In Their Footsteps and Thief of Hearts

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Quite intriguing, don’t you think?”

  Beryl shuddered and looked at her spiky-haired guide. “What brilliant mind dreamed this one up?”

  “A new artist. A young man, just building his reputation here in Paris. We are hosting a reception in his honor tonight. Perhaps you will attend?”

  “If I can.”

  The woman reached into a basket and plucked out an elegantly embossed invitation. This she handed to Beryl. “If you are free tonight, please drop in.”

  Beryl was about to slip the card carelessly into her purse when she suddenly focused on the artist’s name. A name she recognized.

  Galerie Annika presente:

  Les sculptures de Anthony Sutherland

  17 juillet 7-9 du soir.

  Nine

  “This is crazy,” said Richard. “An unacceptable risk.”

  To his annoyance, Beryl simply waltzed over to the closet and stood surveying her wardrobe. “What do you think would be appropriate tonight? Formal or semi?”

  “You’ll be out in the open,” said Richard. “An art reception! I can’t think of a more public place.”

  Beryl took out a black silk sheath, turned to the mirror, and calmly held the dress to her body. “A public place is the safest place to be,” she observed.

  “You were supposed to stay here! Instead you go running around town—”

  “So did you.”

  “I had business….”

  She turned and walked into the bedroom. “I did, too,” she called back cheerfully.

  He started to follow her, but halted in the doorway when he saw that she was undressing. At once he turned around and stood with his back pressed against the doorjamb. “A craving for a three-star meal doesn’t constitute necessity!” he snapped over his shoulder.

  “It wasn’t a three-star meal. It wasn’t even a half star. But it was better than eggs and moldy bread.”

  “You’re like some finicky kitten, you know that? You’d rather starve than deign to eat canned food like every other cat.”

  “You’re quite right. I’m a spoiled Persian and I want my cream and chicken livers.”

  “I would’ve brought you back a meal. Catnip included.”

  “You weren’t here.”

  And that was his mistake, he realized. He couldn’t leave this woman alone for a second. She was too damn unpredictable.

  No, actually she was predictable. She’d do whatever he didn’t want her to do.

  And what he didn’t want her to do was leave the flat tonight.

  But he could already hear her stepping into the black dress, could hear the whisper of silk sliding over stockings, the hiss of the zipper closing over her back. He fought to suppress the images those sounds brought to mind—the long legs, the curve of her hips…He found himself clenching his jaw in frustration, at her, at himself, at the way events and passions were spinning out of his control.

  “Do me up, will you?” she asked.

  He turned and saw that she’d moved right beside him. Her back was turned and the nape of her neck was practically within kissing distance.

  “The hook,” she said, tossing her hair over one shoulder. He inhaled the flowery scent of shampoo. “I can’t seem to fasten it.”

  He attached the hook and eye and found his gaze lingering on her bare shoulders. “Where did you get that dress?” he asked.

  “I brought it from Chetwynd.” She breezed over to the dresser and began to slip on earrings. The silk sheath seemed to mold itself to every luscious curve of her body. “Why do you ask?”

  “It’s Madeline’s dress. Isn’t it?”

  She turned to look at him. “Yes, it is,” she said quietly. “Does that bother you?”

  “It’s just—” he let out a breath “—it’s a perfect fit. Curve for curve.”

  “And you think you’re seeing a ghost.”

  “I remember that dress. I saw her wear it at an embassy reception.” He paused. “God, it’s really eerie, how that dress seems made for you.”

  Slowly she moved toward him, her gaze never wavering from his face. “I’m not her, Richard.”

  “I know.”

  “No matter how much you may want her back—”

  “Her?” He took her wrists and pulled her close to him. “When I look at you, I see only Beryl. Of course, I notice the resemblance. The hair, the eyes. But you’re the one I’m looking at. The one I want.” He bent toward her and gently grazed her lips with a kiss. “That’s why I want you to stay here tonight.”

  “Your prisoner?” she murmured.

