The Chase: A Novel

by Brenda Joyce

  He pursed his lips. “Actually, the net sum in that portfolio is forty-two thousand dollars.”

  Claire stared. Surely she had misheard.

  “Claire?” he asked softly.

  The comprehension crashed over her all at once. She stood. “Oh, God.” Their investments had been reduced to almost a bit more than her annual income—but less than one fifth of what David made. He had literally lost everything.

  “Are you okay?” Thorne was also standing.

  She was going to have to move. Soon. She could afford to live in their house for maybe two or three more months. Not that she wanted to live there now, but she had never dreamed she would have to sell out of necessity and under duress. The sooner she moved, the better, she realized with another stab of fear. So she would not deplete all the savings that she had left.

  Claire smiled brightly. “I’m fine, Jack,” she said with conviction, but it was an utter lie. “I’m a little surprised, but that’s all.” Her lifestyle would have to change as well. Immediately. But she could manage that. She had no intention of leaving the Humane Society to look for a better-paying job, even though she had a master’s in business administration; she would never give up the work that meant so much to her.

  “When you want to talk about it, you should give me a call,” Jack Thorne said. “I’d be more than happy to advise you, Claire, with no charge.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment,” Claire said. “But you must bill me for your time.” She held herself proudly. “I might just give our accountant a call.” She would have to plan a budget instantly.

  “You should do that,” Jack said. “As soon as possible.” He began packing up his briefcase. “I’m leaving a copy of the will and some other reports, including financial statements, here for you. They’re yours to keep.”

  “Great,” Claire said, the smile plastered on her face. She must not unravel now. After all, this was a low blow, but it was nothing compared to finding David on her terrace with his throat slashed about thirty-six hours ago.

  “I can find my way out,” Jack said.

  “I’ll walk you to the door.” Claire smiled firmly and marched him to the front door of the big house. Paintings of various sizes and value, representing hundreds of different schools, covered every inch of space in every room. Claire shook his hand and let him out. Suddenly she was aware of the art that surrounded her. She had never really paid attention to its value; now, she wondered if Jean-Léon had really meant for her to own the Courbet.

  Then she turned and walked back into the living room. She could never sell it. She refused to cry. Crying would not solve anything. But she couldn’t help wondering if her financial straits were, somehow, her just deserts for failing David in his time of need.

  It was cold and windy at the beach where the mourners had gathered to scatter David’s ashes. Claire stood between her father and the Dukes, foremost among the crowd. A cleric was speaking. Claire did not hear a word he said.

  Claire had worked hard to gather up her last reserves of strength. In the past few days, she had hired a broker, and as soon as word of David’s murder died down, the broker would put the house up for sale. Her entire life had changed, or at least it felt that way. It was as if she had stepped unknowingly across a huge divide—and there was no way back. David was gone. She would sell the house and move. Although she would continue to devote herself to her work at the Humane Society, Claire somehow felt as if she had changed fundamentally inside. She did not feel like the same person. She wondered if she would walk through the rest of her life carrying the huge burden of her guilt while hiding the little, intrusive knot of fear.

  And David’s killer still had to be brought to justice.

  If the police had any suspects, they were not revealing anything.

  A hundred somberly clad people—everyone bundled up in coats due to the weather—were listening to the cleric drone on about David’s exemplary life and God’s will. Most of the mourners had been at David’s birthday party, and the detective, Murphy, had also come to the service. David’s family had appeared—they lived in Atlanta—but his parents remained dry-eyed and aloof on the other side of the crowd. Occasionally one of his sisters dabbed her eyes with a tissue. Claire wondered if the murderer was actually present now.

  It was a horrible thought. Claire tried to tune in to the cleric, but again, it was so hard to understand what he was saying. He kept saying how wonderful David had been. A wonderful husband, a wonderful son, a wonderful partner to his associates.

