Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (10 page)

The night deepened. Robert's parents took their place in the receiving line, but their son still hadn't arrived. Uncle Nigel signaled the waiters to keep passing wine and champagne. While guests exclaimed over Caro's engagement ring, she kept glancing over her shoulder, searching the crowd for her fiancé.

“Robert was supposed to be back from London now, wasn't he?” Mr. Thaxton asked his wife. “Shouldn't we ring his mobile?”

Mrs. Thaxton kept punching numbers into her phone, sweat beading on her broad forehead.

Robert's eight-year-old brother, Dennis, zoomed around the Oak Room, his short pants riding up over his chubby knees. A red bow tie pushed against his triple chins. Waiters maneuvered around the boy as they replenished the buffet with smoked trout and salmon and tiny, fragrant bowls of horseradish.

Caro followed the Thaxtons onto the terrace, with Dennis bobbing in their wake. Someone must have told him that Danesfield House had been the RAF headquarters in World War II, because the child spread his arms wide and made zooming noises. “Bombs away!” he yelled.

The summer air felt cool and smelled poignantly of roses. Even though it was only seven P.M., the sky resembled blue enamel. Through the trees, a boat drifted down the Thames. While Caro chatted with Mr. Thaxton, his wife kept ringing Robert.

“What was he doing in London, anyway?” Mr. Thaxton asked, his forehead puckering.

“A meeting,” Caro said, wishing she'd gone with Robert. The appointment had ended hours before, but she didn't see the point of adding to Mr. Thaxton's gloom.

Dennis careened over and yelped, “Caro's been stood up!”

“Stop that,” Mrs. Thaxton said in a mild voice. She was a portrait painter of the royal dogs, which required infinite patience and an ability to deal with the unexpected.

Dennis stuck out his tongue.

“Please return your tongue to its proper position,” Mr. Thaxton said, and put his hand on the boy's head.

Lady Sarah, Robert's cousin, walked up behind Caro. “Young Dennis has been into the brandy,” she whispered.

“I'll marry you, Caro,” Dennis called.

“She won't marry into this family at all if you don't straighten up,” Lady Sarah said.

“Come along, Dennis.” Mr. Thaxton grabbed the boy's shoulders and steered him down the steps to the riverbank.

Uncle Nigel put his arm around her. “I'm sure the meeting ran over,” he said. “Any moment he'll pop through those doors.”

As the evening passed into night, the guests grew tipsy. One of them was a flinty-eyed cashier who worked with Robert. “He won't be joining us tonight,” the cashier said, his cheeks flushed with wine. “Do you remember his secretary? The one with enormous breasts? Well, she and Robert have gone missing. Apparently the bank was about to charge him with embezzlement.”

Caro ran onto the terrace, flew down the steps, and stopped at the river. She heard footsteps behind her, and she whirled. Her uncle stepped out of the shadows.

“You aren't planning to throw yourself in the Thames, are you?” he asked.

“What's wrong with me?” She wiped her eyes. “Why can't anyone love me?”

“I love you, my darling.” Uncle Nigel paused. He seemed on the verge of saying something, but he merely patted her arm. “Don't cry. The right chap will come along.”

But he hadn't. Meanwhile, the Lost Boys list had gotten longer and longer. It didn't matter if Caro slept with them or not; the results were always the same. In the beginning the men mailed love letters and dirty haiku. They rang her house at odd hours and loitered in her uncle's front yard until he called the police. After each brief but intense courtship, the suitors always lost interest, only to take up with women they later married.

Of course, not all of the men had left her for other women. Some had died. A six-car pile-up on the M4 had claimed one beau. Another had perished while pruning his roses—flotsam from a jet plane had fallen from the sky, smack onto his head. Still another had entered the priesthood and gone to Monaco, of all places. He'd written her a postcard that featured the casino and signed his name
Chip Monk
.

After that, she decided a change in geography would solve her problems, and she told her uncle that she was moving to London. “It's a wicked city,” he'd said. “Nothing but perverts, molesters, fiends.”

“If someone grabs me, I'll kick him into tomorrow.”

