by Gayle Wilson
“And who would that be?” The hostility hadn’t lessened, but the forward motion of the door had halted.
“Montgomery Gardner.”
“If he’s dead, she won’t want to know. Says she’s outlived everybody else.”
“Not Mr. Gardner. Would you ask her, please?”
Despite the woman’s attitude, Ethan’s tone was still relaxed and friendly. As if he had no doubt she would eventually let them in.
He was right. After a moment’s hesitation she opened the door enough to let them squeeze through, one at a time. As soon as they had, she closed it again, shutting out the afternoon sunlight.
The hall they had entered was dark and wide and surprisingly cool, despite the outside heat. It took a few seconds for Raine’s eyes to adjust to the dimness, but as soon as they had, it was evident that the interior had suffered even more indignities of neglect than had been apparent outside.
The furniture was almost black with age. Given its size, Raine guessed that each piece had probably been custom made for its location, perhaps here on the plantation. The oriental rugs that covered the plank flooring of the long hallway were so faded, or so dirty, Raine amended, taking a closer look, that their patterns were barely distinguishable anymore.
“What was the name?” the other Ms. Marguery asked as she began to lead the way toward the back of the house.
“Ethan Snow and Raine McAllister.”
The eyes of Sabina Marguery’s niece flicked back to them again, focusing on Raine this time. “I meant the name of her friend you all come to talk about. She’s gonna want to know why I’m bringing company in on her.”
“Montgomery Gardner,” Ethan supplied.
As they moved down the long hall, they passed a narrow staircase that led up to the second floor. If Sabina Marguery was an invalid, she had apparently established a bedroom or sitting room on the ground floor. Far more convenient unless they had a lot of help. And judging from the housekeeping, that didn’t seem likely.
“Someone to see you, Sabina,” the niece said. She had stopped outside the doorway of a room at the back of the house.
Only one more door was visible at the very end of the hall, which Raine suspected gave access to what would have been the walkway from the main house to the kitchens. The cooking would now be done inside, of course, but at one time it wouldn’t have. Not in a wood-framed house like this. It would have been far too dangerous.
Raine heard the murmur of another voice from inside the room, but she couldn’t distinguish the words. In response, their reluctant guide added to the information she’d already given.
“They say they have some information about a friend of yours.”
Ethan looked unworried, but Raine found herself holding her breath as she awaited Sabina Marguery’s decision. Given the strongly negative feelings this meeting had already generated, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know any more about James Marguery than she already did.
“You all can go on in,” the niece said. “I’ll get you some tea. Do her good, too.”
With those abrupt instructions, the woman turned and walked across the hall to disappear through a doorway on the opposite side. They watched her exit together, and then Ethan glanced at Raine, eyebrows lifted in disbelief.
“Do you think this is what Cabot had in mind when he sent us?” she whispered.
“I’ve been working on this for more than six months. If this interview is a dead end, it will simply be the latest of many. Shall we?” He gestured toward the room where their hostess apparently was.
Ethan was right. They were here; they might as well see this through.
Straightening her shoulders, Raine walked through the doorway, uncertain what to expect after the niece’s behavior. The first thing she noticed was the smell of cigarette smoke, which seemed to linger over the room like a fog. The next was the woman they had come to see, huddled in an armchair in front of the windows.
Slowly, as her vision adjusted from the darkness of the hall, Raine was able to distinguish Sabina Marguery from her setting. Her eyes, the first thing anyone would ever notice about her, were black and incredibly alive. They were set in a face that seemed relatively unlined, despite her age. The classically pure bone structure was emphasized by the spareness of the flesh that now covered it.
It was obvious she’d been a beauty in her day. Enough of that beauty remained to show through despite the ravages of the long years.
Her head was held at an almost arrogant angle on a long, still-graceful neck. Her hair, pure white, had been twisted into one long braid, which lay over her left shoulder. She wore a black, long-sleeved turtleneck top and black slacks. Her hands were crossed in her lap, the swollen, misshapen bones in their long fingers answering the question of why her niece had answered the door.
“May I help you?”
The English in which the question had been posed was accented. Raine couldn’t identify the origin of that accent, but she had heard it before. Not in the same timbre as this voice, perhaps, but with the same intonation. The same slight mispronunciation of the consonants. The elongation of the vowels.
“My name is Ethan Snow. I believe we have a mutual friend in Montgomery Gardner.”
Something changed in the patrician face. Or perhaps in the dark eyes. Whatever it was had been instantly controlled. A downward glance toward the brutally damaged hands and then a quick upward tilt of her chin. The thin lips arranged themselves into a smile.
“You know Monty? How delightful. How is he?”
Dying because of something your husband got him involved in.
Raine had no idea where the thought had come from, but for a moment her fury was so great at the injustice that she was afraid she had spoken those words out loud. Only when neither of the other two looked at her did she realize they had only been uttered inside her own head.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” Ethan said.
