by Linda Barlow
“Not necessarily,” April said. “There might be several people who had a reason to want her dead.”
“In fiction, perhaps,” he said with a sidelong smile. “In real life, all it takes is one.”
“I see. You’re saying that there’s a world of difference between art and life.”
“Art and death,” he corrected gently.
“Look, Mr. Blackthorn—”
“So you’re really Rina’s daughter?”
“Stop this car, please, and let me out. I’ll find my own way back to the convention center.”
“Relax. We’re almost there.” The wheels of the rental car squealed as he took a sharp corner. But he retained complete control of the car. Probably trained to do all sorts of maneuvers to avoid terrorist attacks, April thought.
“I’m personally acquainted with the family,” he said. “But until today, I’ve never heard of you before.”
“My mother abandoned me when I was twelve years old. Today was the first time I’d been in the same room with her in twenty-eight years.”
“She abandoned you? Why?”
“Why?” April gave a short laugh. “For the usual reason that women neglect or abandon their children. There was a man. She wanted him. He was going to change her life. And I was in the way.”
“You sound bitter. Twenty-eight years is a long time. You’re an adult now, a successful woman.”
“Some emotions are untouched by time.”
Something altered in his face, as if a cloud had passed over his features. He dropped eye contact. After a moment he cleared his throat. “You’ll be investigated, you know. Both by the local authorities and by the FBI.”
“The FBI?”
“When somebody conspires to hire a killer in one state to kill somebody in another, the feds get interested. Given the fact that the de Sevignys are based in New York, there’s every indication that that is indeed what happened. It’ll be an FBI matter, all right.” His voice was clipped and there was a distant expression in his eyes. “We’ll see whether or not your story checks out.”
April clenched her fists. “I have nothing to hide.” Liar, liar, her conscience screamed at her.
With a jerk he pulled to a stop in front of the Hyatt. “It’s a pretty basic understanding in my business that everybody has something to hide.” He leaned across her and popped the handle on her door before the liveried doorman could attend to it. For an instant, his arm was warm and hard across her middle. “Whatever your secrets are, I will unearth them,” he said softly. “I’m making it both my personal and my professional business to know everything there is to know about Ms. April Harrington.”
She believed him. He would dig into her past, and God only knew what he would do when he found out.
She was shaking as she stepped from his car.
He watched her as she walked away from him, toward the entrance to her hotel. She was beautiful—an isolated figure, quiet, pale. Her long reddish hair was pulled cruelly back from her face and restrained in a chignon which might have looked sophisticated if a few strands had not persisted in escaping and forming a lazy curve against the side of her cheeks and throat. Every now and then during the drive she had pushed the errant lock behind her ear, but within minutes, it would fall forward again.
Was she capable of rage, hatred, revenge? It seemed hard to believe. But his years in law enforcement had made him cynical. A woman was no less deadly for being beautiful.
In the hours since the shooting, he’d been dissecting every move he’d made in Anaheim—the packed conferenee room, the angry confrontation between Rina and the strange woman, the confusion, the surge of the crowd, the flash of metal, the shot, the screams.
He replayed it like a videotape, stopping the action, lingering over this detail or that. All too frequently his mind lingered on what had happened after the shot rather than before it. His move on the red-haired woman. Seizing her. Holding her hard against his body. Inhaling her scent.
Dammit, it shouldn’t have gone so wrong. He had been in control. At least, he should have been.
Amazingly, he felt no desire for a drink. And yet, he thirsted. He stared at April Harrington. She was the key, he was sure. Whoever she was.
“I don’t believe her claim,” Christian de Sevigny had said when they’d spoken on the phone. “She’s clearly an imposter. With your background in intelligence and other forms of skull-duggery, you must be good for something, Blackthorn.” He spoke with his usual contempt. “Investigate her. Expose her for the fraud she is.”
“But who is she?” Isobelle had asked him on their way to the police station. “I can’t bear to see her. If she hadn’t caused that confusion in the conference room, the killer would never have dared… and Rina would still be alive.”
“I’m afraid she may be telling the truth,” Armand had told him. “Sabrina did have an illegitimate child. In fact, I met the girl, many years ago. My memory of her is not very clear, but this could be the same woman. We were told she had died. Perhaps I was too quick to believe it.”
Of course, one of them could have done it.
It wouldn’t take long to find out who benefited from Rina’s death.
Not me, that’s for sure.
Shit, he needed a drink.
Help me, Jessie, he thought.
Chapter Four
April sat in a high-back chair, her eyes fixed on the face of the Manhattan attorney who was preparing to read Rina de Sevigny’s last will and testament. She was trying to resist the temptation to study the faces of the others in the room. A few years ago she would have done it, staring insolently at each one and pretending not to care that they hated her and resented her presence here. As a child, she remembered, she had been indefatigably insolent and brave.
Spirited, one of the more tolerant of her teachers had said.
She wished she could dredge up some of that cocky old spirit now.
