Dangerous to Know (14 page)

“No woman in her right mind would dump Sebastian Locke!” I exclaimed.

“You did, Vivienne,” she retorted, throwing me a wise and knowing look.

“No I didn’t. We separated by mutual agreement … we loved each other, we just couldn’t live together. We were temperamentally unsuited.”

“Let us consider this,” Marie-Laure began. “The woman, who was younger than you, apparently, finds herself growing more and more nervous about the age difference between them. She gets … how do you say it . .

. the cold feet, no? And so she ends their relationship.”

“All right, it could happen, I’ll grant you that. But even if she did break it off with him, he wouldn’t kill himself over it. Not Sebastian.

I just know he wouldn’t. Honestly, it’s not a good enough reason for me, Marie-Laure, it really isn’t. Sebastian was tough and resilient. He had a strong character, and he had many things in his life which were of vital importance to him. His work at Locke Industries, the Locke Foundation, and all of the charities he was involved with. He was constantly traveling the world, dispensing aid.

So many people de pended on him, and he knew they did.”

“I was always aware that he took his responsibilities seriously.

It was one of the things I’ve always admired about him,” she said.

I bit my lip, pondering, then endeavored to explain more fully to her.

“Listen to me, Sebastian would never kill himself over a woman, no matter how much he loved her. He was far too sophisticated, too strong a man for that. Don’t forget, he never had any problems getting a woman. He had five wives altogether, including me. My mother was his mistress, and God knows how many other mistresses he had over the years.

Furthermore, there’s no doubt in my mind that women were falling at his feet right up to the time of his death. That’s the kind of man he was.

Women couldn’t resist him. And I can’t begin to tell you how fantastic he looked the day we had lunch earlier this month, better than ever. He was full of vitality and that fatal charm of his was wholly intact. He was irresistible, in fact.”

Marie-Laure nodded slowly. “What you say about him is true, I remember his charisma, his great sex appeal, and certainly you knew him better than anyone. So, I cannot argue, your reasoning is valid.

Therefore it must have been something else which caused him to take that most fateful step.”

“Correct. But what could have pushed him over the edge?” I asked.

“I cannot even attempt to make a guess,” she answered. “I just do not know. However, what we both know is that it wasn’t a health problem, because the autopsy would have revealed any fatal disease.

The police have done a thorough investigation and ruled out foul play, so we know that it was not murder. Anyway, cherie, that is too far fetched an idea for me to even contemplate.”

“What you’re saying is that you believe he actually did kill himself.

Am I correct, Marie-Laure?”

“Yes, you are. What other conclusion is there? We just don’t know why he did it, that’s all.”

Marie-Laure and I stared at each other. We were both at a loss.

Eventually, she said, “Let us admit it, cherie, we will never know the reason. The only person who could tell us is … dead.”

Driving back to vieux Moulin from the chateau, I replayed everything Marie-Laure had said, and as I did I began to feel much calmer.

My dear old friend usually made great sense and this afternoon had been no exception. I realized she had helped me to adjust to the fact that Sebastian must have killed himself. Very simply, there was no other explanation for his death. In the beginning, murder had crossed my mind but only fleetingly really; I had attributed his fatal collapse to natural causes, either a heart attack or a stroke. This was the reason I had been so shocked by Jack’s phone call. Suicide had been the farthest thing from my mind.

But Marie-Laure had reminded me that we never really knew any body, however close to them we were, or knew what went on in their minds.

People could do surprising things. In essence, she had helped me to put matters in a better perspective, and I began to relax for the first time since Sebastian’s body had been found.

By the time I arrived at the mill it was almost six-thirty. The sun was sinking low behind the ragged line of dark hills, the pale blue sky of earlier fading into an iridescent pearly gray. As I swung off the dirt road and into my driveway, it was already dusk.

Once I’d parked the car, I went inside and raced straight to my bedroom without even letting Phyl know I was back. I didn’t have much time to get ready before Kit arrived to pick me up for dinner.

