by Nora Roberts
She parked, glanced up at the next snazzy building. “Funny, huh, how a new husband doesn’t come home and the new bride doesn’t report him missing.”
“Let’s find out why.”
Rene had just gotten in from a three-hour session at her salon. Nothing smoothed her feathers better than a long bout of pampering. Unless it was shopping. But she’d taken care of that as well with a quick foray into Neiman’s, where she’d treated herself lavishly.
Tony, she thought, as she poured herself a small vermouth, was going to pay and pay dearly for this little bout of the sulks.
He’d gone off like this before, a couple of days at a time, when she’d pressured him over some matter. The good part was, he always came back, always with some very attractive trinket in hand, and naturally agreed to do whatever she’d demanded he do in the first place.
She didn’t mind so much, as it gave her a little time to herself. Besides, now it was all legal and tidy. She lifted her left hand, studied the glitter of her rings. She was Mrs. Anthony Avano, and intended to stay that way.
Or scalp him bald in a divorce.
When the bell rang, she smiled. It would be Tony, come crawling back. He knew better than to use his key when he’d been gone. The last time he’d done so, she’d pulled a gun on him.
One thing about her Tony, he learned fast.
She opened the door, prepared to make him beg, then frowned at the couple holding up badges.
“Mrs. Avano?”
“Yes. What’s this about?”
“Detective Claremont, and my partner, Detective Maguire, San Francisco PD. May we come in?”
“Why?”
“Please, Mrs. Avano, may we come in?”
“Is Tony in jail?” she hissed through her teeth as she stepped back. “What the hell did he do?”
“No, ma’am, he’s not in jail.” Maguire moved in. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Avano. Your husband is dead.”
“Dead?” Rene let out an annoyed huff of breath. “That’s ridiculous. You’ve made a mistake.”
“There’s no mistake, Mrs. Avano,” Claremont said. “Could we sit down?”
Rene felt a little jerk in her stomach, stepped back. “You expect me to believe Tony’s dead. Just dead?”
“We’re very sorry, ma’am. Why don’t we sit down?” Maguire started to take her arm, but Rene yanked away.
She’d lost some of the color in her face, but her eyes were alive. And angry. “Was there an accident?”
“No, ma’am. Could you tell us the last time you saw your husband, or had contact with him?”
Rene stared hard at Claremont. “Saturday night, early Sunday morning, I guess. What happened to Tony?”
“You weren’t concerned when you didn’t hear from him?”
“We had an argument,” she snapped. “Tony often goes off on little sulks afterward. I’m not his mother.”
“No, ma’am.” Maguire nodded. “His wife. You were married recently, weren’t you?”
“That’s right. What happened to him? I have a right to know what happened.”
“Anthony Avano was shot and killed.”
Her head jerked back, but almost immediately the color rushed back into her face. “I knew it! I warned him she’d do something crazy, but he wouldn’t listen. She was harassing us, wasn’t she? Those quiet types, you can’t trust them.”
“Who is that, Mrs. Avano?”
“His wife.” She sucked in a breath, turned and stalked over to pick up her drink. “His ex-wife. Pilar Giambelli. The bitch killed him. If she didn’t, his little tramp of a daughter did.”
. . .
He didn’t know what to do for her. She sat in the passenger seat, her eyes closed. But he knew she wasn’t sleeping. Her composure was a thin and tensile veneer, and he wasn’t certain what he’d find if he managed to crack it.
So he gave her silence on the long drive north.
The energy, the vitality Sophia owned like breath was gone. That concerned him most. It was like having a doll sitting beside him. Maybe it was a kind of bubble, a void between the shock and the next stage of grief. He didn’t know about such things. He’d never lost anyone important to him. Certainly never lost anyone so brutally and suddenly.
When he turned into the drive, she opened her eyes. As if she sensed home. In her lap her fingers linked together.
The bubble’s burst, Ty thought, watching her knuckles go white.
“I’ll come in with you.”
