Authors: Helaine Mario
His voice faltered. “In this town, the sins of the wife
are
visited on the husband. There would have been an inevitable trial, a media circus, my future in ruins... But with my wife’s suicide, I’ve become a sympathetic character, God help me. Just as Eve knew I would.”
Rhodes stared unseeing at the grey chapel windows. “In the end, she chose
me
, not Charles.”
“Of course she did! Don’t torture yourself so, Anthony.”
Rhodes raised a long finger to brush a wisp of damp hair away from her eyes. “My innocent Alexandra.”
“I need to see those photographs.”
“You don’t want to see them, my dear. The photographs make it look as if Evangeline betrayed the secrets of this country.”
“But it’s not true. There has to be a way to prove her innocence.”
“No, Alexandra. Your sister understood what was happening. She knew that if she and Charles were implicated in this affair, if it all became public... she could be branded a traitor.”
CHAPTER 17
“Since Eve ate apples...”
Lord Byron
The bare breast was lit by moonlight, bright hair a tangle on the pillow. A man’s hand caressed the woman’s pale body, his fingers long and intimate. An arch of back, one graceful leg wrapped around a lean muscled thigh.
Alexandra sat on the edge of her sister’s bed in the quiet Georgetown townhouse, eyes locked on the photographs in her hand - erotic and very explicit prints of Eve with Presidential Intelligence Advisor Charles Fraser in a shadowed room.
She felt sick. But she had to know what the supposed evidence was. What she was up against.
What had Eve called the subjects of her photographs? Stolen spirits. No wonder Anthony wanted to let it all go, she thought, as she slid the sensual photographs back into the envelope.
The remaining pictures scattered on the coverlet told a different story.
Eve, a silk scarf covering her bright hair, on an arched bridge over a dark canal, the spire of a St. Petersburg church shining in the background. The silhouette of the man bending toward her, his face shadowed by a high collar, long pale hair that ruffled in the breeze. A small envelope, passing from her hand to his. The envelope disappearing into his jacket pocket. A large ring on his middle finger, catching the light.
Her heart hammered as she remembered the shine of a heavy gold ring on her assailant’s hand in Maine. The shape of a bird’s wing. She held the photograph closer. Was it the same man? Impossible to tell.
Her sister’s voice slid into her head.
Just a quick trip to St. Petersburg, Zan. To interview Russian women on fashion. Talk about your oxy-moron! I promise to be back in time for your Baranski opening...
But Eve had never made it to the opening. And she’d never talked about those visits to Russia. So many secrets, so many broken promises
.
“No, dammit!” cried Alexandra. “You’re no traitor. These photographs don’t tell the whole truth. Too much is missing, Eve.”
And now Charles Fraser - her only lead to Ivan - was dead.
What do I do now, Eve? she asked her sister.
Where do I go from here
?
Maybe she should just go home. She’d found the half empty bottles of prescription drugs in Eve’s bathroom cabinet… sleeping pills, anti-depressants, sedatives. Strong muscle relaxants, prescribed for back pain. God. Could her sister have taken all those pills to end her life?
What if I’m wrong, Eve? What do I tell your daughter
?
Alexandra gazed around the dusky bedroom, searching for answers. The brilliant bird-of-paradise print on the silken bed-coverings, the autographed photographs of politicians and celebrities on the far wall. The oil painting of four-year-old Juliet dancing on the beach, every luminous stroke familiar as a breath, in its place of honor over the four-poster bed. The scrawled signature – A. K. Marik.
Alexandra closed her eyes. She could still remember so clearly that day on the beach, just north of San Francisco. It was the last time she’d spent any time with her niece. Just the two of them, holding hands and gathering shells, the way she’d walked the beach with her sister so many years before. She’d painted it just after Eve had whisked Juliet off to the airport, and shipped it to her sister in Maine.
If only we had talked that day, Eve. If only I had told you how I felt. What if I’d asked to spend more time with your daughter? What if, what if!
