“Three weeks will make no difference. I did cut something of a deal, Elizabeth, I had to. Ramsey is no fool.”
She simply looked at him, waiting in that aloof, reserved way of hers.
“Brad will continue as chief executive officer of ACI. Trent will take over the computer companies headquartered in Silicon Valley in California. But, Elizabeth, both of them will report to you. You will be their boss. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she said, “I understand.”
“Good. Now, go home, my dear, and do your packing.”
She looked undecided, and Rod simply waited. She was thinking about her old piano instructor, Claude Bouchet, and his motherly wife, Marthe. She was thinking of all the mansard roofs she would see. She smiled. She would like to see them again. Paris. A beautiful place to . . . To what? she wondered. To heal, she thought. She smiled. “Yes, Rod. Thank you.”
He watched her leave, her shoulders squared, her stride firm. She was intelligent, very much so. But could she learn quickly enough, be committed enough? He snapped his briefcase closed and looked slowly around Timothy’s huge corner office. He bet she didn’t realize that she would have to be here, behind Timothy’s desk.
And he wondered again, as he had throughout the past week since he had decided beyond doubt that he believed her, who had killed Timothy.
3
She smiled just a bit at the sharp memory. “Paris makes me horny, Elizabeth. Wait until you see the bathtub in our suite at the George V.”
She’d lost the child shortly after she and Timothy returned from Paris that first time. She shook her head. She wouldn’t think about that now. The limousine drove smoothly from Orly into Paris. It was overcast, drizzily and dull, a typical February day in Paris.
A Monsieur Malieau had met her at customs, punctiliously showed her an I.D. that had the letters ACI on it, and guided her through quickly. Elizabeth thanked him, but didn’t know his relationship to Timothy. An underling, she assumed, from one of his French companies.
She hadn’t asked. She didn’t want to know, not just yet in any case. He led her to a limousine, then left her with a formal bow.
When the limousine smoothly turned off the Champs Elysées onto the Avenue George V, Elizabeth saw the huge hotel looming on her left, its towers and facade as gray as the afternoon. She could feel its luxury, its calm beauty, reaching out to her until she saw the mass of photographers and media people surging toward the limousine. She heard one of the men shout out, “Elizabeth X! Elle est ici!”
She closed her eyes, but just for a moment, then said sharply to the driver, “Go, now. Quickly! Allez!”
He pulled smoothly away from the entrance, the photographers and press running behind them. How had they known? Rod wouldn’t have told them. Monsieur Malieau, of course.
“Where do you wish to go, madame?” the driver, a thin, intense-looking young man asked her in perfect English.
Her mind had retreated again as it had for six months, away from herself, away from the hurt and pain.
“Madame?”
Elizabeth blinked. “Can you recommend a small hotel, perhaps on the Left Bank? Private and small?”
She saw the assessing look he gave her and realized that this young man would probably phone the press as soon as he deposited her somewhere. How many francs would someone pay him for the information?
She said nothing, merely waited. He said at last, “Avenue Bosquet, madame. There is a very private hotel there, called La Petite Mer.”
The little sea, she thought, then said clearly, “Fine. You may take me there.” Then she would take a taxi.
Elizabeth ended up on the Rue St. Andre des Arts in a very small hotel whose concierge, Madame LeBeau, appeared to be more interested in the dank weather than in another American tourist. She did raise a brow at the Louis Vuitton luggage, but said nothing.
“You will be alone here, madame?” she asked in heavily accented English. Her look clearly said that she wanted no men trailing after her into this hotel.
“Quite alone,” said Elizabeth as she followed the woman into an elevator as old as or older than Timothy’s. Her room on the third floor was small, clean, and its view was of chimney pots and dirty windows in the building across from her. There was a small, ancient bathroom, the kind that was charming only when it wasn’t expected to work. But Elizabeth didn’t care. Timothy had teased her, saying she was the only person he knew who could get jet lag from the Concorde. It was true. She was exhausted. She hung up her clothes, smiled at the narrow bed, and eased down, pulling the pale yellow chenille spread over her. She slept until ten o’clock that night.
