“Yes, I can do that,” he said pocketing the checks. “Of course, I would need money for expenses. You know—strange city. Clothes. I would need a new suit … for the video. When are you leaving?”
“Right now,” DuBois said. “I bought an open ticket for you. I thought if you had what you said you had, that you might be willing to return with us.” This time it was DuBois who smiled at Lacroix.
Wellington nodded to a waiter hovering a short distance away. “Gentlemen,” Wellington said, “I don’t know about you but I feel like having a hearty lunch before we leave. My treat. I’ve heard the food is pretty good here … at the Ritz.”
Chapter 12
───
Paris
LOOKING OUT OF HIS office window at the sparkling waters of the Seine flowing by, Maxime gazed at a tourist boat filled with people falling in love with the city and each other. He was due at his Senate office in thirty minutes but his thoughts were not on his new position, they were in Seattle. A year had gone by since he and Gillianne had made a baby. Seeing her holding their daughter in her arms stirred a yearning in his heart he had not been prepared for.
The infant was a product of their love, receiving the beauty of her mother but the intensity, and warmth of her father. It was all Maxime could do that afternoon to keep from wrapping both mother and child in his arms, never to let them go again. The love for Gillianne and Robyn burned into the very core of his being. How was he going to undo the unforgivable? Telling her so coldly in the restaurant that night, that he and his wife were reconciling, that he was running for the Senate.
There was one thing he had to do immediately.
Marching down the hall, he barged into his father’s office. The Count was on the phone but seeing the expression on his son’s face, he ended the call. He waited for Maxime to speak, to tell him what caused the unprecedented intrusion.
Maxime paced to the window, then whirled around to face his father.
“Have you ended the business with that detective in Seattle?” His lawyer’s voice was controlled, but firm, as if asking a crucial question of a witness demanding an answer.
“No!”
“Call him, now. Tell him his final payment is in the mail.”
“Why? What happened? You return from a trip to Germany and suddenly want to cut off the business in Seattle?”
“I didn’t go to Germany. I went to Seattle.”
“Now you’re going to tell me that you want to bring your mistress and her child to Paris?” His father looked at his bookcase full of law books and shook his head. “Maxime, you—
“Call him! Now! I want to hear you tell him. I know you have his cell. Now!”
The Count reached for his phone as he scanned a little black book of numbers lying on his desk. He stabbed his fingers on the phone’s buttons. Maxime walked out the door and picked up the startled secretary’s phone pushing the lighted button to connect to the same line as his father. Stretching the cord, Maxime stood in the doorway to his father’s office—watched him as he listened to the conversation. It ended quickly.
The Count returned the receiver to the cradle as did Maxime. He returned to face his father closing the door behind him.
The Count leaned back in his chair, hands clasped over his stomach, and smiled. “So, my son, you are now not only a Senator but a man. It took you a while but I wouldn’t have missed seeing you in action for anything. You didn’t answer my question. Are you planning to move your little family to Paris?”
Maxime turned away from his father, again facing the window. “No. She wouldn’t come if I asked her. She hates me. Wants nothing to do with me.”
“Then that’s it?”
“No, that’s not it. I’m not sure how, but I want to be part of her life. I want the baby to know her father, know that he’s not a monster. I dream of Gillianne forgiving me, loving me again, I’ll try everything I know to win her respect, her love, her forgiveness. But I don’t think she will ever give me her heart again, and I can’t say as I blame her.”
“And Bernadette?
“I’m going to divorce her.”
The Count laughed. “My, my. You love one woman but she doesn’t love you. You want to divorce another woman who will never grant you such a thing. I’d say you have your work cut out for you. Let’s go have lunch at the Ritz. This is a special occasion and we must start it off right. I want to watch my son, the Senator, to see how he is going to solve these problems of his heart.”
“No thanks. I’m due in Parliament—there’s a special session today. I’ve prepared an argument and I must give it.”