“Please don’t tell me he’s dead. Everyone I know is dead. That is the true curse of old age. Not this, as annoying as it is.” She held up her hands, the gnarled fingers a contrast to that strangely unlined face.
“He isn’t dead, but he was attacked in his home several nights ago. He’s still in critical condition.”
“How terrible.” The tone was right, a mixture of horror and sympathy. “And the police, of course, don’t have a clue as to who is responsible.”
She hadn’t asked them to sit, so that they both were still standing awkwardly before her chair like subjects before the throne of a monarch. It put the old woman in a position of authority, something she seemed determined to maintain. Without waiting for permission, perversely Raine turned and sat down on the faded couch that faced their hostess’s chair.
“Actually, they don’t. That’s why we’re attempting to help them,” Ethan said before he followed her example.
“We?”
“I work for a private investigative agency called the Phoenix. Mr. Gardner’s family has asked us to find out who could possibly want to do him harm. We’re following up one of the leads we’ve uncovered.”
“And that’s why you’ve come to me? Because you believe I may have some information that would help you find out who attacked him? I’m afraid, then, you’ve had a wasted trip. I haven’t seen or heard from Monty in more than twenty-five years.”
“We believe the attack had something to do with the Cassandra Project.”
The black eyes reacted, but whatever emotion had touched them was quickly controlled. “Cassandra?”
“In Greek mythology she was cursed with the gift of prophecy,” Raine said.
For the first time since they’d entered the room, Sabina Marguery looked directly at her. “Cassandra’s curse was that no one believed her. Hardly the same thing, I should think.”
She was right, of course. And with the classical education Monty Gardner’s money had paid for, Raine had known that. For some reason, the other had been in her head and then on her tongue.
/> “This Cassandra was something quite different,” Ethan said. “It was a CIA project that we’ve been told was your husband’s brainchild.”
The thin lips quirked. “Jimmy had a great number of those. He was a genius. I can hardly be expected to remember every idea my husband ever had.”
Obviously responding to her recognition of the name, Ethan began to embroider on what little they knew about Cassandra. “This was more than just an idea. It was a full-scale research project, something that occupied a great of time and effort.”
“He was that kind of man. He threw himself into his work. To his detriment, of course.”
“His work, which involved psychic research,” Ethan went on. “At the time, that was highly controversial. Your husband must surely have talked to you about—”
“My husband didn’t discuss what he did with me. Given the nature of his job, I’m sure you understand.”
“Because it involved national security? But surely he didn’t distrust you, his own wife.” There was just the right touch of skepticism in Ethan’s suggestion.
“There were people in the agency who didn’t approve of our marriage. Because some of those were in positions of authority over him, Jimmy was careful to avoid giving them cause to dismiss him.”
“They didn’t approve because you’re not an American?” Raine asked.
“I’ve been a naturalized citizen for many years. I was born, however, in a small village in the Ural Mountains, in a country that has long since disappeared from the map. At the time my husband was with the CIA, any connection with the Soviets, no matter how minor, was looked upon with suspicion.”
“So he told you nothing about Cassandra. Or any of the other projects he worked on.”
“As I have told you.”
Like the accent, the syntax of that phrase was slightly foreign. And like the accent, it was also something Raine had heard before. She just couldn’t remember when or where or from whom.
“What about your husband’s interest in parapsychology?” Ethan asked. “Did he ever discuss that with you in general terms?”
“My husband was interested in many things. We discussed anything and everything under the sun in the years we spent together, but as I have told you, nothing that ever involved his work. I’m sorry, but I really can’t help you. Now if you’ll excuse me…”
“Why did you agree to see us?” Raine asked, bringing the black eyes back to her face.
The thin lips moved again, almost a smile. “I don’t get many visitors. No one wants to talk to an old woman. I thought you might be entertaining.”
The implication was that they hadn’t been, but the amusement in her eyes proved that was wrong. She had been highly entertained. And she knew far more about what they had come here to ask than she had told them.
“You didn’t like him, did you?” Raine asked.
“Gardner?” There had been no hesitation in her identification. “I barely knew him. Whoever told you he was a friend was mistaken.”
“Not even a friend of your husband’s?”
“He was my husband’s superior. That didn’t make them friends.”
“Did it make them enemies?”
“Not to my knowledge, but then, I’ve told you that my husband never discussed his work with me.”
“Not even to tell you why he left the agency?” Ethan asked.
“His work there was finished.”
“So he told you that much, at least. Just not what that work was.”
“Iced tea. Who wants a glass?”
The falsely cheerful question broke the tension that had developed in the room. The big woman who had opened the door to them bustled in bearing a huge tarnished-silver tray loaded with four glasses. The ice in them tinkled pleasantly as she crossed to the table in front of the couch where they were sitting. She bent with a grunt of effort to set the heavy tray on it.
Each of the glasses was dressed with a sprig of mint and had been centered on a linen napkin, folded to cup around the bottom. A bone china plate holding dark, crescent-shaped cookies occupied the center of the tray.
