Her Own Rules/Dangerous to Know (33 page)

She said nothing, but from the look on her face I knew she was pleased. Taking the kettle off the stove, she carried it to the nearby sink, poured some water out, and returned it to the gas stove.

“A watched pot,” I reminded her, and reached for the telephone as it began to ring.

“Hello.”

“I can't believe you're home and you haven't called me,” Christopher Tremain said.

“Hi, Kit. Listen, I haven't called anyone yet. And you
are
at the top of my list. You just beat me to it by a few minutes.”

“That's good to know. How are you? Did you have a good trip?”

“I'm well. And the trip was quick, easy.”

“Then you're up to having dinner tonight? At least, I hope you are.”

“I'd love to see you, I really would. But I need to unpack, get settled in, get my papers organized, the usual stuff. You know what it's like. And after all, I have been away for almost three months.”

“Don't I know it, darling. But all right, I'll let you off the hook tonight.”

“Marie-Laure's invited us to dinner on Saturday.”

“That's great, you've got a date. But what about tomorrow? Can we have supper?”

“Yes, that'll be nice. How's the painting going? Did you finish your last canvas?”

“I did. On Tuesday night, or rather, in the middle of Wednesday morning. I'm feeling a bit done in, but I'll be up and running by Saturday.”

“Are you sure about supper tomorrow? Maybe you're too exhausted.”

“I'm not going to cook it, just eat it. Listen, Vivienne . . .”

“Yes, Kit?”

“I just heard about Sebastian. His death. This morning on CNN. They had some coverage of his memorial service. I'm sorry Are you holding up?”

“Yes, I'm fine, thanks.”

“You must think I'm thoughtless, not calling you, but I didn't know. I've been leading an isolated existence.”

“You don't have to explain, I realized you were probably holed up in your studio, going at it around the clock.”

“Are you sure you're all right?”

“Yes, I'm positive. What time do want to have supper tomorrow?”

“You call it, Viv.”

“About seven-thirty, is that okay with you?”

“Yes. I'll come and pick you up and you can give me a drink before I take you out on the town.”

C
HAPTER
T
EN

“M
rs. Trent, you have a phone call,” Phyl said, walking down the steps that led out from the library to the swimming pool.

“Not another one,” I groaned, pushing myself into a sitting position on the garden chaise. “I never knew I was so popular with so many people in Lourmarin.”

“It's Mr. Locke,” she said, coming to a stop next to me. “He's calling from New York, he said.”

As she spoke I glanced at my watch. It was three-thirty on Friday afternoon and therefore nine-thirty in the States. Taking the cellular phone from her, I pressed line one. “Hello, Jack, I thought you'd be in Paris by now.”

“Hi, Viv. I will be. Later today I'm taking the French Concorde. At one-thirty. How is it there? Warm and sunny, yes?”

“Correct. I'm sitting near the pool relaxing.”

“Viv, I've heard from the police. Detective Kennelly called me. Ten minutes ago. I just hung up from him. The autopsy report's in.”

I sat bolt upright, swinging my legs off the chaise, gripping the phone that much tighter as I did. “What does it say? What's the conclusion?” I asked urgently.

“Suicide. Sebastian committed suicide. He died of barbiturate poisoning. Complicated by an excessive amount of booze.”

For a fraction of a second I was stunned. Then I gasped, “I don't believe it! That can't be! Sebastian would never commit suicide. There must be some mistake.”

“Afraid not. That's the Chief Medical Examiner's verdict. That he killed himself.”

“But—but—couldn't it have been accidental?” I suggested, grasping at straws.

“No, Viv. It wasn't an accident. There was too much of everything in his system. The Medical Examiner did innumerable tests. They've ruled out everything else.”

“What about the gash on his forehead?”

“That didn't kill him. I just told you. Barbiturates and alcohol did him in. That's what Kennelly said.”

“How can the Medical Examiner be so sure it wasn't an accident?” I demanded, my voice rising in my anxiety.

“I just told you.
There was far too much of everything in his bloodstream, brain, tissue, and organs. The stuff had to have been taken on purpose. You can't argue with a toxicology report. Facts are facts, they don't lie.”

“But he'd never kill himself. Not Sebastian,” I protested, truly convinced of this and therefore still disbelieving.

“How can you say that!” Jack snapped impatiently. “You've not been married to him for years, Vivienne. Nor spent much time with him lately. How could you know what was in his mind?”

“He was happy,” I blurted out. “Very happy that day—”

I stopped short, suddenly realizing I did not wish to say any more than this.

“Sebastian happy!” Jack spluttered. “Come off it! He was never happy. Not in his entire life. He was always morose, somber. On the edge. He was a killjoy and a spoilsport. I ought to know. I lived through enough of his moods.”

