Secret Combinations

by Gordon Cope

  Kenyon continued down the stable to the tackroom at the far end. The door stood open, and he glanced inside. The room was deserted, but the rich smell of leather oil permeated the air, and several saddles hung on pegs on the wall. Kenyon entered.

  One wall of the tack room was covered with framed photos of various riding competitions. He stopped in front of a picture showing a woman making a leap over a white barrier. A logo for an event held in Belgium was superimposed on the corner. Kenyon peered closely at the caption. It read, “Ilsa Ingoldsby-Legrand, Silver Medal.”

  A row of upright clothes lockers had been bolted to the back wall. Feeling slightly guilty, Kenyon opened one and peeked inside. A woman’s riding kit hung neatly on a peg, along with a pair of pantyhose. He closed the locker door and retraced his steps.

  Kenyon returned to the bright afternoon sunshine and continued down the path toward a stand of walnut and birch. The shade of the trees was deep and cool; a flock of small birds flashed between shadow and light as they flew among the moss-covered trees. It was so peaceful and quiet and ancient that, for a moment, Kenyon felt as though he was walking through Sherwood forest. Any moment now, he expected Robin Hood to hop out from behind a tree and demand his gold.

  His mood was interrupted by the sound of a shotgun blast, quickly followed by a second report. He crouched and cocked his head to the right, trying to judge the direction of the shots. As far as he could see, the trees ended at the edge of a field. Kenyon approached slowly, wary of making himself a target.

  He didn’t see his assailant until the end of the shotgun barrel was almost in his face. Kenyon staggered back in surprise, tripping over a root and landing on his back. Helpless, he stared up at the attacker, an ancient man with a ruddy complexion and large ears.

  “Caught you trespassing!” the man shouted, pointing an ornate, double-barreled twelve-gauge at Kenyon’s gut.

  Kenyon noticed that the man’s left arm hung limp at his side, but his right arm was still strong enough to hold the gun.

  “I’m not trespassing, I’m here to see Ilsa,” said Kenyon, as calmly as possible. “Put the gun down.”

  The old man ignored the order and stared malevolently at the agent. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “My name’s Jack Kenyon.”

  “Kenyon?” whispered the man, almost to himself. He stared at the agent, a mad hatred in his eyes. “You little bastard!” He cocked the hammers of the deadly gun. Kenyon cringed, awaiting the blast.

  “Father!” a woman admonished. “Stop it this instant!”

  Ilsa Ingoldsby-Legrand stepped up to the old man and grabbed the gun from his hands. She snapped the breech and emptied the shells from the barrels, then turned around and shouted to the bushes. “Harold! I told you to keep an eye on Father!”

  A short, heavyset man in a camouflage hunting jacket came out from behind a hunting blind. “Sorry, Miss Ilsa,” he replied, doing up his fly. “I just stepped away for a moment.”

  Ilsa shoved the empty shotgun into his hands. “Take Sir Rupert back to the house. And have the firing pins removed from this gun. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Miss Ilsa,” he replied. “At once, ma’am.” Harold took his charge by the arm and began to lead him back toward the house. As they walked away, the old man dragged his left foot slightly in the dust.

  “You must forgive Father,” Ilsa said to Kenyon. “There have been so many burglaries around here.”

  Kenyon turned his attention to the woman. Her long, slim legs were covered in black leggings, and she wore a navy sweater with a marksman’s leather shoulder padding. Her long blond hair was tied up in a bun, but her skin was as pale and translucent as it had appeared in the video. One detail that Kenyon hadn’t noticed in the DVD; her eyes were the color of lake ice.

  She reached down and clasped Kenyon’s hand, pulling him to his feet with surprising strength. “Might I ask who you are?”

  The agent dusted himself off. “My name’s Jack Kenyon. I’m Lydia’s . . .”

  Her smile immediately disappeared. “What do you want?” she coldly asked.

  Kenyon was surprised by her abruptness. “Lydia left a bequest in her will. To one of your charities.”

  Ilsa turned her back on Kenyon and walked toward the blind. “Oh, she did, did she?