Maxime strode to the door, his hand on the knob. “I start today, this moment, to throw myself into my duties and to begin a new campaign. A different campaign. One that seems impossible, but I will try with ever fiber of my being. A campaign to win Gillianne’s trust and hopefully her love.”
Chapter 13
───
Hansville
GRAMPS SAT AT THE kitchen table with a cup of tea reading the morning Seattle Times. The headline: Eleanor Wellington indicted for Murder.
What was that? Gramps cocked his head, brow furrowed. Did he hear a car door slam?
A dog barked, more of a howl. A big smile crossed Gramp’s face. Agatha was howling at the patio door for her friend. Skip trotted down the garden steps as Gramps opened the patio door and was almost bowled over by the hound.
“Hi, Gramps,” Skip said laughing at the pair. “I hoped you’d be home.”
“Just a minute, Skip. My friend wants a belly rub. Go on in, the water’s hot. You know where the teabags are.”
Agatha, four paws in the air was playing dead enjoying her belly rub. Having enough she squirmed to her feet and dashed after her master into the kitchen. She was greeted by a hissing cat, both backing away from each other. Aggie took up her spot in the doorway as Coco tippy-toed out of the kitchen.
“Just reading your story,” Gramps called out, padding down the hall to join Skip. “Now you tell me the good stuff. What murder?”
Skip poured the water from the red enamel kettle over the teabag into his cup, nodded to Gramps as he raised the kettle to see if he wanted to refresh his cup.
“Yes, please,” Gramps answered, a smile above his white whiskers, pants held up with red suspenders over a long-sleeve green plaid shirt.
“Received a tip … from Paris,” Skip said settling into a chair at the table while glancing out at the sparkling water of Puget Sound through the picture window. Out of the corner of his eye he imagined Gilly sitting beside him. He could almost smell her perfume.
“Paris?”
Gramp’s question pulled Skip from his reverie. “I didn’t know it was Paris at first. Anyway, I returned a few days ago with Detective DuBois. You remember him?”
“Sure I do.”
“Turned out my tipster saw Mrs. Wellington help Gerald Sacco, Mr. Wellington’s former property manager, over the rail of a yacht way out at sea. Not only did this guy see her but he took pictures of her in the act.”
“That must have been almost a year ago,” Gramps said taking a sip of his tea.
“The steward, Sean Lacroix, waited. Maybe the police had enough already to convict her, was his thinking, in which case he wouldn’t get much for the pictures. But when he read the story I wrote for the paper that she was to be set free for lack of evidence in a few months, he pounced. Decided to come forward. For a price, you understand. He found out Mr. Wellington was wealthy, learned about the gold heist, and ultimately sold the pictures to Wellington for big bucks. Eleanor’s lawyer is trying to plead that it was an accident, that Sacco fell overboard. Still, she waited over an hour before notifying the captain that he was missing. Her lawyer is trying to save her from the death penalty.”
“Nice work, son. Now you can finish that novel of yours—maybe get a Pulitzer.”
“Yes, yes sir, a Pulitzer.” Skip looked askance but immediately smiled. “But you’re right about my fi
nishing the book. When I leave here it will be back to the keyboard—more chapters, editing, then at some point trying to get a publisher. I tackled my laptop last night, but this morning the beginning of June called me outside to go for a run.”
“Gilly described you as a runner when we first met you … oh my, over two years ago?”
“I ran a couple of marathons in college and recently decided to train for the Seattle Marathon.”
“When’s that? Thanksgiving some time?” Gramps asked.
“First Sunday after. As I said, I was hoping you would be home so Agatha could have some playtime with you while I clock a few miles.”
Gramps looked over at his friend. Agatha was in her favorite spot—back half of her body in the living room and the front half in the kitchen pretending to be asleep waiting for Coco to come back. “She’s already zonked out so I doubt that will be too hard although Gilly brought Coco here so maybe the two will remember they were friends once. I might even take Agatha for a walk. How long you expect to be gone?”
