Dark Homecoming (15 page)

A painting of a decapitated head on a platter caused Liz to look away.

“Here we are,” Roger said. “Some hot coffee.” They sat in a small lounge off the main gallery. Liz cupped the hot mug in her hands and drank. At the same time, she kicked off her wet shoes to let them dry.

“I enjoyed our time today,” Roger said, looking over at her.

Liz smiled. “As did I. I needed to get out of that house. Thank you, Roger.”

“You know, Liz,” Roger said, “when I'm with you, I . . .”

His words trailed off. Liz looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

But Roger said nothing more. He blushed suddenly, looking away. And then he was saved by his assistant popping his head through the door of the lounge.

“Mr. Huntington, you have a visitor.”

“Who is it, Karl?”

“Mrs. Delacorte.”

“Oh!” Roger stood quickly, setting down his coffee. “Bring her back, of course.” As Karl hurried away, Roger turned to Liz. “Mrs. Delacorte is one of the gallery's biggest patrons. One of the richest women in Palm Beach.”

“Oh, I see,” Liz said, standing herself now. “Should I make myself scarce?”

“Not at all. She'll want to meet David's new wife.”

Liz suddenly felt mortified. She was still drenched, her hair a mess. She was about to ask Roger to let her run to the ladies' room and try to freshen herself up, but before she had a chance Karl had returned with a tall, plump lady. She had iron-gray hair and wore a long strand of knotted pearls hanging over her ample bosom. Whether Liz liked it or not, she was about to have her first interaction with Palm Beach society.

“Roger, darling!” Mrs. Delacorte trilled, air-kissing either side of his face, fat fingers crusted with rings gripping his shoulders like talons.

“Mrs. Delacorte, how nice to see you,” he said.

Liz saw the woman's large blue eyes latch on to her.

“Allow me to introduce my sister-in-law, Liz,” Roger said, gesturing for Liz to join him in greeting the woman.

Liz extended her hand. “I'm pleased to meet you. Please excuse us . . . we just got caught in the rainstorm. . .”

Mrs. Delacorte took her hand but quickly moved her eyes back to Roger. “This is David's wife?” she asked him.

“Yes. They've only been married a short time.”

Mrs. Delacorte looked back at Liz, but continued addressing Roger. “But where is your brother? Word around town is that he brought her to the house and then took off again.”

“That's right,” Liz said, refusing to stay silent and let Roger answer for her. “It was unavoidable. Business. He's in Amsterdam at the moment, but I expect him back very soon.”

Mrs. Delacorte deigned to address her directly. “And where do you come from, dear?”

“New Jersey,” Liz replied.

Mrs. Delacorte lifted an eyebrow. Liz felt for certain she could see the little house on the working-class street in Trenton where she had grown up.

“Mrs. Delacorte,” Roger said, cutting in, possibly aware of Liz's discomfort, “did I understand your message correctly that you wished to buy one of the Naomi Collins pieces before the opening party?”

“You most certainly did,” the large woman told him, turning her gaze away from Liz. “I'm not going to get into any kind of bidding war with Amanda Merriwell.”

Liz assumed that was another of Palm Beach's great ladies.

“Well, normally I prefer to wait until—”

Liz noticed how Roger's voice cut off the moment Mrs. Delacorte raised her other eyebrow.

“But of course, for you, I'll make an exception,” Roger said. “Which image do you want?”

“Which is the most expensive?”

He hesitated. “The armless woman, I believe. It's thirty-five thousand dollars.”

Liz almost fell over when she heard the price.

“Then that's the one,” Mrs. Delacorte said, taking a seat and pouring herself a cup of coffee. “Will you get all the paperwork completed so I can have it with me at the opening? Just in case Amanda Merriwell gets any ideas.”

“Absolutely,” Roger said. He looked over at Liz. “I'm just going to head to my office and get some forms . . .”

“Of course,” she told him, taking her seat again, this time beside Mrs. Delacorte.

“Pretty grisly stuff, don't you think?” the lady was saying.

“You mean the paintings?”

