by Brenda Joyce
His smile faded. “Where are you going, Claire? And when did this happen?”
She hesitated. “I’m off to the Big Apple.” Another pause. “With Ian Marshall.”
Surprise filled her father’s eyes. He stood up. “What?”
Claire repeated herself.
“I don’t understand. What is going on? We spoke about Marshall the day of David’s funeral. We agreed he is a suspicious character. We agreed that you should stay away from him.”
Claire felt like a child being chastised for a childhood crime. “Ian Marshall is a Nazi hunter, Dad. And he’s chasing David’s killer. I intend to help.”
“You what?” Jean-Léon seemed genuinely shocked and out of his depth for the first time that Claire could ever recall.
“Dad, I’m an adult now. A pretty successful one. If something was wrong, you’d share it with me, wouldn’t you?” Her unease escalated suddenly.
Her father’s eyes changed. They became very watchful. “What are you trying to say, Claire?” His tone wasn’t fatherly now.
Claire had become impossibly tense. “Is there any chance that Robert is alive?”
He blinked. His eyes reminded her of an owl’s. The watchful hunter, waiting for the innocent prey to become unaware, just for an instant. “Who?”
“Robert. My uncle. Your brother.”
Her father seemed absolutely shocked—and bewildered—by her question. “What? Claire, my brother died in 1944! In France! He was on a mission for the Resistance! What the hell is going on?”
Claire felt utter relief. There was no doubt in her mind that Robert Ducasse was dead. “Nothing,” she whispered, sitting down in one of the bergères in front of Jean-Léon’s desk.
Jean-Léon strode around it. “I don’t like this. Why are you going to New York with Marshall? Did you know that he was here today, asking me all kinds of questions?”
Claire nodded. “Yeah, I know.”
“You do?” He seemed briefly surprised.
“Yeah. Look, Dad. It seems like David was blackmailing someone who once spied for the Germans during the war. And he got himself killed for his efforts. There’s a killer on the loose, and I am going to help Marshall catch him.”
“Are you insane?” her father shouted at her.
Claire was stunned. Her father never raised his voice—and now he was yelling. “I hope not.”
“Claire, I do not want you involved with this man.”
She felt disturbed all over again. “Why not?”
“Why not? It’s dangerous, that’s why not. You’re not a policewoman. You’re my daughter. And something’s wrong with Marshall. I don’t like him. I don’t trust him. I do not want you involved, not with him—not with any of this farfetched Nazi nonsense.”
Claire got to her feet. “I’m a grown woman, Dad. You can’t order me around.” She kept her tone gentle, amazed with herself. She was arguing with her father. She never argued with him. For most of her life, she had wanted to please him.
His eyes popped. “I am not ordering you around. When have I ever ordered you around? But you are not thinking clearly. Use your head, Claire. Ian Marshall is a stranger, and this is a dangerous situation. David is dead, Claire. Dear God, I don’t want you to get hurt.”
The guilt almost overcame her. “I have to do this, Dad. I have to find David’s killer. I just have to. Please try to understand.”
“Why?” he asked.
Claire stared. “I don’t know why.” But she thought about the fact that Ian was after William Duke—and Robert Ducasse.
Who was dead, of course.
Then her mind wanted to go forward, and she stared at her father and refused to allow it to make the next obvious step, leap to the next obvious conclusion. She just could not.
What is it that you really want to ask me, Claire? Ian had asked.
“What is it, Claire?” Jean-Léon asked so softly that had a pin dropped, they both would have heard it.
“I have to go.” She turned almost blindly.
“No, Claire,” he said firmly, sternly. It was the voice of authority, and it halted Claire in her tracks, halfway to the door. “You are not going to New York.”
She squared her shoulders but did not turn. “I’m sorry, Dad. I have to go.”
Claire arrived at the United gate with a carry-on and her purse. She had run home, thrown some clothes haphazardly into a small garment bag, and grabbed a few toiletries. At the last minute, because Elgin hailed from the U.K., she took her passport as well. She’d given her father’s housekeeper instructions for Jilly’s care while in her car and racing to the airport.
