Forster, Suzanne (31 page)

Gus had been startled at the change in him, especially in so public a place. Rob Emory, spin doctor extraordinaire, didn't seem to care that people were staring and that he was acting like a jealous husband.

"We were arguing," she'd explained. "I was upset. Sapphire headed straight for the gorge, and you know how she loves to jump. I assumed Culhane wouldn't be able to follow me, which was all I was thinking about at the moment. I just wanted to get rid of him—"

Rob's expression had darkened as he gazed at her, and she'd begun to flake pieces of tuna with her fork, aware that she was dealing in half-truths and not at all sure what the whole truth was. "What did he say that could have upset you that badly?" he'd asked, and she'd made the mistake of flushing.

"He implied I was a bad role model for Bridget. "

"Oh,
well"
he'd huffed mockingly, "no wonder you tried to kill the son of a bitch. You should sue him for defaming your maternal instincts. "

"Would you
stop
that!" Gus hissed the words under her breath. "Would you please stop saying I tried to kill him. "

At that point Rob had made another futile attempt to get the waiter's attention, and then he'd gone silent. Now he was ignoring what was left of the meal, the waiter, and her. The whole ordeal made Gus feel inexplicably guilty, perhaps because of what had happened between her and Culhane
beyond
their conversation about Bridget.

"Can't we save this for another time?" she suggested, her voice softening with encouragement as she touched his arm. "I thought we were here to talk about the magazine. The media kit looks fabulous by the way. " She touched the brilliantly designed folder, wanting him to know how pleased she was with the way he'd brought her ideas to life.

"Yeah, fabulous." He shifted the knife he'd laid across his plate, then ran his tongue over his teeth as if trying to rid himself of a bad taste in his mouth. When finally he did acknowledge her, the look of distaste still lingered.

She was vaguely aware that a busboy had appeared and was refilling their goblets, splashing water over the melting ice, but nothing could have distracted her from the chill of recognition she felt. It was so much an echo of the reactions she remembered from her childhood that she couldn't help but wonder what Rob really thought of her. Did the man even like her? It didn't help that she was the one who'd capitulated. She'd broken the silence and tried to smooth things over, which made her feel all the more vulnerable.

"I'm putting a detective on him, Gus, " he said in a voice that brooked no argument. "Once I have something on Culhane, we can back him off. Until then I want
you
to back off, is that clear?"

Gus set her own fork down carefully. If anger had come in colors, hers would have been red, and a knot of it had formed at the base of her throat. It didn't matter to her at that moment that he was probably right, that a detective was the only safe and sensible way to handle this. It was the condescension, his dismissive tone, that bridled. He was giving her an order, and Gus had never liked ultimatums. He seemed to have forgotten that she was the one being blackmailed.
She
was the public figure who would be held up to scrutiny and ridicule if their plan were exposed.

"Very clear," she said at last. She quietly gathered up her purse and black linen suit jacket and pushed back the chair. The material of her skirt had hiked up, seemingly caught on her nylons, but a touch of her hand smoothed it.

"Are you going somewhere?" he asked. "We're not done here."

"I think we are," she said.

She prided herself on her decorum as she made her excuses, telling him she had to pick up Bridget, and walked out of the restaurant, leaving Rob at the table to stare after her in shock. The old Gus would have pitched a fit and not have cared who saw it. She would have been righteously ticked and told him so, Rob be damned, Lucene's be damned, magazine be damned. There was nothing the old Gus had ever wanted so badly that she would have taken shit from people to get it, and she had loved having that kind of independence. If her toes got stepped on, she yelled, one of the traits that had quickly earned her her reputation as "difficult. "

But now, suddenly, there was a great deal at stake, and she didn't want to be seen in a public fight with her manager. She was also uncertain about Rob, himself. He'd been handling the business end of the magazine, and she had allowed herself to become more dependent on him than on anyone in her life. Perhaps too dependent. She was approaching a major turning point in her life. Maybe this was the time that she needed to step back and take another look at the situation. So far it could all be chalked up to bad management, she reminded herself, which was fixable. Not to be confused with
destiny,
which wasn't.

