Firebird (3 page)

She watched him disappear into the crowd.  As she looked out at the swirling sea of faces, she felt, once more, that someone was watching her.

“Damn you!” she muttered under her breath, taking a step back.  “Where are you?  I know you’re here.”

Could she be imagining those frightening watchful eyes?  But she’d felt them on her at the funeral.  Hadn’t she? And
someone
had delivered that single red rose to her hotel room.  And yet, when she’d rushed back to New York, she’d found her daughter safe and peacefully asleep at her nanny’s family home in Queens, and all was well.  No more break-ins, no sign of any threat at all.

And yet…

At least she was safe tonight - wasn’t she? - surrounded by the paintings she loved.  Relax, she told herself, trying to steady her racing heartbeat.  Everyone is concentrating on Italian art.  No one is interested in you.

She stepped back into the shadows with relief and forced herself to focus on the colorful, swirling scene in front of her.   It had taken months to put this show together.  Lighting was artfully positioned, walls were painted a soft grey to enhance the art, printed descriptions were placed at eye level, paintings were hung high enough for clustering crowds, but low enough for serious examination.  And the last exhibit, of course, would empty into the gallery store, where
The
Venetians - from Masters to Mobiles
catalogs were priced at a whopping $47.50.     

But the startling Venetian glass Mobiles were the true stars of the new exhibit.  Huge glass shapes in azure and ruby and deep purple spun lazily over the heads of the guests, showering their faces with jeweled sparks of light.  Mysterious, beautiful - and highly dramatic.

You would have loved it, Eve, she told her sister
.

Alexandra almost smiled.  Her older sister would have been in her element.  Eve would have waited, of course, until most of the guests had arrived.  Then she would have made her usual grand entrance.  Up there, on the balcony at the top of the high marble staircase.

You always loved the high places, Eve
.

When every other woman in New York City wore black velvet on a cool autumn night, Eve would have appeared in bright scarlet - backless, of course - tossing her red-gold mane of hair like a lioness.   And every eye would have been on her.

Even in death, her sister’s presence was everywhere. 

Alexandra stared up at the empty balcony, then raised the still-f goblet of champagne with defiance. 

“To Evangeline Marik Rhodes,” she said.  “And all we left unfinished.”

She froze, glass halfway to her lips, as once more the eerie sensation of being watched brushed her skin.

* * * *

The man stood behind a marble pillar.  Where had she gone?

There.

His blue eyes flared in the shadows as he gazed across the gallery at the stunning art curator.

She stood framed in an archway, a slender slash of charcoal, eyes huge in a pale sculpted face, long bright hair glinting red in the candlelight.  More beautiful than any oil painting in the gallery.

He saw the tension in her face, the wariness in her body, as she scanned the guests.  His stomach tightened with anticipation.  He liked knowing that she felt his eyes on her.

“You have something that belongs to me, Dr. Marik,” he said.

* * * *

Alexandra stepped back into the shadows.  Damn!  Nothing was the same anymore.

She’d first glimpsed the icy blue eyes under a fringe of long wheat-colored hair,  reflected in a store window near her apartment a few days before her sister’s death.  Then the same unsettling pale blue stare a day later, just for an instant, as she hailed a cab.  That night, she’d come home to find her lingerie scattered across the bedroom carpet.  And the very next night, the frightening midnight phone message had come from Eve. 

“You could be in danger, Zan!  I’ve hidden...”  Static.  Then, “Go to -
”
A gasp, a whispered word that sounded like “cliv.”

Hidden what?  Go where?  Dramatic, drunken ravings. 

More static.  And finally, “Help me, Zan!”

Help me
… 

Those were the last words she’d heard her sister say.  Just hours later, the horrifying phone call had come from Eve’s husband, Anthony Rhodes.

“Alexandra, there’s been a terrible accident.  Brace yourself, my dear. Your sister is gone.  Eve is dead.”

“No, Anthony, no!  Oh, God, no, please.  Not my sister!  Not Eve...”

And everything had gone dark.

Now she watched the glass globes of the mobiles spin above the gallery, changing shape and color as they caught light and shadow.  Flamboyant, mysterious, secretive.  Brightening and darkening.  Like Eve.

