by Carol Smith
Then there was the odd coincidence of the death of Catherine Palmer, one of the women who had shared Georgy’s hospital ward when she burst her appendix. Almost certainly just that, coincidence, yet still worth looking into. Sick people have a tendency to die and one out of five was not such a terrible statistic, yet a death and a near-death in the space of just a few weeks, among five random patients in the same small ward, seemed unlikely. Even the slightly dozy London police had picked up on that and were interviewing all three surviving patients to see if they could establish any connection.
Next there was the doctor, Addison Harvey. Great reputation in the States as a leading surgeon—Emmanuel had already had him checked out back home. No slouch in England either, come to that; strongly tipped, so he had heard, to be the next personal gynecologist to the Queen. And that must still mean something in this funny little offshore island. Harvey had been out of town during Emmanuel’s brief visit but he meant to catch up with him once Georgy was safely sorted.
He was determined to find out more, too, about Catherine Palmer’s death. It was not Emmanuel’s way to intrude upon private grief, but as long as the question of her overdose remained unresolved, other people had to be suspect and Addison Harvey must come at the top of that list. It was a bit of a cliché to suspect the doctor. Yet who more than he had the knowledge and expertise to have carried out both crimes?
Emmanuel took out a Havana cigar, looked at it longingly, then glanced across at his sleeping daughter and thought better of it. These past few days had been particularly grueling, and he had to be in court in San Diego in two days’ time. First, and most important, there was his daughter to take care of. He would do anything within his power to protect her and hunt down her attacker, no matter what it might cost him in time and money. Once he was clear of the case in San Diego, he meant to head straight back to London to do some sleuthing. Strictly speaking, this was the province of the British police but no one hurt a child of Emmanuel Kirsch and got away with it.
Looking at what evidence he had so far, he would put his safe money on the German faygeleh who seemed so full of pent-up poison and an inborn hatred of the female sex. He had had the inclination, the opportunity, and the motivation, particularly since his erstwhile lover, whom Georgy seemed so stuck on, had apparently recently booted him out. What Georgy, with her healthy appetite for life, could ever have seen in that guy was beyond her father’s comprehension. He blamed himself for having deserted her so badly during the crucial, formative years of her adolescence. Once again, he hoped it was not too late to make amends.
Karl was still in police custody and had, it turned out, a record of violence from his teenage years in Berlin when he was an active member of the neo-Nazi party. Emmanuel recoiled with distaste, yet had to be fair and try to retain his clear-sightedness. How could Karl have got hold of the knife without Beth knowing? Even though she appeared to live a lax and careless life—with a young daughter, yet; what sort of an example was that?—surely not even in her bohemian circles would she be on such cozy terms with the lover of her former husband?
Next there was the veterinarian, who seemed, on brief acquaintance, a decent enough fellow, yet, when it came down to it, what exactly did they know about him? It was clear to see he was fairly smitten with Beth but Catherine was the one who had known him best, and she was dead. Why was he paying so much attention to the mother? Was it just that he was a decent guy or could there be a hidden agenda? Might his apparent solace mask a motive altogether more sinister?
Then there was Oliver Nugent, suave, smooth-talking husband of the rich bitch who seemed to be attempting some sort of takeover bid for Georgy’s career. Emmanuel had not managed to meet Vivienne more than fleetingly, because she was so upset, but the husband had taken her place at the hospital and he’d managed to have a word with him. Coming to no satisfactory conclusion. Oliver was certainly clever and ruthless, successful too, but where exactly did he slot into the general scheme of things, regarding Georgy’s life? He was the sort of Englishman Emmanuel distrusted on sight. The sort, he was afraid, Georgy would find all too appealing.
Last on the list came the couple who owned the house, friends—so he understood—from New York. The police had not yet succeeded in tracing the Hunters but were keen to do so if only to account for the key that had actually unlocked the door. It might all turn out to have been an unfortunate accident but until Josh Hunter could be located, his name had to remain on the list.