All that and more was on Gus's mind as she pulled into the mansion's driveway and saw the police cars. They were parked everywhere, their lights flashing. One had even pulled sideways across the lawn. There must have been a half-dozen of them, and the security guard wasn't in the booth by the gate.

Alarmed, she pulled her Mercedes as close to the house as she could and parked the car. Please God, don't let it be Bridget, she thought. She had fibbed to Rob. One of the other girls' mothers had promised to give several of the children, including Bridget, a ride home from the ballet lesson.

Nearly frantic that something might have happened, she let herself out of the car and ran all the way to the house. The ground's maze of manicured hedges and its centerpiece, a graceful Italian fountain, blurred past her. There was a crowd in the foyer as she burst in the door.

"There she is!" Lake's voice drew Gus's eyes to the doorway of the main salon, where he was standing by a tall, thin balding man in a heavily wrinkled cotton suit. Notebook and pencil in hand, the man turned to peer at Gus over his glasses as if he were having trouble focusing his eyes. He shambled toward her, and she realized it was his wide, jutting jaw and Harry Truman glasses that made him look so owlish. A plainclothes detective, she thought.

"Are you Mrs. Jack Culhane?" He enunciated the question over the noise of several milling uniformed officers.

Gus nodded, uncertain whether or not she'd just implicated herself in a crime.

"Do you know where your husband is?"

Gus had left her jacket in the car, and the open doorway created a chill that raised goosebumps on her arms. "No, I don't. I haven't seen him since this morning. What's wrong?"

"Her husband is right here—"

Jack's voice came from the doors behind her, and as she turned to see him standing in the glowing archway, she experienced a moment of real fear, but not on her own behalf, on his. Had he done something wrong?

He'd changed from that morning's jeans and jacket, but it was still a casual look—khaki pants and a wine-red polo shirt that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and made his eyes and hair look all the darker. It was his expression that made her nervous. There was menace in his watchfulness.

The detective tucked his notebook and pencil in the crumpled breast pocket of his suit coat. "Mr. Culhane, can you tell us where you were at twelve-thirty this afternoon?"

"Who wants to know? And why?"

Gus glanced around the room and realized that Lily was standing at the foot of one staircase and Frances the other. They were both being questioned by uniformed officers. The two security guards were at the far end of the foyer, talking to another policeman, and she caught glimpses of blue uniforms inside the open doors of the gallery.

The detective showed Jack his badge and repeated the question. "A valuable work of art has been stolen from the Featherstone collection, Mr. Culhane. If you would be so kind as to tell me your whereabouts?"

"Am I a suspect?" Jack asked.

"You're damn right!" Lake nearly shrieked the accusation as he crossed the room. "Someone stole my Goddard, the newest piece in my collection!"

"Blush?" Gus broke in, as startled by the intensity of Lake's reaction as she was by the theft. "The woman kissing her own reflection?"

Lake glared at Jack. "There was no sign of a break-in, so it had to be someone who had access to this house. "

"Where were you, Mr. Culhane?" the detective pressed. He pulled out his notebook and pencil again.

Jack's continuing silence brought Gus around to stare at him. "W-where were you?" she asked softly.

Her stumble was indiscernible, but he seemed to have caught it, and as he glanced at her, his gaze focused piercingly on her alarmed expression. It was only for an instant, but she felt, as she often had before, that he had cut through to something vital and painful inside her, things she fought to keep hidden.
Trying to find my wife,
he seemed to be saying.
Trying to find you, Gus.

"I was working all afternoon," Jack said, still gazing at Gus.

It struck Gus as odd that she knew he was lying. But what she realized next astonished her.
He had stolen the painting.

"Can anyone verify that?" the detective asked. Jack's silence forced his hand. "I could always take you down to the station for questioning. It's up to you. "

"Bruce Houston, the president of Houston Tire Company." Jack turned to the man, a cold smile touching his mouth. "I've been at his home since ten this morning, doing a security risk analysis. His system stinks, just like this one does. "

"We'll have to contact Mr. Houston."

Jack turned his cold smile on the room then, brushing over the curious expressions and freezing everyone out, including Gus. "Tell him he's next, " he said.