  “Yes. The Daughters of Mercy.”

  Ilsa snorted, a short, sharp laugh. “How ironic.”

  Kenyon felt vaguely irritated. “What’s so funny?”

  Ilsa didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she paused before a rack of shotguns. There were six weapons, all silver-filigreed 20-gauge Perazzis with walnut stocks. Kenyon had once guided a party of European hunters for a two-week horse trek across the Rockies. One of them, an Italian count, was very proud of his .410 Perazzi; it had, he noted, cost him forty thousand American dollars.

  Ilsa stroked the barrel of one of the guns, a smile playing across her lips. “Are you familiar with the Daughters of Mercy?”

  Kenyon shook his head. “No, I’m not.”

  “They help single mothers care for their children,” replied Ilsa.

  Kenyon shrugged. “It sounds like a worthy charity.”

  “It is.” Ilsa lifted a shotgun and placed two shells into the over/under barrels. She took her stance, then shouted out to the field, “Ready!”

  In the distance, Kenyon could see some movement as beaters worked the long grass at the far edge of the field. “Does any of the money from your annual art auction go to the Daughters of Mercy?” he asked.

  Ilsa turned one eye back to Kenyon. “Some. Are you interested in art, Mr. Kenyon?”

  “I’m more interested in auctions.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m interested in knowing what happened the night of yours.”

  Ilsa squinted down the gunsights, into the field. “Many things happened.”

  “I want to know what happened to Lydia.”

  “In what way?”

  “When she left here, she was very angry.”

  “And you naturally assume I was responsible?”

  “I didn’t say that . . .” replied Kenyon.

  Ilsa turned to him. “You came here hoping that I would tell you we had an argument and that Lydia was so angry that she crashed her car and killed herself. Well, Mr. Kenyon, it simply didn’t happen that way.”

  “What did happen?”

  “I don’t know.” She nodded down the lane, toward the house. “Father was not feeling well, and I spent the latter part of the evening in his chambers, overseeing his care. I wasn’t downstairs when Lydia left.”

  “Look, I know you and Lydia didn’t get along,” Kenyon pressed on, “but it’s important to me to find out what happened.”

  Ilsa returned her gaze to the field. “Then I suggest you ask my husband, Raymond Legrand.”

  “Why?”

  There was a sudden flurry, and a pair of ground birds burst from cover and hurtled toward the blind.

  “Because he was the one fucking her, not me.”

  The gun went off, twice, and the two birds dropped to the ground.

  Nine

  Sunday, July 10

  The phone rang, and Kenyon stirred. It was late morning; Lydia’s bedside clock said it was just after eleven. He lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Jack. It’s Tanya. How did everything go yesterday?”

  Kenyon sat up and rubbed his face. After driving back from Ingoldsby Manor and returning the Morgan to the dealership, he had sat for several hours in the park across the street, nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels. “Not so good.”

  “Why don’t you come over for breakfast and tell me about it? We could kill two birds with one stone; I’ve got some papers for you to sign.”

  Kenyon smacked his dry lips together; the inside of his mouth definitely tasted like the bottom of a birdcage. “You got any coffee?”

  O’Neill did, and, after writing down directions to her flat, Kenyon promised to meet her within the ho
ur. He shaved and brushed his teeth, then hustled outside to Cromwell Road and grabbed a cab.

  O’Neill’s apartment was located in Holland Park about one mile north of Lydia’s home. The neighborhood was just west of Kensington Palace and consisted of old mansions that had been divided into flats. Kenyon buzzed O’Neill’s apartment, then trudged up four flights to the top floor.

  She was waiting for him at her door, barefoot. She was wearing a short skirt and a light cotton blouse. Without the formal legal attire, she looked younger, more appealing, thought Kenyon. “Come on in,” she invited.

  The flat was bright and airy. One side was a combined living room, dining room and kitchen; the back half held a bedroom and ensuite bath. Kenyon glanced into the bedroom. Women’s clothing was strewn about on the floor and the bed was un-made. There was no sign of a man’s clothing.