In my bedroom I pulled off my blue jeans and sweater, slipped into my dressing gown, and refreshed my makeup. After brushing my hair and spraying on perfume, I dressed quickly in beige wool culottes, a cream silk shirt, and black and beige shoes. Taking a black blazer out of the wardrobe, I slipped this on and made my way to the kitchen.

Phyl was standing at the old farm table, filling a wine cooler with ice cubes, and she glanced up as I walked in.

“There you are, Mrs. bent, I thought I heard you come in a short while ago. This is for the Sancerre.

Should I open it now, do you think?”

“Hi, Phyl, and why not.” I glanced at my watch. “Mr. Tremain will be here shortly, he’s usually on time. You know, Phyl, it’s turned quite coolish, I think it would be better if we had drinks inside tonight. In the library, I guess.”

“Good idea. Shall I light a fire?”

“No, thanks anyway. It’s hardly worth it. We’ll be going out for dinner in half an hour.”

“There’re a couple of messages for you, over there on the dresser,” she said.

I strolled across the floor, took the messages from underneath the small old4fashioned flat iron that served as a paperweight, and read them quickly. Renny Jackson, my book editor in London, had called to tell me she would be in Air-en-Provence next weekend, and could we have lunch.

She said she would ring me again on Monday to make the date. The other message was from Sandy Robertson, one of the editors I worked with at the London Sunday Times. Nothing important, Phyl had scribbled. He will phone you tomorrow.

“Are you sure Mr. Robertson doesn’t want me to call him back now, Phyl?”

“Oh yes, quite positive. He said he was just leaving the office, that he’d only phoned up to have a social chat with you.”

“I see.” I crumpled the messages in a ball, gave them to her to throw away just as the door bell clanged loudly.

“That must be Mr. ernain,” Phyl said.

“I’ll get it,” I told her and hurried out.

Whsages for you, over there on the dresser,”

she said.

I strolled across the floor, took the messages from underneath the small old4fashioned flat iron that served as a paperweight, and read them quickly. Renny Jackson, my book editor in London, had called to tell me she would be in Air-en-Provence next weekend, and could we have lunch.

She said she would ring me again on Monday to make the date. The other message was from Sandy Robertson, one of the editors I worked with at the London Sunday Times. Nothing important, Phyl had scribbled. He will phone you tomorrow.

“Are you sure Mr. Robertson doesn’t want me to call him back now, Phyl?”

“Oh yes, quite positive. He said he was just leaving the office, that he’d only phoned up to have a social chat with you.”

“I see.” I crumpled the messages in a ball, gave them to her to throw away just as the door bell clanged loudly.

“That must be Mr. ernain,” Phyl said.

“I’ll get it,” I told her and hurried out.

When I opened the door and greeted Kit a split second later, I was surprised to see how fit and well he looked, despite his arduous painting schedule of the last few months.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” he exclaimed, beaming as he stepped into the hall.

He swept me into his arms and hugged me tightly not giving me a chance to say anything.

When he finally released me, he kissed me lightly on the lips and held me at arm’s length, his expression appraising. “You look great, just great, Vivienne.”

“So do you.” I smiled at him. “And you don’t look a bit done in, as you claimed you were.”

“I am, though. But just knowing you’d returned put the starch back in me and cheered me up no end,” he replied, grinning at me.

Slipping his arm around my shoulders, he w4ked me across the hall, and his happiness at being with me was palpable.

“Since it’s turned cool tonight I thought we’d have drinks in the library,” I said. Looking at him, I added, “It’s lovely to see you, Kit.”

“And you. I feel as if you’ve been gone forever. Now that you’re finally here I hope you’re going to stay, Viv.”

“Yes, I am, thank God. I’ve got to dig into my book again, finish it by March.”

We met Phyl in the doorway of the library; Kit greeted her in his usual free, friendly fashion, before ushering me inside the room.

Its walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling, and I had used wonderful old Provenal furniture.

Turning to me he said, “This is my favorite spot in the whole house, you did such a wonderful job on it.”

“Thanks,” I said and went to the table where Phyl had placed the wine cooler holding the bottle of wine and two glasses. I poured.

“Cheers,” Kit said, touching his glass to mine. “Welcome home, fair lady. You’ve been missed.”

