Birthday Girls (30 page)

Kris smiled through her own ache, grateful that at least when she was young her parents had always been certain to come to New York or to fly her to wherever they were so they could be together on Christmas. So they could be a family. She wondered why those memories could not be enough for her now … memories, like the ones Devon and Claire were right this moment creating for their kids.

In addition to the diamond heart pendant Devon had given his wife, he had adhered to their special tradition by inserting a note in her stocking that read:

The kids had always enjoyed this message from Santa, and Devon played his role to the max.

When the gifts had all been opened, Kris folded the beautiful Italian scarf and hat they had given her and set it in the Bergdorf’s box. She looked at the other bundles that lay at her feet: this year’s silver-framed photo of Devon, Claire, and the kids; a collection of aromatherapy candles and soaps; a new leather briefcase designed to accommodate her laptop as well as her notes. As always, they had been generous. As always, they did everything possible to make her feel part of them.

“Get up, Kris,” Devon ordered. “I need your help in the kitchen.”

“My help?” she laughed. “I don’t believe Santa said anything about an assistant.”

“New rules.” There was a grin on his face, but the directness of his eyes told Kris he wanted her in the kitchen for something other than chopping ham or buttering toast.

She pulled herself up and followed him into the other room.

Devon was whistling. He moved to the refrigerator and took out the eggs. “A different twist this year,” he said. “I thought we’d add fresh tomatoes and a touch of salsa to our Christmas brunch.”

Washing her hands at the sink, Kris nodded. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

He stopped what he was doing and spoke quietly. “I want you to tell me that you’re okay.”

She looked up at him with a small, tentative smile. “Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be? Thank you for the lovely gifts … you really are too generous …”

“Kris,” he said, stepping closer to her. “I called you in here because there’s something I want to tell you.”

She buried her hands into the thick terry towel and began drying them with vigor. “You hate the painting.” She had given Devon and Claire a small watercolor of Harlem
in the 1930s, a subtle rendition of an era passed, done by a black artist who was now receiving much acclaim.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s wonderful. No,” he went on, and dropped his voice so low she had to strain to hear over the giggles and chatter coming from the other room. “It’s about Abigail.”

For some reason her legs grew weak. She braced herself against the sink. “What about her?”

He cracked two eggs against the rim of a stainless steel bowl; the white and yolks slithered, then dropped in. “I don’t want to know what’s going on,” he said, “and I’m not going to ask. But there’s something going on with you—and with this thing about Abigail.”

Kris didn’t know what to say.

“I’m not going to ask you to deny it. But despite the fact that I’m a literary agent, I’m not as obtuse as I look.”

In spite of herself, Kris grinned.

Devon cracked two more eggs. “Anyway,” he continued, “I had the occasion yesterday to speak to my friend Mo Gilbert.”

Inside the warm, terry towel, her hands turned to ice. She could not believe Devon had figured things out—or, at least, had figured out more than she’d ever intended. But it seemed he did know; there was no hiding the facts. She wondered if Mo’s secretary had told him that Kris had called. She wondered if rather than returning her call, the man had phoned Devon instead. “I thought he was out of the country,” she said.

More eggs joined the yolks and whites that swam in the bowl. “Mo and I go back a long way. But what matters is, there’s something you might want to know.”

She stared at the wire whisk that her agent, her former lover, her friend, now whipped in the bowl.

“Abigail Hardy has not contacted him,” Devon said. “If she is still alive—and I think that it’s doubtful—she has no papers to prove she’s anyone but herself.”

• • •

The day
after Christmas, Kris sat with Edmund in his study staring at the image of Larry Kaminski on television. She had done little but stare since Devon’s remark yesterday—stare into nothingness, trying to accept that Abigail might indeed be dead, that Abigail had acted out the plan in a way that would torment Kris forever.

She’d stared into nothingness, and now she stared at Larry.

He had arranged a press briefing. He stood behind a podium in a conference room at Hardy Enterprises, smiling with somber decorum into the cameras and onto the wide screen of Edward’s TV. Over Larry’s shoulder hung a life-size portrait of his former boss, the woman he had so despised.

“First,” he began, “I’d like to thank everyone for the tremendous outpouring of love and support during this difficult time.”

Kris twitched on the sofa; Edmund did not move.

“For those of us who have had the privilege of working with Abigail Hardy—indeed, of becoming part of her family—for these many years, our loss is beyond words.”

His voice broke; he touched a finger to his cheek as if wiping away a tear. Kris wanted to plant her foot through the screen.

“However,” Larry said, quickly recovering his composure, “we are also aware that you—all of America—are suffering, too. I wanted to come forward and speak to you today to make an announcement that I hope will warm your heart as much as it has mine.”

Not that you have a heart
, Kris wanted to say.

“It is a great honor for me to tell you that Abigail Hardy’s legacy will continue.”

Kris shot a glance at Edmund, who remained silent. She could not tell what he was thinking.

“I would like to introduce to the world now—Abigail’s
world—the one person truly capable of carrying forth with Abigail’s vision and Abigail’s love. Please join me in welcoming the new host of
Entertaining with Abigail
, Ms. Hardy’s own ‘behind the scenes’ assistant, her beloved daughter, Sondra Blake.”

Stunned
was not a strong enough word for the way Kris felt. Promising Sondra that he was going to make her a star was one thing, but actually having her step in, take over,
replace
Abigail, for godsake, was quite another. “Jesus Christ,” she said aloud, not caring that Edmund would hear. She turned to him, but he was transfixed by the screen.