  Claire closed her eyes. Clearly the cleric had not known David at all. He had been a decent husband, but he hadn’t had anything to do with his own family. Or maybe he hadn’t even been a decent husband—he had somehow lost almost all their savings, most of which had been inherited from Claire’s mother.

  She realized she had stiffened and her fists were clenched. The anger was trying to take her over again. She must not blame David. He hadn’t intended to lose their money. But she could be angry with the killer for what he had done.

  Claire tuned out the droning voice of the cleric. Elizabeth took her hand and whispered, “Just a few more minutes, dear.” Claire managed to smile at her.

  Elizabeth smiled back, but concern was reflected in her reddened eyes. She had also been crying. She had loved David, too.

  In spite of the wind, the day was blindingly bright. Claire wore sunglasses because she did not want anyone to see into her eyes and past her facade. That facade felt so incredibly fragile now, yet Claire was determined to cling to it with all of her power. She was determined to accept condolences, but she didn’t want people to tell her how sorry they were. She just wanted to go home—and find David’s killer.

  Except she had no home, not with her house currently under a police quarantine, and soon to have a FOR SALE sign in front of it.

  She was vaguely aware of William leaning between her and Elizabeth and whispering to her. “It’s almost over. Just a few more minutes, Claire.”

  Claire nodded at him, a small smile adhering to her face as if it had been sutured into place. Her mouth was beginning to ache.

  Claire suddenly noticed what the cleric was doing. He was approaching her. Panic filled her; he was holding the urn.

  He gave her a kind smile.

  I can’t do it, Claire thought wildly. David was in that urn, and she was supposed to scatter him across the bay? It was ridiculous, absurd—grotesque. As grotesque as finding him dead just minutes after she had been contemplating when and how to ask him for a divorce.

  The cleric handed her the urn.

  And a face in the crowd suddenly came into focus just to the left and behind the cleric’s black-garbed shoulder. Ian Marshall was staring at her. He was wearing aviator-style sunglasses with reflective lenses; still, his expression seemed grim, and there was no mistaking who he was.

  Claire realized she was holding the urn. She didn’t quite know how that had happened, but now her smile failed her. She stared at Ian, and her heart began a heavy beat inside her breast.

  Jean-Léon had her arm. Claire did not move.

  She had been flirting with Marshall upstairs while a killer had been cutting David’s throat. Claire had no doubt. David had been playing the piano when she had gone upstairs; when she had come back down, he had been gone.

  What had Marshall been doing upstairs in the first place?

  Suspicion and hostility consumed her.

  Claire stared at him. Her father was speaking into her ear, but she did not hear him. He had said he’d gone upstairs to use the toilet, because the one downstairs had been occupied. But there were two other bathrooms downstairs, as well as the powder room off the foyer. How could they all have been occupied?

  What had he been doing upstairs?

  It was wrong. Something was wrong with his explanation.

  Of course, he could not be the killer. The killer had been downstairs murdering David while Ian was upstairs, right?

  No, that was not nece
ssarily true. When she had gone downstairs, Ian was gone, and David had also been missing.

  “Claire?” Jean-Léon tugged on her arm. “Everyone’s waiting. Or should I do it?”

  Claire looked from Ian Marshall, whose stare was unremitting, to her father. She had only vaguely heard him, but she knew he wanted her to scatter David’s ashes. She nodded, allowing him to lead her across the sandy, pebbled stretch of headlands, and somehow they were walking over to the edge of the cliff.

  David had been cold and hostile to Marshall. They were not friends—that had been obvious. So Ian had lied to her when he had said, oh so calmly, that they were.

  Claire faced the swirling waters a hundred feet below. Now she was supposed to turn the urn upside down and scatter David’s ashes. Tears blinded her. The one last wave of grief and loss took her by surprise, washing over her richly, sickeningly. David was gone. The bay sparkled and glittered. Jesus. David was gone, reduced to a handful of gray ashes, and maybe, just maybe, Ian Marshall was somehow involved.

