In the flickering light from the fireplace and the lit candles, Lindsay looked as beautiful as she always had. She had dark hair, cut in waves that fell gently to her shoulders. She wasn’t very tall—maybe an inch or two over five feet tall in stocking feet—and she was thin in that way all rich woman aspire to, maybe a size zero, at most a two. She was casually dressed in a red cashmere sweater that hugged her figure—she had nice breasts for so small a woman, and slender hips in her faded skinny jeans and ballet flats. She had a heart-shaped face, coming to a catlike pointed chin, and her skin was tanned, but there was something almost artificial about the tan, like it came from a spray can rather than the sun. Her eyes were large and round and a velvety, expressive brown; her brows were plucked into thin arched lines over them. Her button nose was overwhelmed by her thick lips and a slight underbite. But as she talked and laughed, I noticed that her forehead remained flat and smooth, and the lips didn’t look the way they had the last time I saw her. There were other subtle changes to her face—the cheeks a bit fuller than they’d been, and the absence of lines where there should have been made me think she’d had a little bit of work done, here and there. Nothing major, nothing that would be noticeable at first glance, but she was doing her best to fight off the encroaching years with a surgeon’s help.
Not that there was anything wrong with that. I liked to think I would just let my face age naturally, wouldn’t give in to that kind of vanity, the way Charlotte had. But I didn’t yet have lines showing up where there hadn’t been any before, and my lips hadn’t started getting thinner. Maybe when the lines started cobwebbing out from my mouth and my eyes, when the skin under my chin began to sag ever so lightly, and the lines on my forehead didn’t smooth away with a change of expression, my opinions about Botox and fillers and all the little tricks my clients used to look younger might change. The problem I had with these little touches was that they became addictive to women who use them—almost all my clients had work done at some point, and some of them had gone completely overboard—their eyes taking on that telltale slant, the lips too thick, the skin between the nose and upper lip flat and immovable, the mouth line extending past the mouth, the cheeks too plump and too round and too dull, the breasts too large and too perky.
As I’d read somewhere, too much surgery didn’t make you look young—it just made you look expensive.
Maybe I would change my mind, but I liked women like Helen Mirren and Judi Dench and Maggie Smith, who wore their age proudly and still looked beautiful and natural and human.
The conversation, both before and during dinner, stayed on easy topics—the weather, Kayla’s modeling career, what celebrity was sleeping with whom, the Real Housewives, the obligatory talk about the piece on me in the Times—and a stranger joining us would have thought it a lovely, civilized dinner, the kind of resounding social success every hostess dreams of and rarely achieves, with warm generous laughter and the kind of easy joking only old friends manage.
But a stranger wouldn’t have noticed there was a tension beneath the polite conversation, the gentle laughter, the empty compliments. Every so often, I’d catch Lindsay clutching her wineglass so hard her knuckles turned white, or that her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, or I would catch her staring at me with an intense expression I couldn’t quite read on her face. Was it envy, loathing, hatred, curiosity, or something else altogether? I didn’t expect Lindsay Moore to like me—I never had, and she never would, even if she managed to marry Charlotte and move into Sea Oats. She just wasn’t the kind of woman who could ever be friends with another woman she saw as a rival, and even after the divorce, she would always see me as a rival.
I couldn’t blame her for resenting me, if she was in love with Charlotte.
Charlotte wouldn’t talk about her past with Lindsay whenever I’d asked her about it—she’d always just waved a hand and said something like, “That was a long time ago,” or something similar and dropped the subject. Of course, this just made me even more curious about her, and Peggy wasn’t a good source—she hated Lindsay, refused to talk about her, always referred to her as that woman. So, naturally I’d turned to Bast, who’d been more than happy to tell me every dirty detail of the long tortured romance.
It was hard to imagine, sitting at her dinner table and making mindless conversation with her, that Lindsay had ever had issues with her own sexuality.
She and Char had first become involved romantically when they were teenagers; Charlotte’s parents were already dead by this time so there was, in the Gospel According to Bast, no way of knowing whether they would have been okay with their daughter being a lesbian. It took Peggy some getting used to, but to her, Charlotte was Charlotte and she loved her, so that was the end of that. But Lindsay’s parents hadn’t been quite so understanding; they’d been more like mine, and I could sympathize with her. Even though I’d made peace with the knowledge I would never have a relationship with my parents again, every now and then—on, say, my birthday, or Mother’s Day, or Father’s Day, or Thanksgiving, or Christmas—it would hit me again between the eyes like a hammer, and I felt a little sad.
But as time passed, the sadness was for my parents, not for me.
It put them in an awkward place—her father was senior vice president of marketing for Swann’s, and even though Charlotte was too young to have any say in the running of the company, she was still part owner, through the trust, and one day she would be running Swann’s. So rather than forbidding Lindsay to see Charlotte, they made things hard on Lindsay, constantly pressuring her to conform, to find a nice guy, to date men, to get married and have children. Like me, she was an only child, so the pressure was amped up even more. Unlike me, she had never escaped from under her parents’ thumb…
Which was yet another reason for her to hate me.