The very pregnant, very nervous
step
daughter was now at the podium. “I am proud to carry on my stepmother’s work,” she stammered, her eyes not seeing the camera but obviously focusing on a teleprompter. “I want to help every woman in America become the woman—the hostess—she has always dreamed. To become what Abigail so believed in.” A soft glistening of tears formed in her eyes. Kris wondered if Larry paid her extra for the effect.

“We will miss her greatly,” Sondra continued, “but her legacy will go on.” She lowered her head as though she could speak no more—which, Kris hoped, she could not—and stepped away from the microphone.

Larry returned. “Again, let me thank all of America for your support at this difficult time,” he said soberly. “And if she could, I’m sure that Abigail would thank you too, her loyal viewers, her ardent fans.”

Kris lowered her head. She did not want to see more.

Edmund clicked off the remote.

“Did you know?” she asked.

Slowly he shook his head. “I can’t imagine how Larry convinced the board …” He shrugged with resignation. “I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

Doesn’t matter?
Kris wanted to shriek. It didn’t matter that a man who hated Abigail, who used her, who was plotting
behind her back to destroy all that she had, was now going to capitalize on her death? It didn’t matter that he had coerced Edmund’s own daughter to play out his sick, twisted fantasy?

Shaking her head, Kris tried to tell herself this was not her business. That it wasn’t her business and she should simply butt out.

“Maybe a strong dose of hard work will help Sondra get herself together,” Edmund said quietly. “She has the baby to think of now.”

Kris sucked in a breath. “Yes,” she replied. “I suppose she does.” Still, she couldn’t help thinking this was certainly one scenario that Abigail hadn’t counted on. Her plan to ruin Larry had obviously backfired: the worm had rescued himself in the end. And now it looked as though, by using Sondra, he would continue to benefit from Abigail’s work, from Abigail’s struggles for success, from Abigail’s success.

No, it wasn’t a scenario that Abigail would have expected.
Abigail
, Kris thought, shaking her head again.
Abigail, wherever you are
.

In the distance the doorbell rang. Edmund winced.

“I’ll get it,” Kris said. She could have waited for Louisa or the butler to answer it, but Kris was glad to have a reason to leave the room, glad to not have to face Edmund and tell him what a ruse this all was.

She expected
to see the bevy of reporters who had been camped at the entrance, with drool forming at the corners of their mouths from having just learned the press briefing news.

But when Kris opened the door there were no reporters. Only three men in suits, one holding out a badge.

“Sergeant Donnelly,” the man with the badge said. “We’d like to speak with Mr. Hardy.”

“If you mean Abigail’s husband, his name is not Hardy. His name is Desauliers. Edmund Desauliers.” She remained in her place.

The sergeant did not blink. “Just tell him we’re here.”

“Edmund
, you don’t have to speak to them without your attorney,” Kris warned after she led the men into the study.

“I don’t need an attorney, Kris. I haven’t done anything.”

“Please,” she said, “let me call one.”

He shook his head, then moved toward his desk. “What can I do for you gentlemen this time?”

Sergeant Donnelly gestured toward Kris. “We’d prefer to speak with you alone.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No.”

“Then Ms. Kensington can stay. She was my wife’s best friend. She is as eager as I am to find out what happened to Abigail.”

Kris was amazed at the control Edmund had, at the way in which he was polite, yet firm, with the police. Deep inside, however, she sensed his emotions were rollercoastering.

The sergeant coughed. “The estimated value of your wife’s corporation is approximately two hundred million dollars. Is that correct?”

Kris gasped. She had no idea Abigail’s empire had grown so large.

“In round figures, yes, you could say two hundred million.”

“Who gets the pie?”

“If you’re asking who inherits Abigail’s business, Hardy Enterprises is a privately held corporation. No one ‘inherits’ it. There are investors involved. A board of directors …”

“What about her share?”

“My wife owned 40 percent.” He hesitated, then added,
“it’s mine now. But without Abigail, it may be fairly worthless.” He did not mention Larry or Sondra or the announcement that the show would go on.

“And what about her personal estate? This house, for instance?”

“This house is not mine. It will be turned over to the Hardy Foundation for historic preservation.”

“Money?”

“Money?”

“Your wife’s money, Mr. …”

“Desauliers.”

“Yeah. Her money. Her investments. You know what I mean. Who gets it?”

“Me, I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

Edmund dropped into the chair behind his desk. “Yes. Yes. All right. Except for what she left to a few charities and to the servants, I’ll get most of her money. But, God, I didn’t kill her.”

Kris slid onto the sofa. The police roamed the room.

“This is asinine,” she said. “Can’t you see how upset Edmund is? You people have already proclaimed Abigail missing and presumed dead. You have her suicide note. Can’t you accept that and leave him alone?”

The sergeant ignored her. “One more question. You are an art dealer, are you not, Mr. Desauliers?”

“Yes.”

“It is my understanding that you recently acquired some rather expensive paintings for a client who changed his mind.”

Kris had no idea what the sergeant was getting at, but she knew there could be no connection. Abruptly she stood up. “Look, this is going too far.” She turned to Edmund. “Really, Edmund, you shouldn’t answer another question without a lawyer present.”

The sergeant shrugged. “It’s his choice.”

“Maybe I’d better not,” he said.

“Fine,” the sergeant answered. “I’ll be in touch.”

Kris watched them leave with a sinking feeling in her heart. For although she knew it was smarter for Edmund to consult an attorney, she could not dismiss the fact that because he wanted one, it automatically brought him under suspicion.

The June
cover of
Savoir
was going to feature Howard Stern dressed as a bride. “Outrageous, yes, but so very Howard,” Maddie had proclaimed when she presented the idea. The magazine editor went wild.