Original Sin (69 page)

Wendell’s voice was weary now. ‘I have enough good investments, Liz. What I don’t need is aggravation.’

‘
Aggravation
?’ She curled her fingers into a fist. ‘Is that what I am to you?’

‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ said Wendell in a more placatory tone. ‘I just think it’s probably not a good idea if we’re
connected
in this way any more. It’s too much pressure, too much temptation.’

‘You’re pathetic,’ she hissed.

‘Liz, calm down. Don’t be so childish.’

Liz stared at him, her eyes narrowing. ‘Oh. I can do childish, Wendell,’ she growled, lifting the gravy boat, walking over to him, and tipping the contents into the lap of his navy woollen Ralph Lauren trousers.

‘You bitch!’ he yelled. ‘You’ve scalded me!’

He stood up, thick brown liquid collecting around his crotch as he grabbed his mobile phone and started barking orders to his driver into it.

‘Rodney. Are you still outside? Get me some pants. I don’t care where from. Your own if necessary.’

Gravy had dripped all over her cream carpets, but she hadn’t even noticed.

‘Get out,’ she snarled, watching him grab his belongings and flee, the billionaire powerhouse reduced to a scampering tom cat.

‘I never want to see your face again!’

She waited until the front door had slammed, then she sank down to the floor. Hugging her knees, she rocked to and fro, sobbing and wailing, her tears flowing not just for the loss of her business but for the green shoots of love and joy that had just been ground into mud. Liz Asgill’s heart had finally been broken.

CHAPTER FIFTY–NINE

Tess almost gasped as her hire car swung off Louisiana’s Great River Road. She could see Riverview, Meredith’s childhood home, at the far end of the long, oak–lined drive, its full majesty becoming clearer as the car rolled closer. She had swotted up on Riverview’s history on the three–hour flight to Baton Rouge: how it had once been one of the biggest sugar plantations in the Deep South, how Meredith’s family had owned it from the mid–Fifties to the early Seventies, and how it had now been a luxury hotel for over thirty years. The main house, a restored 1808 colonial mansion, was white and imposing, with five long pillars at the entrance and tall windows. It was not dissimilar to Belcourt, if that house had been dipped in chalky paint. As she drove through the grounds, Tess caught a glimpse of a few of the twelve clapboard cottages dotted around the grounds, a grim reminder of the history of the house, although she doubted their present occupants had any clue as to their past. Today, the cottages were deluxe one–thousand–dollar–a–night bolt holes for well–heeled honeymooners and holiday–makers, but back in the nineteenth century, they were slave cabins.

She shuddered, wondering, not for the first time, whether she should be here. In fact, Tess had made the call to Dom before she had time to properly think about what she was doing. He was obviously excited to hear from her, and Tess had felt bad as the hope in his voice quickly died away when he realized Tess’s call was not to arrange a reconciliation.

‘I need you to do something for me,’ she’d told him bluntly.

‘I might have known you’d want something,’ he said sarcastically.

‘Well, what did you expect?’

There was a long pause.

‘I need a couple of nights at Riverview Plantation,’ said Tess. ‘It’s super–expensive, and I’m not sure I can write it off as expenses. Plus, I need an excuse to ask lots of questions.’

‘Why do you need to go snooping around Riverview?’

‘Don’t ask.’

‘Well, you’ll have to write the story up for me,’ he said.

Tess laughed. ‘Does that mean I can send you an invoice?’ she asked.

‘Does this mean we can be friends?’ he replied.

‘Maybe. One day.’

Tess put the thought out of her mind as she stepped out of the car and pulled her overnight case from the boot. The balmy honeysuckle–scented air was soothing and warm. Checking in at the desk of the beautiful mahogany reception, she was effusively greeted by the manager who introduced himself as Sidney Garner.

‘So you’re from the London
Times
?’ he said with a thick, deep Southern accent.

‘
Chronicle
,’ corrected Tess.

‘Well, we’re very pleased to welcome you here, Miss Garrett.’ He motioned to a waiter, who ran over with a tray bearing a mint julep.