“I checked the mileage driving here from the ferry. I’m doing preliminary training now trying to get the bones and muscles toughened up. I planned on three or four miles. On Hansville Road when I passed the Eglon town sign, it was three miles to your house. I won’t go as far as the sign today, make a round trip but at a slow jogging pace. So you think you can put up with Agatha for an hour?”
“You bet I can. I’ll have a hearty lunch ready for you when you get back. What are you supposed to eat? Seems I read somewhere about pasta being important.”
“That’s right,” Skip chuckled. “When I’m running water is important. I have a couple of bottles in the car. Thanks. I’ll see you in about an hour.”
───
SKIP HUSTLED OUT TO his Jeep, strapped on his heart monitor, and the pedometer he had calibrated to his stride giving him a fairly accurate idea of the distance he was covering. Walking up to the end of the driveway he stopped to stretch for five minutes and then started south down Hansville Road at an easy jogging pace. There were no sidewalks or curbs. The road was fairly level allowing him to stay a little left of center jogging into traffic. Of course, there never were many cars on the road. It was rural country—towering pines separated by fields and pastures with a glimpse now and then of the Puget Sound through the trees.
It felt good to be running again. He had dug out his journals and training manual from the bottom of a box in the back of his closet. The manual laid out a sixteen-week training program. The introduction stressed the need for preliminary training, at least four weeks, more if you hadn’t been running for several years. That was him. He figured June and July for the preliminary training and then get with the sixteen-week program the first of August.
Racing to a newspaper story in a car certainly didn’t count. Walking up and down the steep hills of Seattle’s downtown district, however, should count for something.
He breathed in the crisp cool country air. The steady sound of his new running shoes slapping the asphalt was music to his ears. His body relaxed with the easy gait, arms bent, swinging across his chest in rhythm with his legs. Gilly entered his thoughts. He smiled at the vision of her handing Robyn to him so she could read the latest chapter of his manuscript. That was before the fire. Those brief visits with her ended three months ago—he had no ending to the exposé and she retreated behind a wall again after the fire.
Today he let his thoughts wander to her, but when he started training with longer runs he would have to focus on his goal—to finish the marathon. He didn’t care how long it took—his time on the course wasn’t his goal. However long it took him to finish was the time it took. He didn’t care about anything else—just finishing would give him a big sense of accomplishment, big enough to provide him with the courage to walk away from Gilly if she didn’t tear down the barriers and let him in.
A motorcycle whizzed by him, the man and woman waving as they passed. He waved in return. It felt good to be out in the morning air. He knew he could do this, but it would be hard. Not a walk in the park with Agatha. But he could, would, absolutely would keep to his sixteen-week training schedule of running four times a week once he started the program. Three off days were interspersed on the weekly chart to let his body recover. The weekend would be a long run—maybe come to visit Gramps on Saturday or Sunday. The schedule called for a day off before and after the long run at the end of the week. Every weekday of training built up to the long run. There were a few hills on Hansville Road, nothing like Seattle though. He’d have to check the route of the Seattle Marathon. He had only run out-of-state marathons until now. Hills could be a killer. What was it they said about Boston? Oh ya, heartbreak hill. That bugger left a lot of runners by the wayside.
Picking up his pace after the first mile, he pulled one of his water bottles from his backpack, taking several swallows without losing his stride.
───
“HI, GRAMPS, I’M BACK,” Skip called out entering the patio as Agatha sashayed over the door sill bumping her tummy. He knelt, giving his pooch a good scratch behind the ears. Agatha leaned into the massage, nose in the air, eyes closed.
“I’m in the kitchen,” Gramps replied.
Skip gave Agatha one last pat on the head and then strode down the hall to the kitchen. Coco scampered across the hall diving under the couch in the living room.
“Wow! Now that’s what I call a sandwich,” Skip said hands on his hips.
