“I do, Vivi, I do.”
I sat up, blinking in the sunlight and pushing my hair out of my eyes.
And I asked myself the most potent of questions: Why would Sebastian Locke commit suicide when he was about to many the love of his life?
Half an hour later I was sitting with my friend Marie-Laure on the terrace of her home, Chateau de Beauvais, telling her about the all topsy report.
She listened patiently, as attentive as she always was to my words, and when I had finished she said nothing, simply sat there, digesting what I had told her.
Finally, after a few minutes, she murmured softly, “Mon Dieu, how terribly sad. What a waste.”
“Yes, it is. And I can’t help wondering why Sebastian would commit suicide when he was about to marry the love of his life.”
She stared at me in surprise. “He was? How do you know?”
“He told me,” I answered, and proceeded to repeat the conversation Sebastian and I had the day we lunched together in New York.
“You say he was euphoric that Monday,” Marie-Laure murmured thoughtfully, “Yet five days later, on Saturday night, he killed himself.
It is obvious, is it not, Vivienne? Something must have happened during the course of that week, and whatever it was caused him to do this most terrible thing to himself.”
“Or he was murdered,” I said.
“You don’t mean that, do you?” She looked at me askance.
“Well, it’s a possibility, isn’t it? According to the autopsy report he was full of barbiturates and alcohol. But someone could have doctored his drinkthe way they make a Mickey Finn.”
“What is that? A Mickey Finn?” she asked, sounding puzzled.
“It is a combination of alcohol and chloral hydrate, and it usually knocks people out, makes them unconscious. It can also be poisonous .”
LSo, you think Sebastian was given this . . . Mickey Finn?”
“No, no, you’re misunderstanding me, Marie-Laure,” I said quickly, and explained, “A Mickey Finn is not necessarily lethal, and anyway I was just using that as an example. What I’m trying to say is that he might have consumed a quantity of alcohol that had been tampered with, you know, laced with barbiturates.”
“Now I see what you are getting at. But who would want to do that?
Who would want to murder Sebastian?”
“That’s the problem, I don’t really know,” I answered glumly. “Al though he has antagonized a lot of people over the years, and even quite recently. He told me that himself the last time I saw him.”
“Who did he antagonize?” she asked.
“Mainly foreign governments. Or rather, members of foreign goy ernments, people whom he suspected of being overly bureaucratic, who were slowing down his aid programs with what he considered to be their unnecessary red tape. Or those whom he believed to be car rupt. He just swept them to one side in that imperious way of his and plunged ahead, doing his own thing. In the process he performed innumerable miracles, of course. He may have been a bit of a mayer ick, and stubborn, independent, willful, and domineering, but he did get things done. And unlike anyone else ever has.”
“I understand what you’re saying, cherie. But surely you don’t realty believe a foreign government would send somebody to kill Sebastian, do you?”
“I don’t know . . . Maybe. More peculiar things happen every day of the week. We certainly read about them in the papers, see a variety of bizarre incidents on the television news.”
“It would be a bit risky, I think,” Marie-Laure replied, nodding to herself. “After all, he was the world’s greatest philanthropist.
One of the most prominent men alive today. His killer, or killers, would be condemned by the entire world.”
“Thrrorists are condemned, but that doesn’t stop terrorism,” I pointed out. “And besides, killers have to be caught to be condemned .”
“Very true,” Marie-Laure agreed, and rose. She walked up and down the terrace at the back of the chateau, deep in thought.
I sat watching her, thinking what a truly good friend she had always been to me. When I had phoned her earlier, to say I wanted to come over to discuss a problem, she had dropped everything she was doing in order to receive me, to listen to me.
She was a small woman, diminutive really, and although she was forty she was like a young girl with her slender figure, dark, bobbed hair with bangs, and an exceptionally pretty face. She was also one of the most capable people I knew, running the chateau and its lands, which she had inherited from her father, being a supportive wife to Alexandre and a devoted mother to her two children, Franis and Chloe.
