Sidney Sheldon (4 page)

A
T ORLY, A
limousine was waiting to take them to the Hotel Plaza Athénée.

When they arrived, the manager said, “Your suite is ready for you, Mr. and Mrs. Stevens.”

“Thank you.”

They were booked into suite 310. The manager opened the door, and Diane and Richard walked inside. Diane stopped in shock. Half a dozen of her paintings were hanging on the walls. She turned to look at Richard. “I—how did that—?”

Richard said innocently, “I have no idea. I guess they have good taste here, too.”

Diane gave him a long, passionate kiss.

P
ARIS WAS A
wonderland. Their first stop was at Givenchy, to buy outfits for both of them, then over to Louis Vuitton, to get luggage for all their new clothes.

They took a leisurely walk down the Champs-Élysées to the Place de la Concorde, and saw the storied Arc de Triomphe, and the Palais-Bourbon, and la Madeleine. They strolled along la Place Vendôme, and spent a day at the Musée du Louvre. They wandered through the sculpture garden of the Musée Rodin and had romantic dinners at Auberge de Trois Bonheurs, and Au Petit Chez Soi, and D’Chez Eux.

T
HE ONLY THING
that seemed odd to Diane was the telephone calls Richard received at peculiar hours.

“Who was that?” Diane asked once, at 3
A.M
., as Richard finished a phone conversation.

“Just routine business.”

In the middle of the night?

“D
IANE! DIANE!”

She was shaken out of her reverie. Carolyn Ter was standing over her. “Are you all right?”

“I’m—I’m fine.”

Carolyn put her arms around Diane. “You just need time. It’s only been a few days.” She hesitated. “By the way, have you made arrangements for the funeral?”

Funeral.
The saddest word in the English language. It carried the sound of death, an echo of despair.

“I—I haven’t—been able to—”

“Let me help you with it. I’ll pick out a casket and—”

“No!” The word came out harsher than Diane had intended.

Carolyn was looking at her, puzzled.

When Diane spoke again, her voice was shaky. “Don’t you see? This is—this is the last thing I can ever do for Richard. I want to make his funeral special. He’ll want all his friends there, to say good-bye.” Tears were running down her cheeks.

“Diane—”

“I have to pick out Richard’s casket to make sure he—he sleeps comfortably.”

There was nothing more Carolyn could say.

T
HAT AFTERNOON, DETECTIVE
Earl Greenburg was in his office when the call came.

“Diane Stevens is on the phone for you.”

Oh, no.
Greenburg remembered the slap in the face the last time he had seen her.
What now? She probably has some new beef.
He picked up the phone. “Detective Greenburg.”

“This is Diane Stevens. I’m calling for two reasons. The first is to apologize. I behaved very badly, and I’m truly sorry.”

He was taken aback. “You don’t have to apologize, Mrs. Stevens. I understood what you were going through.”

He waited. There was a silence.

“You said you had two reasons for calling.”

“Yes. My husband’s—” Her voice broke. “My husband’s body is being held somewhere by the police. How do I get Richard back? I’m arranging for his—his funeral at the Dalton Mortuary.”

The despair in her voice made him wince. “Mrs. Stevens, I’m afraid that some red tape is involved. First, the coroner’s office has to file a report on the autopsy and then it’s necessary to notify the various—” He was thoughtful for a moment, then made his decision. “Look—you have enough on your mind. I’ll make the arrangements for you. Everything will be set within two days.”

“Oh. I—I thank you. Thank you very—” Her voice choked up and the connection was broken.

Earl Greenburg sat there a long time, thinking about Diane Stevens and the anguish she was going through. Then he went to work cutting red tape.

T
HE DALTON MORTUARY
was located on the east side of Madison Avenue. It was an impressive two-story building with the facade of a southern mansion. Inside, the decor was tasteful and understated, with soft lighting and whispers of pale curtains and drapes.

Diane said to the receptionist, “I have an appointment with Mr. Jones. Diane Stevens.”

“Thank you.”

The receptionist spoke into a phone, and moments later the manager, a gray-haired, pleasant-faced man, came out to greet Diane.

“I’m Ron Jones. We spoke on the phone. I know how difficult everything is at a time like this, Mrs. Stevens, and our job is to take the burden off you. Just tell me what you want and we will see that your wishes are carried out.”

Diane said uncertainly, “I—I’m not even sure what to ask.”

Jones nodded. “Let me explain. Our services include a casket, a memorial service for your friends, a cemetery plot, and the burial.” He hesitated. “From what I read of your husband’s death in the newspapers, Mrs. Stevens, you’ll probably want a closed casket for the memorial service, so—”

“No!”

Jones looked at her in surprise. “But—”

“I want it open. I want Richard to—to be able to see all his friends, before he…” Her voice trailed off.

Jones was studying her sympathetically. “I see. Then if I may
make a suggestion, we have a cosmetician who does excellent work where”—he said tactfully—“it’s needed. Will that be all right?”

Richard would hate it, but—
“Yes.”

“There’s just one thing more. We’ll need the clothes you want your husband to be buried in.”

She looked at him in shock. “The—” Diane could feel the cold hands of a stranger violating Richard’s naked body, and she shivered.