They had just begun the boarding process. Claire saw Ian from behind, walking up to the attendant at the gate to the jetway, clad in tan trousers and his black single-breasted jacket. Clearly he had a first-class ticket, and so did she. She could not afford it, but the flight had been sold out in coach and there hadn’t been any choice.
Claire grew nervous in spite of herself. Maybe Jean-Léon was right. Maybe she was crazy. Ian did not want her help, and she could go home, reorganize her life, move to Mill Valley, and pretend that she had never spoken with Ian Marshall. She could forget all about Lionel Elgin and let the police, the FBI, Scotland Yard, and Ian Marshall do their jobs. And she could hope for the best.
But Claire was afraid. It would be like ignoring a bad leak in the kitchen and hoping it would one day go away. When instead, the probability was, it might soon produce a flood, sweeping away the floor, the house, and her life.
What if Jean-Léon was protecting his brother? Or worse?
Claire bit her lip. “Ian!”
He had been showing his boarding pass to the attendant. Slowly, he turned to face her.
Claire smiled at him. Perfectly. It was no easy task, because she knew he hated the particular expression, and because she was so worried. She could no longer believe her father implicitly. But she could not understand why.
Ian’s eyes widened, and then he began to flush, and Claire knew it was a sign of anger.
Claire stiffened as he strode over to her, forgetting about boarding their flight. “What is this?” he demanded.
Claire put down her carry-on and dug her boarding pass out of her purse. “Gee. We’re on the same flight. Same class, too. Oh my God! Are we sitting together?”
“This is not funny,” he ground out.
Claire lost the smile. “No, it’s not.” She felt a huge groundswell of fear rising up, engulfing her, choking her. “I told you,” she said quietly, “I’m your partner, Ian. And I don’t care if you don’t like me, I only care about doing what must be done.”
“You can’t help,” he said tightly. “You can only slow me down!”
Claire shook her head. “What if Robert Ducasse is alive?” she whispered, and to her horror, she heard how broken her tone sounded. Broken and fragile and pitiful.
Ian didn’t comment, but then, what could he have said?
Claire bit her lip again. Her heart was drumming so fast and furiously in her chest that she felt faint.
She mustn’t do this. Mustn’t go there. She must not. But she had to give voice to her worst unspoken suspicion. “You suspect Jean-Léon,” she said flatly. And slowly, she looked up.
The answer was in his eyes. “Yes, I do,” he said.
She felt dizzy and faint. She had known this from the beginning of their discussion about possible suspects, but somehow, she had blocked out the inkling. She could bear David’s murder and the guilt for their failed marriage and whatever part in his death she was responsible for. But she could not bear this new, incomprehensible, unthinkable burden. She just wasn’t strong enough.
He put down his garment bag and took her by both upper arms. “Claire.”
Claire stared, meeting the depths of his green eyes. His hands were very large and very strong, and she felt their warmth through the rolled-up sleeves of her jersey shirtdress. Claire shivered, but his grip was not unpleasant, and she knew what i
t meant.
“Claire, this is the real reason you should not be involved. Clearly you know that. You can’t help. In case Elgin is Jean-Léon.”
She shook her head. It suddenly struck her that she had told her father what Ian was doing; that she had told him too much. But no, it would be too much only if he were a traitor and a killer. That was impossible, wasn’t it? “Don’t be angry,” she whispered, not looking away. “Please don’t be angry now. I can’t bear it.”
“Don’t.” His hands tightened. “I’m a sucker for a helpless female, don’t.”
She swallowed. Thank God he had four younger sisters. “I told him.”
His hands tightened again. “What?”
“I had to know if Robert was alive or not!”
Ian released her, appearing disbelieving. “I trusted you!”
“I’m sorry,” she said and meant it.
He whirled away, then turned back. “And? What happened?”
“At the time”—she swallowed hard—”I believed him. He seemed stunned that anyone would think Robert was still alive. I am so sorry, Ian. I’m not a woman who betrays any confidence.”