“You can't kick a can to Parks Road and back.” His white, shaggy eyebrows went up in alarm. “Don't throw away your education. Wait until you have your doctorate.”

She hadn't waited, and nothing had changed.

Traffic noises outside the Hotel Ustra made her sit up straighter. She rubbed her forehead. What the bloody hell had been wrong with her last night? She did not want to add Jude's name to the Lost Boys. She wished she could throw herself into a high-powered career. Perhaps she could take up volcanology. Studying magma held more appeal than sifting through dry, crumbling texts about the Great Inquisition, which had once fascinated her. She could move to Iceland, enroll in graduate school, and plant tremor sensors around active volcanoes. She might even fall in love with a tall, blond Icelander named Jón and they'd live in a farmhouse beneath the Mýrdalsjökull glacier.

Her stomach rumbled. She hadn't eaten anything since last night's Jammie Dodgers. Her mouth watered as she pictured a room service trolley filled with toast and sausage and apricot jam. A large pot of tea and a broiled grapefruit sprinkled with sugar would be perfect for a hangover. She reached for the phone to order room service.

“We are no longer serving breakfast,” said a woman in heavily accented English.

“What time is it?” Caro got out of the bed, pulling the phone with her, and glanced out the window. Dirty clouds scudded over the sun. The temperature was rising and water dripped from the eaves as snow melted from the roof.

“Noon,” said the woman. “May I recommend our restaurant? The buffet lunch offers the best of Bulgarian cuisine.”

Caro thanked her and hung up. The headache pulsed behind her eyes as she got dressed. On her way to the loo, she saw a note lying just under her door. She bent down to get it. The handwriting looked like a printed invitation, each letter tiny and precise.

She had questions, too. Was Jude's penmanship indicative of a controlled and self-contained personality? Or was he just another English chap with proper manners? She scanned the note again, picking his words apart, searching for hidden meaning. The first and last sentences were to the point, but the middle one was open to interpretation.
I'd like a chance to know you better
could also mean
I'd like to get you into bed
.

Her stomach rumbled again and she set the letter aside. She reached for her duffel bag. It was a bit cumbersome to lug around, but she didn't dare leave it in her room. If anything happened to her icon, she would lose the last tangible link to her parents. She opened her bag, tossed in her uncle's letters and passport, and headed to the lobby.

Three Bulgarian policemen stood under the chandelier, talking to a man in a red shirt who spoke Russian. Caro walked around them and veered toward the reception desk. The clerk looked up, her hoop earrings swinging.

“Excuse me,” Caro began, “but why are the police here?”

The clerk leaned across the desk. “A hotel guest is missing,” she whispered.

Caro glanced over her shoulder at the Russian man and remembered the shouting and door slamming. A lover's quarrel, no doubt, but the police were ruthlessly questioning him.

“You need help, miss?” the clerk asked.

“May I leave a message for the guest in room three fourteen?”

The clerk pushed a pen and notepad across the desk. Caro bent over the paper and wrote,
Dear Jude
. She remembered the pressure of his lips against hers and the smell of Acqua di Parma. Maybe she should have finished that kiss.

She jolted, then glanced down at the notepad. She was still writing, and the
e
in
Jude
had squiggled across the page. She ripped off the sheet and started over.
Jude, I'll be out for most of the afternoon. But I'm looking forward to dinner. Caro

She handed the note to the clerk and headed toward the Ustra Restaurant. She glanced furtively over her shoulder for the thug in the Hawaiian shirt, but she saw only men in business suits. She walked over to the buffet, grabbed a plate, and spooned up hominy with garlicky walnuts, lamb kabobs, and cucumbers floating in olive oil. Soon there was no room left on her plate. Uncle Nigel used to say the Bulgarians served a multitude of dishes because they were excellent hosts, but they also used the abundant food as symbols for fertility and prosperity.

When she couldn't eat another morsel, she settled her bill and walked back to the lobby. The clerk was bent over the desk, studying a ledger. Caro gazed at the knotty-pine cubbyholes on the wall behind the desk. The slot for her room was empty. So was Jude's.

