by Patti Larsen
So. Many. Questions. Here then could be the source of answers for the Reading hoard. Right in front of me, practically in my lap—or me in hers—and all I had to do was ask.
“Fiona.” Vivian’s cold voice cut through the moment, jerking me out of the tunnel-vision tension I felt and sending Martha back into her chair, where she picked at her blanket and hummed softly to herself.
I stood, trembling, knowing I had to look pale, shaken, but Vivian was equally so and I found myself staring at her as she visibly pulled herself together, gesturing for me to follow her.
Clara stood as well, face pinched and unhappy. “Viv, dear—”
“Mind your own business, Auntie.” Vivian’s snapped response had an instant effect on Clara who nodded and sat down again, abruptly, hand clasping for Martha. As for the old woman, she was utterly lost now in whatever world she usually inhabited, ignoring me while I struggled to come up with an excuse to talk to her further.
Instead, frustrated and bubbling with fresh anxiety over being so close to answers to a riddle that had plagued me since my return to Reading, I joined Vivian who practically herded me out into the foyer away from the two quiet ladies I couldn’t feel anything but sorry for.
“Ta ta for now, Iris, darling,” Martha called after me. “Secrets best kept, my love.”
***
Chapter Nineteen
Vivian’s expression was about as cold as was to be expected, though I couldn’t get past her initial reaction and how she’d seemed so vulnerable, trembling as I’d been trembling, though I imagined for different reasons.
What was she hiding? The two sweet ladies in the other room were nothing to be ashamed of, were they? At least she seemed to be taking care of them, I’d give her that. But the impression I had they were somehow trapped here, like prisoners in this gilded cage of wealth and old secrets gave me the shivers like nothing else, not even murder. What did Vivian have to do with Marie Patterson and, more importantly, did she have a key to the treasure?
“You’re not welcome here.” Vivian didn’t stop at the foyer, escorting me all the way to the front door and out onto the step where she firmly shut the big entry behind her. She even went so far as to cross her thin arms across her chest and glare at me like I’d somehow broken some code of conduct we’d agreed to even though we’d done nothing of the sort. I wanted to ask her if she remembered we were friends when we were little, but that annoyingly icy stare of hers just set me off like always.
Nice to know no matter what happened Vivian French and her better than everyone else attitude was a constant.
“I had questions,” I said. “You wanted me to investigate, right? That was the gist of your demands on me when you brought this mess into my life?”
Vivian flinched but didn’t relent. “Alicia did first,” she said, voice soft, defensive.
Grunt. “Listen,” I said, temper heating my words more than they would have any other time, if only because I still reeled from the reveal of the possibility her grandmother had information I needed to solve the hoard mystery and I now had zero access to her, “I’m here because you asked me to be. If you decide you want to leave things to Jill and Crew and Robert, you just say the word, Viv.” I watched her face fall, her clenched body unwind slightly, my own flare of anger retreating as she nodded, arms dropping to her sides.
“I just wasn’t expecting…” She glanced behind her, caught herself, tried for rigid control again but didn’t quite make it. It gave me a brief and sad insight into Vivian I hadn’t had before. She wasn’t angry I intruded. She was terrified of what I’d seen, protective of the women she guarded within. Did she think she was doing them a favor, keeping them safe from the outside world? Or was she truly hiding something? In a flash I remembered Vivian had lost her twin brother when they were little, the truth hitting me almost like a blow. Wait, I remembered him, Victor. He’d drowned, hadn’t he?
Vivian’s expression finally settled and I knew any chance of asking her questions was gone with her return to control. “I’m sorry.” Wow, an apology? Blunt and abrupt, but one nonetheless. Okay then. I nodded as she went on. “What do you need from me that brought you here and couldn’t wait until I was available?”
So much for saying she was sorry. That was as backhanded a complaint as ever I heard one. Still, I let her have her victory if only because I now had her voice in my head apologizing for the times I needed to call up something to keep me warm at night. Oh, Fee. So cynical.
