by Gordon Cope
When Kenyon entered the living room, he whistled out loud in amazement. The walls were covered in modern art and rose at least sixteen feet to the ceiling. The room was furnished with a suite of white, plush furniture. The drapes that covered the large bay window alone were more expensive than every stick of furniture in his apartment back home.
Kenyon’s gaze focused on a suit of armor that stood near the fireplace. The suit, complete with helmet and a pole axe resting in a gauntlet, had been polished to a high gleam. Kenyon approached for a closer look. Fine filigree had been worked into the metal, and the pole axe had been sharpened to a razor edge. He resisted the urge to lift the helmet visor and peek inside.
Kenyon dropped his suit jacket onto the couch, then wandered into the adjacent dining room where eight upholstered chairs stood around an immense granite table.
Marveling at the taste and expense, Kenyon continued on to the kitchen. The countertops were a buttery marble. One corner of the kitchen, adjacent to a breakfast nook, had been closed off by a sealed-glass door to create a wine closet.
Thirsty, Kenyon poked around in the fridge and found several cans of beer in the back. He snapped the top of one marked “Caffrey’s.” He took a long gulp; the ale tasted smooth and creamy.
Carrying his beer, Kenyon wandered back down the hallway to the foyer. As he ascended the curving staircase, he absently ran his hand along the smooth wooden handrail. It felt cool under his fingers. At the top of the stairs he turned left and headed for the room overlooking the street.
It was the master bedroom. The curtains were semi-translucent, filling the room with a warm, soft light. A king-sized bed with an upholstered headboard rested against one wall, adjacent to a rosewood chest of drawers fronted by spiral columns. A flatscreen TV and DVD player were fitted into a cherry wood cabinet across from the foot of the bed.
Kenyon sat on a loveseat that rested in the big bay window; a pair of fluffy pink slippers poked out from underneath. He bent over and picked one up, turning it in his hand. He imagined Lydia sitting on this chair with a book, her bare feet curled beneath her, a cup of steaming coffee on the mahogany table. He softly placed the slipper back.
Just off the master bedroom was a long, narrow room that had been outfitted as a walk-in closet. A row of sliding doors flanked one wall, and a small vanity mirror and chair occupied the opposite side.
Kenyon opened a door at random, and the smell of expensive perfume greeted him; the closet was full of Lydia’s blouses, all arranged by color. He checked several other closets. Most were filled with tailored jackets, leather shoes, and formal dresses.
The last closet on the right contained purses and suitcases. Most were ordered by color on shelves, but there was a big pile on the floor. Kenyon remembered the briefcase left to Legrand in Lydia’s will. He scanned through the shelves, then got down on his knees and rummaged through the jumble.
Kenyon’s initial search came up empty. He poked through the closet a second time, but nothing fit the description. He checked all the other closets, peering into the recesses in case he had missed it, but his careful scrutiny failed to turn up a briefcase.
He pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, puzzled. Where did Lydia put the briefcase? Kenyon could just imagine Legrand’s reaction when he told him it couldn’t be located; he thought back to the way the man had stared at him, and shuddered.
Just then, the doorbell rang. Kenyon made his way down to the foyer and opened the door.
A tall man of about thirty, with dark, short-cropped hair and large brown eyes stood outside. “Herr Kenyon?” he asked. “My name is Hadrian deWolfe.” He spoke with a distinct German accent, and wore an expensive dark grey suit and shiny black Italian shoes. “I am sorry to intrude in your time of sorrow, but I was an acquaintance of Lydia’s,” he explained. He held out his right hand. “I came by to introduce myself, and offer my condolences.”
“Thanks,” said Kenyon. “Please, come in.” He escorted his visitor into the living room, pointing toward an ornate chair.
Rather than sit down, however, deWolfe advanced to the suit of armor. He took out a magnifying glass and examined the suit closely, tracing his right index finger along the filigree. “A marvelous example of 15th-century Milanese ceremonial armor,” he announced. “I have seen one just like it in the Duke of Kent’s mansion.”
“Are you some kind of expert?”
