Her Own Rules/Dangerous to Know (36 page)

“Speak,” I said. “Tell me, Catherine.”

“As I mentioned, the book is old. It carries a series of paintings of about thirty famous people from the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries. The spelling of those periods, reproduced in the book, is quaint—”

“What do you mean by quaint?” I interrupted.

“For example, Rabelais is spelled
Rables.
Buckingham, as in the Duke of, is spelled
Boucquin can.
The Queen of Spain is
la Reine Despaigne,
instead of
D'Espagne.
And the Queen of Scotland, which correctly is
la Reine d'Ecosse
shows up as
la Rene de Cose.
Therefore, I think that d'Cose, the name of this château, is a bastardization of
de
Cose, and somehow refers to Scotland.”

I stared at her. “That would be peculiar. An odd coincidence.
If
you're right. Malcolm Lyon Locke, the founding father of the dynasty, was a Scotsman. Is there any reference to my château in the book?”

“No. None at all. As I just said, it's a picture book really, showing different paintings of . . . well, shall we call them celebrities of the day. Rabelais, the writer, the Duke of Buckingham, Mary Queen of Scots, etcetera, etcetera. And, of course, the spelling of the latter's name caught my eye at once.”

“Keep digging. Maybe you'll find something else that makes reference to Scotland. Maybe this was her place?”

Catherine shook her head. “I doubt it. Mary was mostly in the Loire Valley when she was growing up. And after she married the Dauphin of France, she was at the legendary Chenonceaux, the home of the king. She was with Henry II, his mistress Diane de Poitiers, his wife Catherine de Medici, and their son Francis II, who was the Dauphin. The
petite Reinette d'Ecosse
she was usually called in those days, the little Queen of Scotland. Poor sad thing she was in the end. And she met such a grisly death. Had her head chopped off—”

The ringing of the telephone next to Catherine's elbow interrupted her. Reaching for it, she said, “Château d'Cose. Bonjour.”

There was a moment of silence before Catherine went on, “Oh hello, Vivienne, how are you?”

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

I
took the phone from Catherine, sat down in the chair she had vacated.

“Hi, Viv,” I said. “How're things?”

“Fine, thanks. Jack, I'd like to come over to see you.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

“That's impossible,” I said quickly. I'd caught something in Vivienne's voice. I knew when to protect myself from her.

“What about this afternoon then? Or this evening?” Vivienne pressed. “It's very important. Really it is.”

“Viv, I can't. Not today. I got problems. Stuff to deal with.”

“You can spare half an hour. Surely. For
me
.”

“Can't, Viv. Olivier has people coming. We'll be tied up. All day. Winery business,” I lied, improvising as I went along. I'd known her forever. Since I was six. Something was troubling her. I could tell. It echoed in her voice. Instinct made me keep her at arm's length. Otherwise she'd rope me in.

“I really need to talk to you, Jack,” she murmured in a warmer, softer voice. “About something that concerns us both.”

Viv could beguile when she wanted to, didn't I know that. Swiftly, I said, “It'll have to wait.”

“Not necessarily. Perhaps we can talk on the phone.”

“I don't know when.”

“We can do it right now, Jack. Listen to me for a moment, please.”

“But—”

“No buts, Jack. I've finished the Brontë book, as you know, and now that I'm not so concentrated on my writing, the matter of Sebastian's death has broken through into my consciousness. It does—”

“Oh God, Viv! Not that old turkey!
Again.
Let it drop!”

“I won't, I can't. Listen to me. Sebastian's death does not sit well with me, not at all.”

“He committed suicide,” I snapped.

“I accept that. But I need a reason
why
he did it. I need to know. Only then, when I have a resolution, will I be at peace about it. And at peace with myself.”

“No one can give you a reason. Only Sebastian knows. He took that secret to the grave with him.”

“Not necessarily,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“I've been thinking—”

“What about?” I cut in, groaning inside. How well I knew that tone of hers. It spelled trouble.

“About his life. What he was doing in the last six to eight months of it. Who he was with. And just as importantly, how he was behaving. You know, what frame of mind was he in? Was he troubled? Or happy?”

