Authors: Helaine Mario
“Grant her peace, oh Lord,” intoned the Bishop as he swung the incense burner slowly over the casket in the sign of the cross.
Peace? Alexandra blinked.
In slow motion she saw the pall-bearers gather, watched as her brother-in-law took Juliet’s elbow, saw the girl reach out to touch the coffin in a tender farewell. The chords of Chopin’s Funeral March drew them slowly up the aisle, past the guttering candles.
Out through the great doors, into a gust of stinging rain that carried the scent of wet boxwood and ancient stone. The roped-off media surged forward, flashbulbs popped too close to her face.
Alexandra hesitated on the cathedral steps as the crush of black umbrellas closed in around her and, high above, the carillon bells began to toll.
She ran down the steps into a waiting limousine.
* * * *
Two hours after the funeral, still shivering with cold, Alexandra stood at the tall window of her third floor room in the Hay-Adams Hotel on 16
th
Street. She could still hear the disappointment in the bellman’s voice. “But the view is so much better from the higher floors, Madame.” Not for her, she had assured him. For someone who was terrified of heights, the third floor was just fine, thank you very much.
She rested her forehead against the cool windowpane. The rain had blown off, leaving a grey haze of mist behind. Below her, Lafayette Park was cloaked in darkness, the west wing of the White House gleaming through a blur of streetlamps. A circle of wind-ruffled flags caught a narrow shaft of moonlight and, far in the distance, shadows shifted across the tall needle of the Washington Monument.
She looked once more at her watch, willing the terrible day to end. Just go to bed, she thought. You can catch the first train in the morning, be home in time to see Ruby and -
A sudden movement on the sidewalk below caught her attention. A shape, blacker than the trees, shifted against the cobblestones. A silhouette in the lamplight. Shielded by heavy silken drapery, she watched the coated figure move, cup a glowing cigarette in the palm of his hand, then raise his face to her window. He was too far away for her to see his eyes, but she knew what color they would be. Blue, pale and unblinking, and cold as a Northern ocean.
Alexandra pressed back into the shadows, her heart skipping fast in her chest. Stop it, she told herself. It’s just a stranger, smoking a cigarette. Your imagination is in overdrive. Get a grip, Marik. She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe deeply.
She waited, then looked once more. Nothing but darkness.
A deep voice on the television behind her caught her attention, and she turned to see the river of black umbrellas fill the small screen.
“Welcome to a special edition of
Entertainment Tonight
. Today in our nation’s capital, most of A-list Washington turned out to bid farewell to one of their own. Heavy rain could not keep away the overflow crowd of 900 movers and shakers who gathered in Washington’s National Cathedral for an 85 minute ceremony to mourn and honor socialite photographer Evangeline Marik Rhodes...”
A photograph appeared, and there was Eve in her familiar safari jacket, her old Nikon slung casually over an elegant shoulder as she scrambled across a steep cliff face.
You were always the brave one, Eve.
She had a sudden memory of her sister, arms outstretched, a fearless young girl walking along the edge of a high balcony railing that was narrow as a tightrope.
C’mon, Zan. Follow me. Don’t be afraid.
Zan. Eve had given her the nickname that day, evolved from Alex-
zan
-dra to ‘Zandra to, finally, Zan.
The television flickered. “Adored for years by her countless fans, this fearless photo-journalist roamed the capitals and remote corners of the world to gather information for her no-holds-barred profiles of the rich and famous.”
The report cut to a film clip of Eve astride Lady Falcon, galloping across a verdant field. “After her third marriage, to the charismatic Ambassador Anthony Rhodes – a May-December romance that took many insiders by surprise - Eve became D.C.’s own doyenne, hosting those oh-so-private dinners at the Ambassador’s Georgetown residence and at Foxwood, the Ambassador’s horse country estate in Middleburg, Virginia. Many are wondering if Ambassador Rhodes will now cancel next week’s see-and-be-seen benefit for D.C.’s Children’s Hospital – a gala he and his wife have hosted at Foxwood every year since their marriage.
“As benefactor and uber-hostess, Eve Rhodes burned her candle at both ends, kicking up those trademark stiletto heels of hers everywhere from Middleburg’s stables to State Dinners at the White House.”
