Keepsake (26 page)

“Are you aware that your brother told the FBI to focus their investigation of Rina’s death on you?”

Isobelle could feel her cheeks grow hot. “No, but I’m not surprised. He’d love to have me out of the way. He and my father both. A woman is not supposed
to be interested
in business. Apparently it indicates a sad lack of feminine decorum. I’ve been the bane of their existence ever since I announced
that I intended to have a career in the family business at the age of fifteen.”

She paused, then added, “My brother resented Rina and, even more so, me. We were a slap in the face to his antiquated ideals
of male domination. And as long as you’re investigating the family, you might want to ask him where he was the night his wife
so conveniently ran her car off the road and died.”

Isobelle watched with some satisfaction as Blackthorn and April exchanged a glance. “I expect Rina knew all the details,”
she added. “As I said, she had something on everybody. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve really got to get back to my party.”

As she left them, she hoped that they were as startled about her final revelation as she had been about several of theirs.

“What was that all about?” Charlie asked. He didn’t like the tight, weary expression on Isobelle’s face.

“More questions, more theories. Mr. Blackthorn is exploring every possible angle. I just gave him another one to think about.”

“And what was that?”

She frowned. “They’re looking for a manuscript of Rina’s that appears to be missing. Apparently they believe it contains something
important.”

“The autobiography,” he said, his face expressionless.

“They say you told April that Rina’s editor had called to ask about the manuscript.” She paused. “You didn’t mention that
to me.”

“I didn’t think it was important.”

“Rina had led me to believe that no one knew about her
autobiography. Certainly no outsiders in the publishing industry. She was highly secretive about it.”

Charlie shrugged.

“What was this editor’s name?” she asked.

“I don’t remember. Actually, when I went to call her back, I couldn’t find where I had written her number.”

“Was she with CLM or some other company?”

Charlie shook his head. “I didn’t ask.”

“Did you know about the autobiography? Before her death, I mean?”

Charlie tried to gauge exactly what she was getting at. She seemed unusually anxious. “Your stepmother and I got along pretty
well, but she didn’t confide in me. The only writing projects of hers that I was interested in were those that directly had
to do with the marketing of the Power Perspectives program and seminars.” He waited a moment then added, “What are you worried
about? What does this missing manuscript have to do with us?”

Isobelle waved a hand impatiently. “Never mind. Let’s get back to the party.”

Whenever she was evasive, he felt uneasy. “Look, I’m sorry if I—”

“Just drop it, Charlie. I really don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

He reached out and touched her throat. “The necklace looks lovely on you.”

“Indeed it does. And I thank you for it.”

She was under a lot of stress, he knew. It was necessary to make allowances. So many obstacles constantly springing up between
her and her own view of success—first her father and his chauvinistic view of the world, then Rina, who had encouraged her
at the same time that she’d held her back. And now April, who was not only proving to be far more effective at her job than
anybody had anticipated,
but who had also, it appeared, been appointed by Blackthorn to be his junior detective.

“I wish there were something I could do to bring a genuine smile to your face,” he said.

“Don’t worry about me,” Isobelle said tightly. “I’ll be fine.”

Outside it was thundering and the air was thick with that edgy feeling generated by a summer storm. A fine drizzle was beginning
to fall. To April it felt refreshing, after the heat and the tension in Isobelle’s loft.

“I don’t see any cabs,” she said.

“Saturday night, and raining—they’re hard to come by. Let’s walk down to the avenue—we’ll pick one up there. D’you mind walking?”

“No, not at all. The drizzle feels good, actually.”

He reached out and took her hand. April was acutely aware of the pressure of his fingers on hers as they walked west, towards
Seventh Avenue. For several moments the silence between them was unbroken, but for the click of her heels on the sidewalk.
There was a cool breeze and a bit of a haze, and the light from the streetlights was hazy and dim.

“Do you believe what Isobelle said about her brother?” she asked.

“I’m not sure what to believe. I’m having a lot of trouble sorting out the truth from the lies.”

