Dangerous to Know (17 page)

“Mmmm. Interesting. Perhaps they didn’t know about her.”

“You got it, kid.”

“Jack, you will help me with the profile about him, won’t you?

It’s so important to me. Important that I write this, and I do believe it will help me to come to terms with his death.”

“Okay,” I agreed reluctantly. And against my better judgment.

“But -there’s nothing I know. I hardly saw him last year.”

“You might think of something that would give me a clue about his moods, his behavior in those final six months of his life.”

“I gotta go. I’ll call you. Next week.”

“I won’t be here. I’m leaving for New York in a couple of days, Jack I want to start the interviews with some of my old friends at the found dation. It’ll be a beginning.”

“Have a good Ciao.”

“Bye, Jack. I’ll be in touch, we’ll talk soon.”

“Merde!” I said as I slaffimed the phone down and sat back in my chair, scowling.

“What is it, Jack? What’s ‘wrong?” Catherine asked in that cairn voice of hers. A voice I had grown accustomed to these past few months.

“It’s Vivienne. She’s off the wall.”

“That’s a curious statement to make about someone so balanced and as down4o-earth and rational as she is,” Catherine countered.

“She’s not rational. Not down4o-earth,” I exclaimed heatedly.

“Not when it comes to Sebastian. She’s obsessed with him. He’s been dead five months. She’s still ranting and raving about his death. I wish she’d just shut the hell up. Let him rest in peace. I can’t stand her when she’s like this.”

“Like what?”

“Playing the keeper of the flame.” I laughed, added, “She’s carying a torch,” and laughed again at my play on words.

Catherine did not appear to be amused. She wore a concerned expression

.

“From what you’ve told me, she adored him and you hated him.

Never the twain shall meet,” Catherine murmured. “You’re poles apart when it comes to Sebastian Locke. You’ll never agree about him.”

“True enough, sweetheart. Vivienne’s got a problem. Not enough to do.

Her book on the Brontes is finished. Delivered. Now it’s Sebastian.

She’s focused on him. Again. Merde!”

Catherine rega?ded me thoughtfully for a second or two, then said slowly, “Do you mean she’s going to write a book about your father, darling? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

“Not a book. A profile. For the London Sunday Times. The magazine section. The editor she works with okayed it. But there might be a book. My grandfather, the old coot, suggested it. At the funeral. Can you beat that. Jeer! She might do it too. Bet she does. Merde!

Merde!

Merde!”

“Jack, for heaven’s sake, why are you so upset? You’re being quite childish. Irrational, actually.”

“I’m not.”

“Whenever your father is involved I’m afraid you are very irrational, darling.”

“Vivienne wants to probe. Dig into his life. The last year of it. I need to know. That’s what she said. She also said, I need to know what he was doing. who he was with. what he was like. His moods. His demeanor. I have to understand him. I want to pinpoint the reason he killed himself That’s what she just said to me.”

“How does she propose to get this information?”

“She’s going to talk to people. Interview them.”

“Who exactly?”

“People who worked for him. With him. At Locke Industries. At the foundation. Me. Luciana. God knows who else.”

“And she’s going to write about her conclusions, is that it?”

“Not exactly. She won’t dwell on the suicide. Not in the article.

Knowing her, she won’t mention it. If she does, it’ll be one line. The way she felt about him, still feels, it’ll be a glowing profile.

Flattering.

She’ll only show his good side. Understanding him, understanding the last few months of his life. That’s what’s important to her. This is purely personal.”

“I see. But I really can’t quite understand why you’re so upset.”

“I wish she’d let it rest. I don’t want constant reminders about him.

He’s dead. Buried. I don’t want her digging him up.”

112Barbara Thyrandfather, the old coot, suggested it. At the funeral.

Can you beat that. Jeer! She might do it too. Bet she does.

Merde!

Merde!

Merde!”

“Jack, for heaven’s sake, why are you so upset? You’re being quite childish. Irrational, actually.”

“I’m not.”

“Whenever your father is involved I’m afraid you are very irrational, darling.”

“Vivienne wants to probe. Dig into his life. The last year of it. I need to know. That’s what she said. She also said, I need to know what he was doing. who he was with. what he was like. His moods. His demeanor. I have to understand him. I want to pinpoint the reason he killed himself That’s what she just said to me.”