I felt a rush of cold anger sweep through me and I wanted to berate him, tell him he was wrong, tell him that he was being cruel, judgmental, and unfair. But I held myself in control, and said steadily, in a contained voice, “He seemed happy the day we had lunch at Le Refuge, that's all I'm trying to say, Jack.”

“That was on Monday. By Saturday he'd taken his life.”

“So that's when the Medical Examiner set the time of death?”

“Yes. Saturday night. And why Sebastian did it we'll never know. All
I
know for
sure
is that Chief Medical Examiners don't make mistakes.”

“I just can't believe it,” I repeated.

Jack said, “Believe it. That's what happened. It was suicide.”

“And so bang goes your theory about an intruder,” I remarked.

“And yours about a heart attack or a stroke,” he shot back.

“Jack, how do the police explain the mess in the library? The overturned lamp and chair, the scattered papers?”

“They don't. Because they can't. They weren't there.”

“But they must have some sort of theory, surely? They're used to this kind of investigation.”

“They don't speculate. They only deal in facts, Vivienne.”

“He must have staggered around,” I said, thinking out loud. “Before he went outside. I wonder why Sebastian went outside, went to the lake, Jack?”

“I've no idea. And these are imponderables. We'll never know more than we know now. Listen, I gotta go. I gotta call Luciana. Fill her in. Get to the airport. See ya, kid.”

He was gone as usual, before I could even say goodbye. I clicked off the cellular phone, lay back on the chaise, and closed my eyes. My mind was racing.

I was furious with Jack. His attitude about his father appalled me. Since Sebastian's death he had not been able to speak about him without sounding critical or churlish. I found this disrespectful, insulting to Sebastian's memory, but there was no point taking Jack to task about it. My words would be falling on deaf ears.

Only a few minutes ago he had spoken to me about Sebastian's death as if referring to a stranger, without emotion or feeling. Or concern for my feelings either. He was cold and heartless, and this troubled me.

Back in Connecticut, just before the funeral, I had wondered if Jack had killed his father. But I had dismissed that idea. Now I wondered again if Jack
had
done it, after all. Had he given his father doctored drinks, alcohol laced with barbiturates? A deadly mix, we all knew that. Did doctored drinks equate the perfect murder?

I sat up with a jolt, impatient with myself, and squashed this horrendous thought. I doubted Jack had killed his father. He was difficult, even hateful at times, but he was not wicked.

I also doubted that Sebastian had committed suicide. He had no reason to do so; he had everything to live for. I knew this for a fact. I knew it because Sebastian had told me that himself, he had told me he had never been happier, that he was about to start a new life, begin his life all over again.

Lying back on the chaise, closing my eyes, I reconstructed our lunch together at Le Refuge, relived the last time I had seen Sebastian Locke alive.

 

I was early. It was only twenty minutes past twelve. Nevertheless I increased my pace as I hurried up Lexington Avenue, heading for Le Refuge on Eighty-Second Street. I was due to meet Sebastian at twelve-thirty and I wanted to get there before he did.

I succeeded, but only by a few minutes.

I just had time to sit down at the table and catch my breath before he walked in, as punctual as he always was.

A few heads turned to look at him discreetly as he headed toward me. And even if the other patrons didn't know who he was, they could not help noticing him. He was tall and distinguished and he had the most glamorous aura about him.

At fifty-six Sebastian was as slender and athletic-looking as he'd always been, and I thought he was more handsome now than ever, with his deep tan and the wings of white in his dark hair. He wore a gray pinstripe suit, his white shirt set off by a pale-gray silk tie, and as always he was immaculate from the top of his well-groomed head to the tips of his well-polished shoes.

His face was serious, but his bright-blue eyes were smiling as he arrived at the table. Bending over me, he squeezed my shoulder and kissed me on both cheeks before sitting down.

“Vivi, my darling girl, I'm so glad to see you.”

“I am too,” I said, smiling across the table at him.

Then we both started to talk at once, and stopped instantly, laughing at ourselves.

“It's been months, Vivi, I feel I have so much to tell you,” he said, reaching out, grasping my hand, holding it tightly in his.

“Almost a year,” I remarked.

“Is it that long?” A dark brow shot up in surprise. “Too long then, darling. We must rectify that at once, not let it happen in future. But thank God for the telephone.”

“Yes, thank God for it, but you don't use it as often as you used to, or should,” I murmured, and added swiftly, “However, that's not a reproach.”

“I know it isn't. And you're right. You'll consider this is a poor excuse, but I have been in some out-of-the-way places. Not to mention trouble spots, and phoning can be difficult at times. As you well know, having been there with me on many occasions.”