“Did you mention me?” Ian asked abruptly.
Claire nodded. “I told him I was going to New York with you.”
“What! Jesus! Claire, how could you? Don’t you get it? A killer is at large. A ruthless killer—a sociopath—someone who will do whatever he has to. Elgin intends to win what is, to him, a game. You’ve put yourself in real danger, Claire,” he added tersely. “Frankly, that is untenable, as far as I am concerned.”
“First of all, if, and it’s almost an impossibility, if Jean-Léon is Elgin, I don’t believe for a second that he killed my husband or anyone else. My father would never hurt me!”
“Go home, Claire,” Ian said tightly. “You’ve done enough. Go home, pack your stuff, move into your new place, and go back to raising money for kids and dogs. You do it well. It’s what you should be doing. They need you. Go back to your life and let me and the authorities take care of Elgin.”
He was right. She had betrayed him, but she was in this now. “I can’t,” she said plaintively. “I cannot.”
“Oh, yes you can.” He was firm.
The new Claire rose up quickly, taking over once more and chasing the frightened and vulnerable Claire far away—at least for now. “No, Ian.” Her tone was every bit as resolute as his. “From now on, I am sticking to you like glue. Not rubber glue, not nail glue, not the kiddie roll-on kind. From now on, until this is over, I am Krazy Glue. Do you got that?”
He looked at her, and a long moment passed in which Claire felt her cheeks heat. Had she really said that? Then he rolled his eyes, perhaps toward God in prayer, and he walked away, past the attendant and onto the ramp leading to the Boeing 747 destined for New York City.
Claire picked up her bags and she followed. She was, oddly enough, exhilarated. Until she remembered what was at stake.
CHAPTER 5
“Nice digs,” Claire said. It was two in the morning, New York time.
Ian did not answer, turning on more lights. They had actually been in the same row on the transcontinental flight, but on opposite sides of the aircraft. Ian had slept the entire flight. Claire had spent most of her time pretending to watch movies while watching him.
He had not been talkative in the taxi on the way into Manhattan, either. The ride was only forty minutes, and Claire had actually fallen asleep.
Now she looked around. His building, on Eightieth and Third, seemed very new. The doorman had been ingratiating, the lobby high-ceilinged and magnificent. Ian’s apartment was on the twenty-fourth floor with catty-corner views of the city south and west. It could have been a model apartment for the aspiring big-city Cosmo bachelor-of-the-month. The furnishings were very Ralph Lauren—a combination of leather, tweed, and fabric, all rustic and new, in contrasting solids and prints. She wondered if he had a maid. It was as neat as a whistle.
“Spend a lot of time at home?” Claire asked sweetly, for the first time wondering if he had a girlfriend. Maybe she did the cleaning—and the laundry.
He ignored the comment, walking across the living area and throwing open a door. He hit a wall switch. “Guest room. Good night.”
Claire folded her arms across her chest. “Aren’t you hungry?”
He did not look at her. “Kitchen’s right there.” She could see it; it had no door. “Help yourself.”
She wondered if he would punish her for days, weeks, forever. Claire walked over to a cast-iron bookcase. There were lots of books—all, she saw, on World War II, European history, and the Holocaust. There were also several photographs of pretty women who looked like Ian, two of whom had handsome husbands and cute kids. There was a photograph of a middle-aged woman with gray hair and dimples. Claire picked it up. “Is this your mother?”
“Yes.”
There was no picture of his father, she realized as she put it down and turned. “Did you sleep well on the flight?”
He stared at her. “What do you want, Claire? You’re like a kid desperate for attention. Do you really want my attention in the middle of the night in the middle of my apartment with the two of us alone?”
She straightened. She was breathless. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re a pretty woman, and I’m a normal guy, and we’re here alone.” He smiled. It was tight and humorless.
“Are you trying to frighten me? Or distract me?”
“I’m trying to get you to go to bed, and maybe, in the light of tomorrow, you’ll go home.”
He turned and walked into another room, hitting the lights as he did so.
