Secret Combinations (7 page)

The third floor had been set up as a studio. A large wooden easel, now empty, dominated the center of the room. An old wooden chest covered with tubes of oil paint sat off to one side. A white lab coat hung from a peg. A second room, adjacent to the studio, had been fitted out as a workshop for framing paintings. The air in the studio was stale and dusty; it had the melancholy air of disuse.

Returning to the second floor, Kenyon walked to the end of the hall; a loose floorboard let out a loud squeak as he opened the third door. This time he was lucky; it led to what was obviously Lydia's home office. It was a small room with wooden wainscoting and a Persian rug, dominated by a large oak desk and a pigeonhole shelf. A large window looked out onto the back alley.

Kenyon carried his netbook over to the desk. He noticed immediately that the office contained no home computer; it didn't even have a printer or a cable jack. Lydia's Filofax, a diary bound in black leather, was the only item resting upon the desk surface. He sat down in the desk chair and idly opened the daybook. The back flap was stuffed with business cards, phone numbers, and credit card receipts. He placed the diary into an empty slot in the pigeonhole shelf.

Kenyon spotted Lydia's American passport tucked into an adjacent pigeonhole. He flipped it open to study her photo. The color picture had been taken two years before, when Lydia had last renewed her passport. Her blond hair was longer, but her picture bore little resemblance to the oil portrait Kenyon had seen in O'Neill's office. Her expression was almost defiant; Kenyon wondered what she had been thinking that moment.

Just then, the phone rang. Startled, Kenyon picked it up. “What?”

“How-are-ya?” said Gonelli, in her thick New York accent.

“Great, Marge. I'm the proud owner of this big house in London. Man, the drapes alone are worth more than my car.”

“Sounds hoity-toity.”

“You bet. I hired this guy just to count the ashtrays.”

“Listen to the big-shot,” said Gonelli. “You'll never want to come home.”

“Are you kidding me? I miss you guys already.” It was true. Kenyon hadn't even spent a night here, and already he was homesick.

“We'll see,” said Gonelli. “You'll meet some rich cutie with a snooty accent and forget the bunch of us.”

“Don't count on it. Hey, I hear Dahg got sprung.”

“Yeah, but he ain't going far.”

“What about Deaver? How'd he take it?”

Kenyon could hear Marge spit a piece of cigar tobacco out of her mouth. “He's running around trying to make a case from the other end.”

“You mean, with Simon's killer?”

“Yeah. He's got the boys over at State Department trolling their files.”

“Find anything?”

“If he did, he ain't sharing it with me.”

Kenyon didn't like the sound of that. Deaver off on his own could cause a lot more trouble than he was worth. “Give my best to the gang, and tell them I'll be home soon.”

“Will do. And Jack? If you get the time, there's a little something I wouldn't mind you picking up.”

“A box of Cubana Havanas?”

“I luv ya, kiddo.”

“Talk to you later.”

Someone knocked on the door. “Mr. Kenyon, are you in there?”

“Yeah, come on in.”

DeWolfe stepped into the room and flipped open his notepad. “I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is that Lydia had an extensive and, I might say, desirable collection of art and antiques.”

“And the bad news?” asked Kenyon.

“Her taste was very eclectic. In order to properly liquidate her estate, it will require time and effort to identify all the best bidders.”

“That's a problem,” said Kenyon. “I don't have much time to fuss with all that stuff. I have to get back to San Francisco real quick.”

“With your permission, then, shall I begin to make some inquiries?”

“Good idea,” said Kenyon. “Let's grease this pig.”

DeWolfe's left eyebrow arched up in a bemused expression. “An excellent idea. Perhaps we could meet for dinner in a day or so?”

“Great,” said Kenyon. He stood up and escorted deWolfe down the staircase to the front door. “I'd love to hear more about Lydia, as well.”

“I would be delighted,” said deWolfe. “There are many amusing tales to tell.
Auf Wiedersehen
.”

Kenyon walked back into the living room. Through the bay window, he could hear the distant sound of traffic, but he felt no urge to go out and explore. He felt tired and jet-lagged, at loose ends.