“Mrs. Stevens?”

I should dress Richard myself. But I couldn’t bear to see him the way he is. I want to remember—

“Mrs. Stevens?”

Diane swallowed. “I hadn’t thought about—” Her voice was strangled. “I’m sorry.” She was unable to go on.

He watched her stumble outside and hail a taxi.

W
HEN DIANE RETURNED
to her apartment, she walked into Richard’s closet. There were two racks filled with his suits. Each outfit held a treasured memory. There was the tan suit Richard had been wearing the night they met at the art gallery.
I like your curves. They have the delicacy of a Rossetti or a Manet.
Could she let go of that suit? No.

Her fingers touched the next one. It was the light gray sport jacket Richard had worn to the picnic, when they had been caught in the rain.

Your place or mine?

This isn’t just a one-night stand.

I know.

How could she not keep it?

The pinstriped suit was next.
You like French food. I know a great French restaurant….

The navy blazer…the suede jacket…Diane wrapped the arms of a blue suit around herself and hugged it.
I could never let any of these
go.
Each of them was a cherished remembrance. “I can’t.” Sobbing, she grabbed a suit at random and fled.

The following afternoon, there was a message on Diane’s voice mail: “Mrs. Stevens, this is Detective Greenburg. I wanted to let you know that everything here has been cleared. I’ve talked to the Dalton Mortuary. You’re free to go ahead with whatever plans you want to make….” There was a slight pause. “I wish you well…. Good-bye.”

Diane called Ron Jones at the mortuary. “I understand that my husband’s body has arrived there.”

“Yes, Mrs. Stevens. I already have someone taking care of the cosmetics, and we’ve received the clothes you sent. Thank you.”

“I thought—would this coming Friday be all right for the funeral?”

“Friday will be fine. By then we will have taken care of all the necessary details. I would suggest eleven
A.M.
”

In three days, Richard and I will be parted forever. Or until I join him.

T
HURSDAY MORNING, DIANE
was busily preparing the final details of the funeral, verifying the long list of invitees and the pall-bearers, when the telephone call came.

“Mrs. Stevens?”

“Yes.”

“This is Ron Jones. I just wanted to let you know that I received your paperwork and the change was made, just as you requested.”

Diane was puzzled. “Paperwork—?”

“Yes. The courier brought it yesterday, with your letter.”

“I didn’t send any—”

“Frankly, I was a little surprised, but, of course, it was your decision.”

“My decision—?”

“We cremated your husband’s body one hour ago.”

Paris, France

K
ELLY HARRIS WAS
a roman candle that had exploded into the world of fashion. She was in her late twenties, an African-American with skin the color of melted honey and a face that was a photographer’s dream. She had intelligent soft brown eyes, sensual full lips, lovely long legs, and a figure filled with erotic promise. Her dark hair was cut short in deliberate dishabille, with a few strands sprawling across her forehead. Earlier that year, the readers of
Elle
and
Mademoiselle
magazines had voted Kelly the Most Beautiful Model in the World.

As she finished dressing, Kelly looked around the penthouse, feeling, as always, a sense of wonder. The apartment was spectacular. It was on the exclusive Rue St.-Louis-en-l’Île, in the Fourth Arrondissement of Paris. The apartment had a double-door entry that opened into an elegant hall with high ceilings and soft yellow wall panels, and
the living room was furnished with an eclectic mixture of French and Regency furniture. From the terrace, across the Seine, was a view of Notre-Dame.

Kelly was looking forward to the coming weekend. Mark was going to take her out for one of his surprise treats.

I want you to get all dressed up, honey. You’re going to love where we’re going.

Kelly smiled to herself. Her husband was the most wonderful man in the world. Kelly glanced at her wristwatch and sighed.
I had better get moving,
she thought.
The show starts in half an hour.
A few moments later, she left the apartment, heading down the hallway toward the elevator. As she did so, the door of a neighboring apartment opened and Madame Josette Lapointe came out into the corridor. A small butterball of a woman, she always had a friendly word for Kelly.

“Good afternoon, Madame Harris.”

Kelly smiled. “Good afternoon, Madame Lapointe.”

“You’re looking beautiful, as always.”

“Thank you.” Kelly pressed the button for the elevator.

A dozen feet away, a burly man in work clothes was adjusting a wall fixture. He glanced at the two women, then quickly turned his head.

“How is the modeling going?” Madame Lapointe asked.

“Very well, thank you.”

“I must come and see you in one of your fashion shows soon.”

“I’ll be happy to arrange it anytime.”

The elevator arrived, and Kelly and Madame Lapointe stepped inside. The man in work clothes pulled out a small walkie-talkie, spoke hurriedly into it, and rapidly walked away.

As the elevator door started to close, Kelly heard the telephone ring in her apartment. She hesitated. She was in a hurry, but it could be Mark calling.

“You go ahead,” she said to Madame Lapointe.

Kelly stepped out of the elevator, fumbled for her key, found it, and ran back into her apartment. She raced to the ringing telephone and picked it up. “Mark?”

A strange voice said, “
Nanette?
”

Kelly was disappointed.
“Nous ne connaissons pas la personne qui répond à ce nom.”