Claire followed. This was the master bedroom, she saw. The carpet was a rich dark blue, the walls eggshell white. The bed was covered with black-and-blue blankets, striped and patterned, the shades of blue competing. There were blue-and-white sheets and too many pillows. He had either a girlfriend or a decorator.
“I want to talk,” she said.
He turned abruptly. “Are you always this way?”
Claire met his gaze frankly. “No. I seem to have changed.”
“I think so. Maybe you have multiple personality disorder.”
“Why are you being so rude?”
“All right!” He threw both hands in the air. “I apologize. It’s been a while since I had a woman barge her way right into the middle of my life.”
Absurdly, his comment pleased Claire to no end. “But Ian, I’m not in the middle of your life, just your investigation.”
He looked at her and sighed. “I stand corrected.”
“Do you?” She was more than curious. “I think this is somehow very personal for you.”
He said, “Please go to bed, Claire. We’ll talk in the morning.”
In spite of the hour, Claire was wired, not tired. “Can’t we discuss the case?” she asked.
Ian sighed again and dropped down in a faded black leather chair. He kicked off his lug-soled loafers. “Fine.”
Claire smiled and sat down on the edge of his king-size bed. She tried not to glance around at it. She knew she should not be speculating about what kind of lover Ian Marshall was.
On the other hand, she had spent most of the flight trying to recall when she and David had last made love. She had assumed it to be about six months ago, but finally she had decided it might have been last summer, in July, when they had gone to Hawaii for a week.
“Ian, what led you to my father, his brother, and the Dukes in the first place?” she asked.
“David,” Ian said, standing suddenly and shrugging off his jacket. “Want a beer?”
“I hate beer,” Claire said.
“Be right back.” In his socks, he padded out of the room.
Claire took that moment to really glance around. She could see into a large master bathroom, and it was wall-to-wall red-veined marble. From the two bedroom windows, the millions of city lights winked back at her. There was a huge blond chest against
one wall, covered with more books. The chest looked Chinese or Japanese and antique. There were several tasteful framed reproductions on the walls. The art was modern; she recognized Miró, Pollock, and a new artist, Dworman.
Then Claire saw something by the edge of the chest, next to the other side of the bed. Airline tickets.
She slid off the bed—it was so high she had to jump down a few inches—and ran around to the monster chest. She inspected the tickets. He had flights to London and Cardiff, Wales, tomorrow!
Ian returned. “What are you doing now?” He sounded resigned.
She held up the tickets. “You’re holding out on me! These are for tomorrow night.”
“That’s right.”
“What’s in Wales?”
“Claire—”
“If this has anything to do with Elgin, I’m on board. Glue, remember?”
“Krazy Glue,” he said. “How could I forget?” He lifted the beer bottle, a Budweiser, and drank.
But she had seen the smile he’d tried so hard to contain.
“Maybe you can help,” he said finally. “I am going to visit Lady Elgin in the north of Wales.”
She went on alert. “Lady Elgin?”
“Elgin’s stepmother.”
Claire stared. “She’s still alive?”
“She’s only a few years older than Elgin. His father remarried a very young girl.”
Excitement sizzled inside her. “I wonder if they’ve been in touch.”
“I doubt it.”
“But you wonder, too!”
He smiled a little and drank down half the beer. “Yeah.”
“Do you think she could recognize him today?” Her excitement vanished, replaced by an equally intense fear. Her father was not Elgin. It was absurd. And how could it be William? He was the one who had always picked her up when she had fallen down as a child.
Suddenly she couldn’t help recalling the first Christmas after her mother was buried. Her family had celebrated both Hanukkah and Christmas. Only a few weeks had passed since the funeral, and Claire and her father had been invited to spend Christmas Eve with the Dukes. That morning, Claire had not wanted to get up. She hadn’t cared about all of the presents underneath the huge Christmas tree. But Santa had come knocking on her door, towing a bag of the presents behind him. And in spite of the Santa costume and disguise, there had been no mistaking who it was. William had made her laugh for the first time since she had buried her mother.