Tess shook her head politely. ‘I have to drive again in a little while.’

‘But you only just got here!’ he protested. ‘Riverview is all about relaxation.’

Tess smiled at the way he separated the word into four syllables: ‘re–lax–ay–shun’.

‘Well, I’ll try,’ smiled Tess, ‘but sadly it’s not a holiday.’

Sidney shooed the waiter away. ‘Well, why don’t I show you to your room? You’re in the Dovecote.’

Tess tried to hide her disappointment. She had asked Dom to try and secure bungalow twelve, the guesthouse nearest the river. The one Olivia Martin had stayed in.

They wound down a path that took them through manicured gardens bursting with roses and flowering trees.

‘So, what can you tell me about the history of the house, Mr Garner?’ asked Tess.

‘Sidney, please,’ he blustered. ‘Well, the Portland hotel group bought Riverview from the previous owners three years ago. We’ve spent millions since then remodelling it, keeping the essence of the estate but bringing it into the twenty–first century.’

He led her up to a pretty grey outbuilding and handed Tess a key. ‘The Dovecote is one of our best rooms. Very quiet. I thought you’d prefer that to the rooms in the main house if you wanted to work.’

Tess smiled. ‘Do you mind if I have a look around?’

‘Not at all. Any questions, just let me know.’ He thrust a brochure into her hands. ‘A CD of images, a factsheet on the hotel’s history. It’s all in there.’

‘Is it possible to see bungalow twelve?’

He gave his head a half–shake. ‘Unfortunately not. We’re at eighty per cent capacity this weekend and twelve is occupied. Usually is. It’s very popular with honeymooners doing the River Road trail. We’ve got honeymooners in there now.’

‘See what you can do?’ said Tess, pressing a flirtatious hand on his arm. ‘I only need a few minutes to see the view and so on. I’d be very grateful.’

Sidney’s eyes widened slightly. ‘I’ll try,’ he said, attempting a coquettish look. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

He was just walking away when he turned back. ‘You know, another journalist phoned up a few weeks ago asking the same question. I believe there’s a history to number twelve. Some actress disappeared from a party here in the Sixties, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t put that in the story. Some tourists get a bit spooked by things like that.’

‘Of course,’ smiled Tess. ‘You can rely on my discretion.’

Tess wondered who had called.
Alicia? Someone from the
Washington Spy
? One of Wendell Billington’s people?
It hardly mattered. No one had got any further with the story or she would certainly have heard about it by now.

There was a chirping sound and Sidney took his cell phone out of his pocket.

‘Do you mind?’ he said, reading his message. ‘I’m wanted in the restaurant. New chef, I’m afraid,’ he said with a lame wink.

‘Well, I’ll just go and settle into my room if that’s okay. I have a meeting in Vacherie in less than an hour.’

‘Better hurry,’ said Sidney. ‘It’s pretty far out.’

You said it
, thought Tess.

*

Dennis Carson had been a difficult man to track down. Given that Tess only had limited time, she had been forced to ask Becky at the
Oracle
to help in return for another Brooke and David wedding story, but there was no other way to find the policemen who had been responsible for investigating Olivia’s disappearance. Vacherie was a small, pretty town set just back off the highway. It was mainly a cluster of creole cottages and clapboard buildings surrounding a small white church with a tall pointy steeple. The retired officer lived just behind the general store, and he was out in the garden digging in a rose bush when Tess walked up. Carson was around seventy, with military–short steel grey hair, a heavy jaw, and dark, alert eyes.

‘Thanks for seeing me,’ said Tess, as Carson led her to a small cane sofa on the porch, sitting on a wooden chair opposite, wiping his brow with a spotty handkerchief.

‘I wasn’t too surprised,’ said Carson. ‘Someone called me up about this business a few weeks ago.’

‘So I keep hearing,’ replied Tess with a smile. ‘Could I ask who it was?’