“How does she propose to get this information?”

“She’s going to talk to people. Interview them.”

“Who exactly?”

“People who worked for him. With him. At Locke Industries. At the foundation. Me. Luciana. God knows who else.”

“And she’s going to write about her conclusions, is that it?”

“Not exactly. She won’t dwell on the suicide. Not in the article.

Knowing her, she won’t mention it. If she does, it’ll be one line. The way she felt about him, still feels, it’ll be a glowing profile.

Flattering.

She’ll only show his good side. Understanding him, understanding the last few months of his life. That’s what’s important to her. This is purely personal.”

“I see. But I really can’t quite understand why you’re so upset.”

“I wish she’d let it rest. I don’t want constant reminders about him.

He’s dead. Buried. I don’t want her digging him up.”

“I do think you’re being just a little bit silly, darling. You just said she won’t write anything bad about him. And I agree with you. From what you’ve told me, Vivienne’s extremely loyal to Sebastian and to his memory.”

“She’s still in love with him.”

“Oh I don’t think so, Jack, really I don’t. Vivienne’s too alive, too sexual, and too sensual a woman to be still hooked on a dead man, from what I’ve observed of her, at least. Good Lord, no. She believes that life is for the living. It seems to me that she’s batty about Kit Tremain. He’s her life now, you know, not Sebastian Locke. Trust me on this. I know what I’m talking about, and I know I’m right.”

“I guess you are.” I immediately changed the subject.

$15

Catherine.

I”There was another woman,” I said, staring across the dinner table at She stared back at me and then said, with a light, amused smile, “I’m sure there were lots of women before me, Jack. Quite aside from your two wives. I wouldn’t expect it to be otherwise. You’re a very attractive man.”

“No. No. I’m talking about Sebastian. There was another woman in -his life. Just before he died. A new woman,” I explained. “I new about her. No one did. But he told Viv. The day they had lunch.”

That fateful week he killed himself. He told Viv he was planning to marry her.”

1Who was she?” asked Catherine, looking at me alertly.

shrugged. “No idea. Viv never asked her name. He never gave it.

Just said she was a doctor. Viv mentioned it this morning. On the phone. Not before. Don’t know why she didn’t. I forgot to tell you.”

“I’resumably he was happy then. How odd that he took his life when he did.”

“That’s what Viv thinks.”

“On the other hand, the nameless woman could have terminated their relationship,” Catherine remarked.

I smiled at her. “That’s what I think.”

“What did Vivienne say?”

“That he wouldn’t have taken such a drastic step over a failed love affair.”

Catherine seemed to mull this over before saying, “Well, I tend to agree with Vivienne.”

“But you didn’t know him,” I protested.

“No, not personally, and you haven’t told me much about him. Only odd snippets. But I was quite aware of him long before I met you, Jack,” she pointed out. “All the money he gave away to charity. Those huge donations to Bosnia last year. Everyone was aware of him. And naturally I’d read a lot about him. A great deal of space was devoted to him in the press.” She paused to take a sip of her red wine. “He had -half a dozen wives, didn’t he?”

“Five.”

“Same thing, more or less. He was rich, handsome, famous, so he had a lot going for him. He was sophisticated, I assume? Worldly?”

“Very.”

Catherine nodded her head. “I think Vivienne’s right. He wouldn’t kill himself over a woman. He was too experienced. Anyway, I’m quite sure he could have had any woman he wanted.”

“True. Women were mesmerized by him. He and I didn’t get on.

I’ve told you that. But I’ve got to give the devil his due. He was a magnet to women. They fell over themselves. To meet him. Fell at his feet. He didn’t encourage that. He was very off-hand with women. But he had it.

Presence. Charisma. Glamour. Sex appeal. And a fatal charm.

Look, he was lethal. As a man. And unpredictable. Even a little crazy, in -some ways.”

“Mad, bad, and dangerous to know,” Catherine mused.

“That about sums it up. You’ve got a good turn of phrase, sweetheart.”

“Oh, it’s not my phrase, Jack. Another woman said it long before I was born. In the early part of the nineteenth century, to be exact.”

“Who?”