When she emerged for a late dinner, she almost took a taxi to Les Deux Magots, then shook her head at herself. No, it was one of Timothy’s favorite cafés, and she imagined there would be people there who would recognize her. She wanted anonymity. It had stopped raining, and the students from the Sorbonne filled the streets, many of them couples, laughing, kissing, eating hamburgers from the Wimpy’s on the Boulevard St. Michel. She was alone. She found a small café near the Seine on the Rue de la Renaissance, and from her table she could see Notre Dame, its towers ghostly in the night floodlights. Men came and went, and she tried to ignore them, or to say as little as possible. It was past midnight when she returned to her hotel to fall into her narrow bed, her mind a bit fuzzy from the wine.
The next day, Elizabeth dutifully placed a call to Rod in New York.
“You’re staying where?” he asked her again, for the connection made their voices sound indistinct, almost disembodied.
She told him where and why, and he made a disgusted sound. “I suppose it had to be Malieau, and I’ll see that the little bastard is out on his ear.”
An underling, Elizabeth thought, but she didn’t feel a bit sorry for him. Rod told her to enjoy herself at least three times, and Elizabeth finally hung up, a slight smile on her face.
She wandered about Paris for three days before she called Claude and Marthe. She was invited for dinner the following evening. She was ready to see them.
Claude had short, sausage fingers, and it had always amazed Elizabeth to see those utterly unartistic fingers caress the piano keys to such exquisite effect. He was near sixty now, his body as short and squat as his fingers. His eyes were as black as coal, his thick hair white. His benign appearance was changed only when he gave piano instruction to the long line of cretins, his favored name for any and every pupil, including herself, Elizabeth remembered. Marthe Bouchet was as rotund as Claude, but taller, built as solid as a football lineman, Timothy had once said. Her tongue was acerbic and she was endlessly kind.
The Bouchet home was near the Bois de Boulogne, set off the road and surrounded by thick maple trees. Elizabeth was excited, and she had dressed carefully, praying that they wouldn’t bring up the trial. Her thoughts went again to Christian Hunter, as they did many times a day. What did he want? There was no answer, of course. Lights were blazing from the two-story brick house, and there were at least a dozen cars parked about the grounds. Oh, no, she thought, and considered slipping away. I could call them and plead a headache, she thought, but she wasn’t fast enough. Marthe herself, dressed in a black silk tent, appeared under the lights at the front door and called to her.
Elizabeth paid the taxi driver and in the next moment found herself engulfed in Marthe’s massive bosom. French endearments flooded her and she was squeezed until her ribs creaked.
“Just a little party for you,” Marthe told her, patted her cheek, and drew her inside. Martha helped her out of her wool coat; then she was passed into Claude’s embrace, then released to see a living room filled with people.
“You will not worry, my dear,” said Claude, seeing her dismay. “None of them will disaccommodate you, I swear it. If they tried, I should break their untalented fingers or twist off their tone-deaf ears.” He laughed a bit at that, and Elizabeth imagined that he was quite serious. “But musicians, my dear, their minds never stray into th
e real world. Now, had you butchered a Mozart sonata, that would be another matter.”
Butchered. With a silver ice pick. Elizabeth tried not to flinch, because Claude was beaming at her. She managed a smile, but it was weak and uncertain. To her surprise, she was introduced as Madame Elizabeth Xavier, the very talented pianist from America.
She saw recognition in most of their eyes, and watched their faces sharpen with speculation. Not all of the guests were French, of course. Claude prided himself on reeling in “cretin” talent from all over the world. The last person Marthe directed her to was an American, and Elizabeth knew he was American before he even opened his mouth. He had the look of a successful American businessman, his air of confidence palpable.
She felt herself pulling away, wanting desperately to leave, but Marthe had a killing hold on her arm.
“This, my dear Elizabeth, is Rowen Chalmers, a banker from Boston. A man of the real world.”
