Dangerous to Know Read online

  It was quite obvious that Jack was in one of his peculiar moods.

  His face proclaimed it to me before he had walked even half way across -the kitchen.

  “Good morning,” I said, carrying the coffee pot over to the table and putting it down. When I received merely a curious, gruntlike mumble from him, I added sharply, “So, we’re Maungy this morning, are we?”

  The use of this word caught his attention at once, and he glanced at me rapidly. “Maungy. What does that mean?”

  “You’ve heard it before so don’t pretend you haven’t. It was a favorite of Gran’s. She often used to call you maungy when you were a snot nosed little boy in short pants.”

  Ignoring my acerbity, he said evenly, “I don’t remember,” and flopped into the nearest chair. “And I don’t know its meaning.”

  “Then I’ll tell you,” I answered, leaning over the table, peering into his face. “It means peevish, bad tempered, or sulky, and it’s a York shire word from the West Riding where my great-grandfather came from.” I paused, said in a lighter voice, “Surely you haven’t forgotten Gran’s marvelous stories about her father? She never failed to make us laugh.”

  “George Spence. That was his name,” Jack said, and then grimaced.

  “I need a life-saving transfusion. Strong coffee. Immediately, sugar.”

  He reached for the pot, poured cups of coffee for both of us, and took a gulp of his.

  “Jack, don’t start the day by calling me sugar. Please. And so that’s it, is it? You have a hangover.”

  “A beaut. Hung one on. Last night. When I got back to the farm.”

  His occasional bouts of drinking were nothing new and had worried -me off and on, but I had stopped trying to reform him, nor did I chastise him anymore, since it was a futile waste of time. And so I refrained from commenting now. I simply sat down opposite him, eyeing the newspapers as I did. “How bad are they?”

  “Not as bad as we expected. Quite laudatory, in fact. Not much muckraking. You’re mentioned. As one of his five wives. Front page stories. Obituaries inside.”

  I pulled the newspapers toward me. Jack had brought the New York Post, the New York Times, and the Daily News, and as I spread them out in front of me I saw that they were more or less saying the same thing in their different ways. A great and good man had been found dead, circumstances suspicious. All three papers decried his death, sang his praises, mourned his passing. They carried photographs of Sebastian and they were all fairly recent ones, taken in the last couple of years.

  He looked wonderful, distinguished, handsome and loaded with glamour, dangerously so. But that had ceased to matter.

  Skipping the Post and the News for the moment, I concentrated on the Times. The front page story by the reporter who had spoken to me on the phone yesterday was well written, careful in its details, cautious in its tone, and scrupulous in its accuracy. Furthermore, I was quoted verbatim and without one word I’d said being altered or paraphrased.

  So much for that. And certainly there was nothing sensationalized here.

  I turned to the obituary section of the New York Times. A whole page was devoted to Sebastian Lyon Locke, scion of a great American dynasty, billionaire tycoon, head of Locke Industries, chairman of the Locke Foundation, and the world’s greatest philanthropist. There was a simplified version of his life story; every one of his good deeds was listed along with the charities he supported in America, and there was a fund of information about the charity work he did abroad, especially in Third World countries and they were all fairly recent ones, taken in the last couple of years.

  It had obviously been written some years earlier, as most obituaries of famous people were, with the introduction and the last paragraph left open, to be added after the death of the particular individual had occurred.

  Glancing at the end of the story, I was surprised to see only four names. I was mentioned as his former ward and his ex-wife-as if the others had not existed-along with Jack and Luciana, his children, and Cyrus Lyon Locke, his father, whom I’d completely forgotten about until now.

  “Oh my God! Cyrus!” I cried, lowering the paper, looking over the top of it at Jack. “Have you been in touch with your grandfather?”

  “That old coot! He’s more dead than alive. Rotting in Bar Harbor.

  In that mausoleum of a place. It ought-“

  “But have you talked to him?” I cut in. “Does he know about Sebastian ‘s death?”