Another photograph sprang to the screen, Eve a sliver of spun gold standing between the tall tuxedoed President and one of his top advisors.
“ET has learned that the President himself paid tribute to Eve this morning in an eloquent farewell, calling her ‘a rose among Washington’s thorns.’”
The ET host flashed a brief smile. “The President described the day Eve photographed him in the Oval Office for the cover of Vanity Fair. ‘Everyone knew you’d only truly arrived in the halls of power,’ he said, ‘when you were photographed by the legendary Eve Marik Rhodes.’”
More film, rain-splashed now, that caught glimpses of familiar faces leaving the cathedral. “The VIP invitation-only crowd included Harrison Ford and Stella McCartney, foreign dignitaries from the British, French and Russian embassies, and the international philanthropist, Yuri Belankov. They were joined by many of our nation’s most powerful leaders, including the Chief Justice, who escorted the First Lady, and the publisher of the Washington Post, caught on camera sharing an umbrella with the recently appointed and controversial Vice Presidential nominee, New York Senator David Rossinski. As you know, the Senator was selected for the ticket after Vice President Grey suffered a serious stroke just weeks ago. We wish both men well.
“And there, in the center of your screen, is a gathering you don’t see together very often - Washington’s powerful ‘Old Lions,’ the last of the Foreign Policy Elders who, along with Senator Rossinski, have ruled Congress, led Cabinet agencies and shaped foreign policy for so many years. Closing ranks around their old friend Ambassador Rhodes are Defense Secretary Admiral Ramon Alcazar, NSA Policy Advisor Rens Karpasian, Madame Secretary of State Naomi Lourdes and – on his ever-present iPhone - the new Director of the CIA, Gabe ‘Zee’ Zacarias. A veritable Who’s Who of Washington’s insiders.”
Alexandra stared at the faces on the screen. One of the names had triggered a fleeting memory. A signature, scrawled on thick paper. Who was it?
The newsman’s voice hurried on. “With the Start Treaty in jeopardy, the upcoming Nuclear Summit in St. Petersburg and the recent spy network scandal, next month’s Presidential election has created a frenzy of rumors regarding these powerful positions. Who will stay – and who will go? The lions are circling.
“But today,” continued the reporter, “after all, is a day for mourning.” The screen flickered once more and Alexandra saw the unmistakable eagle profile and white-winged brows of her brother-in-law. “Ambassador Rhodes is one of the most influential American diplomats in recent history. He will assume the guardianship of his wife’s fifteen year old daughter from her second marriage, Juliet Marik.” Mercifully, there was no photograph of her niece.
Alexandra froze as a photograph of an ornate iron cemetery gate, stark against a wet sky, appeared. “The burial at Oak Hill Cemetery in Georgetown was private, at the request of the family.”
A discreet knock on the hotel room door broke into her thoughts. The housekeeper? As she reached to turn down the volume, she heard the reporter’s final words.
“Just hours before the funeral, ET learned that there are still many questions and unsubstantiated rumors swirling around Evangeline Rhodes’ death. Why would she go to Maryland’s Great Falls Park after dark, when the park was closed? Why does the Coroner’s office refuse to confirm a report of death by drowning? Was her death accidental - or deliberate? Tomorrow night we’ll air an ET exclusive with the detectives who...”
Deliberate? Alexandra’s stomach clutched as she stared at the terrible photograph that filled the screen.
It was a yellow-taped crime scene image of a narrow, rain-swept wooden bridge just steps above the swirling Potomac River rapids. Half buried in the soaked leaves lay a single red high-heeled shoe.
“Oh, God,” whispered Alexandra, punching the off button. Don’t think about Eve’s body by the river.
She remembered the knock on the door as she reached for her nightgown. Crossing the carpet, she checked the view window, then cracked the chained door cautiously.
The hallway was empty, but a narrow white box had been left on the Persian carpet. She retrieved the box and re-locked the door.
“What on earth...”
She gasped, flinging the box to the floor. A single rose scattered vibrant red petals across the pale carpet.
A deep red rose, like blood on snow.