Somehow, Lindsay wound up getting married right out of college—shortly after her father retired—and the marriage had been a disaster. Again, according to Bast, she’d been seeing the guy all the while she’d still been involved with Charlotte, who’d had no idea that the love of her life was also seeing a guy. Charlotte had been crushed when Lindsay got married, which was when Peggy turned against Lindsay once and for all. The marriage hadn’t lasted long—he drank too much, and apparently when he was drinking he was abusive—and so finally Lindsay had left him and come running home. She’d divorced him, got back with Charlotte, only to marry another man a few years later. That marriage, too, had ended in divorce. Charlotte and Lindsay had then gone on a bout of on-again / off-again that lasted for another few years—
And then Charlotte had married me.
I could certainly relate to Lindsay’s issues with her parents. After I came out to them, I only spoke to my family on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and birthdays. When I’d come out to them one summer when I was home from school they’d listened, and when I was finished my mother had just smiled, patted me on the arm, and said, “And we don’t ever need to talk about this again, do we?” They remained convinced that I simply hadn’t met the right man yet, and once I did, I’d get over this lesbian foolishness once and for all. It was my marriage that ended the détente we’d established. That was when they stopped taking my calls, stopped calling me back, made it clear to me that I wasn’t welcome at home.
It was fine. I never wanted to return to Kansas anyway, and the loss of my family—well, I didn’t actually lose anything. They didn’t love me, they loved their idea of me, and once the façade of that idea was shattered once and for all, they stopped loving me. I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t hurt, but it hurt less the more time passed, and now I no longer cared. I wished them well. We kept our respective distances, and we were all better off for it.
I couldn’t help but wonder how Lindsay dealt with it.
Lindsay’s parents were now living in Florida, and she’d taken over their house. I wasn’t sure what she did for money—she couldn’t still be supported by her parents—but I knew she also didn’t work. Maybe there
was a trust or something, I didn’t know. It wasn’t any of my business.
After the dessert and coffee, Lindsay rose and said to me, “I understand you took some pictures of Angus before he was killed the other day?”
“Um, yes, they’re on my phone.”
“Angus and I were always close,” she said. “Bast, Kayla, do you mind if Ariel and I go off and look at the pictures privately for a few moments?”
I followed her down the hallway to a small room she clearly used as an office. I got out my phone and opened the picture folder, scrolling through the pictures until I found the ones with Angus. She sat down at the desk and I handed her the phone. She turned on the desk light and peered at the pictures, swiping left to get the next ones up. Finally, she handed the phone back to me and said, “You really can’t tell who—or what—that is in the picture with him, can you?”
I should have known that was why she wanted to see the pictures. “No, you can’t,” I replied, slipping my phone back into my purse. “It could be anyone.”
“The pictures were just an excuse anyway,” she went on. “I wanted to talk to you alone.”
“About Charlotte?”
Her face was unreadable. She blinked slowly. “You know Charlotte and I have started seeing each other again?”
“Peggy may have mentioned it.” I shrugged. “You don’t have anything to worry about, Lindsay. I didn’t come back to reconcile with Charlotte, if that’s what you’re afraid of. That’s all over and done with—both Charlotte and I can agree on that, at the very least.”
She nodded. “Then why did you come back, Ariel? Couldn’t you have just filed for a divorce without coming back here?”
“Peggy sent for me.” I was getting tired of all this, and I was beyond tired of covering for Peggy. I’d already told Bast the truth—one of them was bound to tell Charlotte, but that wasn’t my problem. I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Apparently, someone is trying a hostile takeover of Swann’s, or something like that. I don’t really care, honestly. Since I’m married to Charlotte and there was no prenup, Peggy is worried that I have some claim on Charlotte’s shares and might side against the family. The whole thing is ridiculous. I have no interest in Swann’s and I have even less interest in Charlotte’s shares.” I held up my hands. “And when I get back to New York, I’m getting a lawyer and getting a divorce. It’s long overdue and I don’t care what I have to do, but I don’t want anything from her. I don’t want her money and I don’t want her stock and I don’t want her company. All I want is my freedom. Is that blunt enough for you?”
“So your being here—it has nothing to do with…with Charlotte?” Her face was vulnerable, and she looked sad and frightened.
“No.” I put my hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Believe me, Lindsay, I get it. I do. If you and Charlotte can make each other happy, more power to the two of you, and I mean that. My marriage was a mistake. I think I can speak for Charlotte in saying that she knows it now just as much as I do. When I go back to the city—when the police will let me go—I’m hiring a lawyer and filing for divorce. I don’t know why Charlotte hasn’t already. But the marriage is over. I’m not a threat to you.”
She laughed bitterly. “Aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Peggy didn’t send for you to try to reconcile?”
“No,” I lied. Peggy didn’t like Lindsay, had never forgiven her for hurting Charlotte over and over throughout the years. Peggy had brought me out here to break up Lindsay and Charlotte, but no good would come of telling Lindsay that truth. “I didn’t even know you two were seeing each other again, honestly.”
“It’s only been a couple of dinners,” Lindsay said. “It may not mean anything. If only—” Her eyes glittered with tears, and for the first time I felt sorry for her, which I am sure was something she would not be happy about.
