The Pact (14 page)

He reached for a fresh tomato and halved it cleanly. “Yes. It took some doing. My Italian came in handy. The number on the list was out of date, but I finally tracked Lydia down. She and the new husband are staying at the Gritti while some renovations are being done on their palazzo.”

“How did she take it?”

He shrugged and continued cutting until the tomato had been reduced to a professional-looking pile of wedges. I noticed a speck of shaving cream nestled under his right ear and fought the urge to reach over and wipe it off. “About as well as could be expected, I guess. Have you ever met her?”

“No. Never.”

“Well, she’s a real piece of work. What exactly do you know about his family?” Peter asked.

“Not much, really,” I said. Peter briefly filled me in, sketching out a portrait of Richard’s family life that was a far cry from my own relatively normal childhood. He set out the facts in a quick, polite way, clearly loath to speak ill of anyone, but I filled in his outline with some of the details I’d heard previously.

The story of Richard’s mother, Lydia, read more like a Judith Krantz paperback than real life. She had been a struggling actress when she met husband number one, the octogenarian producer who launched her Hollywood career. When her roles onscreen met with a lukewarm response at the box office, Lydia recast herself in the role of society doyenne, aided by her husband’s deep pockets. Regardless of her questionable origins, she quickly developed a demeanor of such haughty elegance that Grace Kelly could have taken lessons from her. With breathtaking speed, she established herself as the most powerful hostess in town, a woman whose guest lists defined who was in and who most assuredly was not in the ever changing constellation of Los Angeles society. When her husband passed away five years into their marriage at the tender age of eighty-nine, Lydia sold their Holmby Hills estate and set her sights to the north, where the more rarified social strata of San Francisco offered a fresh challenge.

She conquered this snobbish city with the finely honed skills she’d gained in the more rough-and-tumble world of Hollywood social politics. Within a couple of years, her lavish spending on both fashionable charities and designer gowns had landed her on the boards of the symphony and the ballet, and she cochaired the annual Opera Gala. This was where she first encountered Richard’s father, Edward Mallory, a trustee of the opera. Mallory was a relatively spritely seventy-two, but he was no match for Lydia’s perseverance. He shortly became husband number two.

He was seventy-four when Richard was born, and perhaps the shock of a new baby in the house after so many decades of affirmed bachelorhood was too much, because he keeled over of a heart attack well before Richard’s first birthday. After his death, Lydia hung around long enough to appear about town looking appropriately mournful and lovely in a series of rush-ordered black Escada suits. But once her rounds had been made and Mallory’s estate settled, yielding far less than she anticipated, the grieving widow departed for points more exotic. She occupied herself spending her dwindling funds and traveling the globe until she met husband number three, a Scottish aristocrat with a drafty castle that was highly unsuitable for small children. Concerned about raising her son in such an environment, she left Richard in San Francisco in the care of assorted nannies and housekeepers until he was old enough for boarding school at Saint Luke’s, his father’s prestigious alma mater in Connecticut.

“He was, quite literally, raised by a medley of household help,” Peter concluded.

“How sad,” I said, feeling a pang of unwelcome sympathy for Richard.

Peter picked up another tomato and continued slicing until it, too, had been transformed into a neat mound. He then slid the cut tomatoes into the bowl of freshly rinsed greens Jane had left next to the cutting board. He looked up to meet my eyes. “Let’s just say that, whatever faults Richard may have had, and whatever unfortunate decisions he may have made along the way, he was dealt a bad hand at the start.”

I nodded. It was so much easier when issues were black-and-white. Someone should be evil or good, innocent or guilty. Thinking about the whims of fate that helped to mold Richard into the nefarious creature I’d known made it harder to so easily shrug off his death with some banal words and a couple of stiff drinks. And Peter’s stoic calm drew me into the emotional undercurrents of Richard’s life and his death in a way I’d managed to resist thus far.

Before I could stop myself, I reached over and wiped off the speck of shaving cream from under his ear. He caught my hand and gripped it lightly. “Thanks,” he said. “I still haven’t mastered the shaving thing.”

“I
f you two are done over there you can set the table on the porch,” Jane called out to us.

“Sure,” I answered, turning away quickly before Peter could notice the flush staining my cheeks. Although, by this point he probably thought the natural tone of my complexion was beet-red. I gathered place mats and napkins from a drawer in the pantry and showed Peter where the silverware was. We went out to the porch and began setting the long oak table.