I ran through my questions quickly enough, recapping what I’d learned online and gained little new from her. Though, when I reached the topic of Frederick and the accusations against him, Vivian actually flinched, if barely perceptible. Thing was, I was so in tune with her at this point I almost twitched with her and caught myself before I impulsively reached out to take her hand in comfort.
Weird. Get it together, Fleming.
Meanwhile, Vivian’s chin came up, lips twisting in a wry show of distaste. “Frederick has a certain reputation,” she said. “I myself had to fend him off when I modeled for Henry.” She looked sad in that moment, like her past was something she wished she could abandon at the side of the road and never have to think about again. “I’m certain he’s never changed, but he’s harmless, in his own way. At least to those as experienced as Faith Leeman.”
“That’s horrible.” My stomach turned over, empathy for Vivian, for all the young men and women who worked in the industry she still seemed to pine over as if the loss of a loved one. How could she idolize working in an environment like that?
Vivian shrugged, delicate but powerful, icy eyes unflinching. “It’s part of the culture,” she said. “Modeling is all about being seen as an object, Fiona. Surely that much is obvious.” It was, but it didn’t make it right. “That’s why I’m so in support of Grace and her vision.” As always, Vivian’s voice changed when she spoke about her designer friend, warming up, softening. “She doesn’t just love fashion. She loves the people in it and wants to do her part to improve the industry. To make it not just a beautiful vision on the outside, but the same on the inside.”
I wasn’t going to argue with Vivian about her optimism. She seemed to have so little of her own, and telling her that my own jaded opinion of the fashion industry that tried every day through photoshopped images to make me feel fat, ugly and unworthy was likely going to remain the status quo.
Instead, I asked my final question. “All the information I have on Faith says she was well-loved, pretty squeaky clean. Does that sound accurate?”
Vivian’s instant irritation told me it didn’t. “I can assure you, anyone who made it to the level Faith had didn’t do so on looks alone.” She glanced over her shoulder at the door, anxiety a whisper across her face before returning her attention to me for one last moment. “Find out what she had on those around her and you might find the murderer.”
Nice of her to tell me this earlier. “Blackmail?”
“More than likely just leverage.” Vivian turned her back on me, grasped the doorknob. Hesitated. “Fee.” She cleared her throat, glancing back over one shoulder, not quite meeting my eyes. “Please, ignore anything you heard from Auntie and Grandam. They are both very old and tend to ramble.” She paused one last moment. “And the next time you want to speak with me, call. I’ll come to you.”
I didn’t get to comment. With that, she pulled the door open just wide enough to slip through, closing it behind her with a thump of finality. If Vivian thought I was going to listen to her, she had another thing coming. Because not only did she give me confirmation I absolutely needed to pay attention to what they’d said, dementia driven or not, her nervousness was more than enough impetus for me to believe what I already suspected was true.
Vivian French was deep in the Patterson camp and couldn’t be trusted.
***
Chapter Twenty
I drove home, musing the entire way, wondering how Crew and I could manage to get into the marina and dive for the evid
ence I’d seen last August, a chance to investigate the compass I knew was carved into the stone under the main pier at the yacht club. We’d both tried a couple of times to find a good excuse to do so, but neither of us could come up with a valid reason. I hadn’t given the hoard much thought in the last little while, my mind more taken up by Siobhan Doyle, by Daisy and Rosebert, by Crew (okay, so mostly by Crew, so sue me) and the busy life that Petunia’s and the annex tied me to. Like always, for some reason, new shiny took me over, older mysteries falling to the wayside. Maybe partially because I worried Rose knew more than I wanted her to? The thought she and Robert might uncover evidence thanks to me being clumsy about my own investigation made me queasy. Besides, the hoard had waited this long, hadn’t it? I hadn’t had the impetus to leap on the question in the last little while
But now? Now that I had the secretive questioning of an old woman to refuel the fire of my curiosity? I’d be talking to my fellow conspirators and taking some definitive steps.
