Unpacking could wait.
Loosening his tie, he strode through the expensively furnished, agreeably sparse living room, past long, sleek black leather couches, to the wall of windows and its million-dollar view.
But the dazzling Manhattanscape did not register. City lights were not on Sonny's mind as he headed to the desk facing the windows, on which his Packard Bell computer hummed ever so quietly.
Remaining standing, he clicked on the monitor, and with one finger tapped in his password on the keyboard.
First, he checked his E-mail. Nothing noteworthy there.
Next, he took a look at the faxes. Two had come in, nothing of interest there either.
Then he pulled out his sleek chrome and leather desk chair, and sat down and quickly typed out an E-mail message:
Greetings, most honorable fifth cousin twice removed . . .
He summed up the success of his mission in Mexico. When he was finished, he concluded with the traditional closure:
May the gods of fortune attend you. Your dutiful fifth cousin twice removed.
Sonny converted the words into code, then accessed the Internet and sent it to Hong Kong via the usual convoluted, untraceable maze of routes and reroutes.
37
Gloria Winslow's limousine was so hushed and smooth it seemed to float on a cushion of air. Indeed, if she hadn't been looking out the windows she'd hardly have noticed that they were already on the off ramp at the Black Mountain-Hayne Road exit.
No, that was stretching it, she thought, the corners of her mouth mimicking her displeasure. In fact, it was stretching it a lot.
The truth was, she knew every mile, every curve, every bump of this loathsome drive; had it memorized to the point where she could have pinpointed her exact location blindfolded.
A familiar tightness suddenly swelled her throat. Damn. It never failed. This turnoff did it every time.
Slumping back into her seat, Gloria shut her eyes against the passing scenery as the limousine turned left and surged north along Skyline Boulevard. The familiarity of these surroundings grated, provoked memory's video to replay too many other such trips, none of them pleasant.
Lunching with Althea in town was punishing enough. But driving down here, to snooty Hillsborough and that monstrosity of an estate that, in the time-honored tradition of the ego-driven robber barons, the first Huntington Netherland Winslow had built to reflect his glory—and blatantly remind everyone else of their lower, more worthless stations in life—was sheer torture.
But what really rankled was the way the old lady managed to fill each of the hundred-odd rooms with her presence. As if the mansion and its surroundings somehow magnified the potent brew of wealth, power, and position that pumped through Althea's veins.
Eyes still shut, Gloria felt the big car slow, make a right turn, then roll to a brief stop.
The tightness inside her ratcheted up a notch. She didn't have to open her eyes to know where she was. She could see it even with her eyes closed. The big main gate with its piers surmounted by majestic stone lions.
And beyond it, another world.
Cascades. Rival of Biltmore, San Simeon, and Marble House. But with one notable exception. It was still in private hands. The great unwashed public had yet to tromp through its manicured gardens and treasure-filled halls. Nor would they, so long as Althea was alive.
There was a sour kind of smile on Gloria's lips as she thought about the name. Cascades. Fitting for the turn of the century, perhaps, when the quarter mile of cascading pools for which it had been named could spout and guzzle water with conspicuous impunity. But times had changed, and the cascades were dry. California's chronic water shortage had seen to that.
The limousine began to creep forward. The electronic eye of the video camera had granted access. Gloria could visualize the gate sweeping open left and right.
A quarter of a mile ahead, at the end of a shady, sun-dappled allée of copper beeches, was the House.
Only outsiders called it by its name. Within the family and its highly select orbit of the very rich and famous, it was always referred to as 'the House.' Never Cascades, or the Mansion, or the Big House, but simply 'the House'—as if the use of that term brushed aside all other houses as beneath contempt.
The drive was white gravel, and popped gently beneath the tires. As one approached, the House grew steadily in size until the car finally surged out from under the tunnel of beeches and swerved neatly around the circular drive with the huge dry fountain in its center.
Gloria sighed and opened her eyes. As usual, the drive was empty of other vehicles. That was par for the course. Althea insisted that all cars be promptly garaged, as if their presence were an unforgivable blight, and might somehow taint the House.