She started to refuse, that knee-jerk I-can-do-it-myself response. It was hard to admit she wasn’t sure she could do anything herself just yet. And he was family. She needed family.
“Thanks. My mother.” She had to swallow as he stopped the four-wheel at the base of the steps. “It’s going to be very hard for my mother.”
“Sophia.” He laid his hand over hers, tightening his grip when she would have shifted away. “Sophia,” he said again until she looked at him. “People always think they have to be strong. They don’t.”
“Giambellis do. I’m numb, Ty. And I’m afraid of what’s going to happen inside me when I’m not. I’m afraid to start thinking. I’m afraid to start feeling. All I can do is the next thing.”
“Then we’ll do the next thing.”
He got out of the car, came around to her side. And in a gesture that made her throat burn, took her hand.
The house was warm, and fragrant with her mother’s flowers. Sophia looked around the grand foyer like a stranger. Nothing had changed. How could it be that nothing had changed?
She watched Maria come down the hall. Everything moves like a dream, Sophia thought. Even footsteps echo like a dream.
“Maria, where is my mother?”
“Upstairs. She’s working in your office. Miss Sophia?”
“And La Signora?”
Uneasy, Maria looked toward Tyler. “She is in the fields, with Mr. Mac.”
“Would you send someone for them, please. Send someone out for my grandparents?”
“Yes, right away.”
She went quickly, while Sophia turned toward the stairs. Her hand tightened on Tyler’s. She could hear music coming from her office. Something light and frothy. When she stepped into the doorway, she saw her mother, her hair scooped back, bent over the keyboard of the computer.
“What do you mean I’ve committed an illegal function? Damn it, I hate you.”
Another time the baffled frustration would have amused Sophia. Now it, and everything, made her want to weep.
“Mama?”
“Oh, thank God! Sophia, I’ve done something. I don’t know what. I’ve been practicing for an hour and still I’m useless on this thing.”
She pushed back from the desk, glanced up—and froze.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” She knew every line, every curve, every expression of her daughter’s face. Her stomach twisted painfully as she rushed across the room. “What’s happened?”
“Mama.” Everything changes now, Sophia thought. Once it was said, nothing was ever going to be the same again. “Mama, it’s Dad.”
“Is he hurt? Is he ill?”
“He . . .” She couldn’t say the words. Instead, she released Ty’s hand and wrapped her arms tight around her mother.
The twisting in Pilar’s stomach stilled. Everything inside her stilled. “Oh God. Oh my God.” Pressing her face to Sophia’s hair, she began to rock. “No. Oh, baby, no.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Mama. We found him. In my apartment. Someone . . . someone killed him there.”
“What? Wait.” Shaking, she drew back. “No.”
“Sit down, Pilar.” Tyler was already leading them both to the curved love seat against the wall.
“No, no. This can’t be right. I need to—”
“Sit,” Tyler repeated and gently pushed both of them down. “Listen to me. Look at me.” He waited while Pilar groped for Sophia’s hand. “I know this is hard for both of you. Avano was in Sophia’s apartment. We don’t k
now why. It looked like he was meeting someone there.”
Pilar blinked. Her mind seemed to be skipping, as if there was a tooth missing on a gear. “In Sophie’s apartment? Why do you say that? What do you mean?”
“There was a bottle of wine on the table. Two glasses.” He’d memorized the scene. Quiet elegance, stark death. “It’s likely whoever it was he met there killed him. The police have already questioned Sophia.”
“Sophia.” Her fingers gripped her daughter’s like a clamp. “The police.”
“And they’re going to have more questions for her. For you. Maybe all of us. I know it’s hard, hard to think straight, but you have to prepare yourself to deal with them. I think you should call a lawyer. Both of you.”
“I don’t want a lawyer. I don’t need a lawyer. For God’s sake, Ty, Tony’s been murdered.”
“That’s right. In his daughter’s apartment, only days after divorcing you and marrying someone else. Only days after Sophie went after him in public.”