“He was happy. The day you had lunch. So you claim.”

“
He was.
”

“How can you be so sure?”

“That's a stupid question, Jack. I knew him intimately. He
was
happy. Look, I remember how I felt that day, truly I do. And I was pleased for him, pleased he was about to start a new life.”

“He was?” I was startled. “What do you mean by a new life?”

“There was a woman, Jack, a new woman in his life. He was in love, and he was planning to marry her.”

Flabbergasted, I exclaimed, “You gotta be kidding!”

“I'm not. He told me he was planning to marry in the spring. In fact, he wanted me to meet her and he invited me to the wedding.”

“That's sick,” I said.

“No, it's not. We were always close. Very, very close. Anyway, don't digress.”

Ignoring this admonition, I asked, “Who was the woman?”

“I don't know. He didn't tell me her name. That's the problem. If I knew who she was, I could go and see her. Obviously
you
never met her, since you sounded so surprised when I mentioned her.”

“I didn't even
know
about her.”

“Did Luciana?”

“No. I'm sure. She would've told me.”

“
Someone
must have met her, Jack, and that's what I'm leading up to. I want to talk to people who worked with Sebastian on the charities in Africa.”

“Why the African charities?”

“Because Sebastian said he met her there,” Vivienne explained. “He said she was a doctor. A scientist. I want to talk to a lot of people who were involved in his life and activities, in order to get a better perspective about him in that six-month period.”

“People might resent that. They might clam up,” I pointed out. “They
are
very loyal to him. To his memory.”

“I know. But I have the perfect reason. I'm writing a profile about him for the
Sunday Times
Magazine. Sandy Robertson okayed it last night. I'm planning an in-depth profile about the world's greatest philanthropist . . . who was probably the last of the breed. That's one of the reasons I wanted to see you, Jack. I'd like to get your impressions of him during those last few months last year.”

“Vivienne, that's ridiculous! Why can't you just let it drop.”

“I can't. I wish I could. Rationally, intellectually, I do accept his suicide. Emotionally, I cannot. At least I can't accept that he would kill himself when he was so happy, so positive about the future. It just doesn't sit well with me, I keep telling you that. There's something wrong here, something terribly amiss. Something strange must have happened after we'd lunched on that Monday. I just know it in my bones.”

“And you aim to find out? Is that it? Hey, Viv, I have the perfect reason. The lady dumped him.”

“Perhaps she did. That's certainly a possibility, I won't argue with you there, Jack. But I don't believe Sebastian would take his life because of a woman, not the Sebastian I know.”

“And I know nothing. I can't help. Not with the profile.”

“You might think of something, if you wrack your brains. If you really think hard about it, think back to those months last summer.”

“I doubt it.”

“The day of the funeral, Cyrus suggested I should write a book. A biography of Sebastian.”

“The keeper of the flame! Is that your new role, honey?”

“Don't be sarcastic, Jack, it doesn't become you. And I might do it. I just want to be sure I can be absolutely objective about Sebastian. Writing the profile will give me a good idea about that. It'll be a sort of test.”

“Who are you planning to interview, Viv?” I asked.

“His colleagues at Locke Industries and at the foundation. One person will lead to another, that's how it usually works. I'll soon understand who knew him the best, knew certain sides to him. I hope to talk to Luciana too.”

“Viv, you know better!” I exclaimed. “You'll only get a flea in your ear.”

“We'll see.”

“Take my word for it, honey.”

“Jack?”

“Yes?”

“You were in New York last month for the board meeting at Locke Industries. I just wondered if anyone mentioned anything to you. About the new woman in his life.”

“No.”

“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 this 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 foundation. It'll be a beginning.”

“Have a good trip. Ciao.”

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

 

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

“What is it, Jack? What's wrong?” Catherine asked in that calm 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 down-to-earth and rational as she is,” Catherine countered.

“She's not rational. Not down-to-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 carrying 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 Brontës is finished. Delivered. Now it's Sebastian. She's focused on him. Again. Merde!”

Catherine regarded 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. Jeez! 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.