Gloria's chauffeur got out, came around, and opened the rear door. She glanced up at his outstretched hand and ignored it. She didn't need his help getting out. Hell, no. For once, she was stone cold sober. Well, not Breathalyzer sober, but as sober as she'd been in years.
She had Christos to thank for that. Since meeting him, she hadn't needed to drink nearly as much. Just a maintenance shot every now and then . . .
Stepping out of the car, Gloria paused to take in the House. It was amazingly symmetrical. Like a drawing you could fold exactly in half.
The limestone walls were voluptuously carved, a blowzy riot of Second Empire quoins, pediments, and cartouches. All crowned by a hipped mansard roof and acres of verdigris copper, elaborate dormers, and fanciful chimneys. Grandiose stone steps curved up to the main entrance, and pedestaled urns overflowing with fuchsias lined the balustraded front terrace.
It was the kind of place only pre-income-tax dollars could have built. And only someone beyond ordinary wealth, like Althea Magdalena Netherland Winslow, could afford to maintain it.
Gloria squared her shoulders, then marched briskly up the wide, sweeping stone steps. To her, the House had never presented a blank facade. On the contrary. Even after all these years, she still couldn't throw the impression that its French doors and windows were like so many hooded eyes constantly on the alert for any transgressions she might commit.
Of course, she knew it was ridiculous. But she couldn't help it. It was just one of those things.
Before she could push the chimes, the great front door opened and a different butler from the one in town greeted her respectfully.
'Mrs. Winslow,' he murmured, in appropriately sepulchral tones. Ushering her in, he shut the door soundlessly behind her. 'Mrs. Althea is expecting you. She's in the rose garden.'
Gloria employed a smile. 'Thank you, Withams. I can find my own way.'
'Very well, madam. I'm told lunch shall be al fresco . . .'
He cleared his throat in that discreet way that only the very best trained butlers seem to know exactly how to employ.
'If you'd like to freshen up a bit first . . . ?'
Gloria instantly warmed to his suggestion. 'Why, what a marvelous idea! Yes, Withams. I believe I'll do just that!'
And changing directions, she sailed across the vast reception hall and made a beeline for the powder room door, set between a pair of monumental, ormolu-mounted commodes, not noticing the matched William Kent mirrors that had cost a king's ransom, blind to the two little Canaletto's of Venice resting on tabletop easels. Althea's latest acquisitions made absolutely no impression on Gloria as she hurried into the powder room and swiftly locked the door. She had a far more pressing matter at hand.
Like getting out her flask. Unscrewing the lid. Throwing back her head and taking a long, thirsty swig.
The muscles of her long, thin neck worked overtime to swallow, so ferocious was her need. She could feel her trusty old friend, vodka, that magic elixir to oblivion, burn down the length of her throat. Greedily she drank, more and more—when suddenly it exploded in her stomach like a bomb.
The agony was indescribable. She was literally doubled over and gasping. Beads of sweat popped out on her forehead, and for one
long, terrible moment she thought she was going to be sick.
Fighting it, she panted and clenched her teeth. Gripped the marble vanity so fiercely she might have been trying to reduce it to dust.
Oh, Christ! she thought, wrapping an arm around her middle. Oh, sweet baby Jesus! I'm really going to have to start watching it.
But that was easier said than done, and no one knew that better than Gloria. The trouble was, she had no way of gauging how much it was going to take to numb her against reality—the least little sip or the whole damn bottle.
With shaking fingers she struggled to screw the cap back on the flask. Now the very touch of the container was enough to bring on another wave of nausea. Swiftly she thrust it back in her purse, out of sight and—
Blink!
The sick feeling was gone and the edges of reality blurred.
Ah, surcease . . . sweet, sweet surcease, she thought, eyeing herself in the giltwood mirror as she dabbed moisture from her brow with a cotton ball.
What a difference a drink makes.