“Pardonnez-moi. C’est une erreur de téléphone.”

A wrong number.
Kelly put the phone down. As she did, there was a tremendous crash that shook the whole building. A moment later, there was a babble of voices and loud screams. Horrified, she rushed into the hall to see what had happened. The sounds were coming from below. Kelly ran down the stairs, and when she finally reached the lobby, she heard loud, excited voices coming from the basement.

Apprehensively, she went down the stairs to the basement and stood in shock as she saw the crushed elevator car and the horribly mangled body of Madame Lapointe in it. Kelly felt faint.
That poor woman. A minute ago she was alive and now…And I could have been in there with her. If not for that telephone call…

A crowd had gathered around the elevator, and sirens were heard in the distance.
I should stay,
Kelly thought guiltily,
but I can’t. I have to leave.
She looked at the body and whispered, “I’m so sorry, Madame Lapointe.”

W
HEN KELLY ARRIVED
at the fashion salon and walked in the stage door, Pierre, the nervous fashion coordinator, was waiting.

He pounced on her. “Kelly! Kelly! You’re late! The show has already started and—”

“I’m sorry, Pierre. There—there was a bad accident.”

He looked at her in alarm. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” Kelly closed her eyes for a moment. The idea of going to
work after what she had witnessed was nauseating, but she had no choice. She was the star of the show.

“Hurry!” Pierre said.
“Vite!”

Kelly started toward her dressing room.

T
HE YEAR’S MOST
prestigious fashion show was being held at 31 Rue Cambon, Chanel’s original salon. The paparazzi were near the front rows. Every seat was occupied, and the back of the room was crowded with standees eager to get the first glimpse of the coming season’s new designs. The room had been decorated for the event with flowers and draped fabrics, but no one was paying any attention to the decor. The real attractions were on the long runway—a river of moving colors, beauty, and style. In the background, music was playing, its slow, sexy beat accentuating the movements onstage.

As the lovely models glided back and forth, they were accompanied by a voice on a loudspeaker giving a running commentary on the fashions.

An Asian brunette started down the runway: “…a satin wool jacket with edge top stitching and georgette pants and a white blouse…”

A slim blonde undulated across the runway: “…is wearing a black cashmere turtleneck with white cotton cargo pants…”

A redhead with an attitude appeared: “…a black leather jacket and black shantung pants with a white knit shirt…”

A French model: “…a pink, three-button angora jacket, a pink cable-knit turtleneck and black cuffed pants…”

A Swedish model: “…a navy satin wool jacket and pants and a lilac charmeuse blouse…”

And then the moment everyone had been waiting for. The
Swedish model had walked off and the runway was deserted. The voice over the loudspeaker said, “And now that the swimming season is here, we are pleased to display our new line of beachwear.”

There was a crescendo of anticipation, then Kelly Harris appeared at the peak of it. She was wearing a white bikini, a bra that barely covered her firm, young breasts and a figure-hugging bottom. As she floated sensuously down the runway, the effect was mesmerizing. There was a wave of applause. Kelly gave a faint smile of acknowledgment, circled the runway, and disappeared.

Backstage, two men were waiting for her.

“Mrs. Harris, if I could have a moment—?”

“I’m sorry,” Kelly said apologetically. “I have to make a quick change.” She started to walk away.

“Wait! Mrs. Harris! We are with the Police Judiciaire. I am Chief Inspector Dune and this is Inspector Steunou. We need to talk.”

Kelly stopped. “The police? Talk about what?”

“You are Mrs. Mark Harris, yes?”

“Yes.” She was filled with sudden apprehension.

“Then I am sorry to inform you that—that your husband died last night.”

Kelly’s mouth was dry. “My husband—? How—?”

“Apparently, he committed suicide.”

There was a roar in Kelly’s ears. She could barely make out what the chief inspector was saying: “…Tour Eiffel…midnight…note…very regrettable…deepest sympathy.”

The words were not real. They were pieces of sound with no meaning.

“Madame—”

This weekend, I want you to get all dressed up, darling. You’re going to love where we’re going.
“There is some—some mistake,” Kelly said. “Mark wouldn’t—”

“I am sorry.” The chief inspector was watching Kelly closely. “Are you all right, madame?”

“Yes.”
Except that my life has just ended.

Pierre bustled over to Kelly, carrying a beautiful striped bikini. “
Chérie,
you must change quickly. There is no time to waste.” He thrust the bikini in her arms.
“Vite! Vite!”

Kelly slowly let it drop to the floor. “Pierre?”

He was looking at her in surprise. “Yes?”

“You wear it.”

A
LIMOUSINE BROUGHT
Kelly back to her apartment. The salon manager had wanted to send someone to be with her, but Kelly had refused. She wanted to be alone. Now, as she walked in through the entrance, Kelly saw the concierge, Philippe Cendre, and a man in overalls, surrounded by a group of tenants.

One of the tenants said, “Poor Madame Lapointe. What a terrible accident.”

The man in overalls held up two jagged ends of a heavy cable. “It was no accident, madame. Someone cut the elevator’s safety brakes.”