  She had to tell Murphy. Immediately.

  There were rocks on the beachhead below.

  Claire stared down at the water; she stared down at the rocks on the small strip of beach. She saw neither the sand nor the shore nor the rocks. Instead, she saw David sitting in the iron lawn chair with his body covered in blood. Then she saw Ian in her den, intruding when she had escaped there to be alone.

  Why had he wandered off and into the den, alone, when the party was confined to the living area and the terrace? None of the other guests had ventured around her house.

  Claire turned and looked over her shoulder, directly at his silver reflective lenses.

  “Should I scatter his ashes?” Jean-Léon asked. “Claire? Everyone’s waiting.”

  Claire focused. She wasn’t holding merely a pot of ashes; she was holding David. There had been a will, she had read it, and this was what he had wanted. Claire clutched the urn to her chest. She looked down. The water was so bright. The rocks, so big and jagged. And she thought, Good-bye. Goodbye, David.

  This is really good-bye.

  Claire stepped abruptly forward to the very edge of the cliff and turned the urn upside down. As she did so, it slipped and fell; David’s ashes lifted on the wind. Claire watched the urn crashing down onto the rocks below, finally shattering.

  She shivered as she watched a few last ashes drifting on currents of air.

  There was a pressure on her arm. Jean-Léon was guiding her back toward the crowd. People were approaching them. Claire sought the smile she had somehow lost minutes ago, managed to find it and drag it back into place. Instantly, her mouth hurt, aching from being held so long in one impossible position. Claire began accepting condolences, shaking hands.

  “So sorry . . .”

  “Claire, how terrible . . .”

  “In time . . .”

  The murmurs and gazes were being directed at her. Claire was surrounded now by strangers—she knew everyone but couldn’t recognize anyone. Voices and more voices, pity and more pity. She had become separated from her father, whom she saw on the other side of the crowd. Control. Now was not the time to unravel and lose control. Her smile became firmer. Yet there was a pressure in her chest that was uncomfortable and sickening, even frightening, and it would not go away. Almost desperate, she looked around for the Dukes and finally saw Elizabeth, who, being so tall, stood out. But she, too, was far away, with dozens of dark-suited men and women between them.

  “Terribly, terribly sorry . . .”

  “If there is anything we can do . . .”

  “We truly must tell you how sorry we are. . . .”

  Claire looked for Elizabeth. Across the crowd, their eyes met, and Elizabeth understood and began to weave through the mourners to come to her. It was then that Claire saw Marshall again.

  He had left the crowd of mourners and was waiting for cars to pass so he could cross the road and find his own vehicle. Anger sizzled inside of her. Why had he lied about being David’s friend? And just who the hell was he?

  Claire shoved into the crowd. Someone gasped her name; Claire ignored it. She thought she heard Elizabeth calling her, and then her father. Claire did not stop. Resolution filled her. It was a good feeling to have. It chased away the panic.

  Somehow she made it through the crowd and to the road, where the cars were double-parked up and down the far side, against the steeply sloping ridge of the headlands. Just as Claire reached the blacktop, she saw Ian Marshall, pausing before the door of a black sedan. Claire ran across the road—almost in front of an oncoming car.

  It swerved to avoid her, the driver honking angrily at her.

  “Claire!” Ian ran to her and grabbed her arm. He seemed pale, but surely not because of her close encounter.

  Claire shook him off abruptly. “We have to talk,” she said.

  “You have to be careful,” he began. “That car almost hit you!”

  “Hardly.” She looked at his black Mercedes. “I need a lift.” She started toward his car, feeling just how squared her shoulders were. Her short strides felt hard.

  He fell into step beside her. “Claire, are you all right? Maybe you should stay with your father. I’m sorry about David.” They paused beside the driver’s door of the sedan and faced each other. He slid off his sunglasses.

  “Are you?” She did not remove hers.

