“Did anyone see him Saturday morning?” he asked. “Or do any of you know if he had any plans for Saturday morning or afternoon?” He wasn’t expecting any of them to admit they had seen the man; what he was interested in was watching the interaction between them. There didn’t seem to be any tight bonds here; it had already turned into every man for himself.
“I talked to him Saturday morning,” Nat said. “I called him with the answer to a tax question he’d asked me. He was excited about the evening, because the society was going to give him an award. He was in a good mood.”
“Did he say anything about seeing anyone before the dinner?” Joe asked.
“No,” Nat said. “Just that Mary and Jared were both coming to his place, and that they’d all be going over together,” Nat said.
“What about the butler? He was there, too,” Larry said irritably.
“The butler?” Lila scoffed.
“Why would his butler want to kill him?” Eileen asked. “They got along quite well. Thorne paid him a very nice salary.”
“Because he must have been wretched as a boss,” Larry said.
“Oh, darling,” Lila protested. “It’s not the butler. That would be far too boring.”
“Lila, a man is dead,” Barbara reminded her. “This isn’t the plot for a novel.”
“And I still say it wasn’t the butler,” Lila insisted.
“Having a meeting tonight is pointless,” Brook said with a sigh. “We should have cancelled. We’re all too emotional.”
Genevieve spoke up then. “Maybe being emotional isn’t so bad. What if whoever killed Thorne really does have something against the Ravens? Aren’t you all frightened?”
“Of course, we’re frightened, darling!” Lila exclaimed. “But we can’t let ourselves get carried away. I know Sam was hurt, but it’s ridiculous to think someone was able to cause that accident just to harm him, then get away unscathed himself. Good God, simply getting on that wretched highway is dangerous. So, Mr. Connolly, what do you suggest we do next?” She stared at him pointedly.
“My suggestion is to do what everyone should always do—be careful. Don’t park in dark garages, don’t walk in dark alleys. Keep your doors locked,” Joe said.
“Good advice,” Lou Sayles said, and offered him an awkward smile. “But what happens when the danger comes from someone you trust?”
“There we go again!” Brook exploded. “Accusing one another.”
“Be helpful to the police in any way that you can. The sooner Thorne Bigelow’s murder is solved, the sooner you’ll feel safe. And enjoy one another’s…society again,” Joe said. “No pun intended.”
And yet, it was hard not to feel as if this entire thing weren’t some kind of terrible joke.
The people here were…
Well, caricatures in a way, he thought. He had lived in New York City most of his life, and he loved New Yorkers. But tonight he felt as if he had walked in on a play satirizing the rich and the poor and everyone in between. They had the poor librarian, the angry columnist and several society matrons. Men who lived hard, men who thrived and men who were always thirsty.
A ripple of uneasy laughter reminded him of his last words.
No pun intended.
Too bad Thorne Bigelow’s murder was anything but a joke.
“I feel better just for speaking honestly,” Barbara said with a soft sigh.
“Why on earth would you feel better?” Lila asked. “All we’ve proven tonight is that we don’t trust one another.”
“Oh, come, Lila,” Lou said. “I refuse to believe that any of us is capable of murder.”
“Maybe not,” Joe said, and all turned to stare at him. “But someone out there is. So, all of you, be careful.”
“Yes, we all need to be careful.”
The statement came from the doorway. Joe turned around to see that a newcomer had joined them.
Jared Bigelow.
He’d seen the man’s picture in the papers and in the file Raif had faxed over. He was perhaps six feet in height, lean and wiry. He had dark, curling hair and a face with features so fine they were almost sharp. His eyes were deep set and dark. He was in his early thirties, casually dressed in chinos and a tweed jacket.
And he was not alone.
The woman standing behind him was in her late thirties or early forties. She was small and model thin. Her hair was blond and highlighted with an even lighter shade, and her eyes were enormous and a marbled blue-gray. She appeared both extremely artificial and extremely attractive at the same time, as if many things about her had been enhanced, but enhanced very well.
Mary Vincenzo, Thorne Bigelow’s late brother’s much younger wife. She had been in public relations before her marriage, according to the file Raif Green had sent. She had never changed her name.
The two newcomers walked into the room, and the others jumped to their feet and crowded around Jared, voicing the usual awkward and sympathetic words everyone came up with when someone died.