She and I had met thirteen years ago, when Sebastian and I were first working on the old mill, and we had taken to each other at once.
And there had been times, over the years, when I had wondered what I would have done without her friendship.
Marie-Laure stopped pacing finally, came and sat down on the gar den seat next to me. Staring into my face, she took hold of my hand, and said carefully, “I don’t believe Sebastian was murdered. I think you must accept the facts, accept the autopsy report, accept that he took his own life.”
“But he didn’t have any reason to do that,” I persisted quietly.
“Perhaps he did. How do you or I know? How does anyone know about another person, Vivienne? How do we know what goes on in someone else’s mind?” She shook her head, and went on, “We have no conception.
There is one thing, Vivienne .
“Yes?”
“Could it have had something to do with the woman he was in love with?”
“What do you mean exactly?”
“Maybe she broke off her engagement to him,” Marie-Laure suggested , her dark-brown eyes intent and alert as they fastened on mine.
“That’s a possibility, I suppose anything can happen in a relation ship.
But I don’t think she did that, no, no, no,” I answered.
“Don’t be so emphatic, chrie. Women have been known to change their minds. They do it all the time.”
“No woman in her right mind would dump Sebastian Locke!” I exclaimed.
“You did, Vivienne,” she retorted, throwing me a wise and knowing look.
“No I didn’t. We separated by mutual agreement . . . we loved each other, we just couldn’t live together. We were temperamentally unsuited.”
“Let us consider this,” Marie-Laure began. “The woman, who was younger than you, apparently, finds herself growing more and more nervous about the age difference between them. She gets . . . how do you say it . .
. the cold feet, no? And so she ends their relationship.”
“All right, it could happen, I’ll grant you that. But even if she did break it off with him, he wouldn’t kill himself over it. Not Sebastian.
I just know he wouldn’t. Honestly, it’s not a good enough reason for me, Marie-Laure, it really isn’t. Sebastian was tough and resilient. He had a strong character, and he had many things in his life which were of vital importance to him. His work at Locke Industries, the Locke Foundation, and all of the charities he was involved with. He was constantly traveling the world, dispensing aid.
So many people de pended on him, and he knew they did.”
“I was always aware that he took his responsibilities seriously.
It was one of the things I’ve always admired about him,” she said.
I bit my lip, pondering, then endeavored to explain more fully to her.
“Listen to me, Sebastian would never kill himself over a woman, no matter how much he loved her. He was far too sophisticated, too strong a man for that. Don’t forget, he never had any problems getting a woman. He had five wives altogether, including me. My mother was his mistress, and God knows how many other mistresses he had over the years.
Furthermore, there’s no doubt in my mind that women were falling at his feet right up to the time of his death. That’s the kind of man he was.
Women couldn’t resist him
. And I can’t begin to tell you how fantastic he looked the day we had lunch earlier this month, better than ever. He was full of vitality and that fatal charm of his was wholly intact. He was irresistible, in fact.”
Marie-Laure nodded slowly. “What you say about him is true, I remember his charisma, his great sex appeal, and certainly you knew him better than anyone. So, I cannot argue, your reasoning is valid.
Therefore it must have been something else which caused him to take that most fateful step.”
“Correct. But what could have pushed him over the edge?” I asked.
“I cannot even attempt to make a guess,” she answered. “I just do not know. However, what we both know is that it wasn’t a health problem, because the autopsy would have revealed any fatal disease.
The police have done a thorough investigation and ruled out foul play, so we know that it was not murder. Anyway, cherie, that is too far fetched an idea for me to even contemplate.”
“What you’re saying is that you believe he actually did kill himself.
Am I correct, Marie-Laure?”
“Yes, you are. What other conclusion is there? We just don’t know why he did it, that’s all.”
Marie-Laure and I stared at each other. We were both at a loss.