  “If need be.” He kissed her again and heard an answering purr of contentment from her throat. She tilted her head back, and his lips slid to her neck, so smooth, so deliciously perfumed.

  “Then you’ll have to tie me up…” she whispered.

  “Whatever you want.”

  “…because there’s no other way you’re going to keep me here tonight.” With a maddening laugh, she wriggled free and walked into the bathroom.

  Richard suppressed a groan of frustration. From the doorway, he watched as she pinned up her hair. “Exactly what do you expect to get out of this event, anyway?” he demanded.

  “One never knows. That’s the joy of intelligence gathering, isn’t it? Keep your ears and eyes open and see what turns up. I think we’ve learned quite a lot already about François. We know he has a sister who’s ill. Which means François needed money. Working as a janitor in an art gallery couldn’t possibly pay for all the care she needed. Perhaps he was desperate, willing to do anything for money. Even work as a hired assassin.”

  “Your logic is unassailable.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But your plan of action is insane. You don’t need to take this risk—”

  “But I do.” She turned to him, her hair now regally swept into a chignon. “Someone wants me and Jordan dead. And there I’ll be tonight. A perfectly convenient target.”

  What a magnificent creature she is, he thought. It’s that unbeatable bloodline, those Bernard and Madeline genes. She thinks she’s invincible.

  “That’s the plan, is it?” he said. “Tempt the killer into making a move?”

  “If that’s what it takes to save Jordan.”

  “And what’s to stop the killer from carrying it out?”

  “My two bodyguards. And you.”

  “I’m not infallible, Beryl.”

  “You’re close enough.”

  “I could make a mistake. Let my attention slip.”

  “I trust you.”

  “But I don’t trust myself!” Agitated, he began to pace the bedroom floor. “I’ve been out of the business for years. I’m out of practice, out of condition. I’m forty-two, Beryl, and my reflexes aren’t what they used to be.”

  “Last night they seemed quick enough to me.”

  “Walk out that door, Beryl, and I can’t guarantee your safety.”

  She came toward him, looking him coolly in the eye. “The fact is, Richard, you can’t guarantee my safety anywhere. In here, out on the streets, at an artist’s reception. Wherever I am, there’s a chance things could go wrong. If I stay in this flat, if I stare at these walls any longer, thinking of all the things that could happen, I’ll go insane. It’s better to be out there. Doing something. Jordan isn’t able to, so I have to be the one.”

  “The one to set yourself up as bait?”

  “Our only lead is a dead man—François. Someone hired him, Richard. Someone who may have connections to Galerie Annika.”

  For a moment Richard stood gazing at her, thinking, She’s right, of course. It’s the same conclusion I came to. She’s clever enough to know exactly what needs to be done. And reckless enough to do it.

  He went to the nightstand and picked up the Glock. A pound and a half of steel and plastic, that’s all he had to protect her with. It felt flimsy, insubstantial, against all the dangers lurking beyond the front door.

  “You’re coming with me?” she said
.

  He turned and looked at her. “You think I’d let you go alone?”

  She smiled, so full of confidence it frightened him. It was Madeline’s old smile. Madeline, who’d been every bit as confident.

  He slid the Glock into his shoulder holster. “I’ll be right beside you, Beryl,” he said. “Every step of the way.”

  Anthony Sutherland stood posing like a little emperor beside his bronze cast of the Madonna with jackal. He was wearing a pirate shirt of purple silk, black leather pants and snakeskin boots, and he seemed not in the least bit fazed by all the photographers’ flashbulbs that kept popping around him. The art critics were in vapors over the show. “Frightening.” “Disturbing.” “Images that twist convention.” These were some of the comments Beryl overheard being murmured as she wandered through the gallery.

  She and Richard stopped to look at another of Anthony’s bronzes. At first glance, it had looked like two nude figures entwined in a loving embrace. Closer inspection, however, revealed it to be a man and woman in the process of devouring each other alive.

  “Do you suppose that’s an allegory for marriage?” said a familiar voice. It was Reggie Vane, balancing a glass of champagne in one hand and two dainty plates of canapés in the other.