“Sorry,” said deWolfe. “Where are my manners?” He pulled out a silver container, withdrew a business card, and handed it to Kenyon. It said, “Hadrian deWolfe, Art and Antiques Evaluator.” There were addresses for Zurich and London.
“You’re an antiques dealer?” he asked.
DeWolfe nodded. “I handle all aspects, from verifying authenticity to bidding at auction. Mostly, I work from my home in Switzerland, but I also have many clients in Britain.”
”So, why are you here?”
“Lydia was always very kind and generous to me,” said deWolfe. “I know it is not much, but I came here today to offer you my services, should you ever decide to liquidate her estate.”
Kenyon slapped his forehead. “Oh, I get it; you’re the guy Tanya promised to send on by to look at Lydia’s stuff.”
“Ja,” replied deWolfe.
“Would you like something to drink? A glass of white wine?”
DeWolfe glanced around the room, Kenyon already half forgotten. “That would be splendid.”
The agent went to the kitchen and rooted around in the wine closet. He opened a bottle of Pouilly Fumé and poured a glass.
When Kenyon returned to the living room, deWolfe was examining the marble-topped sideboard. “Lydia had excellent taste,” he commented, running a long finger across the smooth top.
“You could have fooled me,” Kenyon replied, handing him the glass. “I don’t know a thing about this stuff.”
“No one could ever fool Lydia,” he responded. “She could spot a counterfeit almost immediately. She had a very shrewd eye.” DeWolfe sniffed the wine’s bouquet then, satisfied, took a sip.
“You worked a lot with Lydia?” asked Kenyon.
“I came for her advice on several occasions regarding market prices.” DeWolfe put his wine glass on a table, then got down on his hands and knees and peered under the couch. “I was, in turn, most helpful to her regarding the—how do you say it?—provenance of certain objets.”
Kenyon eyed the crouching man. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of him.
His inspection of the underside of the couch finished, deWolfe stood up and carefully dusted off the knees of his trousers. “Now, if you will pardon me for being so abrupt—what do you intend to do with Lydia’s belongings?”
“Good question,” said Kenyon. “I don’t have room for all this in my apartment in San Francisco. I guess I’m going to have to sell some of it, but I don’t know what.”
“I understand; it’s important to look carefully,” agreed deWolfe. “One never knows what one might find.” He pulled out a gold pen and leather-bound notepad. “Perhaps it would help if I walked around and made a note or two?
“Yeah, go right ahead.” Kenyon glanced at his watch, remembering he hadn’t heard from Marge in San Francisco. He also wanted to collect his e-mail. “Do you mind if I go? I’ve got some stuff I have to do.”
DeWolfe waved absently over his shoulder as Kenyon departed.
Kenyon went upstairs and dug a netbook out of his luggage. He glanced around the room; there was nowhere to plug it in. The bedside table holding the phone was too tiny, and the coffee table in the bay window was too low.
He wandered down the hall; there were three closed doors. The first door let to an oversized linen closet filled with towels, sheets, toilet paper, and a vacuum cleaner. The second concealed a steep stairwell that climbed to the attic floor above. Curious, he put down his computer, then, advancing with his left leg to avoid straining his injury, he made his way up.
The third floor had been set up as a studio. A lar
ge wooden easel, now empty, dominated the center of the room. An old wooden chest covered with tubes of oil paint sat off to one side. A white lab coat hung from a peg. A second room, adjacent to the studio, had been fitted out as a workshop for framing paintings. The air in the studio was stale and dusty; it had the melancholy air of disuse.
Returning to the second floor, Kenyon walked to the end of the hall; a loose floorboard let out a loud squeak as he opened the third door. This time he was lucky; it led to what was obviously Lydia’s home office. It was a small room with wooden wainscoting and a Persian rug, dominated by a large oak desk and a pigeonhole shelf. A large window looked out onto the back alley.
Kenyon carried his netbook over to the desk. He noticed immediately that the office contained no home computer; it didn’t even have a printer or a cable jack. Lydia’s Filofax, a diary bound in black leather, was the only item resting upon the desk surface. He sat down in the desk chair and idly opened the daybook. The back flap was stuffed with business cards, phone numbers, and credit card receipts. He placed the diary into an empty slot in the pigeonhole shelf.