“She and Christian obviously don’t get along. She might be trying to throw suspicion on him.”

“Yeah, I know. She strikes me as a woman who’s become bitter over the years. Probably from working so hard and never getting
much credit for her accomplishments. It’s her father’s fault. Everybody I’ve interviewed agrees that he’s always put his son
first, even though he and Christian have never had a particularly warm or cordial relationship. Male chauvinism at its worst.”

“I don’t mean to sound harsh, but that doesn’t excuse her behavior.”

“No, you’re right. But her brother’s just as bad. He’s been making every effort to cast suspicion on her. You can be damn
sure that I’ll be checking out every detail of his wife’s fatal accident.”

They walked in silence for several moments. April’s mind was awhirl. She didn’t like Isobelle, but it was hard to imagine
her planning a murder, hiring a contract killer, giving the go-ahead. Christian, collector of beautiful art objects, seemed
more the type. She could well imagine him weighing the options, calculating the risks, laying out the plans. “I don’t care
what happens to Christian, but I’m worried about Kate. She’s a terrific kid. But her mother’s dead, her father’s difficult,
and if there’s any chance he had something to do with that accident—”

“I know. It’s a nasty thought. Sorry, kid, but your daddy’s a killer. He’s going to prison and you’re going into a foster
home.”

“Oh, Rob, no!”

“What else are they going to do with her? Send her to live with Isobelle? Can you see her inviting her teenage friends over
for pizza parties in the dungeon?”

“Oh, God, what a family.”

The rain came down a bit harder.

“I live near here,” Rob said. “Well, in the Village.” He gave her a wry smile and said, “Maybe not that near, actually. A
few blocks south, a couple more west. But I could offer you a cup of coffee or something. Unless—”

April hesitated, but only for a moment. Why not, dammit? There was so much to talk about, and, well, did she really want to
be sensible?

“Okay. That would be fine.”

The pressure from his fingers grew slightly stronger. “Good. Wait, there’s a cab coming. Got his light on as well.” He stepped
into the street to flag the taxi down and they climbed inside. Rob gave an address on Christopher Street and they were both
silent, as if wondering what—if anything—they had just agreed to.

His apartment was on the top floor of one of the old, narrow townhouses in Greenwich Village. It was small, but cozy. The
living room had a fireplace, and he lit a fire there to warm them from the effects of the drizzle.

April sat on one end of the brown leather sofa facing the hearth and watched the flames engulf the kindling and lick at the
logs. She couldn’t get out of her head the image of a lovely blonde-headed woman kneeling at the feet of her tall partner
in the tight leather pants. Her wrists had been secured behind her back in leather cuffs, but in spite the restraints, there
was an expression on her face that seemed to proclaim her freedom.

April envied that woman. In order to do something like that—to allow herself to be so helpless and vulnerable—she would have
to trust her partner completely. How could she be so open? How could she have such faith in a partner’s essential goodwill?
For her it would be a minidrama filled with emotional peril.

On the other hand, she reminded herself that she was here in a strange apartment, alone with a man she didn’t know very well,
a man who had hounded and harassed her, wrestled her to the floor in Anaheim, and chased her through Central Park.

Did she trust Rob Blackthorn? No, why should she?

So why had she accepted his invitation?

She glanced over at him. He was sitting on the sofa, also, but he’d left a space between them. He was lounging back, his hands
folded behind his head, his long legs outstretched. Through his tight trousers, she could see the smooth contours of the muscles
in his thighs.

Oh, God, she thought. She was here because she wanted him. It was as simple as that.

He caught her eye and smiled sideways at her. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

She laughed and shook her head.

He took one arm out from behind his head and extended it towards her. She sighed as his hand slipped underneath her hair and
lightly caressed the back of her neck.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

“Sure.”

“You knew my mother before you were hired as her bodyguard, right? How did you know her?”

He seemed to hesitate. She noted that the movement of his fingers against her nape briefly stopped. At last he said, “I met
her a couple of years ago, after Jessie, my wife, got sick.”