“When did the gentleman in three fourteen pick up his message?” Caro asked the clerk.

“I cannot remember. Maybe ten minutes ago?” The woman shrugged. “It has been crazy around here. A tourist has never gone missing.”

When Caro stepped into her room, hot, sour bile spurted into her mouth. The mattress hung off the bed. Drawers gaped open. The trash bin had been emptied and rubbish lay on the floor. Uncle Nigel's backpack had been turned inside out. What had the burglars been looking for? She didn't wear jewelry or flashy clothes. More to the point, who were the burglars? The purse snatchers, of course. But she couldn't rule out Jude.

She found the phone under the mattress. It was time to call Phoebe. Her roomie might not know what was going on, but of all people, Phoebe had the means to find out through her father, Sir Edmund. Caro punched in the number to the Bow Street flat. A man answered on the second ring. “May I speak to Phoebe?” she asked.

“I'm sorry, I—” The man's voice cracked.

“Sir Edmund?” Caro asked. “Is that you, sir?”

There was a grappling noise, and a woman came on the line. “This is Olivia, Sir Edmund's personal assistant. To whom am I speaking?”

“Caro Clifford. I'm Phoebe's flatmate,” she said. In the background, Sir Edmund began to wail.

“We were just discussing you,” Olivia said. “Are you in London, or have you gone to see about your uncle?”

“I'm in Bulgaria.”

“We were shocked to hear of his murder,” Olivia said. “First your uncle, and now Phoebe.”

Caro dug her fingers through the telephone cord.
And now Phoebe?
What did this mean? “Sorry, I didn't quite catch that.”

“Phoebe was killed in her flat, she was,” Olivia said.

Caro sucked in air. “Not possible,” she whispered.

“It's beyond shocking, isn't it? You were lucky not to be here or that madman might have gotten you, too. Women aren't safe anywhere in this world. The police are saying that it's random. But is it random to be drained of blood?”

 

Wilkerson paced in front of the boarded-up windows. He'd demanded a rush order to replace the glass, but the Kent factory couldn't promise a delivery date. Wilkerson missed his view, and the gloom was unbearable. Throughout the day, the overhead fluorescents blazed with a sour green intensity that left him headachy.

The door creaked open, and the secretary led Mr. Underwood into the room.

“What is it now?” Wilkerson asked.

“Sir, a woman has gone missing from Kardzhali.”

“Not Caroline Clifford, I hope.”

“Not directly, sir.” Mr. Underwood licked his lips, leaving behind a glossy sheen. “I'm mainly concerned about a Russian tourist.”

“Why is this my problem?”

“Because your operatives might be involved.” Mr. Underwood's voice shook while he explained the fiasco at the airport, Teo's arrest, Georgi's solitary pursuit of the Clifford girl, and the missing tourist.

Wilkerson blinked. “And you think Georgi snatched her?”

“I asked him and got nowhere. He's like China—he denies everything. I've arranged for his partner's release.”

“That's good—Teo calms him down. But make sure the Bulgarians don't rape and murder Miss Clifford.” Wilkerson sat down on his desk and grabbed a pencil. “By the way, Underwood, how is your wife?”

“She's quite well, sir.”

Wilkerson wrapped his fingers around the pencil and leaned forward. “You're married to a portly dominatrix who forces you to commute twice daily from Twickenham to London. I hear she has a lavish rose garden. Would you like her to keep it?”

Mr. Underwood nodded. He was breathing so hard, his glasses fogged.

“Then control your men.” Wilkerson snapped the pencil in half.

Underwood stumbled out of the office and shut the door behind him. Minutes later, Wilkerson heard shouting. His secretary threatened to call the police, and a strident, Cockney voice told her to shut her cake hole.

Wilkerson's door banged open, and Moose limped into the room wearing a motorcycle helmet and a silvery, reflective jumpsuit. He threw a bulging garbage sack onto the conference table, then propped his leg on a chair. “Like my air cast?” he asked Wilkerson. “I got it when I dove through your window.”