In all, quite a conundrum, but meat and drink to Emmanuel Kirsch. In any other circumstances he might have relished the challenge, but this was his child’s attacker he was seeking; this one he had to catch. He slipped off his shoes, eased his feet into his monogrammed slippers, and prepared to sleep.
• • •
Georgy did not wake until the plane had touched down and the orderlies came to maneuver her stretcher onto a trolley, to be carried down the stairway like a coffin. As bright sunshine hurt her sensitive eyes, and since she couldn’t reach her sunspecs as her arms were still strapped down, she sprang awake and started worrying all over again. She felt terrible after the flight, a mass of throbbing aches and pains, and longed to relieve herself if only she knew how. The thought of seeing her mother again filled her with dread. She just wasn’t strong enough to cope with all that now, the fuss, the excitement, the tears; all that suffocating love that had caused her to run away in the first place.
They pushed the trolley across the tarmac, with Emmanuel walking beside her, holding her hand, then into the international terminal and straight through Customs, ahead of the other passengers. This is the way to travel, thought Georgy. In the future I’ll always be sure to do it on a stretcher. Then there were people milling all round her and making way to let her through—and all of a sudden, a familiar smiling face looking down at her and kissing her gently in a haze of delicate citron-flavored perfume. Sylvia.
“Georgy, my darling, are you all right?” She knelt on the ground in her sharply pressed white pants in order to talk to her properly, real concern on her lovely face. Georgy was touched but her strength was fading; all she wanted was to sleep.
“Where are we?” she whispered, confused, expecting Myra to materialize at any minute and provoke another of those ugly scenes. Myra and Sylvia in the same airport, what did her father think he was up to? Even the same city was not large enough to accommodate two such forceful ladies.
“Los Angeles,” said Sylvia gently. “I’ve got the Cadillac outside and we’re taking you home to Newport Beach for a spot of rest and recuperation until you are well enough to make your own decisions.”
California—no wonder the air was so balmy, the sun so warm. How they had managed to fix it with Myra, Georgy could not imagine, but right now that was the least of her concerns. A wonderful feeling of calm swept over her as she allowed Sylvia to take control and wheel her out to the waiting limousine.
She awoke next morning in a large, airy room, with the windows flung open to let in the warm air, filmy white curtains fluttering in the breeze. From where she lay, propped up on a lavish pile of pillows in the great canopied bed, Georgy could see a wide vista of manicured lawns and well-tended flowerbeds sloping down to a small orchard of orange and peach trees. As she stirred slightly and attempted to sit up, Sylvia leapt from the easy chair by the window where she was quietly doing needlepoint.
“You’re awake! How do you feel?”
Georgy moved cautiously and considered.
“Well, I guess I’ve felt better.”
She smiled and, not for the first time, her stepmother reflected how much more attractive she was when her face was not all scrunched up with some resentment or other.
“Do you need a bedpan or can you make it to the bathroom?” Pure tact; as different from Myra as it was possible to be. Georgy felt her fighting spirit beginning to rally. A door on the right led to a pretty, sun-filled bathroom, done up completely in red and green Spanish tiles, with a thick Mexican rug on the
floor. Georgy considered.
“Why not start as I mean to go on,” she said determinedly. “Give me a hand and let’s see if I can make it.”
Later, when she had sorted herself out, she asked, “Where’s Dad?”
“Off in San Diego, giving evidence in a double homicide trial.” Where else?
“So why can’t he have a nine-to-five job, with full vacations and a pension, like everyone else’s dad?”
Sylvia laughed. They were so much alike, these two.
“Search me, babe, but he wouldn’t be your father if ever he decided to settle for second best.”
She returned to her needlepoint in the window. They had all the time in the world; for the first time she looked forward to getting to know better this spiky young woman who was so much like her father.
A small figure filled the doorway and Georgy looked up, startled.
“Oh, there you are,” said Sylvia. “I wondered where you’d got to. Come on in, Ariel, and meet Georgy, your big sister.”