She turned away from the oil painting with a sigh and reached for the small box on the bed. It held her sister’s belongings, found with Eve’s raincoat on the wooden bridge above the river. Keys, penlight, $30.00 and change, a crumpled taxi receipt, a mud-stained pair of red high heels.
Coldness settled like an icy shawl over her shoulders. “Where are you, Eve?” she whispered into the empty room. “I can’t seem to find you anywhere tonight.”
Alexandra stood and moved restlessly to the window, leaning her forehead against the cool windowpane. Had Eve stood in this very spot, looking down onto the skittering leaves and shadowed cobblestones of Q Street? What had she been thinking?
What troubled you so, Eve, the night you died?
The elusive scent of roses and Chanel closed around her.
Why had her sister gone to the cliffs by the river? What did she know, in those last moments of her life? The scent of soaked leaves, the roar of the river far below, the rush of the wind on her face as she fell...
Help me, Zan
!
God, God, why didn’t I spend more time with her? Why didn’t I realize something was wrong?
Why wasn’t I there for her
? Stricken, she doubled over under the crushing weight of loss and guilt and sorrow.
I will not cry. Blinking back the pain, Alexandra saw the brightly painted Russian doll sitting on the corner of Eve’s desk.
It’s called a Matroyoska, baby sister
.
A wooden nesting doll, some ten inches high, carved from Russian birch and beautifully hand-painted by a Russian artist. The Matroyoska, from the Russian word
mat
- mother - was the quintessential symbol of Russia and motherhood.
The largest doll twisted open to reveal a smaller doll, which opened - and so on - until there were a dozen sisters, the smallest less than 1/2 inch high.
The Matroyoska doll is like my life, Zan. One layer hidden beneath another
.
Alexandra’s fingers traced the bright golden swirl of hair, the wide lashed eyes, the fixed, smiling red lips. Like Eve. The smile hiding the pain. And she thought, if this first doll is my sister... what secrets still lay hidden beneath the surface of her life?
She twisted gently, exposing the slightly smaller second doll, and a scene flashed into her mind.
The reception at the German Embassy, in June, the last time she’d seen Eve alive.
Darling! Come meet my friend Yuri, from St. Petersburg.
Eve, just returned from an assignment in Europe, had been dramatic in an astonishing leopard-print gown, smoking a thin cigar, her laughter a bit too brittle, her eyes a shade too bright. A bold fringed shawl had been draped with casual abandon over her ivory bare shoulders. The man with her had been bald, with a bullet-shaped head and a thick wrestler’s build. She remembered a rumbling laugh, a thick gold necklace. Yuri… Yuri Belankov?
She’d met several men that night. An image slipped into her head. A man – young, tall, fair - standing close behind Eve. He’d turned away, disappearing into the shadows. Alexandra had seen only the flash of eyes glinting blue in the candlelight.
Are those the blue eyes that haunt my dreams? she asked herself.
Twisting open the next doll, she caught her breath as she saw the small folded paper tucked inside. Her sister’s words rushed back to her
. I’ve hidden it, Zan
.
Alexandra opened the note with shaking fingers and stared at the bold, printed words.
“I know what happened to Charles Fraser. Meet me tonight, after eleven, near the river. You know the place.” There was no signature.
“Oh, JesusGod.” Eve had met someone by the river, the night she died.
Ivan
? Her sister was leading her, step by step, to the truth.
Eve had cared about Fraser. Of
course
she would have gone. But whom had she met? What place? She needed answers. She needed to keep going, until she found the smallest doll…
Alexandra closed her eyes in thought. Then she slipped her fingers into the pocket of her jeans, extracted a small business card and stared down at the name. One more person she could turn to for help. Like it or not.
She clicked off the lamp. As she turned to leave, a bright flash of scarlet caught her eye. It was the fringed evening shawl Eve had worn that night at the German Embassy, tossed over a French brocade armchair and forgotten. Huge crimson roses were strewn across shimmering black silk. Alexandra felt herself drawn to it, and she gathered the shawl in her hands, draping it across her shoulders and allowing the familiar scent of Chanel Number 5 to envelope her. Her fingers stroked the delicate silk and she felt the deep ache stir in her chest.