  “I spoke to Madeleine. Yesterday. Told her everything. The old coot was sleeping.”

  “Did you tell her to bring him here for the funeral?”

  “Certainly not. He’s too old.”

  “How old is he?” I asked, frowning. Cyrus’s age escaped me for the moment, but he had to be in his eighties.

  “He was born in 1904. So he must be ninety. And he’s too old to travel.”

  “I don’t know about that . . . look, he should come, Jack. After all, Sebastian was his only son.”

  “His last surviving son,” Jack corrected me.

  “So what did Madeleine say?”

  “Not much. As usual. Gave me her condolences. Talked about Cyrus being frail. But not senile. I can’t stand her. She’s the voice of doom.

  Even when she’s wishing you well.”

  “I know, impending disaster does seem to echo in her voice. And I’m sure what she said about Cyrus is true, that he’s not senile.

  Cyrus Locke has always been a remarkable man. Quite remarkable. Age nius, really.”

  The phone rang, interrupting our conversation. I went to answer it.

  Picking up the receiver, I said, “Hello?” and then glanced over at Jack. Covering the mouthpiece with my hand, I murmured, “Talk of the devil. It’s for you, Jack.”

  “Who is it?”’

  “The voice of doom with an Irish accent.”

  “Hello, Madeleine,” Jack said into the phone a split-second later.

  “We were just talking about you. And Cyrus. Vivienne wants to invite you to the funeral, Madeleine.”

  I glared at him, silently mouthing, “It’s not my funeral.”

  Ignoring me, he listened to Madeleine for a few minutes, said good bye, and hung up. He lolled against the door jamb with a thoughtful expression on his face. “I left this number at the farm. With Carrie.

  Mrs. Crane’s niece. She came in to help. Until her aunt gets back.

  Tonight.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I said, and sighed, threw him a reproving glance.

  “Tell me, Jack, why is it you have the need to put the burdens of this family on me most of the time? This is not my funeral. It’s your responsibility . Yours and Luciana’s.”

  “Forget Luce. All she wants to do is run. Back to London. and that tweip of a British husband of hers.”

  “Isn’t he coming for the funeral?”

  “Who?”

  “The husband. Gerald Kamper.”

  “Who knows. But he wants to come. The old coot. Grandfather.”

  Jack made a face. “To the funeral of a son who bathed him. Can you beat that?”

  “I knew he’d wish to be present.”

  “Merde,” Jack muttered half to himself “It’ll be all right, we’ll manage well enough,” I reassured him. “And it it’s only natural he wants to attend his son’s burial.”

  “Only natural! Don’t be so stupid! There’s nothing natural abGut Cyrus Locke. Just as there wasn’t anything natural about Sebastian.

  He had no feelings. Neither does Cyrus. Faulty genes, I suspect. And the old coot’s a monster like his son was. Better he remain in Bar Harbor.

  With his secretary-housekeeper-mistress-jailer. Or whatever the hell she is. I-“ Jack stopped and grinned in that awful, ghoulish way of his, and added, “We won’t be able to keep him away. Cyrus wants to be sure.”

  “Sure of what?”

  “That Sebastian’s really dead. That he’s three feet under.

  Kicking up daisies.”

  “Oh
, Jack.”

  “Don’t oh Jack me in that pathetic way. Not this morning. You did it yesterday. All day. No tears either. I’ve had enough. You’re just a sentimentalist, kid.”

  “And you’re the most unpleasant person it’s ever been my great misfortune to know. You disgust me, Jack Locke. Sebastian’s dead and you act as if it’s of no consequence, as if you don’t care.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Talk about Cyrus being unnatural. You certainly are.”

  “Chip off the old block, eh?” he laughed hollowly.

  “You make me sick. Sebastian was a wonderful father to you.”

  “Go and tell that to the marines! You should know beuer. He was never a father to me. Never cared about me.”

  “He did.” -“I’ve told you before. I’m repeating myself. He couldn’t love any one.”

  “He loved me,” I announced and sat back, glaring at him.