Kenyon spotted Lydia’s American passport tucked into an adjacent pigeonhole. He flipped it open to study her photo. The color picture had been taken two years before, when Lydia had last renewed her passport. Her blond hair was longer, but her picture bore little resemblance to the oil portrait Kenyon had seen in O’Neill’s office. Her expression was almost defiant; Kenyon wondered what she had been thinking that moment.
Just then, the phone rang. Startled, Kenyon picked it up. “What?”
“How-are-ya?” said Gonelli, in her thick New York accent.
“Great, Marge. I’m the proud owner of this big house in London. Man, the drapes alone are worth more than my car.”
“Sounds hoity-toity.”
“You bet. I hired this guy just to count the ashtrays.”
“Listen to the big-shot,” said Gonelli. “You’ll never want to come home.”
“Are you kidding me? I miss you guys already.” It was true. Kenyon hadn’t even spent a night here, and already he was homesick.
“We’ll see,” said Gonelli. “You’ll meet some rich cutie with a snooty accent and forget the bunch of us.”
“Don’t count on it. Hey, I hear Dahg got sprung.”
“Yeah, but he ain’t going far.”
“What about Deaver? How’d he take it?”
Kenyon could hear Marge spit a piece of cigar tobacco out of her mouth. “He’s running around trying to make a case from the other end.”
“You mean, with Simon’s killer?”
“Yeah. He’s got the boys over at State Department trolling their files.”
“Find anything?”
“If he did, he ain’t sharing it with me.”
Kenyon didn’t like the sound of that. Deaver off on his own could cause a lot more trouble than he was worth. “Give my best to the gang, and tell them I’ll be home soon.”
“Will do. And Jack? If you get the time, there’s a little something I wouldn’t mind you picking up.”
“A box of Cubana Havanas?”
“I luv ya, kiddo.”
“Talk to you later.”
Someone knocked on the door. “Mr. Kenyon, are you in there?”
“Yeah, come on in.”
DeWolfe stepped into the room and flipped open his notepad. “I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is that Lydia had an extensive and, I might say, desirable collection of art and antiques.”
“And the bad news?” asked Kenyon.
“Her taste was very eclectic. In order to properly liquidate her estate, it will require time and effort to identify all the best bidders.”
“That’s a problem,” said Kenyon. “I don’t have much time to fuss with all that stuff. I have to get back to San Francisco real quick.”
“With your permission, then, shall I begin to make some inquiries?”
“Good idea,” said Kenyon. “Let’s grease this pig.”
DeWolfe’s left eyebrow arched up in a bemused expression. “An excellent idea. Perhaps we could meet for dinner in a day or so?”
“Great,” said Kenyon. He stood up and escorted deWolfe down the staircase to the front door. “I’d love to hear more about Lydia, as well.”
“I would be delighted,” said deWolfe. “There are many amusing tales to tell. Auf Wiedersehen.”
Kenyon walked back into the living room. Through the bay window, he could hear the distant sound of traffic, but he felt no urge to go out and explore. He felt tired and jet-lagged, at loose ends.
He picked his jacket up off the couch and absently noted that it felt heavy. He suddenly remembered the DVD Tanya O’Neill had given him. He pulled the disc out of the jacket pocket and read the label; Sisters of Mercy Charity Auction.
Kenyon went to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine, then went upstairs and plugged the disc into the player. Settling onto the bed, he pressed play on the remote.
A stately country mansion appeared on the screen. It was daylight, and expensive cars were pulling up to the front entrance. Several people dressed in formal evening gowns and tuxedos got out of a stretch limo, and the camera followed them up a set of wide marble steps into the house.
“Welcome to the ninth annual Sisters of Mercy Charity Auction,” announced the voice-over in a plummy BBC accent. “On behalf of our host, we are happy to invite you all to Ingoldsby Manor.”