Help me, Zan
.  But she hadn’t.

“Alexandra?”

Startled, she spun around.

Her assistant was scowling down at her.  “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, Boss.”

“Good grief!  Don’t sneak up on person like that.”

“Sorry.  I just thought you’d prefer this to champagne.”  He held out a large coffee container.  “High test, direct from Zabar’s.  I know how much you despise our hazelnut decaf.”

“Espresso!  Bless you!”  She handed him the still-f champagne glass, curved her hands around the hot container and drank deeply.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Alexandra?  You’re desperately pale.”

Just tell him.  “I know it’s my imagination, Ace, but - I’ve just had this feeling all week that someone is watching me.”  She gave an uncertain smile.  “You must think I’m certifiable.  Why would anyone be keeping watch on me?”

“Not your imagination, Boss.  Someone
is
watching you, right now.”

She felt the color drain from her face. 

“Hey!  Joke, Madame Curator!  I meant our Mobile artist-du-jour.  He hasn’t been able to take his eyes off you all night.”

“Oh,” she murmured.  “So our artist is gorgeous, brilliant, eccentric - and single!  But I’m pushing 42, Ace, I could be his mother...  and the
last
thing I need right now is a man.  Tonight I just want Thai take-out and a rousing hour of Dr. Seuss with Ruby.”

“Ah.  And how
is
La Belle Ruby?”

“Beautiful as ever.” 
Except that my daughter spends more time with her nanny than with me
.  “Thank God for Olivia.  I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

“You just need that vacation, Boss.”

Alexandra swallowed the last of the espresso, turned to her assistant and nodded slowly.  “You’re right, I need to get away from all the sadness.  And now that the show is open, maybe Ruby and I can get away for a few days.”  She gave the young man a gentle push.  “Go impress our sponsors.  I’ll be fine.  And thanks for the coffee.”

She sighed as he disappeared once more into the crowd.  A vacation with Ruby was
exactly
what she needed.  Someplace warm and sunny, with ‘just the two of us’ time on the beach with her child and the occasional rum-filled coconut shell with a tiny paper umbrella.  Someplace to forget a sea of black umbrellas in the rain.

So much of the funeral was a blur.  Maybe her mind just couldn’t handle the trauma of such unspeakable loss.  Her brother-in-law had called just hours after the funeral, the pain raw in his voice.  The rumors had proven to be true.  Eve’s death had not been accidental.  The investigators had found a high blood alcohol content, traces of antidepressants, muscle relaxants, a powerful narcotic.   And a brief letter, written by Eve.  But no answers.

Once more her eyes were drawn to the empty balcony.  Why, Eve? 

Why did you choose to take your life
?

Why had Eve gone to that wooden bridge over Maryland’s roaring falls?  Why had she jumped?  And why
now
, what had suddenly gone so wrong in her life?  How could such a dazzling presence suddenly be
gone
, with no explanation?  Only the inexplicable suicide note, found deep in the pocket of the raincoat she’d left behind…

The devastating words spun through Alexandra’s mind. “For Anthony, and my beautiful Juliet.  I love you.  I’m so sorry.  Forgive me.”  That was
all
?  The only final words she could leave for her heartbroken daughter?

Damn you, Eve
.  How could you do that to Juliet?  Why did you throw it all away?   A glamorous life in Washington, a dream job, a powerful and loving husband, a teenaged daughter who adored you.  Her sister’s life was like one of the ornate Roman mosaics being restored in the gallery’s top floor workroom.  Tiny bits of colored glass set into mortar.  On the surface - glowing, complex, beautiful.  But underneath, each fragment scarred, jagged.  Broken.

And still too many missing pieces, she thought. 

Still too many damned questions.

The crowded gallery was suddenly suffocating.

With a soft oath, she lifted her skirt and hurried down the dark hallway, bare feet flashing unexpectedly from beneath the hem of her long Donna Karan gown.

The small gold plaque on her office door read:

Alexandra K. Marik, Ph. D.

Curator

The knob turned easily.

Didn’t I lock this door? she asked herself.