But the police and a rabid group of print and television journalists had given her no peace. All week long she had been stalked, followed, interviewed, harassed. But at least she hadn’t been arrested, and no one had questioned her about those awful days when she’d been a teenage runaway…
She had come to New York on her way home from California because she’d felt the need to attend her mother’s funeral. She’d told herself that her desire to do so made no sense at all, but she couldn’t seem to help wanting one last chance to resolve her feelings toward Rina, and to say good-bye.
Besides, she couldn’t help feeling curious about the murder. After all, murder was her business. Fictional murders might be neater and tidier than real ones, but her desire to find the answers and solve the mysteries was very strong.
An associate from the law firm of Stanley, Rorschach and McGregor had notified her yesterday that her presence was required at the reading of the will. Incredibly, she was one of the beneficiaries. To what extent, she had no idea. From the way they’d been looking at her, she concluded that this was a matter of much speculation among the rest of the family.
It was evident that the family took no joy in seeing her here. Armand de Sevigny had been the only one of them to greet her. His wife’s death, although clearly upsetting to him, had not interfered with his impeccable manners. Nor with his undeniable charm.
“I am so sorry we must meet under such unhappy circumstances,” he’d said to her at the funeral. “My wife spoke often of you.”
“She did?” April had been unable to hide her surprise.
Armand had embraced her warmly. “She had come to regret her actions toward you. As do I. If there’s a way to make it up to you, I intend to try.”
Admirable sentiments, she had thought. But a little late.
Rina’s stepchildren, Christian and Isobelle, had both avoided her, remaining distant and silent. Charles Ripley, Rina’s handsome assistant at Power Perspectives, had approached her and shaken her hand. “Thank you for coming,” he had said, and April had noticed that he had tears in
his eyes.
She wondered what they were all thinking this morning as they took note of her presence among them. She glanced at Isobelle, who seemed distinctly hostile. Her color was high and as she waited, she aggressively chewed on her bottom lip. One of her high-heeled pumps tapped persistently against the floor as she fidgeted, her scarlet-tipped fingers clenched into fists.
Her gaze moved to Christian, Isobelle’s brother, who was leaning impassively against the far wall, his elegant body loose and languid, his eyes closed in evident boredom.
He was an attractive man with classical features that must have been almost too pretty when he was young. Maturity had chiseled a few lines and creases into his visage, giving him an air of sophistication that April had no doubt he deserved.
She’d done enough research on the family before going to the ABA to know something about the people whom she might reasonably consider her stepbrother and stepsister. Christian was said to treasure the finer things in life, from the finest wines to the most expensive women. He worked for his father, whose many commercial interests included De Sevigny Ltd., an international shipping company that made both oil tankers and cruise ships. It was based in New York, still one of the premier ports in the world.
Isobelle did not work directly for her father, and rumor had it that there was some kind of tension between them. Instead, she had worked with her stepmother at Power Perspectives, helping her to run an enterprise that had grown far more rapidly than anybody had expected.
She had never been married. April knew nothing else about her personal life.
Also present were Charles and several other people who April could not identify, although they looked familiar from the funeral. But she did know Rob Blackthorn, who stood in one corner of the room and settled himself, leaning his powerful shoulders against the richly paneled wall and folding his arms across his chest.
For a bodyguard, April was thinking, this guy was pretty damn persistent. Whom was he protecting now?
He caught her eye and smiled. He didn’t appear to be actively hostile. Implacable, yes. Relentless, undoubtedly. She remembered his vow to learn everything there was to know about her. By now he must know that she was truly Rina’s daughter.
What else had he found out?
Arthur Stanley, Esq., loudly cleared his throat. “I hope to get on with this as quickly as possible, but I’ve been asked to wait until the authorities arrive.”
“What authorities?” Isobelle asked.
“Well, a representative of the local bureau of the FBI, I believe.”
There was a stir in the room. Isobelle laughed, Christian frowned, and Armand gave a classic Gallic shrug. Only Blackthorn, April noted, did not seem surprised.
“Is that really necessary?” Armand asked. “Surely, considering all we’ve been through during the past few days, they will grant us some privacy?”
“I know this is a difficult occasion for all of you,” the lawyer said. “Believe me, it is difficult for us as well. Madame de Sevigny was not only a valued client, but a personal friend.”
She had had a lot of personal friends, thought April, if the impressive turnout at the funeral was a reliable indication. But so far no one had stepped forward admitting to be her deadly enemy.
“But her death is a police matter,” the attorney continued, “and I’m afraid the authorities do indeed have the right to the information contained in the will…”
He was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door. A tall, lanky, middle-aged man entered the room. He held up a wallet and a shield. “Agent Martin Clemente, FBI. I hope you’ll all excuse the intrusion, but our Manhattan division has taken charge of this investigation.”
“Well,” said Stanley, “let me say that this is most unusual, at what would normally be a private reading of the decedent’s will, but I do understand that when a death is a police matter—”
“Just so,” Agent Clemente said.
“I’m sure the FBI have every right to be here,” Christian de Sevigny said. “Why don’t we get on with it?”
Stanley nodded and began.