Elizabeth waited for recognition, a sneering disgust, that avid look that she hadn’t managed to handle with a show of indifference, but he merely smiled at her and took her hand.
“A pleasure,” he said, his voice deep. “I have heard you play, of course. A great pleasure.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, still wary. “Thank you. What are you doing here, Mr. Chalmers? Are you also a pianist?”
She realized that he was attractive, but no more than that until he smiled at her abrupt question. He had lovely teeth and a dimple in his left cheek. “My only talent is in admiration. Would you like a glass of champagne?”
She nodded. And waited. Marthe gave her another beaming smile and left her to her countryman.
He handed her a glass of champagne and deftly moved her a bit to the side. “Please call me Rowe,” he said.
But she didn’t want to call him anything. She wanted to leave.
“That is a lovely dress. Did you get it here in Paris?”
“No, Givenchy exports to New York, you know.” The beige cashmere was conservative, high-necked, long-skirted. It also reeked of elegance, and Timothy, having recognized elegance always, insisted she buy it.
She sipped at her champagne, her eyes on the tiny bubbles floating upward in the glass.
His deep voice cut into her thoughts. “I suppose that Marthe and Claude didn’t inform you of their little party in your honor.”
“No,” she said.
“It is a pity, of course, but you can’t hide forever, you know.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Chalmers,” she said. She’d taken two steps when she felt his hand close over her arm.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Carleton. I meant no insult. I knew Timothy and I know also that you didn’t kill him. Now, may we begin again?”
But Elizabeth felt a spurt of meanness flow through her at his too-smooth handling. “Just why do you think I didn’t kill him?” she asked. “Wasn’t he terribly rich and rather old? The perfect target for a greedy young wife?”
He took no offense. “You have been dreadfully hurt. I’m sorry for it, but I think it must be faced, then we can forget about it.” He saw no encouragement on her pale face, and continued, his voice deeper, “I have already forgotten. Now, will you be playing for us this evening? Some Scarlatti, perhaps?”
She played three Scarlatti pieces after the buffet supper, and the applause warmed her. Rowen Chalmers stood near the grand piano, his eyes never leaving her face. She wondered who he was, and how he knew Claude, much less Timothy. Her arms were tired when she finished, and she gave a crooked smile to Claude, waiting for his inevitable criticism. He didn’t disappoint her, and she found it more warming than the applause. It was like stepping back in time, back five years, before Timothy.
“You played the trill in the third measure like one of my cretins,” Claude said. “Your technique isn’t bad, but you are sadly out of practice, my dear Elizabeth. You will come and Claude will make the fingers sing again, eh?”
Rowen Chalmers said near her ear, “Actually, I thought you ruined the seventh measure on the second page. Too much a show of technical gymnastics, too little finesse.”
She laughed. “You and Claude need to compare notes.”
“Actually, it was so moving I wanted to cry.”
That drew her up. She said very quietly, “Thank you, Mr. Chalmers.” She saw Marthe waving her arms in typical French fashion to one of her guests. “A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Chalmers,” she said, and left him standing next to the old stone fireplace, a thoughtful expression on his face.
Claude was calling for a taxi when Rowen Chalmers said from behind Elizabeth, “I’m staying near your hotel. I have a rented Peugeot. It runs quite well. I would be delighted to drive you back.”
Claude paused in his dialing, his dark eyes on Elizabeth’s face. He was being kind, she knew, but she didn’t want to have anything to do with anyone, particularly an American. An American who had known Timothy. She stood, uncertain, and watched Claude gently set the receiver back into its cradle.
“You go with your friend, eh, Elizabeth? Marthe and I, we see you again, perhaps, before you go back home.”
Elizabeth felt indecisive, a condition she hated, a quality in herself that had only grown worse over the past months. She felt confident only when she was playing.
“I promise to treat you just like Claude does,” said Rowen Chalmers. “I shall insult your technique, criticize your trills endlessly, even call you a cretin if you like.”
“Very well,” Elizabeth said. She felt churlish suddenly. The man was merely being polite.