He picked his jacket up off the couch and absently noted that it felt heavy. He suddenly remembered the
DVD
Tanya O'Neill had given him. He pulled the disc out of the jacket pocket and read the label;
Sisters of Mercy Charity Auction.

Kenyon went to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine, then went upstairs and plugged the disc into the player. Settling onto the bed, he pressed play on the remote.

A stately country mansion appeared on the screen. It was daylight, and expensive cars were pulling up to the front entrance. Several people dressed in formal evening gowns and tuxedos got out of a stretch limo, and the camera followed them up a set of wide marble steps into the house.

“Welcome to the ninth annual Sisters of Mercy Charity Auction,” announced the voice-over in a plummy
BBC
accent. “On behalf of our host, we are happy to invite you all to Ingoldsby Manor.”

The picture cut to a tall, striking woman. The title beneath her picture told the viewer that this was Mrs. Ilsa Ingoldsby-Legrand. The host was beautifully attired in a black velvet evening gown that clung to her slim hips. Her hair flowed down her back like a waterfall of gold. Kenyon guessed she was in her mid-fifties, but her skin was so white and smooth, it was almost alabaster. “We're so delighted with the turn-out tonight,” she said, in a low, husky voice. “We have a lovely selection of people from a wide variety of society, as well as from the performing arts.”

The camera cut to an enormous grand piano. A large, well-known tenor was singing an aria from
The Marriage of Figaro
. Curiously, no one was accompanying him on the piano.

As the announcer blathered on, the camera panned around the room, lingering on several of the items up for auction. Kenyon shook his head in wonder as he gazed at a small sheep floating in a tub of formaldehyde and a pair of mannequins with genitals molded to their foreheads.

The camera continued and the agent caught a glimpse of Tanya O'Neill. She was dressed in an emerald green ball gown that complemented her dark red hair. Beautiful, thought Kenyon.

Legrand passed through, dressed in a black tuxedo and carrying a brandy snifter. He glanced irritably at the camera before moving out of view.

Suddenly, Kenyon sat up in bed. He pressed the reverse button, and the picture swam backwards. There. Standing against a pillar, staring out into the distance, was Lydia. He pushed the frame-by-frame button, and the picture began to move slowly forward.

Lydia turned her gaze toward the camera. She wore a stunning red silk evening gown and a string of pearls, but the expression on her face was dark and full of foreboding.

The next day Kenyon woke
at mid-morning. He hadn't slept long—rolling over on his stitches had taken care of that—but the bed was firm and comfortable, and he felt refreshed. He arose and pulled back the curtains, letting light stream into the room. It was going to be a hot Saturday.

Kenyon went to the adjoining bathroom. The soap in the shower stall smelled of lavender. He had a quick shower and a shave, then dug a golf shirt and a pair of jeans from his luggage and got dressed.

The smell of frying sausage hit his nostrils as he walked downstairs. He paused on the stairwell for a moment, listening. He could hear the rattle of pots and pans in the kitchen. Cautiously, he inched down the stairs and advanced quietly to the entrance of the kitchen.

A woman was standing at the stove, her back to Kenyon, singing in Spanish. She was about forty, short and stout, with her hair dyed a brilliant red. She threw a dollop of butter into a frying pan, then cracked several eggs.

Kenyon advanced into the kitchen. “Hello?” he said.

The woman jumped in fright, then spun around, clutching a spatula to her ample bosom. “You scare me!”

“Sorry. What are you doing in my kitchen?”

The woman peered closely at him. “You Mister Yack Kenyon?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, Mister Yack.” She came over and gave him a big hug, her short arms barely reaching around Kenyon's chest. She started to cry.

Kenyon patted her on the back as she sniffled into his shirt. “Uh, it's okay,” he said. He reached across and pulled a section off a roll of paper towels and offered it to her. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

The woman blew her nose in the towel. “No, no. I cry for Miss Lydia.”

Kenyon suddenly understood. “You're the housekeeper?”

The woman beamed. “Ya. I am Señora Santucci.” Kenyon held out his hand, but the woman hugged him again. “I am so sorry for your auntie.”

“Thank you.” Kenyon glanced at the stove, which was beginning to smoke. “Is something burning?”