Alexandra walked slowly into her office and switched on the lamp, then moved behind the familiar safety of her desk.  This was her world.  Cluttered desk, fax, phone, computer and printer.  Scattered papers, empty Zabar’s containers, five-pound free weights, file cabinets with drawers bursting, chair piled precariously with well-thumbed research books.  Black high-heeled sandals on the floor where she’d tossed them.  Everything chaotically in order.

Or was it?

Hadn’t she left the lamp on?  Hadn’t she left the St. Petersburg file in the center of her desk?

Her eyes moved across the office, past a fortune in stacked canvases and sealed boxes labeled in Russian for the upcoming Russian exhibit.  Damn, damn, she was always so careful to lock her office door.  But at least the double windows were locked.  With a wary glance out at the darkness, she drew the blinds against the night.

Once more her eyes swept her desk.  Stacks of yellow messages beneath her reading glasses, a week’s worth of mail, pre-Mongolian icons and photographs of modern Russian Impressionist works - all scattered together across her desk.  Her eyes lingered on the quirky hand-painted playing chips used in card games by Catherine the Great.  “History,” she murmured softly.   “You can’t
begin
to put a price on it.”

She shifted a file, her chest tightening as she saw the tumble of messages.  Another friend of Eve’s had called with expressions of sympathy - Yuri Belankov, a Russian-American philanthropist who’d just made a
very
substantial contribution to the upcoming St. Petersburg exhibit.  A memory slipped into place - she’d heard his name on the news.  He’d been at her sister’s funeral.

The small winking light on her computer caught her attention.

“Oh, no.”  Someone
had
been in her office.  She’d turned off her computer hours ago.  But now a recent E-mail message from The Hermitage curator in St. Petersburg blinked on the small computer screen.

Someone had accessed her email code.

She spun around as a man appeared in the doorway.

“Dr. Marik, there you are!  I’ve been looking everywhere for you.  Got an urgent message for you.”  One of the gallery guards handed her a folded note.

“Good grief, what now?”  She unfolded the message and the words leaped at her.

“Come to St. Theresa’s immediately.  Juliet is missing.”

CHAPTER 3

“There is an island...”

Giorgios Sefiriades

In the long hallway of St. Theresa’s Boarding School, the Mother Superior studied Alexandra’s face in the dim light.  “Come back into my office, child,” urged Sister Joseph Maureen.  “You’re so pale.  I wish I could offer you a brandy.  I wish we
both
could have one.”

Sensing that the old nun was trying to calm her, Alexandra forced a small smile as she followed her down the narrow hall into an austere office.

“Your niece calls this place St. Terribles,” said the nun.  “And she calls me Jo-Mo.  Behind my back, of course.”  The papery face broke into a thousand lines as her gnarled hand gestured to the simple cross on the bare wall behind her desk.  “The girls still don’t realize that He tells me everything.”

Alexandra took a shuddering breath.  “Please, Mother, is there any news?  A missing child is a mother’s worst nightmare!”

“No news yet, Ms. Marik.  But we are going to find her.  You must have faith.”

Alexandra shook her head in disbelief.  “So much has happened to Juliet.  Losing her mother in such a violent way.”

 “I’m so very sorry about your sister, child, we all are.  I’ve been praying for her.  But Juliet is suffering more than any child should.”

 “But, Mother, how can we - ”

“God gave us chairs for a reason, Ms. Marik.  Sit.”

“Please, call me Alexandra.”  She dropped wearily into the straight-backed chair in front of the desk.  The gentle plaster face of St. Theresa stared blankly down at her from a small pedestal.

“Did you see Juliet today?” asked the nun gently.

“No.  Not since her mother’s funeral.  I called her here at school, of course, after I returned to New York, but she never returned my call.”  Alexandra looked around the sparse office as if searching for answers.  “Jules and I haven’t been close in a very long time.  I have no clue where she could be.”

“I’ve left several messages on her cell phone.  I’ve even learned to text.”  The nun raised a wry eyebrow.  “No answer, of course.  And it’s too soon to alert the NYPD of a missing teen, they’d laugh in my face.  Your niece has run off before, you know.  She’s always returned safely within a few hours.”

“Run off?  I had no idea.  Where does she go?”