t given ourselves enough rope and I’m about to hang myself.”
“Where’s Hope?” I asked.
“Pardon?”
“Hope. Where is she? Is she still with Jasmine?”
Dominique waved a distracted hand. “I don’t know. I think so.”
“Where’s Jasmine?”
“She might have gone back to the house to look for Eli. Juliette called and said she’d finished the floral centerpieces so Jasmine was going to head over to the Thiessmans’ to pick them up.”
Charles. The only remaining member of the Mandrake Society. Jasmine had ingratiated herself with Juliette, gaining easy and unquestioned access to their home and grounds. She’d done it in spite of Charles’s famously reclusive reputation—how clever. No one would ever suspect her if he were to have, say, an unexpected heart attack like a coupl
e of his ex-colleagues had done. Who would possibly connect the dots between Charles, Vivian, Paul, and Mel— since Charles himself had done such a stellar job of erasing any information that could link them all to one another?
And what about Theo?
“Can you cover for me?” I said. “I’ll be back.”
She looked puzzled. “Where are you going?”
“To the house,” I said. “Then to the Thiessmans’, if that’s where Hope is.”
“Lucie, what’s going on?”
“Nothing. I just, um, would feel better if Hope was with Eli or me. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to her because Jasmine got distracted or too busy.”
“She’s very capable,” Dominique said. “Or I wouldn’t have hired her.”
“Oh, I know that,” I said. “Believe me, I know. I’ll be back.”
She pulled her phone out of her pocket and waved it. “Why don’t I just call her? Find out what she’s doing, where they are.”
“No, that’s okay. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. You know, make it seem like I don’t trust her.”
“You don’t trust her,” she said. “That’s obvious. She happens to be really good with kids. Actually, she’s good with everyone. I don’t understand why you’re acting so negative about her.”
“I guess I’m just an overly protective aunt. Humor me this time, okay? I’ll find them myself.”
Dominique shrugged, annoyance flashing across her face. “I could use a little help here, you know. It is your vineyard.”
“I know that. I’ll be back as soon as I can. And there’s nobody more capable in the world than you are. I’ve seen you handle bigger events with your eyes closed.”
I started toward my car.
“You’re just saying that because you know you’re leaving me between a rock and the deep blue sea,” she called after me.
“I would never do that and I promise not to be gone long,” I yelled back. “See you soon.”
I got in the Mini and earned another disgusted look as I drove by. As long as Dominique didn’t call Jasmine and warn her I was planning to show up, I could still get Hope away from her before she realized I knew anything. Then I’d go to Bobby Noland.
But Jasmine hadn’t dropped Hope off at the house, because Eli was nowhere to be found. I shouted his name up the spiral staircase and listened to my voice echo back.
“Lucie?” Pépé called. It sounded like he was in his bedroom. “Qu’est-ce que tu fais? What’s going on?”
He came to the railing in the upstairs hall and looked down.
“What happened?” he asked. “You look dreadful.”
If I was going to tell anyone, my grandfather was the only one I trusted right now. I waited until he came down the stairs.
“Jasmine Nouri is Maggie Hilliard’s niece,” I said. “She tracked down Stephen Falcone’s sister, Elinor.”
He went pale. “How do you know that?”
“Because I just visited Elinor Falcone in Washington and she told me. Jasmine was on her way to Paris to look up Vivian Kalman when she stopped in Washington. Maggie left a diary and Jasmine found it.”
“ Mon Dieu. What do you think she’s doing here?”
“In the last six months since Jasmine visited Elinor,” I said, “everyone in the Mandrake Society has died. Except Charles. And Jasmine is over at the Thiessmans’ right now. With Hope.”
“Let’s go,” he said. “I’ll call Juliette.”
“No. Don’t do that. First we have to get Hope out of there. There’ll still be time.”
“How can you be so sure?” he said.
“I’m not,” I said. “I’m just praying there is. Come on, let’s go.”
“Wait a minute.”
My grandfather crossed the foyer to the library, which had once been Leland’s office. He reached up and slid his hand along the top of the doorjamb. My heart started pounding in my chest. The key to my father’s gun cabinet was up there; I’d never moved it from where he always kept it.
“My God, Pépé, you can’t bring a gun. What are you thinking?”
Despite my father’s legendary prowess as a hunter and a collection that could outfit a small militia, I avoided guns at all costs. Leland taught me to shoot when I was a teenager—he insisted since he kept weapons in the house—but I was way out of practice.
Pépé found the key and turned to face me. “If what you say is true, this young woman is capable of murder. I don’t want to show up unprepared.”
“Look, we’re going to get Hope out of there and then call Bobby, okay? Leave the gun here. Please.”
But he was already unlocking the door to the big glass cabinet and sliding open the drawer where Leland kept his small arms. I heard the click of a clip being loaded and then Pépé showed up in the doorway. My grandfather was a crack shot, just like Leland.