Señora Santucci quickly turned and removed the frying pan. “You hungry? See—I make you breakfast.”

Kenyon's stomach growled in appreciation. “Thanks, I'd love some.” He glanced around the room. “You brew any coffee, Señora Santucci?”

She removed a carafe from an automatic brewer and poured him a cup. “Si. Cream?”

Kenyon held up a hand. “Black is fine.”

“Good. You sit, and I make big meal.”

Kenyon sat down in the nook and watched the housekeeper bustle around the kitchen. Within minutes, she had a steaming plate of sausage and eggs on toast set before him. Kenyon avidly dug in with his knife and fork. “This is great.”

“You like? Good. Then you keep Rosita as housekeeper, no?”

“I'd be happy to, until I leave, anyway.”

Santucci's smile faded. “You no stay?

“I've got a job in San Francisco. I have to go back.”

“I see.” The woman wiped her hands in her apron and turned back to the stove.

Kenyon stopped eating. He suddenly realized that, in effect, he was now Señora Santucci's employer, and it was up to him to decide her future. He didn't know what to say. “How long did you work for Lydia?” he finally asked.

“Four years.”

“Where did you work before that?”

“Ingoldsby Manor.”

“You worked for Ilsa?”

Santucci sat down at the nook table, across from Kenyon. “I no want to, but I have a bad husband. He has the hot Italian blood. He get drunk and beat me, so I go away and work in the country.”

“What was Ilsa like?”

“She very bad. She say, ‘You do what I want, or I send you back to your husband.' I am so worried, my hair fall out.”

Kenyon shook his head in sympathy. “That's awful.”

Santucci nodded. “One day, your auntie, she come to the Manor, she see me sad. She say, ‘Why you cry?' I tell her, my mistress is bad.”

Kenyon was intrigued. “What did she do?”

“Miss Lydia give me a job and a place to stay that very day. She very sweet, like an auntie to me.”

Kenyon stared down at his unfinished eggs. “You don't have to go back to your husband, if you don't want to.”

Santucci crossed herself. “He is dead.”

“Well, I guess that's good,” said Kenyon. “Listen, I'll talk to Tanya. I'm sure there's someone who needs an excellent housekeeper like you.”

The woman stood up and began to clear up the pots and pans. “You are very kind, Mister Yack, but don't you worry about me,” she replied. “I be okay.”

Kenyon picked up his coffee and left Santucci to the dishes. He wandered down the hall and stood in the living room, staring out the large bay window. He had only been thinking of the physical assets; he hadn't considered the people in Lydia's life. How the hell was he supposed to deal with all of that?

His thoughts were broken by a phone ringing. He looked around the room; a cream-colored desk set sat atop a sideboard. He put down his coffee cup and picked it up. “Hello?”

“Hullo. This is Charles Strand from the Morgan dealership calling about your motor car.”

“What car?”

“The Plus 8. Have you decided what you want to do with it?”

It took a few minutes, but Kenyon finally got the story from the car dealer. Lydia had owned a Morgan sports car, the one she had been killed in. The wreck had been towed back to the dealership and they needed a decision about whether to repair or scrap it.

“How far are you from Herringbone Gardens?” Kenyon asked.

“About four streets south,” replied Strand.

Kenyon got directions from the manager. “I'll be along in a few minutes.”

The agent walked south until he came to Old Brompton Road. The road was lined with shops; customers bustled in and out of the florists, wine merchants, and bakeries as they did their Saturday morning shopping.

The Morgan dealership was located on a cobbled alleyway off the main road in what would have been a row of stables a century before. The barn doors had been replaced by modern glass windows, and the interior remodeled into a showroom.

Kenyon glanced through the windows. Six Morgans sat in the showroom, their paint gleaming in the morning light. They were all convertibles with a design from the 1940s, with long hoods, flaring wheel wells and large, bulging headlamps. Kenyon pictured Lydia in her fluffy pink slippers, puttering around the countryside at thirty miles per hour.

As Kenyon entered, a short, fat man with a monk's fringe of hair stepped from behind a desk. “Can I help you?”

“I'm Jack Kenyon. I just had a call from Charles Strand.”