The chill that had burned Gus's arms seeped through to her bones. This no longer felt like bad management, she realized. It felt like destiny had just rolled the dice.

Chapter 17

When Gus came down to dinner that evening, she saw immediately that the battle lines had been drawn. Lake and Lily gave small dinner parties as frequently as two or three nights a week, and though Gus rarely attended, there was no way she was going to miss this one. She had thought Lake would call it off because of the burglary, but her stepbrother assured them he would only brood if left alone, and so, despite the fact that the newest Featherstone family member, Gus's husband, was the chief suspect in the crime, dinner for nine it was.

The detective had questioned Jack extensively before he left, but hadn't had enough evidence to charge him with anything. Once the crime lab people had gone and everyone had retired to their respective rooms, the house had settled down to its more normal state, a heavy, sometimes haunting silence that prevailed as if the place were weighed down by its own solitude. But the tension still reverberated.

Even now the library resembled an armed camp as Gus entered to join the small crowd that had gathered for drinks.

Outside of her own bedroom and the atrium, it was her favorite place in the mansion, and had always had a calming effect on her. It wasn't small and intimate as libraries so often were, and yet the high ceiling of carved walnut, its rich, deep burl echoed in the Edwardian furniture and the bookshelves, gave the area an opulence that was warm and welcoming. The outside walls boasted huge arched windows as grand and serene as a cathedral's. By contrast, the mirrored Victorian front-and-back bar that stood across the spacious room from the fireplace was as ornate and stylized as a brothel's.

Gus had always thought there was an aged dignity about the room that cast its civilizing spell on anyone who entered. Tonight a Vivaldi concerto played softly, background music to the muted conversation, and the familiar smells of old, leather-bound books and rich lemony furniture oil all contrived to soothe the senses. But even those triggers couldn't lift the present tension.

Lake and Lily were by the fireplace, sipping Manzanilla and conversing with a cluster of guests that included Ward McHenry and the curator of the Pasadena Art Museum and his wife. Despite the apparent congeniality, her stepsiblings' darting glances gave them away. The object of Lake's and Lily's unfriendly scrutiny was her very own husband of less than a week. Culhane was leaning against the marble-topped bar with what looked like a Scotch in his hand, but as usual, he wasn't drinking, he was merely staring into the glass's fiery flames as if they represented everything he knew of hell and its environs, which for him was clearly right here on earth.

He hadn't even made an attempt to dress the part tonight. He was bistro casual in a setting where the dress code was jackets and chic dinner dresses. His white linen shirt had a cleric's collar that flared open against the brown skin of his throat, though the trend was to wear them buttoned up. The only thing Jack Culhane had buttoned up were his emotions, Gus thought, and for some reason that awareness brought a visual reminder of his sinewy torso... and of his fascinating inability to have a normal sexual release. Or was it his unwillingness?

She could have watched him all night, she realized. He intrigued her that much, and she didn't honestly know why. Or maybe she didn't want to know because she was afraid of what it would say about her. It had already occurred to her that her fascination might have something to do with his criminal past. If what he'd told her was true, he'd taken lives, killed people. He had reordered the moral boundaries of normal human behavior and given himself God-like powers. That alone set him apart from anyone she'd ever known. Power, unlike evil, had both good and bad components. It attracted and repelled. Certainly it was a stimulant to the imagination, even an aphrodisiac. But was that what had captured her? His power? Or was she drawn to what drove it? He was shadowed by something, tragedy. She had seen signs of the suffering. She had responded to them.

If that's what had driven him to kill, she could almost understand it. And yet, she couldn't imagine what it would be like to do anything so extreme, and she couldn't relate to a man who had. Life was simply too precious—

A soft gasp slipped from her lips as she realized where her thoughts were going. Twice she had tricked him into situations that could easily have killed him. Afterward she'd convinced herself that however reprehensible, it was for the greater good. He threatened everything she stood for. He could crush her life, her dreams, with a word! Besides, she hadn't acted in cold blood. There were mitigating circumstances in both cases. She'd been threatened by him and had reacted defensively, but still—if she was capable of that, what else was she capable of?