  Jack laughed harshly, and there was a disdain expression on his face when he exclaimed, “Here we go again! He was crazy to get you into the sack. That I’ll readily concede. He had the hots for you.

  Even when you were just a kid. He couldn’t wait to get into your panties.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Sure it is. We used to call it the Gradual Seduction of Vivienne.

  You know, like the title of a play.”

  “Who?”

  “Luciana and I.”

  “What do you mean? Why?”

  “Because for years we watched him watching you. Fascinating. The fat cat waiting to pounce. On the little mouse. Waiting for you to get a bit older. Smarming all over you. Catering to you. Flattering you.

  Showering you with gifts. Softening you up. Getting you ready for him.

  He couldn’t wait to seduce you, Viv. We knew that. Luce and I.

  He did -it as soon as he dare. As soon as it was safe. When you were finally twenty-one. The night of your twenty-first birthday party.

  Jesus, he couldn’t even wait until the next day. The big seduction scene had to be that night.”

  “Jack, listen to me, it wasn’t like that, honestly it wasn’t.

  Sebastian did not seduce me.”

  Jack threw back his head and guffawed. “Trust you to always defend him.

  No matter what.”

  “But it’s the truth,” I protested.

  Shaking inside, filled with a fulminating rage, I vacated the kitchen. I left Jack sitting at the table drinking his third cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette. Seemingly he had started that bad habit again.

  I went into the library and, seating myself at the desk, I began to read my piece for the London Sunday Times Magazine section, trying to calm myself as I did.

  And then automatically I picked up a pencil and began to edit, doing the kind of fine tuning that was important to me in my work as a journalist.

  I was so furious with Jack my adrenaline was pumping over time.

  But my anger gave me the extra steam I needed, enabled me to push my sadness to one side, at least for the time being. Within two hours I had finished the editing job. I sat back relieved, not to mention pleased with myself.

  When Belinda pushed open the door a few minutes later I was taken by surprise. She was not due for another hour and I gave her a puzzled look as I greeted her.

  “I’m early because I thought you might need me for something,” she explained, walking over to my desk, sitting down in the chair next to it.

  “I brought all the newspapers, but I guess you’ve seen them already.”

  I nodded. “Jack arrived with them three hours ago. By the way, is he still occupying my kitchen?”

  “No, he’s set up camp in my office, where he’s talking on the phone, making the arrangements for the funeral and the memorial service.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I had the dreadful feeling he was going to start -acting like the flake he can be at times. That he’d goof off, leave everything to me.”

  “He’s speaking with the pastor of the church in Cornwall right now,” Belinda explained. “ThIking about Friday for the funeral.”

  “We agreed on that last night. And he wants to have the memorial next week. On Wednesday, to be exact.”

  Belinda looked at me askance. “I wonder if that gives us enough time? I mean, to inform everybody.”

  “Honestly, Belinda!” I shook my head, smiling faintly. “The days of the carrier pigeon and the tribal drum are long gone. They’re extinct.

  All we have to do is give the announcement to the television networks -and newspapers. Or rather, have the Locke Foundation do it, and the whole world will know within twenty minutes, I can guarantee it.”

  She had the good grace to laugh. “You’re right. I sound like an imbecile, don’t I?”

  Paying no attention to this remark, I went on quickly, “There is one thing you can do for me, Belinda, and that’s field any calls from news papers for me today. I really don’t feel like speaking to the press. I need a little quiet time by myself.” I glanced at my watch.

  “Lila’s supposed to come to clean today, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, she is. But not until one. She had a dental appointment at eleven. She called me yesterday to say she might be a bit later than usual.”

  “No problem.”

  “About the press, Vivienne, don’t worry, I’ll deal with them. If they insist on talking to you though, at some point, shall I have them call back tomorrow?”

  “Yes. No, wait a minute, I have a much better idea! If Jack’s still here, pass the press over to him. And if he’s gone back to Laurel Creek Farm, give them the phone number there. He’s as capable of dealing with them as I am.”