“I don't mean the wallpaper,” Mrs. Delacorte said, taking a sip of coffee, “though that could use some sprucing up, too.”

“I understand Naomi Collins is highly regarded in her field,” Liz said, playing as diplomatic as she could.

“Yes, she certainly is, and that's why I must own a piece of hers.” Mrs. Delacorte smiled. Her thin lips were outlined in a lipstick that looked almost orange. “I can't imagine where I'll hang it, but I want it. You know all the other ladies in town will want one, too.”

“Then Ms. Collins's show here will be quite the success,” Liz said.

“Any show here is a success. Any artist Roger takes under his wing becomes rich and famous. He's
brilliant
at spotting talent.” She smiled. “And of course, he does pretty well himself. It's about a fifty-fifty cut between artist and gallery, you know.”

“I wasn't aware of the percentage,” Liz replied.

Mrs. Delacorte stared off, not looking at Liz. “It's funny, you know, how successful Roger has become. He was always the wanderer, the ne'er-do-well in the family. Practically the black sheep.” Her blue eyes found Liz again. “Your David, on the other hand, was always the achiever. He was always putting Roger to shame. His parents despaired of Roger, always pointing to the shining example of David.”

Liz didn't know quite what to say. She just looked out into the hallway, hoping Roger would come back soon. “And then, all of a sudden, Roger's fortunes changed. He settled down, purchased this gallery, and the rest is history. Now every emerging artist begs to be shown at the Roger Huntington Gallery. Roger can make or break a career. He's in all the art journals. It's been quite amazing, the success and respect this little art gallery has brought him.”

“Well, I'm pleased to hear that.”

“Are you?” That eyebrow shot up again. “I'm surprised that David's wife would be wishing Roger well.” She sniffed. “I'm surprised David's new wife would be here in Roger's gallery at all.”

“Why is that? He's my brother-in-law.”

“Maybe you're too new to the family to know that the two brothers haven't always seen eye to eye.”

Liz stiffened. “I'm not sure I should be discussing family matters.”

Mrs. Delacorte smiled. “You say David is returning soon? We must have a party, welcoming you to Palm Beach. It's been ages since I've seen David. Not since that terrible business with the family yacht . . .” She seemed to appraise Liz. “How interesting that you're not like Dominique in the least bit.”

Liz's defenses flared up. No, she thought.
I'm not as polished or as sophisticated as Dominque. I won't fit in with your snooty society parties the way she did.
But before Liz had a chance to respond, Roger had returned, paperwork in hand, and placed it on the table beside Mrs. Delacorte to sign. Karl was with him, standing beside his boss with a ready pen.

“Liz, it's going to take me a while with Mrs. Delacorte,” Roger whispered, taking Liz aside.

“That's all right. I should be getting back to the house anyway.”

“If you can wait half an hour, I can drive you . . .”

“No, I'm just going to call a cab,” Liz said, taking out her cell phone.

“Oh, no, please let me drive you . . .”

She smiled. “There's no need. You've done so much for me today already. Thank you for everything, Roger.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positively. Go back to Mrs. Delacorte.” She smiled. “I can see she's a handful.”

He returned the smile. “You'll come to the opening?”

She sighed. “All right. I'll be here.”

Roger beamed. He kissed her on the forehead.

Liz headed out of the gallery, avoiding any further glances at the bizarre artwork on the walls. How she'd get through an entire opening party, walking around all night looking at that stuff, she wasn't sure. But she owed it to Roger.

She also wanted to show Palm Beach that there was harmony in the Huntington family.

If there had ever been bad blood between the two brothers, that was in the past. Liz would insist on that when David came home.

She needed Roger in her life.

Without him, she didn't think she'd last long at Huntington House.

T
he next morning, Liz awoke with a terrible cold. Her head throbbed, her nose was stuffed, and her throat felt as if someone had taken a knife to it. She blamed it on being caught in the rain and getting soaked to the bone the day before. Picking up the phone beside her bed, she rang the kitchen, asking Variola to send her up a pot of hot tea.

