Birthday Girls (32 page)

He nodded. “It is.”

She chewed slowly, her mind spinning, as she tried to decide what she should do if he admitted guilt. Excuse herself from the table and phone the police? That seemed rather dramatic. Convince him to turn himself in?
God
, she
thought,
this is like a B movie
. She swallowed and took a sip of her tea. “Go on, Edmund. Please.”

Clearing his throat, Edmund studied the plate in front of him. “I don’t know if you’re aware that Abigail and I hardly had what one might call a perfect marriage.”

Under the table Kris crossed her feet to stop herself from twitching. “No marriage is perfect. At least, so I’m told.”

“I think in the beginning we loved each other,” he continued, “but it was more an arrangement than a marriage. Abigail’s grandfather approved of me … he didn’t think I was after her money, and I guess I seemed reasonably intelligent on my own.”

“Go on.” She wondered what Abigail would have thought of Edmund’s word, “arrangement.” Then she wondered what Abigail would have thought about the two of them sitting in a cozy tea room sharing lunch.

Edmund took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “One thing the police said is true. I took a hit on the Gauguin deal.”

She blinked. “L.C. backed out of the deal?”

“I think when he learned the police were hovering, he got scared.” Edmund laughed a very small laugh. “So much for friends.”

Friends
. Kris’s thoughts turned to back Abigail, and she felt a small boil begin. Suicide or not, how could Abigail put Edmund through this?

“Was the money you lost enough to leave you in debt?”

“No. Only enough to piss me off.” A small grin crept across his mouth. It was nice to see him smile again. He had such a gentle smile, a genuine smile.

“But there is one thing the police haven’t learned,” he continued, “or at least I don’t think they’ve learned—which could go against me if they find out.”

Her thriller-plot mind took over again. Was this why
Edmund wanted to get away from the estate? Because he was afraid of being overheard, afraid of being “found out”? She toyed with her chicken sandwich, half-fearing what he would say next.

“Kris,” he said, glancing around the restaurant, as if to assure himself that no one was listening. He paused. “Oh, God, this is so humiliating.”

She nibbled on a crumb, trying to steady her composure. “Take your time.”

Instead of his time, he took another deep breath. “Abigail and I rarely slept together,” he blurted out, fixing his eyes everywhere he could except on Kris. “She had many problems. I guess I should have been more patient with her.”

“Hardly motive for murder,” Kris said without thinking.

“Perhaps,” he answered. “But there’s more. For almost two years, I had an affair. It ended six months ago.”

The light in the room seemed to dim. Kris took a bite of her sandwich, a swallow of tea. The fact of an affair was hardly shocking. The fact that it had been Edmund—staid, conservative Edmund—made it a little more intriguing. She wanted to know with whom; she wanted to know if Abigail had known. She wanted to know what woman had succeeded where she had not. Instead, she asked, “What happened six months ago?”

“Her husband found out.”

So it wasn’t just a simple affair, but an affair with a married woman.

“I don’t know why it happened,” Edmund said. “I’m not really even sure how. Abigail had become so immersed in her business. She was so … busy. She became so distant. Helen and I met at a party …”

Helen
, Kris thought, and decided to remember the name.

“Were you and Helen in love?”

Edmund shrugged. “Love. Lust. It doesn’t really matter.” He pushed aside his plate. “I’m not proud of it, Kris.
It’s something I hoped I’d not have to tell anyone. But now …”

She tried to stay objective. Objective and cool. “I don’t see why the police would care. If the affair was over six months ago …”

“I’m not worried that Helen will go to the police,” Edmund said. “But her husband is something else. From what I understand, he has filed for divorce. And now I don’t know what’s going to come out.”

Two married lovers: one with an irate husband, one with a missing-and-presumed-dead, a probably self-inflicted, possibly murdered, dead wife. Kris leaned back in her chair. Objective or not, she could not dismiss the facts. “Yes,” she said quietly, “this could be a problem.”