“I took the forty-five. Don’t worry. I probably won’t even need to draw it, but I like to be safe.”
“You don’t have a permit to carry concealed in Virginia.”
“I have my permis de chasser from last year’s chasse,” he said. “It’s in my wallet.”
“Your hunting permit is only good for last year’s chasse. In France,” I said. “And you didn’t hunt with a forty-five, so it’s not even for the right gun.”
“Obviously,” he said. “But a permit will be the least of my problems if I end up using this, n’est-ce pas? Let’s go.”
On the drive over to Mon Abri, my grandfather grilled me about my visit with Elinor.
“Jasmine had a photograph of Stephen because it was in Maggie’s diary?” he asked. “Do you think Vivian gave her the other picture of Maggie and Charles?”
“I guess so. Even Charles figured out that Vivian, who was the group photographer, took that shot. So it stands to reason Vivian still had it, don’t you think?”
He nodded, looking thoughtful. “What makes you think Jasmine killed Vivian?”
“I’m not sure she did. But I think it’s too much of a coincidence that all of them died within months of each other—beginning from the time Jasmine went to Paris. Who else could have done it?”
“Slow down or you’ll miss the turn for Mon Abri,” he said. “You almost passed the driveway.”
I hit the brakes and put on my turn signal. “Sorry. My mind is in a million places. Here we go.”
Pépé patted his suit jacket in the spot where the .45 sat on his hip.
“Yes,” he said. “Here we go.”
We drove up the long, shaded drive and pulled up to the front entrance.
“That’s Charles’s BMW,” Pépé said as we got out of the car. “And Juliette’s Lexus. Wait here a minute.”
He disappeared around the side of the house. In a few minutes he returned. “There’s another car. A Honda.”
“That must be Jasmine’s,” I said. “What took you so long?”
“Just looking around. It’s quiet. Everyone must be inside.”
We climbed the stairs and Pépé rang the doorbell. The Westminster chime echoed inside the house.
“Luc? Lucie? What are you doing here?” Juliette opened the door, elegant in an electric blue jersey dress, a single strand of pearls, perfect makeup, hair upswept and regal.
“We were running errands in Middleburg so we stopped by to pick up Hope,” I said. “Jasmine’s babysitting her and Dominique said she came over here to get the flowers for tonight.”
Juliette frowned. “Couldn’t Jasmine have dropped her off at your home when she returned with the centerpieces?”
“Yes, of course,” I said. “But it’s nearly time for Hope’s bath and her dinner. Eli called to say he was delayed. I told him we’d get her.”
“Really?” Her frown deepened. “Eli called Jasmine a moment ago to say he’d be waiting for them both when she got back to the Ruins.”
“Oh, gosh,” I said. “We probably got our wires crossed. I’ve been gone all afternoon. As long as we’re here, we
’ll bring her home with us. Could we come in?”
“It’s not terribly convenient. Charles is having supper,” she said. “He won’t be at your dinner tonight. He’s made other plans. I’ll be there on my own.”
“We need to have a word with Charles, Juliette.” Pépé’s voice was gentle. “It’s important.”
“Couldn’t it wait?” Juliette fingered her pearls. “He’s not in the best frame of mind tonight. Why don’t you let Jasmine bring the child home and I’ll see you both later? It’ll be nice to spend some time with you, Luc.”
“There’s something Charles needs to know about Jasmine,” Pépé said. “And you may as well hear it, too, though I know it will be distressing.” He took her arm and stepped inside. “Please. Let’s go see him.”
“What about Jasmine?” she asked as we walked through the foyer. “I know about Charles’s … girlfriends, if you’re worried about that. I’m sure he’s already tried to make a pass at her. Don’t give it another thought. I’m used to it.”
It was the first time I’d heard Juliette speak openly about Charles’s infidelities. After what Pépé had said about how discreet and private she was about her marriage, the casual comment, as if she were discussing a routine household matter, surprised me.
Charles sat alone at the head of the table, eating a salad and drinking a glass of wine, in their dark, elegant dining room. The curtains had been drawn against the late-afternoon sun, making the lighting seem thick and cobwebby. Later I would remember that it had seemed as though we were all moving, talking, and thinking in slow motion or as though we were underwater.
Charles looked up as we entered the room, anger flashing in his dark eyes. He hadn’t forgiven us for last evening’s blowup at the Inn.
“We need to talk to you, Charles,” Pépé said. “I’m sorry, but Juliette should know about this, too. It has to do with the matter we were discussing yesterday.”
“Where is Jasmine?” I asked.
Juliette tugged on her pearls again. “What’s this about? She’s in the kitchen. What about Jasmine?”
I kept my voice low. “Jasmine Nouri is Maggie Hilliard’s niece, Charles. Maggie left a diary, which Jasmine read. I’m pretty sure she tracked down Vivian Kalman in Paris, as well.”