The bedroom faded. She was back on the island, in the nursery. She was four or five years old, sick with the flu. The room was dark. The door swung open, light flooded the room. Her sister burst in and lit the lamp. Then, with surprising tenderness, wrapped her in a soft blue blanket. She’d felt her sister’s lips brush her forehead…
Alexandra opened her eyes, gazed around the shadowed empty bedroom. Darkness and light, that was her sister. Just explode through the damned door, Eve, the way you used to. I need to talk with you. I need to tell you that I’m sorry I stopped listening. If I had just listened to you, I would have known you were in trouble. I could have made it right between us. Oh, God, just come in and light the lamp. Hold my hand the way you used to. Come back to me.
She sat down on the bed, waiting. Staring at the door. Listening to the silence. “Eve?” she called softly.
There was no answer.
Two sisters lost to each other,
she thought, bereft. But still the tears did not come. She had walled them off for too long.
Alexandra sat for a long time alone in the dark, wrapped in her sister’s shawl.
CHAPTER 18
“Eve’s one star...”
John Keats
THE POTOMAC RIVER
It was almost midnight.
Fog hung over the dark Potomac River, enveloping the boats moored in the small marina in a soft grey cocoon. The rain drummed somber as a fugue against the teak decks.
Jon Garcia sat beneath the covered stern of the
Vaya con Dios
, drinking a stiff scotch and watching the blurred lights on the Maine Street pier shimmer through the fog. Hoover stirred, dreaming, at his feet.
As waves rocked the boat, the lantern he’d lit swung back and forth on it’s hook, scattering shadows of dark and light across the deck.
Garcia let the whiskey burn his throat. If he slept, he knew, he could no longer hold at bay the dark images that waited every night to invade his nightmares. A Judge’s robe, swinging through a doorway. Contorted lips and brown teeth, grinning at him across a hot, crowded courtroom. The keening cry of a young mother holding a small limp body to her breast. A tiny white coffin...
Christ
.
That was when his descent into the black hole began. And it had only gotten worse over the years. Much worse. Sometimes, when the hole got too deep, too dark to bear, he’d lock his office and head to the forests of Maine. He’d called his recent trip R & R, but that hadn’t been the truth. He’d been running as fast as he could. He should have kept on running.
Garcia swallowed the Johnny Walker and reached for the classical guitar on the deck by his chair. Very slowly, his fingers began to strum the strings. Hoover opened his one bright eye, then re-settled with contentment.
The words came, music remembered from his youth spent in the lonely foothills of the southern California coast, and he played and sang softly, like a true Californio, with deeply felt emotion.
“
The dark of night, my lonely room, how long do I keep running
...”
Hoover moved closer, resting his head on Garcia’s knee. Gazing down at the smooth head, feeling the pressure warm on his thigh, Garcia felt his throat constrict. “I thought I was rescuing you, Hoove,” he murmured. “But somehow I think you’re the one who is rescuing me.”
Hoover stared thoughtfully into the rain.
Lights speared the darkness of the marina pier. An engine idled, a door slammed. Tires screeched as the headlamps spun away. The sound of running footsteps on weathered wood. Hoover was standing, wide-awake now and bristling, a growl low in his throat. The
Vaya con Dios
rocked in the storm-tossed water.
“Easy, boy. No threat.” Garcia laid the guitar aside and stood to face the intruder. Nothing but fog. Yet, somehow, he knew she was there. Somehow, he’d known she would come. He’d been waiting for her.
“Garcia!”
Her voice, husky and demanding in the darkness.
The mists parted and then she was there, framed against a night sky flickering with rain, hair pushed up under a fisherman’s knit cap. The jeans and heavy black jacket looked too big for her slender frame. The Lab made a soft sound of recognition and padded toward her.
“What the devil are you doing here?” he said.
“We have to talk.”
“This trespassing is becoming a habit, Red.”
“I know the rules of the sea, Garcia. Are you going to leave me here standing in the rain?”