The next
morning they stood at the front door, waving good-bye to Louisa as the Mercedes pulled from the circular drive. For all appearances Kris and Edmund, side by side, might have resembled a happy couple bidding adieu to a guest, instead of an unconnected pair breaking another tie: Edmund, with the woman who had served as his head housekeeper for many years; Kris, with a woman she barely remembered from a childhood she’d tried to forget.

When the car disappeared from sight, Edmund turned to Kris. “Well, that’s that,” he said abruptly, closing the door and retreating into the foyer.

“You say that as if Louisa were a rat leaving a sinking ship.”

Edmund smiled a forced smile. “You have an uncanny way of putting things, Miss Kensington.”

“Well, this rat will be gone tomorrow, too, and you promised you’d help me with some research. The art thief, remember?”

His head drooped a little. “Sure. Why not.”

She wanted to say
Look, Edmund, you don’t have to help
me. I’m perfectly capable of researching things on my own. But I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to help you realize that there is life after Abigail
. She also wanted to tell him that she was trying to assuage her own culpability, the dark side of her conscience that kept telling her she was responsible for all that had happened.

Instead, Kris grinned and said, “I’ll go upstairs and get my notebook.”

They spent
the day in his study, browsing through oversized books with colorful plates of masterful works. Edmund told her she might want to think about having her art thief specialize in some field, as he specialized in impressionists.

“Do you mean to say you’d never sell a Rembrandt?” Kris asked.

“Never say never. But I’d prefer not to. Like you, I guess I’m not as partial to reality.”

She decided not to take that as an offense, and that if impressionists were good enough for Edmund, they were good enough for her.

By early evening Kris had filled a spiral-bound notebook and felt that she’d just completed three semester hours. She especially liked the lesser impressionists such as Paula Modeson Becker, whose broad, flat strokes had been inspired by Gauguin. But Becker was another woman artist in an era when women were not supposed to be artists.

“She’s like Lexi Marks,” Kris said.

“And Kris Kensington,” Edmund added.

She decided to take that as a compliment.

The clock struck seven. “Seven bells,” he said. “And I’ve been a terrible host. Are you hungry?”

They maneuvered their way into the kitchen. Kris looked around the enormous room, at the dried herbs that hung in perfect repose, at the shiny copper pots that
glistened and gleamed as if no one had told them there would be no more
Entertaining with Abigail
segments shot here, as if they had no idea that the media hostess had met her demise.

An unexpected wave of sorrow washed over Kris. She wondered if Larry would change the name of the show and where he intended to produce it, now that Windsor-on-Hudson was about to become a dinosaur ward of the state.

Edmund opened the double doors of the refrigerator and let out a laugh. “You’re not going to believe this,” he said.

She walked over and peeked inside. The shelves were packed with plastic, lidded dishes, as though a Tupperware party were imminent.

He removed one dish, its top neatly labeled. “Chicken and rice soup,” he read. “Microwave about one and one-half minutes.” He set down the dish and removed another. “Beef stew. About two minutes.” He looked at Kris. “Louisa did this,” he said. “Do you believe it?”

“I believe we could open a restaurant with everything here.”

He pulled a Post-It note from the door. “Anything not eaten within three days should be frozen,” he read. “Freeze in the same containers.” He dropped his hand with the note. “She’s going to miss Abigail.”

“She’s going to miss both of you. This was her home.”

He sighed and returned to the refrigerator. “Well, what’ll it be? Chicken and rice, beef stew, or something else? You name it, it’s probably here.”

Kris spotted eggs on the door. “How about an omelet?” she asked, remembering how luscious Devon’s had tasted on Christmas.

“I’m not much of a cook.”

“Me either. But maybe together we can give it a shot.”

“We’ll probably need wine.”

“Definitely. Do you know where the wine cellar is?”

“Very funny. I’ll have you know I can be quite self-sufficient. I don’t need servants to survive.”