  He bent forward and gave Beryl an affectionate kiss on the cheek. “You’re absolutely stunning tonight, dear. Your mother would be proud of you.”

  “Reggie, I had no idea you were interested in modern art,” said Beryl.

  “I’m not. Helena dragged me here.” In disgust, he glanced around at the crowd. “Lord, I hate these things. But the St. Pierres were coming, and of course Marie always insists Helena show up as well, just to keep her company.” He set his empty champagne glass on top of the bronze couple and laughed at the whimsical effect. “An improvement, wouldn’t you say? As long as these two are going to eat each other, they might as well have some bubbly to wash each other down.”

  An elegantly attired woman swooped in and snatched away the glass. “Please, be more respectful of the work, Mr. Vane,” she scolded.

  “Oh, I wasn’t being disrespectful, Annika,” said Reggie. “I just thought it needed a touch of humor.”

  “It is absolutely perfect as it is.” Annika gave the bronze heads a swipe of her napkin and stood back to admire the interwoven figures. “Whimsy would ruin its message.”

  “What message is that?” asked Richard.

  The woman turned to look at him, and her head of boyishly cropped hair suddenly tilted up with interest. “The message,” she said, gazing intently at Richard, “is that monogamy is a destructive institution.”

  “That’s marriage, all right,” grunted Reggie.

  “But free love,” the woman continued, “love that has no constraints and is open to all pleasures—that is a positive force.”

  “Is that Anthony’s interpretation of this piece?” asked Beryl.

  “It’s how I interpret it.” Annika shifted her gaze to Beryl. “You are a friend of Anthony’s?”

  “An acquaintance. I know his mother, Nina.”

  “Where is Nina, by the way?” asked Reggie. “You’d think she’d be front-and-center stage for darling Anthony’s night of glory.”

  Beryl had to laugh at Reggie’s imitation of Nina. Yes, when Queen Nina wanted an audience, all she had to do was throw one of these stylish bashes, and an audience would invariably turn up. Even poor Marie St. Pierre, just out of the hospital, had put in an appearance. Marie stood off in a corner with Helena Vane, the two women huddled together like sparrows in a gathering of peacocks. It was easy to see why they’d be such close friends; both of them were painfully plain, neither one was happily married. That their marriages were not happy was only too clear tonight. The Vanes were avoiding each other, Helena off in her corner darting irritated looks, Reggie standing as far away as possible. And as for Marie St. Pierre—her husband wasn’t even in the room at the moment.

  “So this is in praise of free love, is it?” said Reggie, eyeing the bronze with new appreciation.

  “That is how I see it,” said Annika. “How a man and a woman should love.”

  “I quite agree,” said Reggie with a sudden burst of enthusiasm. “Banish marriage entirely.”

  The woman looked provocatively at Richard. “What do you think, Mr….?”

  “Wolf,” said Richard. “I’m afraid I don’t agree.” He took Beryl’s arm. “Excuse us, will you? We still have to see the rest of the collection.”

  As he led Beryl away toward the spiral staircase, she whispered, “There’s nothing to see upstairs.”

  “I want to check out the upper floors.”

  “Anthony’s work is all on the first floor.”

  “I saw Nina slink up the stairs a few minutes ago. I want to see what she’s up to.”

  They climbed the stairs to the second-floor gallery. From the open walkway, they paused to look over the railing at the crowd on the first floor. It was a flashy gathering, a sea of well-coiffed heads and multicolored silks. Annika had moved into the limelight with Anthony, and as a new round of flashbulbs went off, they embraced and kissed to the sound of applause.

  “Ah, free love,” sighed Beryl. “She obviously has samples to pass around.”

  “So I can see.”

  Beryl gave him a sly smile. “Poor Richard. On duty tonight and can’t indulge.”

  “Afraid to indulge. She’d eat me up alive. Like that bronze statue.”

  “Aren’t you tempted? Just a little?”