Eventually, she said, “Let us admit it, cherie, we will never know the reason. The only person who could tell us is . . . dead.”
Driving back to vieux Moulin from the chateau, I replayed everything Marie-Laure had said, and as I did I began to feel much calmer.
My dear old friend usually made great sense and this afternoon had been no exception. I realized she had helped me to adjust to the fact that Sebastian must have killed himself. Very simply, there was no other explanation for his death. In the beginning, murder had crossed my mind but only fleetingly really; I had attributed his fatal collapse to natural causes, either a heart attack or a stroke. This was the reason I had been so shocked by Jack’s phone call. Suicide had been the farthest thing from my mind.
But Marie-Laure had reminded me that we never really knew any body, however close to them we were, or knew what went on in their minds.
People could do surprising things. In essence, she had helped me to put matters in a better perspective, and I began to relax for the first time since Sebastian’s body had been found.
By the time I arrived at the mill it was almost six-thirty. The sun was sinking low behind the ragged line of dark hills, the pale blue sky of earlier fading into an iridescent pearly gray. As I swung off the dirt road and into my driveway, it was already dusk.
Once I’d parked the car, I went inside and raced straight to my bedroom without even letting Phyl know I was back. I didn’t have much time to get ready before Kit arrived to pick me up for dinner.
In my bedroom I pulled off my blue jeans and sweater, slipped into my dressing gown, and refreshed my makeup. After brushing my hair and spraying on perfume, I dressed quickly in beige wool culottes, a cream silk shirt, and black and beige shoes. Taking a black blazer out of the wardrobe, I slipped this on and made my way to the kitchen.
Phyl was standing at the old farm table, filling a wine cooler with ice cubes, and she glanced up as I walked in.
“There you are, Mrs. bent, I thought I heard you come in a short while ago. This is for the Sancerre.
Should I open it now, do you think?”
“Hi, Phyl, and why not.” I glanced at my watch. “Mr. Tremain will be here shortly, he’s usually on time. You know, Phyl, it’s turned quite coolish, I think it would be better if we had drinks inside tonight. In the library, I guess.”
“Good idea. Shall I light a fire?”
“No, thanks anyway. It’s hardly worth it. We’ll be going out for dinner in half an hour.”
“There’re a couple of messages for you, over there on the dresser,” she said.
I strolled across the floor, took the messages from underneath the small old4fashioned flat iron that served as a paperweight, and read them quickly. Renny Jackson, my book editor in London, had called to tell me she would be in Air-en-Provence next weekend, and could we have lunch.
She said she would ring me again on Monday to make the date. The other message was from Sandy Robertson, one of the editors I worked with at the London Sunday Times. Nothing important, Phyl had scribbled. He will phone you tomorrow.
“Are you sure Mr. Robertson doesn’t want me to call him back now, Phyl?”
“Oh yes, quite positive. He said he was just leaving the office, that he’d only phoned up to have a social chat with you.”
“I see.” I crumpled the messages in a ball, gave them to her to throw away just as the door bell clanged loudly.
“That must be Mr. ernain,” Phyl said.
“I’ll get it,” I told her and hurried out.
Whsages for you, over there on the dresser,”
she said.
I strolled across the floor, took the messages from underneath the small old4fashioned flat iron that served as a paperweight, and read them quickly. Renny Jackson, my book editor in London, had called to tell me she would be in Air-en-Provence next weekend, and could we have lunch.
She said she would ring me again on Monday to make the date. The other message was from Sandy Robertson, one of the editors I worked with at the London Sunday Times. Nothing important, Phyl had scribbled. He will phone you tomorrow.
“Are you sure Mr. Robertson doesn’t want me to call him back now, Phyl?”
“Oh yes, quite positive. He said he was just leaving the office, that he’d only phoned up to have a social chat with you.”
“I see.” I crumpled the messages in a ball, gave them to her to throw away just as the door bell clanged loudly.