In the meantime, I had some research to dig up. Namely on Vivian’s family, on her deceased twin brother and the ties she had to the Patterson family, if any.
Mom and Daisy were in the kitchen when I arrived home and I immediately told them about meeting the ladies. I left out Martha’s little hint about the treasure, but the rest of it was met with sadness and quiet, at least on Mom’s part. Daisy even appeared troubled by what I told them, and that was saying something since she wasn’t really a Vivian fan and never had been.
“It’s true,” Mom said, voice soft and low while she poured me a cup of coffee, adding extra cream as if doing so might give me comfort. Like the plate of coffee cake she shoved at me and I realized in a start of wonder my mother didn’t just love to cook, she used food as love itself. I nibbled the cake as she went on. “Iris used to take us to the French’s for Sunday tea. That’s how you met Vivian, so many years ago, Fee. You were friends until you started school and her mother’s influence kicked in.” Mom blinked, sniffed softly. “Poor Victor. You were there, you know. The day he drowned. You saved Vivian, Fee, but Victor died.”
I what? “Why don’t I remember any of this?” Did I block it out? I reached for memories, didn’t find any, while Mom nodded.
“You were traumatized. Victor was even closer to you than Vivian. John and I never mentioned it because the psychologist who examined you after the fact said you’d forgotten everything. On purpose, I suppose, to protect yourself. And, with time, we forgot, too. Though, I think we never really did.”
I chewed at my bottom lip, heart pounding. “Is that why Vivian doesn’t like me?”
Mom shook her head, patted my hand. “Poor Vivian doesn’t like herself, dear,” she said, sounding like that was the most tragic truth that there ever was and I had to agree with her. Sure, I beat myself up from time to time, but I actually thought I was pretty awesome. Vivian had it all, but to not like herself, well. How long could someone live like that and not be miserable? “I blame her mother, that horrible creature.”
Daisy nodded, leaned in, sighed. “I’ve never gotten along with Vivian, Fee, you know that. But Lucy’s right. Her mother was a monster. You think Vivian’s cold?”
I couldn’t recall Mrs. French at all. “What happened? Vivian was modeling, wasn’t she?” I missed all of that, leaving for college right after high school the way I had. I still didn’t like thinking about that time in my life, the way I’d gone, how I’d hurt myself and my parents. Better to focus on Vivian’s troubles than my old news, right? “Why did she come back?”
“Her father.” Mom patted my hand. “He passed in a tragic accident when Vivian was twenty-one. Her mother knew nothing about the business, was going to ruin them.”
“I hear she lives in Boston now.” Daisy stole a corner of coffee cake, huge gray eyes full of compassion I wasn’t sure she’d ever actually let Vivian see.
Mom snorted, her least favorite reaction since it was so unladylike but one she pulled out when she was feeling particularly irritated. “A dilettante, living off her daughter and old family money. Rachelle doesn’t have anything to do with Vivian these days, as far as I know. And the better for it.” Wow, I had no idea my mother felt that protective of the woman I’d spent most of my life despising and judging. Mom relented, eating her own bite of sugary goodness before going on. “Vivian learned quickly, came home and took over, just like that.” She snapped her fingers.
Daisy flipped open the laptop she’d set on the counter and, after a short search, showed me some images of a familiar and yet stunningly unfamiliar young woman featured in several advertising campaigns. Okay, Vivian was gorgeous. I got the picture, literally.
“Martha and Clara?” I prodded Mom with those two names.
“Dear old Martha,” Mom said. “She and Iris were close, once upon a time. I think she’s suffering from dementia.” I nodded as my mother shook her head in sorrow. “A shame. She had a sharp mind and always made me laugh. As for Clara, she’s a dear, married Vivian’s uncle and immigrated from England years ago.”
For a moment I had a thought. Could she be somehow connected to Siobhan? And then I gave myself a headshake. Two different countries, England and Ireland. Besides, I was reaching for straws in that connection, right?
Wasn’t I?