Guilt, ugly and fierce, bared its teeth inside Sophia. “Goddamn it, Ty, if either of us was going to kill him, we’d have done it years ago.”
Tyler shifted his gaze to Sophia’s. The energy was back, he noted, and it was furious. That, he decided, was a plus. “Is that what you’re going to say to the cops? Is that what you’re going to say to the reporters when they start calling? Publicity’s your business, Sophie. Think.”
Her breath was coming too fast. She couldn’t stop it. Something inside her wanted to explode, to burst out of the fragile skin of control and scream. Then she felt her mother’s hand tremble in hers, and reeled it back in. “All right. But not yet. Not now. We’re entitled to mourn first.” She drew her mother closer. “We’re entitled to be human first.”
She got to her feet, walked to the door on legs that felt stiff and brittle. “Would you go down, talk to Nonna and Eli? Tell them what they need to be told. I want to be alone with my mother.”
“Okay. Pilar.” He bent down, touched her knee. “I’m sorry.” He met Sophia’s eyes as he walked out. The great, dark depth of them was all he saw as she closed the door between them.
CHAPTER TEN
Ty was right, but Sophia would stew about that later. It might help to have something petty to brood about. The reporters started to call less than ten minutes after she’d told her mother, and before she’d been able to go downstairs and speak with her grandmother.
She knew the line they would take. Unity. And she was prepared to go head-to-head with the police to soften the blow for her mother.
There would be no comment to the press until she was able to write the appropriate release. There would be no interviews. She was perfectly aware her father’s murder would generate a media circus, but the Giambellis would not step into the center ring and perform.
Which meant she had a great many phone calls to make to family members and key employees. But the first—damn Tyler—was to Helen Moore.
They needed legal advice.
“I’ve called Aunt Helen,” she told Tereza.
“Good.” Tereza sat in the front parlor, her back ruler-straight, her face composed. “Your mother?”
“She wanted a few minutes alone.”
With a nod, Tereza lifted her hand, took Sophia’s. It was a connection, and it was enough. “Who do you trust most on your staff to write a statement for the press and filter the calls?”
“Me. I want to do it myself, Nonna.”
“Good.” Tereza gave her hand a squeeze, released it. “I’m sorry for your grief, cara. Tyler’s told us everything he knows. I don’t like that you were questioned before you were able to speak with Helen or James.”
“I have nothing to hide. I know nothing. My father was shot while he sat in my chair in my apartment. How could I not tell them anything that might help them find who killed him?”
“If you know nothing, you could tell them nothing that would help.” She dismissed the police with one impatient gesture. “Tyler, get Sophia some wine.” When the phone rang again, she slapped a hand on the arm of her chair.
“I’ll take care of it,” Tyler began.
“No, we don’t want a family member talking to the press today.” Sophia rubbed her forehead, ordered herself to think. “You should get David. Ask him to come. If you could explain things to him, I’ll get started on a statement. For now, it’s simply, the family is in seclusion and has no comment.”
“I’ll get him here.” Tyler crossed to her, lifted her face with a hand on her chin. “You don’t need wine. You need an aspirin.”
“I don’t need either.” She stepped back. “Give me a half hour,” she said to her grandmother.
“Sophie.” Eli left Tereza’s side to put his arms around Sophia. “Take a breath.”
“Can’t.”
“All right, do what’s best for you. I’ll start making the calls.”
“I can do that.”
“You can, but I will. And take the aspirin.”
“All right, for you.”
It helped. The aspirin and the work. Within an hour she was steadier, had the official statement drafted and had briefed David.
“I’ll take care of the press, Sophia. You take care of yourself, and your mother.”
“We’ll get through. You need to be aware that some enterprising reporter is bound to try to get close to the villa, and to MacMillan’s. You have children, and that connection to the family will also be made.”
“I’ll talk to my kids. They’re not going to sell a story to the tabloids, Sophia.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to imply that. But they’re still children. They could be harassed and they could be caught off guard.”