  Kenyon went into the living room. The hardwood floor was partially concealed by a large Persian rug, the furniture dotted with bright silk pillows. Lydia’s nude portrait hung over an ornate marble fireplace.

  O’Neill caught him staring at the painting. “What do you think?” she asked.

  “Lydia looks almost at home here,” he said.

  She handed Kenyon a large mug of black coffee and pointed to a set of French doors. “Why don’t you sit down outside while I finish breakfast?”

  The doors opened onto a small patio on the roof of the building. Coffee in hand, Jack went outside and sat down at a wrought-iron table. In the distance, he could see the forest of trees marking Hyde Park. Fat white clouds scudded quickly across the sky from south to north. Kenyon wondered if that meant good weather, or bad.

  O’Neill came out with a tray filled with smoked salmon, cream cheese, and bagels and a bowl of cut mangos.

  Kenyon dug in, his appetite whetted. “How did you know this was my favorite breakfast?” He asked between mouthfuls.

  “I didn’t,” replied O’Neill. “It just happens to be Lydia’s. Is this what you ate in Montana?”

  “Nope. I don’t think I even saw a bagel until I was eighteen, let alone lox.”

  After they finished their food, O’Neill fetched the carafe from the kitchen and refilled their coffee mugs. “So, tell me what happened yesterday.”

  Kenyon leaned back and stared out over the rooftops. He had been wondering whether to say anything. Finally, he decided honesty was the best policy. “Lydia was having an affair with Legrand.” He turned back to O’Neill. “Did you know?”

  Her expression was hidden behind a large pair of sunglasses. “Yes.”

  Kenyon turned his gaze back to the rooftops. “Why would she do that? Why would she chase around with another woman’s husband when she could have anyone?”

  “Does it really matter, now?”

  “It matters to me,” said Kenyon.

  “Why?”

  “Well, because . . . shit, I don’t know.” Kenyon rubbed his face in his hands. “I guess because I wanted her to be someone nice.”

  “She was one of the loveliest people I ever knew,” replied O’Neill.

  “I wanted to be proud of her.”

  “You can be proud of her,” said the lawyer. “She did many wonderful things in her life.”

  “Yeah? Like screwing somebody else’s hubby?”

  O’Neill stood up and headed into the apartment. “Don’t talk of her like that.”

  Kenyon followed her inside. “Why not? It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

  O’Neill stopped in front of Lydia’s portrait. “Sometimes the truth is the smallest part of reality.”

  “Okay, then maybe you can explain it to me.”

  O’Neill turned to face Kenyon. “Explain what?”

  Kenyon sat down on the couch. “What was going on between the three of them? I mean, if Lydia was running around with Legrand, then what was Ilsa doing letting her organize this big art auction she holds every year?”

  O’Neill sat down beside Kenyon. “It’s a little complicated.”

  “I like complicated.”

  O’Neill thought for a moment. “Charity work is very important to Ilsa. Her family, the Ingoldsbys, have been trading on public service for centuries. The problem is, all of her friends are the horsey crowd. Unless you have Prince Charles out to your auction, nobody covers it. Ilsa needed Lydia to pull in the media.”

  “How did she do that?”

  “Lydia knew the A-list: the rock stars, the movie actors, the ones who guaranteed newspaper coverage. She was their trusted art adviser. One phone call to Bono or Naomi from Lydia, and the society columnists poured out in droves.”

  Kenyon sat back. “This is too weird. You’re telling me Ilsa tolerated Lydia and Legrand fooling around because it meant her charity event was a success?”

  O’Neill hung her head. “I don’t know, Jack. I don’t want to talk about this just now.”

  Kenyon looked at her. “I’m sorry.” He looked out the window at the beautiful day. “You want to do something? Maybe show me the neighborhood?”

  She lifted her head. “Do you like ice cream?”

  “I love it.”

  O’Neill took him by the hand. “Come on, then.”

  They left the apartment and walked several blocks east, until they came to a wide street lined with immense homes on one side and a large mansion on the other. “That’s Kensington Palace, where Diana lived,” explained O’Neill.

  They entered Kensington Park, a large, open area dotted with ponds, ancient oaks and bandstands. Children sailed boats in the water, and nannies walked by wheeling their prams.