“Mom,” I said, chasing back that murmur of curiosity in favor of answers to questions right in front of me (because who didn’t need unexamined details floating to the surface of their mind at three in the morning?), “what connection does Vivian have to the Pattersons? I know Grandmother Iris was friends with Marie. And it seems that Martha was, too. Do you think Vivian is still tied to them?”
Mom didn’t answer right away, but her troubled look gave me pause. “All I know, dear, is that when Vivian came home after her father’s death, French’s was in a terrible state. And shortly thereafter Vivian had everything back up and running properly, was in firm control, though she was barely out of her teens and had no experience with business.”
Meaning it was possible the Pattersons stepped in to help out and now they owned her soul. So be it.
On the other hand, I couldn’t help the grudging admiration I felt for her. She’d not only given up her dream, she’d done what she had to in order to support her family, to save her father’s business. I didn’t want to admire her, not right now, but it was hard not to.
Damn it.
My phone buzzed, catching my attention and I did a quick check while Mom and Daisy went their separate ways, the sound of the front door bell calling my bestie while my mother returned to her endless cooking routine.
Sorry to cancel short notice. Crew’s text disappointed, but it wasn’t his fault. Something came up. Work.
I understand. The least I could do was not let him know I was shallow enough to feel annoyed at the fact I wasn’t going to see him tonight. Stay safe and if you need me, I’m here.
Love you.
Okay, he was totally forgiven. Love you, too.
I retreated a moment to my apartment, Petunia ignoring me in favor of sitting at Mom’s feet as she always did while my mother was cooking, and did my own quick search of Vivian at last. On impulse, I picked up the phone and dialed the Reading Reader Gazette.
“I’m not here,” Pamela’s gruff voice said. “I have better things to do than sit in the office. Leave a message and if it’s important, I’ll get back to you. Eventually.” I grinned at the familiar message, waiting for the beep.
“It’s Fiona,” I said. “You better call me.” And hung up. Pamela might not be willing to talk, her lean toward her wife’s family and toeing the company line lately worrying at best. Still, if I could get her in a chatty mood, I might be able to figure out what the Pattersons had on Vivian and, indirectly, get a line on what the ladies club knew about the treasure.
So many threads hanging around me, I felt like I was being tickled on all sides. Only one was a real priority, though, wasn’t it? With a deep sigh, I headed back upstairs, determined to help V
ivian find out who killed Faith Leeman.
And while our initial interaction had left me with a bad taste in my mouth, not to mention the implied—if not court proved—behavior of the older designer was about as cringe worthy as anyone could ask for, I had questions for Frederick Newmark and, darn it, I was going to ask them.
I ran through what I wanted to ask on my drive to the lodge, but all of that went out the window when I actually set foot in the place, uncommon discomfort making me squeamish. He had to be in his room, didn’t he? I knocked, did my best to be polite and professional but knew immediately I’d made an error when his smile turned predatory and he gestured for me to enter.
Yeah, not happening. “I’m fine in the hall,” I said, firm enough he would surely get the hint. Apparently not. He leaned into the door frame like it was sexy, jutting his hips toward me with a kind of practiced sneer/smile meant to seem sensual, I think. More yuck. Awesome.
“What can I do for you, beautiful?” He up and downed me. Like, out and out up and downed me. He was a cheek slap waiting to happen.
I kept a solid three feet between us and launched into my questions. “How well did you know Faith Leeman?” Smarm made my skin creep and I just wanted this to be over.
His vapid gaze snapped into irritation. “I thought you were here to talk to me.”
“I am.” Seriously, what was his definition of talking?
Frederick eye rolled, flicking his fingers at me, gold ring flashing in the light. “She was a model.” He sounded disinterested, glancing down at his hand and gasping softly, holding his fingertips up to the light. “I’m in desperate need of a mani-pedi. But this place is booked.”
Dear god, the man was clueless. “What about Kami Derham?”
His gaze flickered to me, another frown appearing. “Model.” He waited, like he’d told me everything he knew.