He
had
been at the funeral. She fell to her knees, searching the spilled tissue, but there was no note. She reached out and dragged the telephone toward her.
“This is Alexandra Marik in 312. I need to know who just delivered a flower box to my room.”
No one on our staff, Madam
.
She dialed again, her fingers shaking and slick against the buttons.
“Olivia? Liv, it’s Alexandra. Is Ruby all right?”
Her breath came out in soft whoosh. “Thank God. But go check on her, will you? I’ll hold.”
She moved restlessly to the window, looked down at the misted street.
It was empty.
Just breathe
.
The nanny’s voice spoke reassuringly in her ear and Alexandra sank into a chair. “You’re still at your brother’s place, right? Good, stay there. Ask him to check all the door and window locks again, will you?” She glanced at her watch. “I can catch the last Amtrak, be in New York in a few hours. I’ll call you as soon as I get there. Kiss Ruby for me.”
Alexandra disconnected the call and reached for her suitcase.
Thirty minutes later the elegant hotel room was empty. The crimson petals scattered across the carpet glimmered like drops of blood in the moonlight.
CHAPTER 2
“...within the shadow, keeping watch...”
James Russell Lowell
NEW YORK CITY
3 DAYS LATER
Something was wrong
.
An icy shiver washed over Alexandra’s skin. Uneasy, she searched the faces in the crowded art gallery.
There, across the room. A shadow by the pillar. A tall silhouette. She closed her eyes, then looked once more. No one.
Just breathe.
A hand on her shoulder. She whirled.
“Here you are, Dr. Marik! Why are you hiding back here in the shadows?” Alexandra’s assistant peered at her through owlish glasses as he guided her gently from behind a marble column.
Alexandra stared at him. What would he think if she said,
Because someone is watching me. I can feel his eyes on me right now.
“You know I prefer to be behind the scenes,” she offered.
“Not tonight, Madame Curator. The exhibit is a smashing success.” He handed her a full flute of champagne and gestured at the spinning glass mobiles high overhead. “Juxtaposing Modern Italian art against the Old Masters. Brilliant! Congratulations.”
Once more her wary eyes swept the glittering opening-night crowd. So many places for a watchful stranger to hide…
“Alexandra? Hello? Earth to Boss.” The young assistant touched her shoulder. “You look as if you’re somewhere else.” His eyes widened. “God, I’m sorry, I’ve been such an idiot. This has got to be so hard for you. Here I am going on and on about long-dead Italians, and it’s only been days since your sister’s funeral. Forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive, Ace. Honestly, it’s been good to be so busy these last few days.” She forced a smile. “
From Masters to Mobiles
is going to be our best exhibit yet.”
“Until we open the St. Petersburg show
.
”
“One opening at a time, please!” She was looking past him, distracted, searching the faces of the glamorous crowd. “One thousand years of Russian treasures to gather in three months... Oh, God, what were we thinking?”
“Let’s worry about Mother Russia tomorrow, Scarlet. Tonight we’re all about Italy.” He shook his head. “It’s hard to believe we’re in New York City. You’ve transformed this place into a Venetian palace, Alexandra.”
“Couldn’t have done it without you, Ace.” Alexandra’s eyes swept the grand foyer of the Baranski Gallery and she took a deep breath, finally allowing herself to feel a sense of accomplishment. The last Titian had been coaxed into place at four o’clock. Now, with golden autumn leaves and dusky sky filling the tall windows facing East 77
th
Street, the turn-of-the-century New York mansion did indeed resemble a beautiful old palazzo on the Grand Canal.
The high-ceilinged, Renaissance lobby glimmered with soft candlelight and women’s jewels. Costumed musicians lined the broad marble staircase, filling the hall with the pure sounds of Vivaldi. Glass display cases scattered among the antique furnishings shimmered with hammered gold, ancient lace and the exquisite, animal-faced masks of the Venice Carnival. On the soft grey walls, the Bellini and Cannaletto oils glowed as if they were alive.
She gave her assistant a gentle push. “Now go and mingle with the tuxedos and dazzle them with your knowledge of the early Titians.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. You’ve earned this night, my friend. Make Titian proud.”
“Ok, but I’ll be back to check on you. Ciao, Bella!”