Deceptions (51 page)

'Let me tell you what we've learned so far. Lady Longworth flew with Max Stuyvesant and two other couples to Nice on October 24. From there they drove to Monaco. They spent some time in Monte Carlo while Mr Stuyvesant's yacht, the Lafitte, was being provisioned. At approximately 4:30 P.M. they boarded the yacht and left the harbor. When they were about two miles out - this would be at 5:30 P.M. - the yacht exploded and caught fire.'

As Sabrina shrank back, Alexandra moved over to sit on the arm of her chair. 'Are these details necessary?' she asked.

'I would not give them if I thought otherwise.' Phelps consulted his notes. 'By the time rescue boats got to the scene, the yacht was sinking. They concentrated on searching for survivors or bodies; they found three immediately, one of which was Lady Longworth. I'm sony, ma'am; I know

this gives you pain but I'm trying to explain why the yacht itself was not examined until a few days ago.'

'What difference does it make?' Sabrina asked, wondering why it was taking him so long to expose her. Was it something they found on the yacht? Something Stephanie had with her?

Phelps was reading from his notes. 'Positive identification, made by Lady Longworth's former husband. Viscount Long-worth, was made at 1:00 A.M., and I'm told you were told the news about an hour later, around dinner time in America. By this time the yacht had sunk, and several of those aboard with it. It wasn't until two days ago that divers were able to raise it. What we found, Mrs Andersen - what the French police found, that is- was a large hole in the side of the Lafitte below the waterline in the area of the staterooms. They reported that—'

'The staterooms?' Sabrina leaned forward. 'The staterooms are nowhere near the fuel tanks. So they couldn't have been the cause of the explosion.'

Phelps was disconcerted. The revelation toward which he was building was being taken from him. 'That is precisely the point. We'd assumed it was a fuel tank. Now we know it was not. We think, in fact—'

'You think it was a bomb, set to go off in a stateroom.* Phelps sat back, defeated. He was a low-level investigator who did the preliminary work for higher-ups to evaluate; there was little excitement in his job and no glamour. His only enjoyment came when a gasp ran through his audience as he sprang an unexpected bit of information on them. Now, just when he was prepared to spring, this pale beauty, too smart for her own good, took his moment away from him.

'But that means they were murdered,' she was saying, and he looked at her with reluctant admiration.

'It seems likely, ma'am. So we're trying to discover if Mr Stuyvesant or his guests had any enemies. Now, I'm not suggesting that Lady Longworth had enemies, but we received information from two writers - Michel Bernard and jolie Fantome - that they had recently learned Mr Stuyvesant was the owner of a company called Westbridge

Imports, and they also said that Lady Longworth occasionally bought - Mrs Andersen!'

But Alexandra held her and kept her from collapsing while Stephanie's letter echoed in her mind: I did a small imitation of a police officer, and said, 'There is nothingyou can tell me that I don't already know.'

There is nothing you can tell me that I don't already know.

There is nothing you can tell me—

They were after me. They thought I knew about their forgeries.

Phelps was satisfied. He had achieved his effect. 'I have a few questions, Mrs Andersen,' he said gently.

Sabrina raised her head. They didn't know who she was. They were after something far worse. 'All right.'

Phelps was curious. There's something else on her mind, he thought. She's scared. Of what? Something about West-bridge. But what could it be? She lives in America; she has nothing to do with them. 'First,' he began, 'did Lady Longworth talk to you about Max Stuyvesant?'

'Only that she was going on a cruise with him.'

'And what did she say about the cruise? Anything about the other guests? Where they were going?'

•No. Nothing.'

'She didn't mention enemies that Stuyvesant might have had?'

'Mr Phelps, my sister never spoke to me about Max Stuyvesant's business or the people he dealt with.*

Phelps was puzzled. He would swear she was telling the truth. So what was she afraid of? He went on, using his notes. 'Michel Bernard came to us when he heard we suspected a bomb on the yacht. He told us there'd been a falling out between Stuyvesant and the people at Westbridge. Did Lady Longworth ever talk to you about Westbridge Imports or Roiy Carr or Ivan Lazlo? Buying from them?'

There was a pause. 'She mentioned Carr occasionally, along with dozens of other salesmen and dealers. I don't think she had bought from him lately. At least not a major piece.'

