All Who Are Lost (Ashmore's Folly Book 1) (4 page)

On October 2, 1970, three weeks after their last child was born, Ms. Dane disappeared under suspicious circumstances off the coast of Ireland and was never seen again. Mr. Abbott was tried for her murder, but a jury refused to convict on the circumstantial evidence amassed against him. The closed-courtroom testimony of his eldest daughter, Diana, 5 at the time of the alleged murder, was cited as the turning point in the defense case. After his acquittal, he returned to his native America with his children and settled near Jamestown, Virginia, where his daughter by a brief marriage lived with friends.

When Ms. Dane was declared dead and her will was probated, Mr. Abbott inherited her estate, including an irrevocable marriage settlement given to her by the earl. With this inheritance, he devoted himself to his music and the cultivation of the musical talent in his children. He developed a minor directing career and wrote for several musical publications. He never remarried.

Mr. Abbott is survived by his daughters, Diana and Lucia, and one granddaughter, Julia Ashmore. The whereabouts of his other two daughters, Francesca and Laura, have been unknown since the late 1980s.

A funeral Mass is set for….

~•~

From Associated Press:

The mystery surrounding the murder of Maestro Dominic Abbott deepened Wednesday evening when police sources identified Abbott’s oldest daughter, Diana Abbott Ashmore, as a person of interest in her father’s death…. Ms. Ashmore was interviewed about inconsistencies in her claim that she discovered the body upon returning from a business trip…. Police say that Ms. Ashmore has cooperated with the investigation….

~•~

From Associated Press
:

Diana Ashmore was arrested this morning on first-degree murder charges stemming from the death of Maestro Dominic Abbott last week….

~•~

From Associated Press:

A grand jury today declined to indict Diana Ashmore, daughter of murdered composer Dominic Abbott, for the death of her father two weeks ago. Police indicated that investigation is continuing into inconsistencies in the story she told police concerning the discovery of her father’s body…. A source close to the case said that all evidence at the crime scene pointing to her can be explained by her frequent residence at the house….

~•~

From Associated Press:

Police revealed the results of the autopsy performed on Maestro Dominic Abbott, found murdered in his home two weeks ago in what police now indicate may have been a home invasion. The composer and conductor, best known for his avant-garde works in the field of Italian opera, died as a result of a single brutal blow to the skull with a blunt instrument. He suffered a cerebral hemorrhage from the blow and died within minutes.

The murder weapon has not been located….

Because Mr. Abbott was found slumped at his piano over his sheet music, police believe that he may not have seen his attacker….

Police have interviewed his daughter, Diana Ashmore, who told police that she discovered her father’s body when she returned home from a business trip at noon on Tuesday. However, investigators say that Ms. Ashmore had changed her travel arrangements to return on Monday evening. The coroner placed the time of death between 8 p.m. Monday evening and 8 a.m. Tuesday morning.

Police have interviewed other family members, including Mr. Abbott’s daughter, Lucia, and his son-in-law, architect Richard Ashmore, but say that neither had seen Mr. Abbott for several weeks. Police sources say that neither is considered a suspect.

Mr. Abbott was known as a recluse who preferred his music to company….

Robert Marlowe, Earl of Shilleen, nephew of the earl whose refusal to grant a divorce to his wife placed Mr. Abbott and his mistress, Renée Dane, Countess of Shilleen, in the center of a long-running international soap opera, forwarded his condolences to Mr. Abbott’s daughters but said that the families have had no contact since Mr. Abbott’s 1972 acquittal in Ireland for the presumed murder of Ms. Dane.

~•~

ASHMORE & McINTIRE

Architects and Designers

RICHARD P. ASHMORE, AIA

SCOTT N. MCINTIRE, AIA

FAX TRANSMITTAL SHEET

TO: Mr. Cameron St. Bride

FROM: Julia Ashmore

DATE: 9/7/2001

Dear Mr. St. Bride:

I am trying to find my aunt, Laura Abbott. I know she is married to a man with your last name. We saw him in London on June 9. He was tall and blond, and he was wearing a CAF leather jacket with “St. Bride” monogrammed on it.