She moved a little closer to him on the sofa. Talk to me, she wanted to say, but she didn’t dare say it aloud. She trusted
her eyes to do the encouraging for her.

“Jessie knew of Rina’s work—she’d been kinda into that New Agey sort of stuff. She was diagnosed with
ovarian cancer. By the time they found it, it had already spread.” He was keeping his voice rock-steady; she could sense the
effort it took. “She started with the traditional treatment—chemo and all—but she had a horrible time with it. She reacted
badly to the drugs—much worse than most people, apparently. Going to the hospital for treatment became something that terrified
her. I felt like a jailer dragging a helpless victim to the torture chamber.

“Someone she knew gave her a copy of one of Rina’s books—the one on health and alternative medicine. Jessie was strongly affected
by the idea of healing through positive thinking, laughter, music, optimism, meditation, all that stuff. She told me she needed
to focus, to marshal her energy, to control and direct her thoughts. All this was more important, she decided, than chemotherapy.”

Slowly, he shook his head. “I didn’t agree. I thought she should save all her energy for the medical treatments and not waste
her time—or her hopes—on magical cures. But when I saw that she was determined—well, it wasn’t the time to fight her. And
I realized that it made her feel good just to think there was something over which she could still exercise a little control.

“Rina’s book on cancer also had a powerful effect on her. She found it ‘emotionally healing,’ or so she said. She used to
keep the paperback version under her pillow, read a bit from it every night before she went to bed. She wrote to Rina, and
they began a correspondence.” He paused, and April could see the tension in his neck and shoulders. “When Rina found out we
were living on Long Island, she came to visit. She urged Jessie to contact several ‘healers’ who specialized in cancer. Gradually,
Jessie got so caught up in it all that she refused all traditional medical treatment. I objected to this, but I guess by then
I was looking for miracles as well.

“Anyway,” he said tightly, “she got worse, not better. But Jessie never gave up hope. Power Perspectives did not save her,
but it cheered her and calmed her, and I guess it made her feel she had some control.

“When she died, not only did Rina come to the funeral, but she also stuck around for a few days and made sure that I stayed
off the bottle. I’d promised Jessie, but, hell, she was gone and all I wanted was to be with her again.”

“You used to drink?” April asked.

“I was in Nam,” he said, as if that explained it. “It was worse afterwards. That adjustment to coming back to a ‘normal’ life—I’m
sure you’ve heard how many vets explain how difficult that was, after living in hell. Anyway, I was lucky—I shook it young.
I’ve never been a drinker since, although I’ve been badly tempted a couple of times. The months after Jessie’s death were
the hardest. Rina kept in touch. She knew I didn’t believe the Power Perspectives bullshit—in fact I was angry because I felt
that Jessie had gotten so caught up in it that she’d refused the conventional treatments that might have helped her. But she
continued to call and check up on me anyhow. There’s no way to account for her kindness, except to say that it
was
kindness.”

April shook her head. This was incredible. Her mother had done all this?

“That’s why this case has been such a puzzle to me from the first,” he went on. “The things we’re learning about Rina—or the
things we think we’re learning—it’s all so contradictory. How could the same woman who befriended Jessie and looked after
me be the person whom Isobelle just described to us? How could she be the same woman who abandoned you and never looked back?
God knows people are complex and often behave unpredictably,
but I can’t seem to get a fix on Rina. Nothing is coming together, nothing makes any sense.”

“Yes, I know,” April said. “It’s confusing to me as well. Kate adored Rina, and Kate is no fool.”

Somehow they had both inched closer to each other during his recital, and now they were in the middle of the sofa, the sides
of their thighs brushing. His fingers were still busy on the back of her neck.

“Listen. There’s something you’d better understand,” he said.

She looked up at him.

“When Jessie got sick, it changed something in me. I used to be a fairly even-tempered guy. Optimistic. Sure life had its
ups and downs, but I went with the flow. I never got so far down that I couldn’t pop back up again within a few hours. You
see?”