They were silent. Well, Phelps thought, this time she's

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lying about something. But damned if I know what. There's not a shred of evidence that this shop was involved in any smuggling or in collusion on forgeries. But something's bothering her. Trying to identify it, he continued to ask questions about people Sabrina knew and others she did not. He went on and on, pointlessly it seemed, and then at last closed his notebook.

'We're looking for Carr and Lazlo, and no doubt we'll know more when we find them. Do you have anything else you think might help us, ma'am?'

'No,' Sabrina said wearily. When they found Rory Carr, he probably would imphcate her, but she couldn't do anything about it now. For the moment Ambassadors' reputation was safe, and so was her own secret. But she was so tired, as if she had run a race and finished barely a step ahead of everyone else. It was too late to tell Alexandra the truth; with Scotland Yard involved she could not make her a part of the half-lies she had told. She was more alone than ever. I want to go home, she thought. I want to be with Garth.

'Where can we reach you, Mrs Andersen?' Phelps asked, pocketing his notes. She gave them her number at Cadogan Square. 'And in America?'

'I'll let you know when I return. I plan to be here for a while.'

Alexandra saw him out. She held in her questions while Sabrina pulled the shades on the firont windows and locked the door. 'Do you want to talk, honey?* she asked, as they flagged down a taxi. Sabrina shook her head. 'No. But thank you. Maybe later ... 'At Cadogan Square she got out alone, still holding Stephanie's letter. As she unlocked her door and went inside, she was still repeating one line of it, over and over, in her mind.

The nights were the hardest times - the slow quiet hours when Sabrina was alone, thinking of Stephanie, aching for Garth, her thoughts skipping wildly between her two worlds. The days were better; she kept busy and thought only about what she was doing fi-om one minute to the next.

Each morning, she visited Gordon and then had lunch with Laura at Grenadier, a pub tucked away among mews houses

behind the hospital. Afterward. Sabrina walked to Ambassadors to plan the decorating jobs Stephanie had accepted and to study auction catalogues. But she never stayed long; restless and impatient, she would escape as soon as she could to be alone in the crowds of the city. All week she took long, solitary walks through the villages that make up London's neighborhoods. At tea time she returned home to Mrs Thirkell and Gabrielle and listened to Gabrielle talk from tea time through dinner about London gossip and Brooks. Without knowing it, she filled Sabrina in on everything that had happened while she was in America.

*I don't suppose you're interested, Stephanie, since you don't know most of these people. But you're so much like Sabrina—'

'It's all right. Of course I'm interested. They're your friends, and Sabrina's. Of course I'm interested.'

'I feel so odd talking to you. Eerie. It's so amazing, how you look ... as if Sabrina hadn't died. The last few weeks, you know, she was the only one who really cared about me. And now -1 know it's not fair to you, but you're all I have. And not even you, really, because you've got a family to worry about and you've lost Sabrina, too—'

When Gabrielle's eyes filled with tears, she looked like Penny, small and disconsolate. Sabrina led her to the couch in the drawing room and put her arms around her, and by the way Gabrielle relaxed against her, she knew that was what Stephanie had done.

Would she have held Gaby this way a few months ago? Probably not, or at least not so easily. She would have been self-conscious about displays of affection and nurturing, as were her friends. But here sat Sabrina Longworth, comforting Gabrielle de Martel without embarrassment or discomfort; in fact, feeling perfectly natural.

It was Penny and Cliff, Sabrina thought; living with them changed me so that this seems right. And important. She could close her eyes and see them: Penny sitting quietly in a comer, drawing and humming to herself, or sitting close, touching, confiding something special; Cliff chanting words for a spelling test, or sitting with her, eyes bright as they joked together. Oh, she missed them; she missed their trust

and love and even the chaos they brought into a house. Her arms felt empty. Holding Gabrielle, they still felt empty.

On most nights Gabrielle was restless and soon would find a party to fill her evening while Sabrina went upstairs to the quiet of her room. Mrs Thirkell would have lit a fire, laid out her robe and left a snack of cake and a silver thermos of tea. Sabrina would sit beside a small lamp, reading and thinking - about Stephanie, about Garth, about the children, about a ftiture she could not predict. And each night, almost exactly at ten. Garth called. In Evanston it was four o'clock; he was home firom the university and Penny and Cliff were with him in the breakfast room, clamoring for the telephone so they could talk for a few precious minutes.