It’s taken me all summer to track you down. I’ve been searching the Internet to find CAF members. I sent emails to people in all the chapters, and one person emailed me back from the Dallas chapter and said to contact you. So I looked up your company’s web site to see if it had a picture of the man I saw, and it looks like you could be him. I tried to send you an email, but it got answered by the marketing department, so I’m trying a fax.

My father doesn’t know I’m doing this. If you are the man I saw, I think that is important to you.

If you are my aunt’s husband, please don’t be angry about my contacting you. I know my aunt has not seen us for a long time, but I really want to find her. Please tell my aunt that I would like to talk to her. My mother is her sister Diana, and right now she needs help. I think my aunt may want to know that her sisters really miss her.

Julia Ashmore

Chapter 3: The Day

SHE STOPPED RUNNING the day the world changed.

~•~

Nothing in the late summer standards of the morning heralded the close of the long, icy years of her exile. She and her daughter shared a birthday week, and Meg woke her late with a steaming cup of mint tea and an enthusiastic kiss. They exchanged presents and talked about her newest song and Meg’s ballet class, and Laura St. Bride tried hard not to think about lost Francie, who too had shared this birthday.

Meg was in top form, flitting around, laughing, and her graceful arm in extension turned Laura’s heart over. Thirteen in just a few days, growing up fast, tossing childhood away, reaching eagerly towards independence and maturity. So tempting it was, so easy to hang on, to keep her forever, the two of them in their own cocoon, safe….

When the man who had kept them safe called to say that he had flown over during the night to see them, that he had important news, she thought nothing of it. He had a right to celebrate his daughter’s birthday, after all. Indeed, when he arrived, he spent a few minutes hugging Meg and presenting her with another hopelessly extravagant gift. “My two birthday girls,” he said fondly, and above his daughter’s head he smiled at the woman he had won and lost and never explored in all the years of their marriage.

She waited until he extricated himself.

“Terrible timing, but I wanted to be here when you found out,” he said gently, and handed her the news clippings of her father’s death.

Daddy dead…. She pulled away from Cam’s enveloping concern and wandered over to the teapot. Dead, gone, buried, never again a malevolent force to be eluded. They no longer walked in the same world. The pale sun shone on her face alone. No more need she wonder if somewhere her father heard her voice and cursed the misfortune that had left her alive.

She stood beside this man who had protected her and watched Meg happily winding up the antique music box. Through this child, this fortuitous gift of the gods, that dim time still claimed her. For how long had she used Meg as her shield, her excuse to run to earth?

Daddy was dead.

“This came Friday.” He drew a folded paper from his breast pocket. “I’ll hand it to your niece, she’s clever…. Don’t worry. It came in on my private fax line.”

She saw the letterhead, and the handwritten letter below, and she went cold with shock.

“Read it.” He lifted her hand and put the paper on her unresisting palm. “You’ll want this.” And, with a sensitivity seldom shown in all their long history, he said to their daughter, “Go get dressed, Meg. I’m taking you and your mother to brunch.”

Laura was left alone in the sun-dappled kitchen, with a letter and the ghosts she had left behind.

Not Richard, she thought finally, when she could bring herself to think. In the midst of the move after the separation, she had come across a saved scrap from the past: a mass of trigonometric problems, printed in his precise architect’s hand, from the last time he had helped her with high school math. No, not Richard; this handwriting was young, feminine, unweighted with knowledge.

Wrapped in the warmth of her home, she shivered, and then she read it through twice, quickly.

Cameron St. Bride found her there, standing in her kitchen, the letter lying at her feet.

“Laura.”

She heard his voice through the storm in her mind, and thought in wonder that only now, too late to salvage their marriage, did he finally attempt to reach her. She felt him allow himself the small luxury of touching her hair. “Laura. Darling. Tell me what you’re thinking?”

She said nothing, for how could she tell this man what Julie Ashmore, who scarcely remembered her, had known? That he and Meg were still not enough, that she needed to be whole again? Julie, part of the world left behind when she had torn her life apart, at seventeen, too young to know how heavily the destruction would weigh upon her – Julie was the first person in thirteen years to recognize her as Laura Abbott. Daughter of Dominic. Sister of Diana and Lucy and Francie. Not Laura St. Bride, that invented woman whose life had begun, full-blown, at eighteen, with a wedding ring and a brief ceremony at City Hall in San Francisco.