We took our time about it, and I was relieved that I could at least set a table without further demonstrating my utter lack of domestic ability. In fact, Peter seemed impressed by my one kitchen-related trick—folding and twisting the cloth napkins into the shape of a fan. I promised to teach him at some point, provided he remained on his best behavior. He appeared suitably excited by the prospect.

We came back in to get glassware, and Peter boasted on my behalf about what a lovely job I’d done.

“Let me guess,” said Hilary. “She wowed you with the napkin fans.”

“It’s a very challenging maneuver,” I protested.

“She definitely gets high marks on both technical and artistic merit,” said Peter, coming to my support. Chivalry was alive and well, at least where he was concerned.

“Rachel skipped all of the beginning and intermediate steps and went straight for the advanced,” teased Jane. “She’s a whiz at napkin folding and hors d’oeuvres assembly.”

“Just don’t ask her to make toast or scramble an egg,” added Sean.

“Not a lot of respect for genius around here, is there?” Peter commiserated, loosely draping an arm around my shoulders.

“Did you ever read
The Fountainhead
?” I asked. “Just call me Roark.”

Hilary snorted.

As if on cue, Emma’s mother walked in. “What is it that you’re making, Jane?” she asked in her gracious hostess voice. “It smells wonderful.” The words were right, but she sounded as if she were on autopilot.

“Oh, we’re just whipping together a frittata and some salad,” said Jane.

Mrs. Furlong nodded absently and crossed directly to the refrigerator. She removed a bottle of white wine and then reached into a drawer for a corkscrew. Her manicured hands fumbled with the foil. Peter went to help, taking the bottle from her and deftly inserting the corkscrew and pulling out the cork. Fantasies about Peter and me touring the California wine country together, or perhaps the Rhône Valley, quickly started germinating in a corner of my mind. I took a goblet from the cabinet, and he poured the chilled liquid into it and handed it to Lily.

“Thank you, dear,” she said, accepting the glass with hands that trembled. She downed its contents quickly, and Peter topped it off for her. She strolled over to the table where Luisa and Hilary sat. “Do you mind, darling?” she asked Luisa, gesturing to her silver cigarette case.

“Of course not.” Luisa proffered the open case, and Mrs. Furlong removed a cigarette with shaking fingers. Luisa lit it for her and she inhaled deeply, exhaling a stream of smoke with a practiced air.

“Just like riding a bicycle,” she said. “You never forget how to do it. This is fabulous. Why did I ever give it up?” She took another deep drag.

“Because it’s really bad for you,” said Matthew, entering the kitchen.

“Dr. Weir to the rescue,” said Hilary.

“No lectures today, please, Matthew. And please don’t tell Emma. She was the one who made me quit in the first place.”

“I’ll overlook it this once,” he agreed. “I was just going to grab some food for the detectives.”

“We’ve made them some sandwiches,” said Hilary, proudly displaying the platter. “I’ll help you take them in.”

“That’s all right, Hil. I can handle it.” He tried to take the plate of sandwiches from her hands, but she continued to hold on.

“No, you don’t. If you bring in the food, how will O’Donnell know that I prepared everything especially for him? And they’ll need something to drink. Do you think they’d like some Bloody Marys?”

“You take incorrigible to a whole new level, Hil,” said Matthew.

“Come on, work with me here. Do you want me to die a virgin?”

“How, precisely, are you defining virgin?” I asked.

“This is not a joking matter,” said Hilary, drawing herself up to her full, imposing height. “Matthew needs to get his priorities straight.”

“Never fear. Furthering your romantic pursuits is, as always, my first priority.”

“You could at least say it like you mean it,” she grumbled.

“I’ll just grab some sodas and we can go together.” He took a couple of cans of Coke from the refrigerator.

She sighed. “Okay. Sodas, then. Now, let’s go.”

Lunch on the porch was a strange affair. Mr. Furlong was still in his studio, and Mrs. Furlong oscillated between playing the gracious hostess and staring into space. She left her food almost completely untouched but drank liberally and helped herself to several more of Luisa’s cigarettes. The rest of us did our best to keep up a stilted conversation.