“Honestly, I wish you both only the best,” I lied.
Her eyes narrowed. “Can I see those pictures again?”
I sighed and got my phone back out. I handed it over to her. She squinted at one of the pictures, and held it out to me to see. “Doesn’t that—doesn’t that kind of look like Peggy?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I replied, glancing at it before putting it back into my purse. Of course, now that she’d said that, I could see how someone might think it was Peggy. There was something about the way the blurred, shadowed figure was standing. But no, it couldn’t be Peggy.
Why on earth would Peggy have wanted to kill Angus?
The drive back to Sea Oats was quiet. I looked out my window and no one spoke. Seeing Lindsay had awakened something inside me. I didn’t hate her, I didn’t resent her anymore. I never should have in the first place. She’d wrecked things with Charlotte several times, and it was little wonder Peggy wanted her out of Charlotte’s life once and for all. Peggy was fiercely protective of both Bast and Charlotte. God help poor Kayla if Peggy decided she was wrong for Bast.
I stole a glance over at her. She was resting with her head down on Bast’s shoulder, and his arm was around her. Her eyes were closed.
On second thought, Kayla was more than capable of taking care of herself, that was for sure.
I laughed to myself as the car pulled up to the front door of the house. I got out first and didn’t wait for the others. I was tired, and just wanted to go straight to bed. I’d had too much wine and my head was swirling, plus I was emotionally exhausted.
What I really wanted to do was pack and get the hell out of there, but that wasn’t possible.
But as I was about to go up the staircase to the third floor, Peggy stopped me. “How was dinner?” she asked.
I looked at her. She looked no different than she had before, but I couldn’t get Lindsay’s suggestion that she was the person in that picture out of my head. How far would Peggy go to protect the family? Would she kill someone she considered a threat?
Of course she would. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for either Charlotte or Bast.
But why kill Angus?
I heard him muttering again, the sense of urgency in his voice as he said, The answer’s at the center of the maze. In the center of the maze. Do you know what I mean?
What was it Bast had done to the maze when he was a teen? That had made Angus angry? I couldn’t remember the story…Was Angus trying to tell me that Bast was trouble? To be careful of him?
“It was fine,” I replied, keeping my voice steady. “Lindsay was curious why I came back.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I didn’t tell her you sent for me,” I replied. “You did want me to come back here to break them up, didn’t you?”
“Charlotte loves you, Ariel. That’s all I care about.”
I shook my head and continued up the stairs. I opened my door and gasped.
The room was in ruins. My clothes were scattered all over the floor, the bed had been stripped, and the mattress tipped up on its side.
Someone had searched my room.
But why?
My laptop was open on the nightstand.
Grimly, I checked the cloud.
The pictures had been deleted.
Chapter Nine
I felt violated.
I got up, sat back down again, closed the laptop, not sure what I should do next. Call for help? Call the police? I stared at the mess in disbelief.
I couldn’t call the police.
Whoever did this had access to the house, which meant it was someone staying at Sea Oats. With the security guards Peggy and Char had hired after Angus’s murder, no one could have possibly broken into the house. They would have never made it over the fence and across the lawn, for one thing, without being caught.
I started shivering uncontrollably. My underwear was scattered all over the floor. Whoever had done this had handled my underwear.
I wanted to start screaming.
No, no, calm down, Ariel, stop shaking and think, you need to think this through.
I t
ook a few deep breaths. My heart was thumping in my ears, I was sweating.
Angus’s killer has access to the house.
Which meant Angus’s killer either was a member of the family, or was tied to the Swanns in some way.
I got to my feet, shaking still, grasping onto the bedpost for support. I couldn’t stay in the room alone, I didn’t want to be alone, I needed someone to be with me.
Kayla.
Her room was just down the hallway.
Somehow I managed to make it to the doorway. The hall stretched out, empty, the lights in their sconces on the walls giving off white light, but there was darkness in places…places where I couldn’t tell if someone was lying in wait for me, waiting for me to come out into the hallway.
You’re being ridiculous, stop that, you’re scaring yourself.
I took another deep breath and stepped out into the hallway. I was still shaking—I didn’t think the trembling was ever going to go away, I was going to shiver to death—as I started down the hallway. I vaguely remembered which room Kayla had said was hers. I heard a sound around the corner, where I couldn’t see, and almost jumped out of my skin.
“Kayla?” I called hoarsely, my voice barely at a normal level. “Kayla?”
I knocked on her door, calling out her name.
There was no response.
I turned the knob and opened the door. The room was a mess, similar to the mess in my room, but this was just carelessness, not deliberate. I could see into the bathroom, and the black marble-topped vanity was a disaster area. There was a thin coat of powder on it, makeup containers scattered everywhere, and there was toothpaste spatter all over the sink and the mirror. It looked like Kayla just removed her clothes and let them fall wherever she happened to be standing at the time. Her bed was unmade, the coverlet lying next to the bed in a shapeless pile. Her phone was charging on the nightstand. Fashion magazines were tossed aside, some open on the bed, others fanned out on the carpet. Just looking at the mess made me cringe.
A Lamentation of Swans Page 13