“You've been doing wonderful work, Sebastian, cutting through all that red tape in so many countries, getting so much done. You've worked miracles lately,” I praised.

“I've had a lot of good help. And we've been able to bring aid to people directly, which has been a breakthrough. Getting food, medicine, and medical supplies to those who are truly in need is gratifying. We've also managed to move in qualified doctors and nurses. Mind you, I'm afraid I've been creating more ripples than usual, if not indeed waves, wherever I go. I've antagonized a lot of people, Vivi, by refusing to deal with disintegrating governments and bureaucratic nincompoops who are quite frequently corrupt.”

“Nothing's changed,” I said, shaking my head. “You're still a rebel at heart.”

“Am I?” He threw me a swift glance then laughed lightly. “I like to think of myself as being merely practical and efficient, a good businessman, Vivi, even when doing my charity work. I want to get things done the easiest way, the fastest way, but then you know that.”

The waiter came and Sebastian ordered a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, which is what he usually drank, and then he went on, “But enough of me. What's been happening with you since you came back? The last time we spoke was in July, when you were still at
Vieux Moulin”

“Not much really. Work mostly. I've just completed a story on the shift to the right in American politics, for the London
Sunday Times,
and I've almost finished my book on the Brontë sisters. I was in Yorkshire in early August, visiting Haworth, where they lived, and then I made my way here, as I always do in summer. To escape the—”

“Tourists in Provence and to reacquaint myself with my roots,” he finished for me, his eyes crinkling at the corners with hidden laughter.

“You do know me well,” I murmured, thinking how accurately he had quoted me. But then how often had I said those words to him.

“Don't I just, darling. Your patterns don't change much, Vivienne.”

“Neither do yours.”

“I suppose not.”

The champagne was brought to the table, the bottle shown to him, opened, and poured.

We clinked our glasses and Sebastian said, “Where are you going to be spending Christmas?”

“Provence, I think.”

“Oh, that's a pity.”

“Why?”

“It would have been nice to see you over the holidays. I'm planning to be at the farm in Connecticut.”

“That's a change, you're usually traveling the world, doing good somewhere, not celebrating,” I exclaimed, taken by surprise at his announcement.

“I felt like an old-fashioned Christmas,” he said, smiling at me. “The kind we used to have years ago, when you and Jack and Luciana were still children.” He shrugged his shoulders lightly, and went on, “Don't ask me why.”

“Nostalgia, perhaps,” I suggested, eyeing him thoughtfully. “We all suffer from that at different times.”

“True. Let's order, shall we? Before we forget to do so. As we so often have in the past.”

I laughed, remembering the times we had been so busy talking we had forgotten all about eating. After looking at the menus we both decided to have grilled sole, and once the food had been ordered, Sebastian started to talk to me about India and at great length. I had been there with him many years ago to visit Mother Teresa, but we had only stayed in Calcutta briefly.

As I listened to him, as usual intrigued by everything he had to say, I realized there was something different about him today. It came to me after a moment or two.
He was lighthearted.
In the past few years, since our divorce, he had always seemed morose and gloomy whenever we met. It had often struck me that he was burdened down with worry—about the state of the world, his charity work, the Locke Foundation, Locke Industries, his problematical children.
Heavyhearted.
Today he was exactly the opposite.

Without thinking twice and before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “You're happy! That's what it is, Sebastian. You're happier than I've seen you for years and years.”

He sat back in the chair and gave me an appraising look. “You always were the most perceptive, Vivienne.

“And yes, I am happy. Very happy. Like I've never been—”

He broke off, and glanced away.

“What's the reason?” I asked.

He was silent for a few seconds and then he slowly turned his head and gave me the most penetrating of looks.

It was then he told me.

Slowly, he said, “I think I can explain without hurting you, or upsetting you, Vivi. I just said you are perceptive, you're also intelligent, understanding, and a compassionate woman. Yes . . . I know I can tell you this without causing you pain.”

“We've always been able to tell each other anything and everything,” I reminded him. “How often you used to say that to me when I was growing up. And afterward.”

“You know, Vivi, when you were a child you touched my heart. And when you were twenty-one you captivated me . . . I was entranced by you. That's why I married you.”

“I thought you married me because you loved me,” I said so quietly my voice was hardly audible.

“I did love you, I do love you, Vivi, and I always will. You are the most special person to me. But when we married I think I was simply entranced by that child who had touched my heart and who had grown up to be the most lovely young woman. And who so adored
me
. Perhaps that's one of the reasons our marriage was always so explosive . . . you were too young really, far too inexperienced, and so very vulnerable. I was too old for you. But I wanted it to work, God knows I did.”