“We’ll see,” Kris said. “Now go look for a bottle of nice white wine while I see what a nearly-fifty-year-old woman can do to screw up a few eggs.”

The omelets
did not taste at all like Devon’s.

“It must be the whisk,” Kris moaned, staring at the yellow and brown mass on her plate. She’d suggested they eat in the library, on the centuries-old, 22-million-knot Persian carpet in front of a New Year’s Eve fire.

“Grandfather Hardy will turn over in his grave,” Edmund had commented at her suggestion.

But Kris no longer cared about Grandfather Hardy. She simply did not want to set the grand table in the dining room; it would not have seemed right without Abigail. Or without Louisa.

So now they sat in the massive room, listening to the snap of the fire and the smooth strains of Vivaldi, surrounded by Hardy portraits, Hardy books, Hardy traditions. Yet there were no Hardys left.

“Maybe if I’d whipped the eggs a little more,” Kris said, “they’d be fluffy.”

Edmund grinned. “It tastes fine. I do have one question, though.” With his fork, he plucked a dark piece of something from his eggs. “What exactly is this?”

“I believe that’s an olive.”

He examined it closely. “Hmm. I don’t think I’ve ever had an olive in an omelet.”

“I couldn’t find any ham. I decided they had the same texture.”

Edmund laughed, ate the olive, then grew quiet. “I will miss you, Kris,” he said. “I’ve enjoyed having you here … despite the circumstances.”

She sipped her wine and stared into the fire, not wanting
to admit that she, too, had enjoyed being here, taking care of Abigail’s things. Despite her irritation she knew it had been cathartic. She also did not want to admit that she had enjoyed being with Edmund.

Setting down her fork, Kris looked around the room. In the fire’s warm glow she wrapped her arms around herself, around the surprising chill she felt. “The house seems so empty,” she said. “Where are you going to go, Edmund?”

“I haven’t decided. Somewhere in Europe, I suspect. I’ve always enjoyed Europe.”

“What about Sondra?”

“Sondra will be fine. My hope is that she and Craig get back together someday. Then again, I’m afraid I’m an old-fashioned romantic. And incredibly naive.” He set down his fork and gazed into the fire. “But either way, Sondra will be fine. With her baby, and with whatever ends up happening with
Entertaining with Abigail
.”

Resentment rose in Kris as she thought of the possibility that Sondra indeed would become a star, that Larry in fact would win. “You don’t approve?” she asked.

“I don’t think it’s going to work. Larry may believe otherwise, but Abigail had a special quality. I don’t think my daughter can duplicate that. She’s not … “he paused, then said with a chuckle, “crusty enough.” Then he slowly sipped his wine and added, “I’d like to have some influence over my grandchild, though. But whatever will happen will happen, I guess.”

They sat in silence. Kris thought about Edmund and about the loneliness that stretched out before him. Then she thought of herself and wondered how she could return to her life the way it had been, how she could return to jumping all over the globe, conjuring up plots of action, acting as if emotions didn’t matter, as if life—and people’s feelings—didn’t count.

Feelings. Especially her own.

It was an attitude she’d maintained all her life, the
same kind of self-centered oneness in which prejudice was tooted, from which prejudice festered.

Quite simply, she had never let herself care. Not since Betty Ann. Not since Abigail’s grandfather. It had been a survival tool, and an effective one. But she had simply not cared. It was a life she no longer wanted to live.

“Life changes,” she said quietly, as much to herself as to him, as much to remind herself that the past was behind her and that new life, somewhere, lay ahead.

“Kris?” he asked slowly, without looking at her.

Her eyes moved toward him. “Yes?”

“If you don’t want to sleep alone tonight, I would very much enjoy it if you shared my bed.”

January 1998

The new year
had arrived. Kris opened her eyes and realized it was now 1998—the year in which she would turn fifty.
Fifty
, she thought, pulling the down comforter close to her chin.
It is really here
. The half-century year in which Maddie, too, would turn fifty; in which Abigail may or may not; in which Betty Ann never would.