The narcotizing effect didn't make visiting Toad Hall a picnic, exactly. Nothing could do that. However, it did lessen the unpleasantness; made setting foot here infinitely less painful. Marginally bearable even. But most important, it imbued her with courage and lent her an aura of supreme confidence.
She thought: At least now I can face the old dragon—without being eaten alive!
Gloria waited until the color returned to her face. Then, popping a breath mint in her mouth, she swept grandly out of the powder room. Fortified, self-assured, and game: her heels clicked fearlessly on shiny parquet as she cut through pale, high-ceilinged rooms rich with auction room plunder. Salon, hallway, music room, library. She let herself out through a pair of imposing French doors.
The rear terrace was twice again as broad as the one up front. A formation of lemon standards, heavily laden with fruit, marched decoratively along the balustrade.
But Gloria did not notice the fragrant hybrids. As always, her eye was involuntarily drawn to the gentle incline beyond, where the uphill swath of lawn, plump specimen trees, and clipped topiaries was rent in half, as if through some violent tectonic upheaval, by a dry limestone channel.
But nature had no hand in forming this blight. It was entirely man- made—the erstwhile cascade down which water had once rushed, and for which the House had been so grandiosely named.
Now it was a quarrylike blight, a stony scar that stretched, like a graduated ramp, to the top of the grassy rise.
Closer in, and to either side of the channel, was a parterre as formal as any to be found at a French chateau. Each was an exacting geometric pattern, with radiating gravel paths and triangular beds planted with floral color, all within a border of perfectly manicured, foot-high hedges.
The one on the left was planted with annuals, the one on the right with roses.
There was Althea. Seated in the very epicenter of the rose parterre some sixty feet distant. As slender, relaxed, and elegantly posed as a portrait by Boldini. Dressed for outdoors in a wide-brimmed straw hat and layered, long, soft green silk.
Everything matched. The jacket with big bold buttons. The even longer silk organza tunic underneath. The very loose, pajamalike pants beneath that. Even her low-heeled shoes. Only Althea's Hermes scarf, loosely knotted, made a palette of color around her neck.
She was facing away from Gloria, seated on that most unusual of wingback armchairs, one of a pair of magnificent overscaled fauteuils a oreilles, museum pieces that had never been intended for outdoor use, but which had been carried outside all the same. If she was aware of Gloria's arrival, she didn't let on, but kept stroking Violetta, who was curled on her lap. The other two Pekingese sunned themselves on peach velvet tabourets, as languid and superior as cats. In one of the gravel beds a round, linen-draped table had been laid for two, with a pair of upholstered, beechwood chaises a la reine.
Althea was instructing two gardeners. Both wore gloves and wielded wicked-looking shears. As Althea would point, they would snip the selected rose, which had to be at the very peak of its bloom, not a single day more or a single day less. Then it was brought to her and held this way and that so that she might inspect it thoroughly, either approving it with a nod or relegating it to mulch with a flick of her wrist.
Well, here goes, Gloria thought. Might as well greet the old dragon. See what complaints she's got now.
Althea sensed Gloria's approach and dismissed the gardeners. One picked up the basket containing the choicest blooms and headed toward the House. The other took the larger basket, obviously throwaways, and lugged it off to the compost pile.
Gloria was still several steps away when Althea turned her head and studied her in one long, sharp-eyed gaze. Her face betrayed neither approval nor disapproval.
'My dear child.' Althea turned a cheek to be kissed. 'You are almost on time.'
Gloria ignored the rebuke. Thank God I popped into the powder room, she thought. Without fortification, I'd never be able to hold my tongue.
'Hello, Mother Winslow,' she said.
'You look different,' the old lady observed keenly. 'You must be taking better care of yourself.'
Gloria let that one slide, too. She was wondering how long she could last before she needed another swig. Trust a mother-in-law, she thought wearily. She'll drive you to drink every time.
Althea indicated the facing fauteuil. 'Do sit, my dear.'
Gloria obediently sat down. She looked around. 'The roses are lovely, Mother Winslow.'