The picture cut to a tall, striking woman. The title beneath her picture told the viewer that this was Mrs. Ilsa Ingoldsby-Legrand. The host was beautifully attired in a black velvet evening gown that clung to her slim hips. Her hair flowed down her back like a waterfall of gold. Kenyon guessed she was in her mid-fifties, but her skin was so white and smooth, it was almost alabaster. “We’re so delighted with the turn-out tonight,” she said, in a low, husky voice. “We have a lovely selection of people from a wide variety of society, as well as from the performing arts.”
The camera cut to an enormous grand piano. A large, well-known tenor was singing an aria from The Marriage of Figaro. Curiously, no one was accompanying him on the piano.
As the announcer blathered on, the camera panned around the room, lingering on several of the items up for auction. Kenyon shook his head in wonder as he gazed at a small sheep floating in a tub of formaldehyde and a pair of mannequins with genitals molded to their foreheads.
The camera continued and the agent caught a glimpse of Tanya O’Neill. She was dressed in an emerald green ball gown that complemented her dark red hair. Beautiful, thought Kenyon.
Legrand passed through, dressed in a black tuxedo and carrying a brandy snifter. He glanced irritably at the camera before moving out of view.
Suddenly, Kenyon sat up in bed. He pressed the reverse button, and the picture swam backwards. There. Standing against a pillar, staring out into the distance, was Lydia. He pushed the frame-by-frame button, and the picture began to move slowly forward.
Lydia turned her gaze toward the camera. She wore a stunning red silk evening gown and a string of pearls, but the expression on her face was dark and full of foreboding.
Six
Saturday, July 9
The next day Kenyon woke at mid-morning. He hadn’t slept long—rolling over on his stitches had taken care of that—but the bed was firm and comfortable, and he felt refreshed. He arose and pulled back the curtains, letting light stream into the room. It was going to be a hot Saturday.
Kenyon went to the adjoining bathroom. The soap in the shower stall smelled of lavender. He had a quick shower and a shave, then dug a golf shirt and a pair of jeans from his luggage and got dressed.
The smell of frying sausage hit his nostrils as he walked downstairs. He paused on the stairwell for a moment, listening. He could hear the rattle of pots and pans in the kitchen. Cautiously, he inched down the stairs and advanced quietly to the entrance of the kitchen.
A woman was standing at the stove, her back to Kenyon, sin
ging in Spanish. She was about forty, short and stout, with her hair dyed a brilliant red. She threw a dollop of butter into a frying pan, then cracked several eggs.
Kenyon advanced into the kitchen. “Hello?” he said.
The woman jumped in fright, then spun around, clutching a spatula to her ample bosom. “You scare me!”
“Sorry. What are you doing in my kitchen?”
The woman peered closely at him. “You Mister Yack Kenyon?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, Mister Yack.” She came over and gave him a big hug, her short arms barely reaching around Kenyon’s chest. She started to cry.
Kenyon patted her on the back as she sniffled into his shirt. “Uh, it’s okay,” he said. He reached across and pulled a section off a roll of paper towels and offered it to her. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
The woman blew her nose in the towel. “No, no. I cry for Miss Lydia.”
Kenyon suddenly understood. “You’re the housekeeper?”
The woman beamed. “Ya. I am Señora Santucci.” Kenyon held out his hand, but the woman hugged him again. “I am so sorry for your auntie.”
“Thank you.” Kenyon glanced at the stove, which was beginning to smoke. “Is something burning?”
Señora Santucci quickly turned and removed the frying pan. “You hungry? See—I make you breakfast.”
Kenyon’s stomach growled in appreciation. “Thanks, I’d love some.” He glanced around the room. “You brew any coffee, Señora Santucci?”
She removed a carafe from an automatic brewer and poured him a cup. “Si. Cream?”
Kenyon held up a hand. “Black is fine.”
“Good. You sit, and I make big meal.”
Kenyon sat down in the nook and watched the housekeeper bustle around the kitchen. Within minutes, she had a steaming plate of sausage and eggs on toast set before him. Kenyon avidly dug in with his knife and fork. “This is great.”
“You like? Good. Then you keep Rosita as housekeeper, no?”