And she smiled as she watched the two like spirits start to take their first steps in the long process of bonding.
Chapter Forty-five
Sally was giving Beth a treat; at least, Sally had organized it, Beth was paying. Beth was down and missing Duncan so Sally had turned up trumps—just as she always did, bless her—and persuaded Beth to take a break for the day and come with her to the Sanctuary in Covent Garden. Beth did not take a lot of persuading. Just lately work had become a bit of a drag; she was glad of any excuse to put up the shutters.
“But how can you afford it?” she asked worriedly, and in answer, Sally unzipped one of the pockets in her denim jacket and waved a bunch of fivers in her face. Beth was startled.
“I thought you were out of work?”
“I’ve been doing shifts at McDonald’s.”
“You who can’t cook.”
“No need to. All I do is clear tables and sweep up. I’m an expert at that, as you know.”
“And as many of those disgusting, cholesterol-filled hamburgers as you can eat, I suppose.”
“Don’t knock it.”
Beth laughed. Sally never failed to be a tonic. She was feeling considerably brighter already.
“Keep your money,” she said, shoving it back into Sally’s pocket. “You can’t afford to buy me treats, not till you’re on your feet again and working. It’s the thought that counts and you are a dear to have suggested it. But let me do this, I insist. You can treat me when you’ve found a proper job or caught yourself a rich husband.”
“Have you heard from him?” asked Sally on the Tube. Parking in central London was such a drag these days, so they had elected to leave the car behind.
“Just once, a quick call to tell me he’d got there and to leave the number in case of emergencies. His dad is really pretty poorly so he’s planning to stick around with his mother for a while and see how things shape up.”
“What about the practice? Who’s looking after all those lovely animals?”
“He managed to get a replacement in, another transitory Aussie, would you believe, and I suppose Vanessa’s coping with the rest. Maybe you should offer your services again. Shall I ask him next time he calls if he wants you to help out?”
“If you like.”
That was Beth, generous to the nth degree. Sometimes Sally couldn’t believe she was real, but she wasn’t knocking it. They journeyed on to Leicester Square in companionable silence.
The Sanctuary in Floral Street is a health club where women go to be pampered and cosseted. For the cost of a fairly hefty entrance fee, you can stay there all day, just lazing about, having different beauty treatments, generally unwinding. It felt like a mini holiday; exactly what Beth had needed for a long time. They both had a swim and a full body massage, booked pedicures for the afternoon, then wrapped themselves in towels and went downstairs to the Jacuzzi.
No one else was using it so they sat facing each other among the bubbling jets, looking up at the lovely vaulted ceiling that gave the converted warehouse the feel of an authentic Roman villa. Sally’s hair was pinned high on top of her head, with long strands escaping and floating round her face like fronds of seaweed, while Beth’s short curls were plastered to her head giving her a look like a profile off an ancient Greek coin.
“This is certainly the life,” said Sally, lying back and spreading her arms and legs. “One day I want a holiday in a health farm so I can do this sort of thing for days on end.”
“You don’t need it,” said Beth ruefully, admiring her friend’s flat stomach and spectacular curves through the churning water. “That’s for middle-aged fatties, like me.”
She looked down at her own ample stomach, curving comfortably above strong thighs and shapely legs. From the hips down she was still in great shape; her problem area had always been around her middle. Mostly it didn’t bother her—these days clothes were cut to disguise a bit of a spread—but in these intimate circumstances it wasn’t possible not to compare her body with that of the younger woman.
Sally was looking too.
“So that’s your scar.” She examined the neat, curved line, like the blade of a scimitar, that faintly intersected Beth’s pubic hair. Already, after just a few months, it was scarcely visible and certainly not unsightly. Marvelous what they could achieve these days with surgery. Beth looked at Sally’s lean, flat belly, fully exposed as she lay spread out in the water, and saw not a trace of anything.
“So what did they do to you then?” she asked curiously. “Those doctors?” Now she came to think of it, Sally had never actually said. “Something internal,” was all she had muttered when they first discussed it, but that surely was true of all of them in the gynecological ward.