“I’ve missed you too, Kit.”

“I hope so,” he answered and lowered himself into a chair near the big picture window which overlooked the gardens.

I sat down on the sofa opposite, and as I leaned back against the soft leather and looked across at him, I was surprised to discover how much I really had missed him. I had not realized it until this moment.

Christopher Tremain was an attractive man by anybody’s standards.

of medium height, he was slender, wiry in build, with a shock of dark blond hair above a surprisingly unlined college-boy face. Since the first day I met him I’ve always thought of him as looking like the all American hero, racing across a football field clutching a ball.

Forty two years old, he was a New Yorker as I was. He had lived in France for eighteen years, where he was deffied as one of the great modern impressionist painters of his generation, and had moved to Provence from Paris two years ago.

Intelligent and exacting gray eyes stared back at mine staring at him.

He said, “What’s wrong? Do I have a dirty mark on my face?”

I shook my head. “No, I was just thinking again how truly fit you look, in the best of health. Certainly much better than you did just before I left in July.”

“I feel better. It’s the work, I guess. All that painting, the supreme physical and mental effort seems to have regenerated me.”

“I know what you mean, work is a great turn on for me too.”

“Viv … look, there’s something I want to say-” He stopped.

“What?” I asked swiftly, detecting an odd note in his voice.

“What is it?”

“I want to get this out of the way before we go to dinner. When I was getting ready a bit earlier I had the news on, and CNN had a flash about Sebastian. I guess the autopsy report’s been released by the Connecticut State Police-” Again he cut himself short and looked at me worriedly.

“It has. Jack called me from New York this afternoon as soon as he knew. The Chief Medical Examiner’s verdict is suicide, barbiturate poisoning. You must know that though, surely they had it on CNN.”

“Yes, they did.” He hesitated, before adding, “It seemed odd to me.”

“I thought so. In fact I drove over to see Marie-Laure earlier to discuss it with her. She knew Sebastian a long time, and knew him quite well.” I let out a long sigh. “We tossed it around for ages, and there doesn’t seem to be any other explanation for his death. We finally agreed on that, we’d no alternative.”

“I know how upsetting his death must have been to you, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there to comfort you,” he expressed with genuine sincerity .

“I’m okay, Kit. It was a bit of a shock at first, and Jack’s news today knocked me for a loop. But as Sebastian would have said, life has to go on.”

“Life’s pretty unpredictable,” Kit said, putting his drink down on the coffee table in front of him. “One never knows what’s in store, what terrible shocks there are around the next corner.”

Rising, he came and joined me on the sofa, stretched one arm along the back, and drew closer to me. “I want to help you, Vivienne, help you to cope, to make things easier for you, if I can. I’m here if you need me.”

“I know that. I’m fine, honestly I am.”

“Is it all right, Viv? Between us, I mean.”

“Of course it is, Kit.”

“So I can assume we’re picking up where we left off in July?”

“Oh yes,” I answered quickly. I was beginning to realize that I not only wanted to resume our relationship, but needed it, needed him.

He leaned forward, took my face between his hands and kissed me passionately. I returned his kisses with the same ardor.

“Oh God, Viv, I want you, I want to make love to you,” he whispered against my hair, when we finally drew apart. “It’s been so long since we were together, I can’t stand it. Let’s go to bed now, before we go out to ditmer.”

I touched his face gently. “Later Kit. We’ve got all the time in the -world, you and I.”

He shook his head. “No we don’t. Who knows what tomorrow will -bring.

We’ve got to grasp today, live it hard, take life with both hands.

Oh darling, I want you so much.”

“Later, Kit,” I said again. Leaning closer to him, I kissed him quickly and added, “Let’s go to dinner and afterward I’ll come home with you.”

He looked at me swiftly, his eyes suddenly intense as he asked, “Will you stay the night?”

I nodded. “I want to see the paintings for the exhibition, especially -the last one, the big canvas.”

“Oh, so it’s my work that interests you, is it, and not me,” he laughed.

“Both,” I answered and laughed with him.

When we had made our date for tonight, Kit had promised to take me out on the town. And, true to his word, he did.