'When are you coming home?' they asked each night, and finally, when Gordon had been told he could leave the hospital, Sabrina had an answer.

'We're leaving on Saturday,' she told Garth. 'I'll fly to Washington with my parents and then to Chicago on Monday.'

'Monday,' he said, passing the news to Penny and Cliff, and Sabrina heard their shouts of delight.

But it won't last, she thought, watching the flames in the fireplace and the long, distorted shadows they threw on the walls and ceiling. Because she was going back to tell them the truth. For a week she had been acting as Stephanie in Sabrina's world, and by now she felt she was no one. Garth had been right: she could not drift back and forth; she had to be one or the other; she had to be Sabrina. So she would tell them the truth, and then they would hate her. When Garth knew his wife was dead, when Penny and Chff knew their mother was dead, that Sabrina had deceived them for weeks, they would turn away from her. She couldn't even tell them she loved them. They wouldn't want her love. She would be left with no one to give it to.

When they said goodbye and she had put down the telephone, Sabrina sat in the silent room until she was tired enough to fall asleep before the longing for Garth began to pulse through her. It was not making love that she craved-she didn't let herself think of that at all - but just his

presence, close beside her. sharing the small space that was theirs alone.

But she was too tired even to reach out to touch the warm dream that was not there. She turned off her light and went to sleep.

'Are you coming back?' Alexandra asked when she stopped in at Ambassadors on Friday. She had brought a stack of photographs and fanned them out on the table. These were taken at a new restaurant where Sabrina and I had dinner one night. Brooks joined us there later. So did Antonio, in fact - the launching of our passionate romance. I thought you'd like a set. Are you coming back, do you think?*

'Yes, of course,' said Sabrina, studying the photographs in silent amazement. How had Stephanie done it? In the tilt of her head, her posture and cool, public smile, she had become Sabrina. And what about me? Sabrina asked herself. What did I become? 'Yes, of course I'm coming back,' she said absently. 'This is home.'

'Home? What about America?'

' I meant, this is Sabrina's home and I haven't decided what I'll do about it. So I'll be back soon. What about you? Will you be here or chatting in Portuguese with contractors and jungle-clearers?'

Alexandra gave her a swift glance. 'Sounded like your sister there, honey. Looks like I may be chatting. But not in Portuguese. It took me a long time to learn proper English, and I'm not going to surt another language for anybody. I can make Antonio understand that.'

'Why don't you find a Guarani legend that says the home tongue is the best and quote it whenever he asks you to learn Portuguese?'

'Now that is a brilliant ... What do I do if there isn't one?'

'Make one up. He'll be ashamed to admit he's never heard of it.' Alexandra burst into laughter. 'God damn, honey, I'll do it. You're wonderful, you're as sharp as Sabrina. E>o they ever let you out of Chicago? Come visit us. In our lavish hut in the middle of nowhere, or our condominium in Rio. Or

here, when we're in London. Will you come? You and your husband, of course. If he's interested,'

'I might.'

•We'd make you welcome. For your sister's sake, as well as your own.' She pulled on her coat and stood in the doorway. 'She was a very special lady, and you are, too. I think we'd get along fine.'

'So do I. Will you write and tell me about yourself? I'll miss ... I'll miss having a chance to get to know you.'

'Honey, I never write. The words pile up in my head and won't come out. They get so crowded they give me a headache and I give up. But I'm terrific with a telephone; what's your number in Evanston?'

Sabrina hesitated. 'I may be here. You should call Ambassadors first, or at Cadogan Square.'

Alexandra looked at her keenly, began to say something, then changed direction. 'Whatever you say. Take care of yourself, Stephanie.'

'Goodbye, Alexandra.'

On Friday afternoon she told Nicholas and Sidney Jones she was going to America for a few days. 'I'll be back as soon as I get my father settled in Washington and spend a few days with my family. I'm keeping the shop closed, and I've told Brian the same thing I'm telhng you; I won't make any decisions until I talk to both of you. Until then, nothing is to be done with Ambassadors or my house. Is that clear?'