Sally’s eyes were as clear and translucent as the water and gave away nothing.
“Come on, Sal. You can tell me. It’s all girls together here and, besides, we’re mates. I thought you were having surgery like the rest of us?”
“It was exploratory,” said Sally, after a short pause. “They managed to fix it from inside.”
“But whatever it was, they did fix it?”
“Oh, yes.” Sally flashed her famous smile. “I’m fit as a fiddle and as good as new. Can’t you see?”
And that was obviously all she was prepared to say, which was slightly odd in someone normally so open and direct. Beth didn’t press it. Sally was entitled to her privacy and if she didn’t fancy talking about it, that was her own business. She hoped there was nothing sinister about this silence though; it would be too awful if Sally had a health worry she felt she couldn’t discuss. It didn’t bear thinking about, Beth loved her far too much for that.
They dried off, then lay for a while on the sunbeds, working up a becoming glow before they went down for lunch. Amid an exotic scenery of ornamental fishpools and real live parrots in trees, they sat on stools at the health food bar and drank enormous cocktails made from freshly squeezed vegetable juice. Not a drop of alcohol in sight, but what the hell, it was only for one day.
“I suppose it’s good for the soul,” sighed Beth. “Not to mention the liver.”
“This place reminds me of Viv’s conservatory,” said Sally. “She needs a couple of parrots to set it off. What do you suppose she will do, now that Georgy’s bitten the dust?”
“Don’t know. Can’t imagine. It’s a pity really. She seemed such a sad sack when we first got to know her and it looked like Georgy was about to bring new life into her static existence.”
“Jesus!” said Sally. “Some sort of static! I could be very content, thank you, with a house like that and all that loot. Not to mention that husband!”
“You’d be content anywhere,” said Beth, ignoring the barb. “You’re that sort of person. You must have been an angel in an earlier life.”
Sally laughed and her eyes crinkled up. Draped in her towel, with her hair pinned up, she looked even more fetching than usual, like a beautiful French courtesan waiting for her lover.
Yet, oddly enough, she never seemed to have a real boyfriend, at least not one that stayed around. Sometimes Beth worried about her but she didn’t want to spoil the mood by bringing up all that again. Things were going so well with Duncan, despite his absence, that she wanted Sally to share her happiness. Indeed, she would like to spread it around as much as possible; Beth had that sort of a nature.
Which brought her back to the subject of Vivienne and Georgy.
“It’s a real shame if Georgy’s accident keeps Viv from getting her act together,” she said. “She was right on the brink of something really good, what with her interest in the World Wide Fund for Nature and all. It seems she just needed a jolt to get her going and now it looks like all being spoiled. I think she’d do terrifically well as an organizer, given something that would really challenge her.”
“And she couldn’t do it alone?”
“Well, hardly. Not without Georgy to focus things and take the photographs. Viv may have money but she doesn’t have confidence.”
“Maybe Georgy will be back.” But right now, that didn’t seem awfully likely.
They thought about Georgy and the frightful attack.
“What do you really think happened?” asked Sally. “You don’t suppose it was a bit of rough trade who got out of hand?”
“Sally!” Beth was shocked. Even the police hadn’t come up with that theory, at least as far as she knew; certainly not in front of Georgy’s father.
Sally shrugged. “These things do happen. I knew a bloke once who got strangled on a casual date, and he wasn’t even gay. At least, not officially.”
“Come on, Georgy’s not like that.”
“You never know.”
Sally was smiling. Beth looked at her cautiously. She was the sunniest, cheeriest person in the world, yet just occasionally, at unexpected moments like this, something slipped and a dark side surfaced. What a strange little person she was, and what a time she must have had these past years, constantly on the road and having to fend for herself. Beth longed to know more about her earlier life but was wise enough not to pursue the subject. The more you listened, the more you learned; she’d always known that. It was frustrating, but maybe one of these days Sally would learn to trust her.