A short while later came a soft rapping at her door.

“Come in,” Liz rasped.

But instead of Variola or one of the maids, Liz saw it was Thad carrying in the tray of tea. “I'm sorry, ma'am,” he said, “but no one else was around . . .”

“Oh, thank you, Thad,” Liz said. “My throat is killing me.”

Thad looked terribly worried about her. He set the tray beside the bed and poured her some tea. Steam rose from the cup like an Indian smoke signal. Liz accepted the tea gratefully and took a tiny sip.

“What do you think ails you, ma'am?” Thad asked.

“I guess I caught a cold yesterday,” Liz replied. “I got caught in a rainstorm.”

“Awfully quick for a cold to set in, if that's the case,” Thad grumbled. “Drink your tea, ma'am. I hope it makes you feel better.”

Something seemed to be troubling Thad; Liz wasn't sure what it was. She gave him a smile as he left the room. She supposed it
was
a rather a fast onset if her cold indeed grew out of her rainstorm adventure yesterday, but no matter how she'd caught it, she was really suffering today. She sipped her tea again. It soothed her throat a little bit. She lay back against her pillows, closing her eyes, hoping the pounding in her head subsided.

She must have fallen asleep, for suddenly she opened her eyes. The light in the room was different, and the cold hard face of Mrs. Hoffman was looming over her.

“I'm terribly sorry to have to wake you, Mrs. Huntington,” the housekeeper was saying. “But Detective Foley is downstairs, wishing to see you.”

Liz tried to shake off the sleep and gather her wits. “Detective . . . Foley?”

“Yes, ma'am. I told him you weren't feeling well, but he asked that I inquire if you could just spare him ten minutes.”

“Yes,” Liz managed to say. Her throat was still sore, but her headache was gone. “I'll put on a robe and come downstairs.”

“Very well,” Mrs. Hoffman said, striding out of the room.

Liz stood, feeling a bit dizzy. Steadying herself against one of the posters of the canopy bed, she slipped into a large flannel robe. Despite the sun streaming in through the windows and the warm temperature of the room, Liz felt cold, and she took some comfort inside the flannel. She glanced at herself in the mirror and shuddered. She had no strength to make herself look more presentable to Detective Foley, but neither did she want to send him away. Perhaps he had more information about the deaths of Audra and Jamison. And if so, Liz wanted to hear what he had discovered.

Heading down the stairs, she passed the portrait of Dominique that dominated the landing, those great dark eyes staring down at her. Liz looked away, shivering under her robe.

Waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs was Variola, holding a steaming mug on a tray.

“More tea for me?” Liz asked.

Variola shook her head. “Not tea, ma'am. This is better. Variola's concoction for what ails you.”

Liz caught a whiff of the strong brew. A mix of coffee and spices, she thought. But also something else. Something bitter.

“Drink it, ma'am,” Variola told her. “It will make you better.”

Liz smiled. “More island witchcraft, I presume.”

“Indeed, ma'am. Brewed up by Variola in her cauldron.”

Liz lifted the mug by its handle and took a sip. It tasted like nothing she'd ever tasted before. Not coffee. Not even very spicy. But also not unpleasant. Thick, rich.

“Thank you, Variola,” Liz said.

“There is a man waiting for you in the parlor,” the chef told her.

Liz nodded. “Yes, I know. Detective Foley.”

“Drink, ma'am. It will make you strong.”

Liz clutched the mug with both hands as she entered the parlor. The police detective was seated on the divan, looking idly around the room. He stood when Liz entered.

“Detective Foley,” she said.

“I'm sorry to rouse you when you're not feeling well,” he told her.

“It's just a cold. How can I help you? Have you discovered anything new?”

She took a seat on the opposite divan. Foley sat back down.

“Nothing really new, Mrs. Huntington, I'm sorry to report. But I've been going over the reports with a fine-tooth comb. I wonder if I could ask you about a couple of other things.”

Liz took another sip of Variola's elixir. “By all means. Go ahead.”

“Do the names Jeanette Kelly or Tonesha Lewis mean anything to you?”