“What are you going to do?” he asked now, in the dead space of her silence, and she heard his dread then, the presentiment that he had finally lost.

She turned then towards him, and she was gone, she was already changing from the Laura Rose St. Bride he had sheltered and stifled and finally, gracefully, relinquished.

“I’m going home.”

~•~

She couldn’t go right away, and she knew it. She had a contract; the producers had waited a year to stage
Rochester
with her, saying that only Cat Courtney could bring the right emotional depth to their vision of Jane Eyre. People depended on her. She could not pull out and leave the other actors, everyone else associated with the production, high and dry and out of work. She had worked hard for this opportunity; she had the chance to prove that her father had been cruelly wrong all the years of her exile, and the years before that.

Cameron St. Bride knew it too, and he spent the remainder of the weekend cajoling, reasoning, persuading. He enlisted her manager, who argued that she could not walk away. This was her moment, he said, her time to step into the first ranks of musical artists. Jane was a plum role, a chance to dazzle the critics with all the passion and light that Cat Courtney was capable of. If she blew this, she’d never get another chance. Her co-star, normally an unlikely ally for the resolutely conservative Cam, echoed their arguments and added with wry humor that he promised not to bore her with football scores if she would stay on. His partner, a Cordon Bleu chef, dangled the prospect of private cooking lessons in front of her.

Primed by her father, Meg pitched a fit at the idea of leaving her ballet master and an even bigger fit at the idea that her mother might go to Virginia without her.

As the weekend wore on, Cam fought more desperately, the ferocity of his struggle increasing as he saw Laura slipping away, eventually abandoning gentleness and persuasion for all the tried-and-true methods that had worked for so long.

“I thought you left all that behind you,” he said icily. “This niece – this child you haven’t seen since she was a baby – writes this note, and you want to throw everything away to run back to people who hurt and mistreated you? What’s wrong with you? You’ve got a damn good life. You have what you wanted.” And then, because his fear rode too high to keep his pain inside, “Is it him? Is that why? Damn it, haven’t you suffered enough at Richard Ashmore’s hands? Haven’t we all?”

Laura heard them all – soon-to-be-ex-husband, child, manager, friends – during those late summer days, and she even said the right things, promised she’d stay through her contract, made all the soothing sounds they wanted to hear. Those who knew only Laura St. Bride accepted her promises with relief and understanding. Just stage fright, they said, understandable for an artist who had never faced the prospect of a six-month run in the West End, eight performances a week – eight chances to succeed beyond her wildest dreams, eight chances to fall flat on her face. They had confidence in her. Cat Courtney was a professional who showed up on time, learned her lines, and did what her husband, manager, and director told her to do. She wouldn’t cause trouble now.

Crisis abated, Meg rolled her eyes, opined, “Whatever,” and went off to play a video game.

But he who had known Laura Abbott saw the end of the painful splintering that had begun so many years before, and he finally faced the real possibility of defeat.

“I can’t stay,” he said Monday evening, after Terry outdid himself with a splendid feast. “I rescheduled the BankKorea people for breakfast at Windows to sign a new agreement. I can’t reschedule again. How about—” he consulted his Blackberry— “next weekend. I can clear my schedule. We’ll talk then.” He paused. “Among other things.”

Laura nodded acquiescence. She had learned during their marriage to go with the flow and keep her own counsel. Still, he looked worried, so she whispered as she kissed his cheek, “We’ll talk.”

He studied her for a moment, this master of the universe who could fly through the night on his Gulfstream, negotiate with other merchant kings at the top of the world, rule his empire of bits and routers, and never fathom the heart of the woman who had shared his bed for so many years. He pulled her against him, and she felt the intensity of his feelings for her. But then passion had never been their problem. “I still want you, Laura. That hasn’t changed. I’m sending the lawyers an email – I’m putting this thing on hold. We’ll work something out – we’ll revisit the idea of adoption, if you want.”