'Yes, some of them have turned out rather well,' Althea allowed. 'Take the pink Konigin von Danemark there, and that violet Cardinal de Richelieu over there.' She gestured. 'They are particularly splendid.' Then her lips turned down in a frown. 'But the Maiden's Blush and the white Madame Hardy are disappointing this year. And as for these new, repeat-blooming cultivars'—she threw up both hands—'never again! The blooms and fragrance have been sacrificed for sheer quantity. But then, isn't that the way with everything these days? Take apples, for example: so succulent and promising on the outside. So tasteless and mealy on the inside.'
Gloria nodded, then frowned. 'But isn't it a little early for roses? I thought they only bloomed in summer.'
'That's because you're from back East,' Althea reminded her crisply. 'You forget: out here we have two growing seasons.'
'Yes, but I thought that was just for vegetables. And annuals.'
'Usually it is.' The old lady smiled ever so slightly. 'But that's why I have two hothouses—to keep one cold. It permits me to play with the seasons.'
How like Althea, Gloria couldn't help thinking. Fiddling with the climate as if she's God.
A servant came to inquire if he could get them anything.
'Mineral water,' Gloria said, knowing she'd be limited to a single glass of wine. And I'd better save that for later, when I really need it.
Just to be perverse, she added sweetly: 'Could you make that Apollonaris, by any chance?'
'I'm sorry, ma'am. There's Perrier, San Pellegrino, Evian, Naya, Calistoga, and club soda.'
'Pellegrino, then.'
'And I'll have wine, Henry,' Althea said. 'Mondavi Cabernet. The '91 Reserve to go with lunch.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
Gloria opened her purse and took out her gold lighter and brushed gold cigarette case. Then she remembered herself.
'You don't mind, Mother Winslow, do you? Seeing as we're out of doors?'
Althea looked put upon. 'Well, I'd really rather you didn't.' She sighed. 'However, if you must . . . '
'Thanks.'
Gloria snapped open the box, took out a cigarette, and clicked her lighter. She drew the smoke deeply into her lungs, tilted her head back, and exhaled an extravagant plume. She took another quick puff and then waved her cigarette hand in the air, as if casting an arcane spell with a swirl of smoke as she indicated the nearby cascades.
'Have you ever thought of having that dug out and filled in?'
; Althea looked at her through hooded eyes, then followed her hand to the limestone channel. 'As a matter of fact, I have considered it.' She nodded. 'Yes.'
Gloria drew on her cigarette. 'But you decided against it?'
The older woman shook her head. 'Not at all. As a matter of fact, I didn't make up my mind either way. Neither for demolition, nor against it.'
Gloria looked at her. 'Now I think you've lost me.'
Althea was silent for a moment. 'My great-grandfather bought this land,' she said, her voice echoing with pride.
Gloria nodded. 'I know that.'
'He built this house and constructed those cascades. Everything you see on these thousand acres is his legacy. He moved entire hills . . . some say mountains.'
Gloria nodded again. 'I know that too, Mother Winslow,' she said.
The old lady sat erect and regal, a symbol of everything the House, its grounds, and the power of the Winslows stood for. Even Violetta, curled on her lap, took this moment to raise her head, seemingly to mirror her mistress's pride, the silken chin with the overbred underbite jutting out with superior disdain.
Damn dog! Gloria felt the overwhelming urge to strangle the furry bitch. God, but she hated those pekes!
'It's peculiar,' Althea murmured, 'how those cascades seem to sum up everything that is gone and passé and frivolous.' She stared over at them. 'Yet at the same time, demolition seems almost . . . well, sacrilegious.'
She gave a dry little laugh and drew her eyes back in.
'I'm afraid it's rather difficult to explain,' she said.
Gloria nodded silently. It sounded like a lot of hogwash, yet on a strange, subliminal level, she understood perfectly. That was one advantage of coming from a branchless tree. If you couldn't trace your own roots, you had an envious appreciation of those who could.
'It's all about continuity, you see,' her mother-in-law continued. 'Heritage. Family. History. Who knows?' She shrugged. 'Maybe I'm just a sentimental old fool.'
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