‘Don’t know. They left a message on my machine, but I’ve been in Oregon for the last few weeks visiting my son.’

Tess nodded, feeling a sense of relief. Perhaps no one else had got to the bottom of this story.

‘So you work for the Asgills?’ he asked.

‘I work for Meredith Asgill, yes. I’m the family publicist. And, as I’m sure you’ll have gathered, the Olivia Martin story has resurfaced.’

Carson shrugged. ‘Bound to happen when her daughter’s marrying that old money guy. The one from the television?’

Carson smiled at Tess’s surprised reaction. ‘Hey, I’m retired,’ he laughed, ‘I ain’t dead. We get the newspapers here too, you know.’

Tess blushed a little.

‘So can you tell me what happened back then?’

‘Well, I ain’t too sure I’m gonna be able to tell you anything you ain’t already read,’ he shrugged. He rolled his neck and his eyes took on a faraway look. ‘After the wedding dinner, there was a big party out at Riverview. This was the Saturday night. According to witnesses, Olivia Martin was drunk and little high on something. About half a dozen guests said they saw her glassy–eyed and not too stable on her feet. She’d come to the party on her own and was staying in cottage twelve, I believe. The last people to see Olivia alive were Meredith’s folks, at about eleven p.m., when Olivia came to say thank you for the evening. No one saw her leave or go into her cottage, she just disappeared.’

Tess nodded. That was the version of the story everyone knew.

‘So when was she reported missing?’

‘The Tuesday, almost three days later. The day after the wedding, the Sunday, Meredith’s family threw a brunch for the guests that had stayed overnight at Riverview, in the main house or in those little shotgun cottages around the grounds. Olivia didn’t arrive at the meal, but people assumed she was just sleeping off a hangover. It wasn’t until that evening that one of the maids noticed that all Olivia’s belongings were still in cottage twelve. She reported it to Meredith’s mother, who did nothing about it until the next day.’

‘Why not?’

Carson shrugged.

‘A pretty actress doesn’t come home after a party, I guess you don’t panic immediately. You think maybe she met a guy, went back to his place. Plus, she’s from that Hollywood world, maybe a little erratic – who cares if you’ve left all your stuff at your host’s house? Actresses, models aren’t known as the most reliable people. Anyways, Meredith’s mother called Howard in Capri on the Monday and they decide to call the police if she’s not turned up the next morning.’

‘Which she didn’t.’

Carson shook his head. ‘So we didn’t get to cottage twelve until eleven a.m. on Tuesday morning. Her bedside cabinet is covered with barbiturates and there’s a half–drunk bottle of vodka in the bathroom. And have you seen the proximity of the river to cottage twelve? It’s maybe a hundred yards. The Mississippi is almost a mile wide in this part of Louisiana and the currents are strong. A body has got a fifty–fifty chance of floating out into the Gulf of Mexico and never being recovered.’

‘So you think she fell in?’

‘Fell in, walked in, we’ll never know.’

‘Olivia’s sister didn’t think she
just disappeared
,’ she said repeating Alicia’s claim.

‘She didn’t believe Olivia had commited suicide. Family tend not to want to believe that.’

He paused, ‘What we know is that Olivia had a history of depression. We know a television contract got cancelled shortly before she went missing. Then there’s the dolls by her bed, the liquor…..We also know there’s been no activity on her bank accounts or social security number ever since, so it’s unlikely she’s alive.’

‘You say fell or walked into the river. What about pushed? Or thrown in?’

Carson’s eyes searched Tess’s. After a couple of seconds he nodded. ‘It’s possible, but there was no sign of a struggle in the cottage. No one saw or heard anything unusual and we interviewed maybe a hundred guests at the party. We even brought dogs into the grounds, but we got nothing.’

‘What about the rumour that Howard was having an affair with her? He was getting married, Olivia might have started being difficult … ’

Carson smiled slightly. ‘Howard Asgill was with his wife all night. Anyway, not one person came to us to say that Howard was having an affair with Olivia. And even if he was, it doesn’t mean to say he killed her.’