“You’ll have to tell me what’s best now that you’re training for the big run. How’d it go? Not too many cars I hope.”
“It was great. Honestly, Gramps, it felt so good. The air was cool and only a few cars. Really helps to clear the mind.”
“Your mind need clearing? Tea?”
“Yes, to both. It’s that granddaughter of yours.”
“Ah. She works too much. Course, I could say the same for you. Now there’s a woman who needs her mind swept. Gets me all worked up when I think about it. Doesn’t trust anyone. Wants to control everything. That Frenchman really did a number on her.”
“Well … I …”
“Go ahead, you can talk to me. You what?”
“Gramps, I told her about my training to run the marathon.”
“She didn’t try to talk you out of it did she?”
“No. Not at all. She seemed supportive. Didn’t say much though. But I did. I was in one of those moods where words just fly out of your mouth. Pent up words.”
“So?”
“So, I told her that after the marathon if she wanted to stay behind the walls she’d built around herself I was going to move on. Not too sure what that means other than I’ll try to get her out of my mind. Maybe I’ll move away. I don’t know.”
“She’s a fool if she lets you move on. She may not see it, but I see a lot of similarities in you two, and what’s not alike can add spice to the other’s life. Hope it works out. But in the meantime, I had an idea while you were out running.”
“What’s that? This sandwich is to die for—hard-boiled egg, ham and cheese, lettuce, wheat bread—a runner’s dream.”
“Well, I hoped you see it that way. You said your training includes a long run on weekends. So why don’t you and Aggie come over here on Saturday and Sunday? You can run and work on your novel, and I’ll feed the two of you.”
“Hey, remember what they say, be careful what you ask for you just might get it. Something like that.” Skip peered into Gramp’s gray-blue eyes, his rosy cheeks, a wrinkle here and there. He had grown to love this old man as a second father, well, maybe more like a grandfather.
Gramps didn’t say anything, took a bite of his sandwich—a much smaller version of Skip’s, waiting as Skip mulled over his offer.
“Are you sure we won’t be too much trouble? Agatha can be pretty pushy, you know—belly rubs, rawhide bones now and then, and following you around. Always following you.”
“Son, I can’t think of anything better.”
“I could bring over a copy of my training manual. You can be my diet coach. Give me a list of groceries and I’ll bring them over with me. You’re not going to get stuck with the two of us plus buying the food. And, you can’t charm Anne into furnishing any of the meals. That would have to be part of the deal.”
“Deal? Sounds like heaven. Promoted to a coach, dietitian, and dog pal. What could be better? Of course, if Anne wants to leave something now and then I can’t stop her, you understand. You bring your laptop with you?”
“Sure did.”
“Then stop wasting time. I cleaned off my desk in the den. It’s a little dark in there. If you’d rather have a table in the living room so you can look out at the boat traffic—
“The den will be perfect. Looking out at the water would cause my mind to wander and we both know that would not be good.”
Chapter 14
───
Seattle
PAINT BRUSHES, PAINT CANS, rags and scaffolding were carted out to one of several vans parked in the back alley of the little shop. Heavy tarps and drop clothes were rolled up revealing a gleaming honey-oak stained floor. Electricians standing on ladders screwed bulbs into track-lighting strips washing the walls with indirect lighting. Tube lights were snapped into place on the bottom of shelves providing a soft glow inside the space.
Various soft-toned paint colors inside each shelf gave the illusion of items grouped into sections. The edges were painted light pearl gray matching any expanse of wall not supporting a shelf. An accessory wall, pearl gray, supported floating glass shelving spotted with lights from above.
With the exodus of painters, carpenters, electricians and their equipment from the alley, they were quickly replaced with other vans disgorging chrome racks, round rods set in place between and under shelves for smaller items such as scarves, handbags, and shoes. The smell of fresh paint lingered in the air along with the overall scent of newness from the fixtures.
Murder by Design Trilogy Page 46