  He looked at her with amusement. “You’re baiting me, Beryl.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes, you are. I know exactly what you’re up to. Putting me to the test. Making me prove I’m not like your friend the surgeon. Who, as you implied, also believed in free love.”

  Beryl’s smile faded. “Is that what I’m doing?” she asked softly.

  “You have a right to.” He gave her hand a squeeze and glanced down again at the crowd.

  He’s always alert, always watching out for me, she thought. I’d trust him with my life. But my heart? I still don’t know….

  In the downstairs gallery, a pair of musicians began to play. As the sweet sounds of flute and guitar floated through the building, Beryl suddenly sensed a pair of eyes watching her. She looked down at the cluster of bronze statues and spotted Anthony Sutherland, standing by his Madonna with jackal. He was gazing right at her. And the expression in his eyes was one of cold calculation.

  Instinctively she shrank away from the railing.

  “What is it?” asked Richard.

  “Anthony. It’s the way he looks at me.”

  But by then Anthony had already turned away and was shaking Reggie Vane’s hand. An odd young man, thought Beryl. What sort of mind dreams up these nightmarish visions? Women nursing jackals. Couples devouring each other. Had it been so difficult, growing up as Nina Sutherland’s son?

  She and Richard wandered through the second-floor gallery, but found no sign of Nina.

  “Why are you so interested in finding her?” asked Beryl.

  “It’s not her so much as the way she went up those stairs. Obviously trying not to be noticed.”

  “And you noticed her.”

  “It was the dress. Those trademark bugle beads of hers.”

  They finished their circuit of the second floor and headed up the staircase to the third. Again, no sign of Nina. But as they moved along the walkway, the musicians in the first-floor gallery suddenly ceased playing. In the abrupt silence that followed, Beryl heard Nina’s voice—a few loud syllables—just before it dropped to a whisper. Another voice answered—a man’s, speaking softly in reply.

  The voices came from an alcove, just ahead.

  “It’s not as if I haven’t been patient,” said Nina. “Not as if I haven’t tried to be understanding.”

  “I know. I know—”

  “Do you know what it’s been like for me? For Anthony? Have you any idea? All those years, waiting for you to
make up your mind.”

  “I never let you want for anything.”

  “Oh, how fortunate for us! My goodness, how generous of you!”

  “The boy has had the best—everything he’s ever wanted. Now he’s twenty-one. My responsibility ends.”

  “Your responsibility,” said Nina, “has only just begun.”

  Richard yanked Beryl around the corner just as Nina emerged from the alcove. She stormed right past them, too angry to notice her audience. They could hear her high heels tapping down the staircase to the lower galleries.

  A moment later, a second figure emerged from the alcove, moving like an old man.

  It was Philippe St. Pierre.

  He went over to the railing and stared down at the crowd in the gallery below. He seemed to be considering the temptation of that two-story drop. Then, sighing deeply, he walked away and followed Nina down the stairs.

  Down in the first-floor gallery, the crowd was starting to thin out. Anthony had already left; so had the Vanes. But Marie St. Pierre was still standing in her corner, the abandoned wife waiting to be reclaimed. A full room’s length away stood her husband Philippe, nursing a glass of champagne. And standing between them was that macabre sculpture, the bronze man and woman devouring each other alive.

  Beryl thought that perhaps Anthony had hit upon the truth with his art. That if people weren’t careful, love would consume them, destroy them. As it had destroyed Marie.

  The image of Marie St. Pierre, standing alone and forlorn in the corner, stayed with Beryl all the way back to the flat. She thought how hard it must be to play the politician’s wife—forever poised and pleasant, always supportive, never the shrew. And all the time knowing that your husband was in love with another woman.

  “She must have known about it. For years,” said Beryl softly.

  Richard kept his gaze on the road as he navigated the streets back to Passy. “Who?” he asked.

  “Marie St. Pierre. She must have known about her husband and Nina. Every time she looks at young Anthony, she’d see the resemblance. And how it must hurt her. Yet all these years, she’s put up with him.”