“No. Who are they?”

“Friends of Audra McKenzie.” Foley paused for the slightest moment. “Friends who went missing in the weeks after her murder.”

“Do you think there's a connection?”

“I have no idea.” Again that slight pause. “But I've learned to trust my hunches.”

“Did either of them have any connection to Huntington House?”

Foley shook his head. “I interviewed Mrs. Hoffman before you came down. She didn't recognize the names either. She said neither had ever worked here or, to her knowledge, ever been to Huntington House, though she couldn't say if either had ever visited Audra at any point while she was employed here.”

Liz clutched the mug in her hands, seeming to draw strength from it, just as Variola had promised. “They might still be alive.”

“They might be. But their families have had no contact from them in months.”

“That's terrible.”

“I only made the connection when I was going over our investigations of Audra's murder. I saw that we had interviewed Tonesha, who had spoken with Audra earlier on the night she was killed. The name sounded a bell for me, and sure enough, I had received a notice of a missing person with the same name from neighboring Broward County.”

“It seems too obvious to just be coincidental.”

“Perhaps.”

“But Detective Foley, you see, I've only been here a short time, as I've told you. I didn't know Audra. You're going to have to speak to my husband when he gets back—”

“I understand that, Mrs. Huntington. But it's the very fact of your newness here that makes me want to speak with you.”

“I don't understand.”

“Since arriving here, has anything seemed—oh, I don't know, curious? Strange? Has anyone seemed as if they might be keeping secrets from you?”

Liz was flabbergasted. How could she respond? Yes, indeed, all of that was true. But could she admit it all to a police officer? What would David think?

“Why . . . why do you ask?” was all Liz could manage to say.

“What do you know of your husband's first wife's death?”

“It was an accident. It had nothing to do with—”

“What do you know about the accident?”

“Just that it was on the yacht, and that she drowned . . .”

“Who was with her on the yacht?”

“I don't know . . . I believe she was alone.”

“Are you sure? Was your husband with her when the accident occurred?”

“No! I mean, I'm only going by what I've been told.”

“What
have
they told you about the accident?”

“Very little, actually.” Liz thought better of his question. “Who do you mean by ‘they'?”

“Any of them here. Mrs. Hoffman. Your husband.”

Liz stiffened, her hands tightening around the mug. “I don't think I should talk to you anymore until David has returned.”

“If that's what you wish,” said Detective Foley.

Liz felt a strange sort of panic growing in her stomach. “Surely, you can't think that Dominique's accident was in any way connected to the killings of Audra and Jamison?”

“My job is to ask questions, Mrs. Huntington.”

“But it was an accident! Mrs. Hoffman said that the doorbell rang and there was a Coast Guard officer at the door, telling her there'd been an accident.”

“And where was your husband at the time?”

“I . . . I don't know.”

“He's never spoken about where he was when he learned of his wife's death?”

Liz felt foolish. “No. He hasn't.” She began to tremble. “He doesn't like to speak of it. And I've never pressed him.”

Foley looked skeptical. “He's never told you about the inquest that followed her death, or about his testimony?”

Liz shook her head. “As I said, Detective, I don't think I should talk to you anymore until David is home.”

“All right.” He stood. “Well, I hope you're feeling better soon, Mrs. Huntington.”

Liz stood as well. “Actually,” she said, “I'm feeling much better.”

It was true. Her sore throat was gone. Her nose was no longer stuffed. She felt fine.

She looked down at Variola's potion in her hands. What was in it?

Liz walked Detective Foley to the front door. “You understand that I'm only trying to get to the bottom of these cases,” he said to her. “I'm not accusing or suspecting anyone at this point.”

“I understand,” she said. “You're only doing your job.”

He smiled at her.

Once he was gone, Liz turned. Mrs. Hoffman was standing across the foyer, staring at her, rock still. Liz stared right back. Neither woman said a word, and neither moved from their places for several moments. Their eyes burned holes into each other. Then Liz made her way across the room, climbing silently up the stairs, still clutching Variola's mug in her hands.