I’d realized a long time ago that people’s parents were individuals in their own right, with their own passions and problems and quirks of character. Still, I’d always found Emma’s parents to be such glossy, larger-than-life personalities. Mr. Furlong had always played the avuncular host, assiduously remembering the details of my life that Emma shared with him and asking after my family and career, and Mrs. Furlong had always made me feel warmly welcome on my constant visits to their home, her charm so great that it made anyone in her presence feel charming by simple association. Still, their fame and wealth and style seemed to cocoon them; I’d always felt as if they operated on a different frequency than most people I knew.

Between my disturbing thoughts about the Furlongs’ relationship and my even more disturbing concerns about my friends’ various motives for doing away with Richard, it was hard for even a talented professional like myself to eat much. Nobody else seemed to have much of an appetite either, although everyone was probably getting a bit tipsy, between the Bloody Marys and then the additional wine we’d opened with lunch. However, Mrs. Furlong seemed to have polished off the better part of a bottle on her own. Still, she sat at the head of the table with her back ramrod straight and the hand that was not gripping her wineglass placed neatly in her lap. She’d complimented Jane and Sean effusively at the appropriate moments on the food she hadn’t eaten. So when she made her next remark, in the same sort of tone most people used to discuss the weather, it took a moment to sink in.

“Any guesses as to who did this? Murdered Richard, I mean.”

Jane, ever the calm voice of reason, was the first to recover. “But, Mrs. Furlong, it must have been an accident. Nobody killed him.”

Mrs. Furlong let out a crystal peal of laughter. “Jane, darling, that’s so sweet of you to try to pretend, but that’s clearly not the case. Apparently the police think so as well, or they surely would be long gone by now.”

Even Jane lacked a ready answer for this.

Mrs. Furlong continued, her voice maintaining the same gracious tone amidst everyone else’s stunned silence. “What’s striking is the number of motives among us.

“Why, you girls—I know you’re all like sisters to Emma. And you’ve all done your best to be polite and hide your feelings, but it’s obvious that you detested the man. Matthew’s mother was my dearest friend—she had been since we were children, and there was hardly anything I wouldn’t do for her. Of course, Matthew’s father was an absolute angel, but I wonder how I would have felt if she’d been about to throw her life away by marrying a man like Richard. I wonder if I would have taken matters into my own hands? If I would have had the courage to do so?”

“Mrs. Furlong—” I began to protest, but she cut me off.

“Then there’s Peter, here. Were you aware of Richard’s new will, darling?”

Peter met her gaze with a frank, open expression. “I wasn’t aware of any will, old or new.”

“How odd.” She smiled slightly. “You didn’t realize that you were the primary beneficiary of the old will? Of course, Richard’s assets were hardly as substantial as one would hope, but they were still nothing to make light of. The new will, of course, would leave everything to Emma. It’s probably contestable now, since the marriage wasn’t consummated.”

“Mrs. Furlong,” said Peter, “I’m afraid I knew nothing about any will.”

“Of course you didn’t, darling. I didn’t mean to offend you—I’m just trying to analyze the situation objectively.

“Let’s also not forget Matthew, here. He’s been in love with Emma since she was a baby, practically.” Matthew opened his mouth to speak, a strange, hard look in his eyes, but she hushed him with a quick hand gesture. “You’ve always been so sweet to her. You taught her how to swim and how to sail the little sunfish we used to keep up here. And the two of you would make such a nice couple. The very thought of Richard marrying Emma must have made your blood boil.

“And finally, of course, there’s Jacob and me. Richard was hardly the son-in-law we would have chosen, what with his rather unattractive background and his questionable business dealings. Jacob was particularly distressed—after all, fathers are always a bit overprotective of their daughters, aren’t they? And he’s always been a man of action.”

She looked around the table, a bright smile lighting up her features.

“There’s a certain beauty to it, isn’t there?” she mused. “Why, practically everyone here had a reason to want Richard out of the way.

“But I’m neglecting my manners, aren’t I? Would anyone like some coffee? Or dessert? There’s an enormous wedding cake just sitting in the pantry. Angel food with meringue and raspberries between the layers. And a heavenly butter-cream frosting. It’s from the most exquisite bakery—this little place on East Sixty-Fourth Street in the city. They do the most lovely work, and everything is always delicious. It would be a crime to let it go to waste.”