“If you wish to borrow some of Claude’s music, I can wave it in front of your nose and tell you that you’re not worthy of polishing piano keys.”
Her smile came easily now. “Thank you,” she said.
The Peugeot rode smoothly. Elizabeth leaned her head back against the leather seat and closed her eyes. “How do you come to know Marthe and Claude?” she asked, not turning to face him.
“I’m what you would call an emissary for patrons of Claude’s. They couldn’t make it over and asked me to come and see to things, with a sizable check in my hand, of course.”
“Who are they? Perhaps I know them.”
“They wish to be anonymous. I, on the other hand, love to hand over their money and take all the credit for their good deed. Are you a patron?”
She smiled. “Yes, I am. For three years now.”
“I am also here in Paris alone, for another two or so weeks. I’m divorced. I haven’t any children. I don’t rape women, abuse animals, or belch after a good meal. I am entirely harmless. Would you spend the day with me tomorrow? I’d like to roller-skate through the Louvre. A slower pace would take at least three days.”
Elizabeth turned her head slightly to look at him. His profile was toward her, his face in shadow. He was handsome, she supposed objectively. Probably in his mid-thirties. His hair was a light brown, thick, well cut and styled, his brown eyes intelligent. She’d already looked at his hands, a habit of long standing. Large hands, well-shaped long fingers, the nails clipped short and buffed, just like hers. Why not? she thought. It would be nice just to be with another person, to talk about nonsense, anything but the past.
“All right,” she said finally. He turned his head at that moment and gave her a relieved smile.
“Thank you. I was sure you would say no. I was beginning to think that I had lost my touch.”
She stiffened just a bit, but his smile was warm, with no hint of smugness.
“Or perhaps I had some of Marthe’s spinach soufflé between my front teeth.”
“No, your teeth are fine,” she said. “Where does one rent roller skates?”
Elizabeth awoke with a smile, with no sense of the heaviness that had become a part of her during the past months. She hummed as she coaxed the faucet to give her some rusty hot water. She dressed in Lagerfeld black wool slacks and matching turtleneck sweater. She fashioned her hair in a chignon and topped it with a black hat, then slipped on the long bright re
d Lagerfeld cashmere coat and black gloves. She felt jaunty. She felt young and carefree. It was an odd feeling.
Actually, Rowen Chalmers was staying at the Bristol Hotel, and it was there he took her to breakfast. He was wearing gray wool slacks, a white shirt, and a matching gray cashmere sport coat. He looked very fit and very American. He was tall, she realized, taller than she’d thought. He seemed to sense her renewed wariness and made no push to speak of anything in particular over breakfast except the gray and overcast day.
They took a taxi to the Louvre, and Elizabeth felt her uncertainty, her shyness in the presence of a man who was not Timothy, fading as they mapped out their strategy. She wanted to see La Gioconda, he, Winged Victory. And the impressionists, of course.
“There are so few women,” Elizabeth said absently as they wandered through the vast rooms.
“Berthe Morisot and Mary Cassatt,” he said when they reached the impressionists. “Actually, I’ve been trying to buy a Cassatt, but I doubt I’ll succeed—unless I have it stolen, of course.”
She blinked at him, certain he was joking, but he looked perfectly serious. “If you stole it, then people like me wouldn’t be able to see it,” she said finally.
“People like you, Elizabeth, could also have it stolen.”
Timothy’s money, she thought. So much of it. She simply shook her head.
“I’d like to visit Napoleon’s tomb,” she said. And they did. It seemed natural to have dinner that evening, and Rowe, as if sensing her dislike of any place where she might be recognized, suggested a small restaurant near Montmartre.
Elizabeth loved oysters and did justice to a full dozen. “I grew up in the Midwest,” she said, licking her fingers. “Oysters were considered somehow sinful. Claude introduced me to them when I came here to study with him. Now when I see an oyster, greed clouds my eyes.”
Rowe looked up from his veal. “I grew up in Boston,” he said, “and every time I see a pot of Texas chili, both greed and tears cloud my eyes.”
FALSE PRETENSES Page 4