“I’ll talk to them,” he repeated. “I know this is rough for you. I can’t imagine how rough for you. And your mother.” He got to his feet. “Anything I can do, just tell me what it is.”
“I appreciate that.” She hesitated, measuring him as she did so. Petty resentments, company policies had to be put aside. “My grandparents trust you, or you wouldn’t be here. So I’m going to trust you. I’m going to set you up here in the house so you can handle the phones. I’d give you my space, but I may need it.”
She started for the door, then just stopped in the middle of the room. She looked, he thought, blank. As if some internal mechanism had shut down.
“Why don’t you rest a little.”
“I can’t. As long as I keep moving, I can handle it. I know what people thought of him. I know what’ll be said about him, in whispers over cocktails, in gleeful articles in the press.”
What I thought of him. What I said to him. Oh God, don’t think of it now.
“It can’t hurt him. But it can and will hurt my mother. So I can’t stop.”
She hurried out. “I think the library would be best,” she began. “You’ll have privacy there, and it’s convenient if you need anything we haven’t thought of.”
She was halfway down the steps when Maria opened the front door to the police. Claremont looked over the housekeeper’s head and saw Sophia.
“Ms. Giambelli.”
“Detective. It’s all right, Maria. I’ll take care of this. Do you have any more information for me?” she asked him as she continued down the steps.
“Not at this time. We’d like to speak to you again, and to your mother.”
“My mother is resting. David, this is Detective . . .”
“Claremont,” he finished. “And my partner, Detective Maguire.”
“David Cutter, Detectives Claremont and Maguire. Mr. Cutter is chief operating officer of Giambelli-MacMillan. I’ll show you into the parlor and be with you in just a moment.”
“Is your mother at home, Ms. Giambelli?”
“I said my mother is resting. She’s not up to speaking with you at this time.”
“Sophia.” Pilar came down the steps, one hand holding the banister, with Helen just behind her. “It’s all right. I want to do what I can.”
“Ms. Avano,” Helen began, careful to use Pilar’s married name, “is willing to answer your questions. I’m sure you’ll take her emotional state into consideration. Judge Moore,” she added with a cool nod. “I’m an old family friend.”
Claremont knew of her. And had been under ruthless cross-examination by her husband. Lawyers at the ready, he mused. “Are you representing Ms. Avano, Judge Moore?”
“I’m here to offer my friend my support and my advice, should that be necessary.”
“Why don’t we go sit down?” Pilar said. “Sophia, would you ask Maria to arrange for some coffee?”
“Of course.”
Slick and civilized, Claremont thought. He saw where the daughter got her class. But classy women killed, just like all the other kinds.
Especially when they’d been tossed over for a younger model.
Still, she answered questions directly.
Hadn’t seen or spoken with the deceased since the famous party. Hadn’t been to her daughter’s apartment in more than a month. Didn’t have a key. Didn’t own a gun, though she admitted before the judge could cut her off that there were guns in the house.
“You were upset when your husband finalized your divorce to marry Rene Foxx.”
“Yes,” Pilar agreed, even as Helen opened her mouth. “It’s foolish to deny it, Helen. Naturally I was upset. I don’t find the end of a marriage a reason to celebrate. Even when the marriage had become no more than a legality. He was my daughter’s father.”
“You argued?”
“No.” Her lips curved, and put Claremont in mind of an elegantly sorrowful Madonna. “It was difficult to argue with Tony. He slipped around most arguments. I gave him what he wanted. There was really nothing else to do, was there?”
“I handled the divorce for Mrs. Avano,” Helen put in. “It was amicable on both sides. Legally as simple as such matters can be.”
“But you were upset nonetheless,” Maguire stated. “Upset enough to phone your ex-husband’s residence last week in the middle of the night and make certain threats and accusations.”
“I did no such thing.” For the first time a battle light came into her eyes. “I never called Tony’s apartment, never spoke to Rene at all. She assumed I did.”