  “This is great,” said Kenyon, as they stood and waited in line at an ice cream stand. “It reminds me of Mary Poppins.”

  “Come on,” said O’Neill. “I’ll show you something special.”

  They wandered down a lane of rose bushes until they came to a huge monument. Marble statues stood at four corners, and a cupola supported by granite columns stood over an immense, gold-leaf statue.

  “What is it?” asked Kenyon.

  “It’s the Albert Memorial,” said O’Neill. “Queen Victoria had it built for her husband, Prince Albert, just after he died.”

  Kenyon stared at the one hundred and fifty-foot tall monument. “She must have really been nuts about the guy.”

  “It’s amazing what people will do in the name of love.”

  They wandered along a path until they came to a cafe by the Serpentine, a long, sinuous lake in the middle of the park. They bought two glasses of white wine and sat by the water. Some teenagers on in-line skates came by, laughing and shouting.

  “That looks brilliant,” said O’Neill. “You ever try it?”

  “Nope.”

  “What did you do for fun when you were a kid?” she asked.

  “We’d pack our horses and go camping in the mountains,” he said. “Find a glacier lake and set up our tent and do a little fishing and hiking. How about you? What did you do for kicks?”

  O’Neill took a sip of her wine. “I grew up in Ireland, near the sea. I’d ride my bike across the green hills to the ocean and spend my evenings with friends by a fire on the shore, dancing under the stars.”

  “It sounds beautiful.”

  “It was.”

  “Why did you leave?” asked Kenyon.

  “Why did you leave?”

  Kenyon leaned over and pulled a stalk of grass from the turf. He chewed on it absently. “You talked to Cyrus?”

  “Your foster father? Yes.”

  “How was he?” asked Kenyon.

  O’Neill thought for a moment. “He was greatly saddened by the news of the death of Lydia.”

  “Really? He said that?”

  “No. He cried, though.”

  “Well, you got one up on me,” said Kenyon. “I lived with Cyrus for eighteen years and I never heard him cry once, not even when my stepmom, Daisy, died of cancer.”

  O’Neill reached over and ran her warm hand along Kenyon’s arm. “Was it hard, living with Cyrus?”
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  Kenyon snorted. “Not if you did exactly what he said. Man, he was always on my case about something. If he caught me so much as standing still, he’d shout at me, ‘Quit wasting your time daydreaming, boy!’”

  O’Neill leaned forward and stared at his eyes. “You were a day-dreamer? What did you dream about?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Kenyon stared at the grass. “I never told anyone this before.”

  O’Neill gave Kenyon such a nice smile, he couldn’t resist.

  “Okay.” He took a breath. “When I was around seven or eight, I used to dream about my parents.”

  “Sorry?”

  “My real parents. You know, the ones who gave me up for adoption.”

  O’Neill nodded. “Tell me about your dreams.”

  “I pictured myself sitting on the porch of our ranch house. This big car would pull up, and out would get my mom and dad. He’d be wearing this nice suit and smoking a pipe, and she’d be all gussied up in this pretty dress. They’d give me a hug, then say, ‘Oh, Jack, we finally came for you,’ then they’d take me back to this nice, suburban home with a yard and big dog. And everything would be perfect.”

  Kenyon stared out over the lake. “Well, they never did show up. By the time I finished high school, I knew it was up to me to get out. Cyrus said I was welcome to stick around and work the ranch, but I won an athletic scholarship at Stanford, and I lit out for the big lights of San Francisco when I was seventeen.”

  “By the time I was seventeen, I wasn’t welcome in my home,” said O’Neill. “I was too outrageous for my folks to handle.”

  Kenyon turned his head to one side. “Except for that axe in your purse, you don’t look too dangerous to me.”

  O’Neill sipped her wine. “Axe murderers are fine. I was something worse.”

  “What?”

  “I developed a crush on my teacher.”

  Kenyon nodded. “I can see how people would be outraged.”

  “I was attending The Bleeding Sacred Heart of Jesus. My teacher was Sister Mary Ignatius.”