Genevieve, however, hung back, Joe noticed. As did Eileen. Interesting.
Only when the crowd around Jared had dispersed did they take the opportunity to murmur quiet sympathy. Joe found himself realizing that, despite all the jewels and silk, cosmetics, surgeries and expensive coiffures in evidence, there was no one in the room like Genevieve. Tall, slim, sleek and natural, everything about her whispered of innate perfection. He found himself glad for personal, as well as professional reasons that he had attended this very strange affair.
She had endured so much and was herself so strong. But no one should have to be alone after what she’d been through, and he would protect her.
“Please,” Jared said, lifting a hand and stepping back to address the group. He smiled awkwardly. “I actually came here tonight to say the same thing to all of you that he…” he indicated Joe with a nod of his head “…that he told you. Please be careful.” He grinned. “If one of you bastards didn’t kill my father, or even if you did, we have to live with the fact that any one of us may be a target.”
If one of you bastards didn’t kill my father…
He had spoken the words lightly, Joe thought. Like a joke. But had he really meant them humorously?
Joe walked over and offered his hand to Jared. “Joe Connolly,” he said. “I add my condolences on your loss.”
“The private detective?” Jared asked him. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve engaged Mr. Connolly,” Gen said, stepping up. “To look into your father’s murder—and to make sure that my mother and the rest of you aren’t in any danger.”
“But…this is a board meeting,” Jared said.
“No, this is actually an accusation fest,” Larry said huffily.
“Larry…” Barbara chastised.
“Seriously, right now it would be prudent for all of you to be careful. The police are investigating a number of possibilities, but until they have a suspect in custody, you all need to behave as if you could be next,” Joe said.
“But this is a board meeting,” Jared repeated, staring at Eileen Brideswell.
“Calm down, Jared. Anything that helps, right?” Mary Vincenzo said, speaking up at last.
“Yes, yes. All right. Well, get to it then, Mr. Connolly. Actually, I just stopped in to make sure everyone on the board was aware that we’re having a special viewing of my father before the services Monday. Five o’clock, at Philips Mortuary. I hope to see you all there.” Jared looked from one to another. “I hope you’ll understand if I don’t stay. Aunt Mary…?”
They started to walk away, and then Jared, with Mary on his arm, paused at the door and turned back. “Mr. Connolly?”
“Yes?”
“You’ll be there, I assume? In your…professional capacity.”
“Yes,” Joe said. “I’ll be there.”
He felt Genevieve lay her hand on his arm, and he watched as Jared Bigelow noted her movement, a curious glint entering his eyes.
“Until then,” Jared said, and left.
Joe was acting strange lately, Genevieve thought.
The distance between them suddenly seemed far too great, far greater than it ever had before.
They had dropped Eileen at home, and then he’d brought her to her place. Being Joe and ever the gentleman, he had seen her up to her apartment, his every move the epitome of courtesy.
But, to be quite honest, she didn’t want courtesy any more than she wanted pity or to be treated like a fragile rose.
All of a sudden she realized the complete truth that had inexplicably eluded her until now.
In the days following her rescue and Leslie’s death, she had been forced to find her own footing, to learn simply to go on again.
But since then, during the time they had spent together, she had begun to realize just how much she liked Joe. More than liked him.
He, of course, had been in love with Leslie, who in turn, had been in love with the fiancé, Joe’s cousin, who had died before her. But if she had lived, would she have fallen for Joe in time? Or would she have fallen only for a shadow of her first love? Matt, like Joe, had been tall, with light hair, though Joe’s was slightly darker, just as his eyes were greener. But Matt had been built with the same broad-shouldered strength. Maybe Joe would have wondered all his life if she had been truly in love with him, or only dreaming that he was someone else every time they made love.
Some questions could never be answered. Leslie and Matt were both dead now.
She found herself thinking of Shakespeare then, rather than Poe. Of Hamlet.
He is dead and gone, lady, he is dead and gone. At his heels a grass green turf and at his head a stone…
Yes, Leslie MacIntyre was dead, but did Joe still dream about her?
Perhaps Joe could never be serious about anyone—especially Gen herself, because she had been the cause of Leslie’s death.