The will was the usual instrument, filled with legalistic phrases and long passages that were of no particular interest. He finally began reading the bequests, which apparently began with the small ones, to friends and distant relations, which seemed to April an unreasonable method of heightening everyone’s suspense. Charles Ripley received a legacy of $20,000 which was earmarked for him to “return to college, should he desire to do so.” Blackthorn also received a bequest (so that’s why he was here) of a landscape painting, “in memory of his wife and life partner, Jessica.”
He’d had a wife who had died? April watched his face and noted that his face appeared drawn and weary. She felt a brief rush of sympathy.
“As you know,” Stanley said, looking up from the document, “many of Madame de Sevigny’s financial interests were jointly held with her husband. This includes real estate and securities. However, she maintained separate ownership of her business, Power Perspectives, Inc., and, as the sole proprietor, she was entitled to determine the deposition of that property.”
He paused. There was a collective shifting in the room as everybody waited. April glanced again at Isobelle. She was leaning forward eagerly. April had heard that during the last couple of years Isobelle had been a creative partner with Rina in building Power Perspectives into a successful business. Would she be as charismatic a leader as Rina had proved to be?
“Mme. de Sevigny made an alteration in her will just a few weeks ago,” said Stanley. “There is no evidence that she was under any stress or coercion at the time. I personally handled the matter myself.”
He sounded slightly defensive, April thought.
“I will read you the relevant portion of the will, which says, in essence, that Madame de Sevigny has left Power Perspectives—both its controlling interests and all its assets—which are considerable, to her daughter, April Harrington.”
What?
April heard a gasp from somewhere on the “family” side of the room. She tried to control her own response, although she was sure everyone must have heard’ the sound of her convulsive swallow.
“The will further provides that if said April Harrington is unable to be located, if she refuses the legacy, or if she dies without issue, Isobelle de Sevigny will inherit in her stead.”
Isobelle stood, her dark eyes flashing. “So suddenly I am second in line to the throne?” she spat out. “This is impossible. Who is this woman? She turns up out of nowhere and lays claim to my stepmother’s estate? It’s unbelievable. I object to this. There’s something very suspicious going on.”
Armand touched his daughter’s arm. “Isobelle. Please. This is not the place for an outburst. Sit down.”
“No, Papa, I won’t sit down. Rina has been murdered in front of our eyes and now this woman… this woman who may have been her murderer… she is the one to inherit control of Power Perspectives? I’ve been working very closely with Rina. I had understood that I was her heir. What is this nonsense about an alteration in her will?”
“Isobelle.” Armand’s voice was low but the air of command in it was powerful. He gave a quick glance at Agent Clemente, who was watching the proceedings impassively. “That will do.”
April sat still with her hands clasped in her lap. This is crazy, she was thinking. It made no sense at all. She couldn’t really blame Isobelle for protesting. If she’d been in her shoes, she’d have squawked about it, too.
She rose unsteadily. I’ve got to get out of here, she thought. To the group at large she murmured, “You’ll have to excuse me for a few minutes, please.”
April found the nearest ladies room and locked herself into a stall. She felt queasy, excited, and scared—all at the same time. All she could see was the expression on her mother’s face during the last few moments of her life, when she’d suddenly realized that she was looking once again at the face of her only child. “You ruined my life!” she had cried out
to her mother, and Rina had reached out toward her. “April, wait,” had been her last words. Whatever she’d meant to say after that, whatever explanation she might have tried to give had been blasted into silence by the murderer’s bullet.
Now her mother, who had left her standing on a cold pier mourning the departing hulk of an ocean liner, had acknowledged her at last.
In her mind’s eye she saw Blackthorn’s cold, unfriendly gaze. Great, she thought. Now he must be convinced she was guilty.
Chapter Five
“I’m going to challenge the will.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Armand de Sevigny said to his daughter.
“Don’t interfere with me, Papa,” Isobelle cried.
The scene in the conference room after the will reading had devolved into exactly the sort of chaos, thought Rob Blackthorn, that murder investigators love. The family was upset, and the terms of the will had been a surprise. He couldn’t have picked a better time to observe them all.
He exchanged a quick glance with Marty Clemente, whom he knew well from his former days with the FBI. Marty raised his eyebrows slightly in acknowledgment. Blackthorn was glad Marty was on this case, and not some young, overly idealistic, wet-behind-the-ears type. He might even be able to trade some information with Marty.
“Isobelle, I strongly suggest you control your emotions before you say something you regret,” Armand said.
His tone was scathing, and Blackthorn noted that Armand seemed to have lost much of his usual geniality. He had aged in the few days since his wife’s death. His eyes were duller, his step heavier. Blackthorn had wondered if their marriage was a happy one, but there was no denying that Armand was grieving.
Was the new will a revelation to him or had he known his wife’s wishes in advance?
Clearly it had been a revelation to Isobelle. Her face was crimson and her eyes were blazing. This was very much in character, for she was the sort of woman who never missed an opportunity to be dramatic. With her raven hair and her striking figure, she usually had everyone’s attention, anyway, but everyone’s attention was never enough. Blackthorn knew that the one person whose love and respect she had always yearned for was her father’s, and that, for some reason, she’d never been able to secure.