“That must be Mr. ernain,” Phyl said.
“I’ll get it,” I told her and hurried out.
When I opened the door and greeted Kit a split second later, I was surprised to see how fit and well he looked, despite his arduous painting schedule of the last few months.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” he exclaimed, beaming as he stepped into the hall.
He swept me into his arms and hugged me tightly not giving me a chance to say anything.
When he finally released me, he kissed me lightly on the lips and held me at arm’s length, his expression appraising. “You look great, just great, Vivienne.”
“So do you.” I smiled at him. “And you don’t look a bit done in, as you claimed you were.”
“I am, though. But just knowing you’d returned put the starch back in me and cheered me up no end,” he replied, grinning at me.
Slipping his arm around my shoulders, he w4ked me across the hall, and his happiness at being with me was palpable.
“Since it’s turned cool tonight I thought we’d have drinks in the library,” I said. Looking at him, I added, “It’s lovely to see you, Kit.”
“And you. I feel as if you’ve been gone forever. Now that you’re finally here I hope you’re going to stay, Viv.”
“Yes, I am, thank God. I’ve got to dig into my book again, finish it by March.”
We met Phyl in the doorway of the library; Kit greeted her in his usual free, friendly fashion, before ushering me inside the room.
Its walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling, and I had used wonderful old Provenal furniture.
Turning to me he said, “This is my favorite spot in the whole house, you did such a wonderful job on it.”
“Thanks,” I said and went to the table where Phyl had placed the wine cooler holding the bottle of wine and two glasses. I poured.
“Cheers,” Kit said, touching his glass to mine. “Welcome home, fair lady. You’ve been missed.”
“I’ve missed you too, Kit.”
“I hope so,” he answered and lowered himself into a chair near the big picture window which overlooked the gardens.
I sat down on the sofa opposite, and as I leaned back against the soft leather and looked across at him, I was surprised to
discover how much I really had missed him. I had not realized it until this moment.
Christopher Tremain was an attractive man by anybody’s standards.
of medium height, he was slender, wiry in build, with a shock of dark blond hair above a surprisingly unlined college-boy face. Since the first day I met him I’ve always thought of him as looking like the all American hero, racing across a football field clutching a ball.
Forty two years old, he was a New Yorker as I was. He had lived in France for eighteen years, where he was deffied as one of the great modern impressionist painters of his generation, and had moved to Provence from Paris two years ago.
Intelligent and exacting gray eyes stared back at mine staring at him.
He said, “What’s wrong? Do I have a dirty mark on my face?”
I shook my head. “No, I was just thinking again how truly fit you look, in the best of health. Certainly much better than you did just before I left in July.”
“I feel better. It’s the work, I guess. All that painting, the supreme physical and mental effort seems to have regenerated me.”
“I know what you mean, work is a great turn on for me too.”
“Viv . . . look, there’s something I want to say-“ He stopped.
“What?” I asked swiftly, detecting an odd note in his voice.
“What is it?”
“I want to get this out of the way before we go to dinner. When I was getting ready a bit earlier I had the news on, and CNN had a flash about Sebastian. I guess the autopsy report’s been released by the Connecticut State Police-“ Again he cut himself short and looked at me worriedly.
“It has. Jack called me from New York this afternoon as soon as he knew. The Chief Medical Examiner’s verdict is suicide, barbiturate poisoning. You must know that though, surely they had it on CNN.”
“Yes, they did.” He hesitated, before adding, “It seemed odd to me.”
“I thought so. In fact I drove over to see Marie-Laure earlier to discuss it with her. She knew Sebastian a long time, and knew him quite well.” I let out a long sigh. “We tossed it around for ages, and there doesn’t seem to be any other explanation for his death. We finally agreed on that, we’d no alternative.”
“I know how upsetting his death must have been to you, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there to comfort you,” he expressed with genuine sincerity .
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