“Lady Caroline Lamb. She wrote it in her diary, the first time she met Lord Byron, the poet. What she meant, of course, was that Byron was emotional dangerous. He was already something of a legend in London.

Great fame had come to him early, after Childe Harold was published in 1812. Women schemed to meet him, squabbled over him.

Although he was more chased than the chaser. Later Lady Caroline Lamb completed the phrase when she added, ‘That beautiful pale face is my fate.” When she met Byron he had acquired a reputation in the London social world. A reputation for being dangerous and irresistible .

Legend and rumor played a big part in all of this, of course.

They can be very potent stimulants.”

“Mad, bad, and dangerous to know,” I repeated. “Yes, that fits Sebastian to a T.”

“And no one knew about Sebastian’s most recent conquest?” Catherine asked.

“I don’t think so. I didn’t. Neither did Luciana. She would’ve told me. Curious that he kept it a secret.” -J

Catherine merely nodded, said nothing.

There was a little silence between us.

Eventually I said, “Do you believe in good genes and bad genes?”

“I’m not sure.” Catherine raised a brow. “What are you getting at?”

“Could the compulsion to commit suicide be genetic?”

“I just don’t know. Why do you ask?”

“Sebastian’s half sister Glenda killed herself years ago. His half brother Malcolm did the same, in my opinion. He was in a boating accident on Lake Coma. Supposedly an accident. It wasn’t, I’m sure.

Aunt Fiona, Sebastian’s other half sister, became a drug addict.

Disappeared . Years ago. She could be alive. Most probably dead though. -Bad genes?”

“I simply can’t answer that, Jack. But how awful, how terribly tragic.”

-“Yeah. I’m the last. The last of the Mahicans.”

Her brow lifted again. Her expression was quizzical.

I grinned. “I’m the last male of the dynasty. Unless I spawn an offspring. Which is unlikely. And Luciana won’t ever have kids.”

Alter a moment of looking thoughtful, Catherine asked, “Don’t you find that sad, Jack?” -“What?”

“That you’re the last of a great American family.”

“Not particularly. And I don’t think any of them were that great.

Least of all Cyrus and Sebastian.”

“Why do you hate them so much?”

“Do I?” -“That’s the way it’s sounded to me, whenever you’ve spoken about them these few months I’ve known you.”

“Sebastian was never a father to me. He was incapable of it.

Incapable of loving me. Or anyone else,” I replied and realized my voice sounded shrill.

“Vivienne says he loved her.” -“She likes to think that! But he didn’t. He was nice to her. Nicer than he was to the other wives.

But he didn’t love her. He couldn’t. It wasn’t in him. Oh, yeah, he gave lip service to it. But it was only that. mist me.”

“Why couldn’t Sebastian love anybody?”

“How the hell do I know.” I swigged some of my wine, lolled back in the chair. “Something missing in his genes?” -She ignored my question, asked one of her own instead. “What sort of childhood did your father have?”

“God only knows. Awful, I suspect. His mother died giving birth to him. Cyrus brought him up. With a nanny. Then Cyrus remarried.

He once told me his nanny and his stepmother were hard women.

“It could be disassociation,” Catherine muttered, almost to herself.

“What does that mean?” I leaned over the table, my interest quickening

.

“It’s a psychiatric term. Let me try and put it very simply, as best I can, the way it was once described to me. When a child receives no love, no nurturing at birth and in the very first years of life, that child usually grows up removed from association with others.

Thus, the child cannot love because it has not been loved. It doesn’t know how to love anyone. You’d have to talk to a psychiatrist to get a proper medical explanation of it in detail. But in my opinion, disassociation could very well be the explanation for your father’s behavior, his inability to love, if this was the case.”

“It was. Take my word for it,” I said.

Catherine and I lay together in my great four-poster bed, sipping cognac

.

I was enjoying the closeness, the intimacy.

Earlier, I had turned off the lamps. The only light came from the fire burning in the hearth. It filled the room with a warm glow. The intermittent crackling of the logs was the only sound. Except for the faint ticking of the clock on the mantel. It was peaceful here. -I was relaxed. At ease with myself. I frequently was when I was alone with Catherine. I was glad I had found her. Glad she was here at the chateau.