As if they were guests at a tea party, Sabina Marguery’s niece handed each of them a napkin and a glass of tea. The third glass was set carefully on the table beside their hostess’s chair.
Her misshapen hands never moved from their position in her lap, but her eyes lifted quickly to those of her niece. Whatever communication passed between them resulted in a minute flattening of her lips, as if she were annoyed about something.
Raine wondered if Ethan had caught that interplay. Perhaps he hadn’t been watching as closely as she had, using as cover her first sip of tea.
It was surprisingly refreshing, neither too sweet or too strong. Apparently whatever the younger Ms. Marguery’s failings as a housekeeper, she was competent in the kitchen.
Neither of them accepted a cookie from the flower-sprigged plate that was offered next. Nor did their hostess, who dismissed them by turning her head.
Her niece put the sweets back on the tray and picked up the final glass of tea. Raine expected her to sit down and join them, but after a slight pause, Sabina Marguery said, “That will do, Elga. Thank you.”
“Don’t let them tire you out, now, you hear,” the other woman said. “You know how you get when you’re tired.”
The phrase James Marguery’s widow used in response was spoken sharply in another language. Apparently it was also convincing. The niece turned with an audible sniff and retraced her path to the door.
“Call me when you want seeing out,” she said before she disappeared through it.
There was another tense silence. After a moment Ethan set his untasted tea on the table in front of him.
“Is there anything you can think of that might explain why someone is afraid to have information about the Cassandra Project come to light?”
“I’m sorry about Monty Gardner,” their hostess said, “but I can’t really help you. I know nothing about any CIA projects.”
“Then perhaps you’ve heard of an organization called The Covenant?”
There was no reaction to Ethan’s question, not even that slight widening of the luminous eyes that had betrayed her before. “Should I have?”
“Through your husband, perhaps? Or some of his associates?”
“The name isn’t familiar. As I said, that was all a very long time ago. And my memory is not what it once was. Now if you’ve finished your tea, I shall have to ask you to leave. I must guard my health, I’m afraid. Another inconvenience of age.”
In the face of that dismissal, Raine automatically put her glass and napkin on the tray. She glanced toward Ethan, who hadn’t moved.
“Do you remember Charles Ellington?” he asked.
“A buffoon. Surely you aren’t listening to him.”
“We have to. So far he’s our only source of information.”
“How clever you think you are. Why do you believe I should care if you are stupid enough to listen to an idiot?”
“Because what we are talking about is your husband’s legacy. The last important thing he ever did. I should think you’d wish to protect it.”
“I have,” she said, her eyes very bright.
“Carl Steiner,” Raine said, throwing the name into the silence, just as Ethan had used Ellington’s. Like her explanation of Cassandra, it had seemed to leap from her mouth before she’d been aware of her intent to say it aloud.
The dark eyes returned once more to her face. “Don’t you remember?”
“Remember what?”
That small enigmatic smile lifted the thin lips. “Ask Monty Gardner. He should be able to tell you all you want to know.”
“I’m sorry. I thought you understood. Mr. Gardner is in a coma,” Ethan said. “He isn’t able to tell us anything. We believe that was the intent of the attack against him.”
“Then it sounds as if it might be dangerous to talk to you. I choose not to put myself into danger. Not for those people.�
�
Without taking a breath, she raised her voice, calling out for her niece, who must have been waiting in the hall. Listening at the open door?
“Our guests are leaving, Elga. Would you see them out, please? And then bring me my cordial. All this talking has sapped my strength.”
The amusement in her eyes this time was almost malicious. All this talking…
“If you’ll come with me, please,” her watchdog said.
“Your husband—” Raine began, ignoring the prompt.
“Died almost twenty-five years ago,” Sabina said. “That’s a very long time to be chasing ghosts, don’t you think?”
“I suppose that would depend on why one is chasing them.”
“But there is really only one reason for that, isn’t there. Because one is haunted.” As she said the last word, she turned to look at Ethan. “I can’t help you, Mr. Snow. Cassandra, if it ever existed, is over and done. Long, long ago. In your case, I think this quest is more a matter of chasing shadows than ghosts. Or tilting at windmills, perhaps. Attacks on the elderly happen all the time in this country. What makes you believe the one on Monty Gardner wasn’t simply another senseless urban crime?”
“Because everything that has happened since leads back to Cassandra,” Ethan said. “There has to be a connection.”
“And you’re determined to find it. So much dedication in one so young. Or do you owe a debt of gratitude to Gardner?”
“This isn’t about gratitude.”
“Not on your part at least.” She turned to look at Raine. Challenging.
“Mr. Gardner has been very good to me,” she said.
“Monty Gardner used you. He took you away from your family because he thought you could give him information he needed. When you couldn’t, he got rid of you soon enough, didn’t he? Why should you be grateful to him?”
She wanted to say, as she had at the hospital, “Because he’s my father.” For some reason, the mockery in those dark eyes prevented her from uttering the words.