  He seemed startled. “Excuse me?”

  Claire felt herself flush. “I’m sorry. What I mean is, I need to ask you some questions, Ian.”

  His eyes had seemed soft with concern. Now they filled with a wariness she had seen once before—when David had stepped into the den and caught them there together. “What about?”

  “You said you were David’s friend. We’ve never met.”

  “I guess David and I were more business associates. What’s this about, Claire?”

  “You said very distinctly that you were his friend.”

  He stiffened. “It was just a way of speaking. Like, hey, how are you, nice to meet you—I’m a friend of David’s.”

  So she had been right, they weren’t friends. “What kind of business are you in? Are you a lawyer?”

  He hesitated. “No, I’m not.”

  Claire began to feel like he didn’t want to answer her questions. “What kind of business could you have had with David? And what do you do?”

  “He was advising me—in a kind of offhand and friendly way. As a favor to a mutual friend. And I told you what I do. I consult for firms doing business mostly in Europe and the Middle East.”

  Claire didn’t get it. “Consult how? On what?”

  “Look, Claire, I can see that you are feeling a bit upset right now—”

  “I’m not upset, I’m pissed,” she said, shocking herself.

  “Maybe we should give this conversation a rest for a few days. I could call you next week.”

  Claire didn’t really hear him. She was stunned. Had she just said that she was “pissed”? She didn’t even use that kind of language. Her heart was racing now. “What?”

  “You’re upset.” His tone was gentle. “As you should be. What happened to David was terrible. I can call you next week, when some of the shock has subsided.”

  She looked him in the eye—through the black lenses of her sunglasses. “You don’t want to answer my questions, do you?”

  He stared. “No. Not today. Not here. Not now.”

  Oddly, his answer made her feel savagely satisfied. He was hiding something.

  “Shall I give you a ride to your father’s?” he asked.

  As if she wanted to get into the car with him, when he refused to answer her questions, when he might somehow be involved in what had happened to David. “I’d like one of your cards. I’ll call you” she said.

  His eyes widened. “Okay,” he said, drawing out the single word. He reached into his breast pocket, then said, “I don’t seem to have my wallet, or my cards.”

  He was full of shit. He was lying.
What was going on?

  “I see,” Claire said, feeling her cheeks burning. She was going to speak with Murphy the minute she got back across the street.

  “Claire, what is this about? I can understand why you might be angry—but surely you’re not angry at me?”

  She smiled her socialite’s perfect smile. “Why would I be angry with you, Ian?”

  “I don’t know. We just met. In fact, I thought we hit it off rather well.” His gaze was searching.

  She felt triumphant for not having removed her sunglasses. “I am a married woman, Mr. Marshall,” she warned. Too late, she could have kicked herself, as she was a widow and the warning was certainly a giveaway that she knew he was not being straight with her. Besides, today he hadn’t made a pass. Today there was no chemistry.

  “What?”

  She corrected, “I mean, I’m a grieving widow.”

  “I am aware of that. Have I done or said something inappropriate? Because if I have, I am terribly sorry.”

  She wet her lips. She wanted to ask him if he had left the party the moment he had left her upstairs in the hall, or if he had lingered. But she did not. Murphy could ask him that.

  But did she really think him capable of murder?

  Claire wasn’t sure. She knew only that he was being highly evasive—he didn’t want to answer her questions, he had no business cards, he wanted to call her next week. She would not hold her breath. And she still didn’t know what he did for a living.

  But she could find out. David’s secretary, Geraldine, knew everything in David’s life, right down to the size of his shoes and suits.

  Ian suddenly touched her shoulder. Claire stood very still. “Things will get better, Claire. I mean, as far as David goes.”

  She stared, not responding.

  “Can I call you next week? To see how you are doing? As a friend,” he added quickly.

  They weren’t friends. They were strangers who had been attracted to each other briefly during a party. But that was before David had been murdered. “Of course.” She put on her smile again.