  With these words I escaped. -Upstairs in my bedroom it was calm, tranquil, with sunlight filtering in -through the many windows.

  Opening the French doors I went outside onto the wide balcony, marveling at the mildness of the morning, wondering if this extraordinary Indian Summer was nature’s gift to us before we were beset by the violent winter weather typical of these parts. The Litchfield hills -can be harsh, storm-swept and snow-laden from December through -the spring; in fact there was frequently snow on the ground as late as -April.

  But I would not be here in winter. I would be in France at my property in Provence. For a long time now I have lived in an old mill that Sebastian and I remodeled some years before, and it is there that I write my books, mostly biographies and other works of nonfiction.

  Sebastian and I found the property the first year we were married, and because I fell madly in love with it he bought it for me as a wedding present. -The day we stumbled on it there was a piece of jagged wood nailed to the dilapidated old gate on which someone had scrawled, in black paint, vieur Moulinold mill-and we kept that name.

  A second primitive wooden board announced that the land and the mill were for -* - - sale, and it was those neglected acres of land that eventually became my beautiful gardens.

  We enjoyed working on the mill together, Sebastian and I, and much of its restoration and renovation was inspired by his ideas as well as -mine. Vieur Moulin and Ridgehill were my two real homes, one be -?ause it had been in my family for hundreds of years, the other because it was truly of my own creation. It didn’t take much prompting for me -to become quite lyrical about them both, since they were truly special to me. I divided my time between these two old houses; the oneoom 42Badam Taylor Bradford studio in New York was just a pied-a’terre, a convenient place to hang my hat and my typewriter whenever I needed to be in the city for work.

  When I had arrived in Connecticut in August, on my annual visit, I had intended to return to Provence at the end of October. I still planned to do so. However, there was the matter of the autopsy report; I felt I couldn’t leave without knowing the facts. On the other hand, the police would be dealing with Jack and Luciana, Sebastian’s next of kin, and not with me. There was no real reason for me to hang around, other than my own anxiousness, my desire to know the truth about his -
death.

  I wondered what the autopsy would turn up, what the Chief Medical Examiner’s verdict would be. An involuntary shiver ran through me despite the warmth of the day, and deteririnedly I tried to cling to the belief that Sebastian had died of natural causes.

  Pushing my troubling thoughts aside, I went and leaned against the wooden railings and glanced around. The trees in the gardens below, -and sweeping down the hillsides to the waters of Lake Waramaug, seemed more brilliant than ever, fiery-bright plumage silhouetted against a clear cerulean sky. Some leaves had already started to fall earlier than usual, I noticed, and I knew that by the fifteenth of the month the branches would begin to look bare and bereft.

  Her. That was exactly how I felt.

  I wondered dismally if I were the only person mourning Sebastian.

  Certainly his children weren’t grieving, and who could really know what an old man like Cyrus felt. He was, after all, ninety years old and in his dotage, with one foot in the grave himself. He had survived three of his progeny; now the last one was dead. How terrible it must be to outlive your own children, to have to bury them.

  For a long time Sebastian had been the only remaining offspring of Cyrus Locke. As far as we knew, he was the only one living. There was a sister who had disappeared years ago, and what had happened to her was a genuine mystery, baffling to us all. She might be dead or alive.

  Sebastian was the eldest child of Cyrus by his first wife, who had not survived the birth. There had been three other children by his second wife Hildegarde Orbach Locke, two girls and another boy.

  Glenda, Sebastian’s half sister and the closest in age to him, had committed suicide years before. His half brother Malcolm had drowned in a boating accident on Lake Coma in Switzerland, in questionable circumstances. And Fiona, the youngest sibling, was the one who had vanished into thin air seven years ago, lost somewhere in that nether world of drugs peopled by the addicted, the depraved, the pitiful , and the homeless. The walking dead, Sebastian had called them.

  Ever since her disappearance, Sebastian had been searching for Fiona and, as far as I knew, detectives in the employ of Locke Indus tries continued to look for the vanished woman.