Keepsake

by Linda Barlow

  She looked back at the screen.

  As for what happened the next few years, I’m sure you remember. We kept moving. I was afraid to settle down, and besides, I kept thinking about how badly we’d been living all our lives. I wanted something better—for me, for both of us. It seems I was always afraid of something—of not having enough money, of not being able to take care of you, of my father—or even your father—tracking us down.

  You remember the Kennedy thing, I know you do. For me that was the most marvelous thing that ever happened. He was everything I’d ever dreamed of in a man. I couldn’t believe it when he responded to my flirting. I thought I must be imagining things until he made it clear that he actually wanted me in his bed.

  I played it cool, of course. Always, always, always. I’d learned that young. Never let a man know what you’re really thinking, really feeling.

  Jack was the first man I’d ever met who knew more about the battle of the sexes than I did. And of course when he left the Cape that summer, he never had the slightest intention of seeing me again. I moved us to Washington because I wasn’t about to let some guy walk out on me, even if he was the President of the United States.

  It didn’t do me much good as far as he was concerned —he’d already lost interest by the time of that day in Dallas. But what it did was lift my imagination and my ambition to new heights. I’d had a taste of what was possible if you really did mate with the top dog. And I wanted more.

  Having been the president’s mistress, even for so short a time, increased my chances with other men. God, they were fascinated. And he was good-natured enough to help the situation along by introducing me to some likelies. That was how I met my husband, of course. Armand knew the Kennedys—you’ll remember how cozy Jacqueline was with anybody of French blood or ancestry.

  Armand seemed like the answer to all my prayers. He was handsome, charming, and sophisticated. He was attentive and kind. He was outrageously romantic. He made me feel like a princess born in a beautiful chateau in the Loire valley.

  Of course I fell in love with him.

  Of course I believed in him.

  Of course I agreed to do anything he asked of me.

  It took a long time before I saw through his facade.

  In reality, April, my husband Armand is the most controlling man I have ever met. He is a master at assessing people’s weaknesses and exploiting them. He always knows exactly which buttons to push,

  I never would have expected that I, of all women, would ever be dominated and manipulated by a man. After all, I had vowed, after running away from my father’s house, that no man would ever again possess that kind of power over me.

  But I have also learned that we are ourselves controlled by the deep beliefs that we hold about ourselves, our limits and our capabilities. And there must have been a part of me that believed that once you find the top dog and mate with him, you must try to keep him happy, at least until he proves himself weak and worthless and you see it’s time to move on to someone else. That, after all, is what my mother did.

  Again April stopped reading. One phrase in particular was reverberating through her brain. “He is a master at assessing people’s weaknesses and exploiting them.”

  She looked up at Blackthorn. He was looking at her.

  “Armand,” he said.

  “It was he who called and frightened me out of your arms. He told me he’d found a computer diskette with a memo from Rina, saying that she was going to fire you because she didn’t feel safe with you. He wanted me to leave you, come to his place instead. My God, do you suppose…?”

  He was nodding grimly. “Thank God you didn’t go.”

  “You really think Armand’s behind this entire thing?”

  “It fits. Your mother had her own apartment. She created her own business. In her lectures she stressed personal determination and independence. She must have been trying to break free.”

  “And he couldn’t let her go?”

  “Something like that, I’ll bet.”

  They read on, and April learned that her mother’s marriage had not been the idyllic match that she had been led to believe. Armand had been charming for the first few months, but gradually he had changed. Or, not so much changed as revealed his true colors.

  He had always promised me that we would send for you and have you with us. I believed him. The boarding school he arranged for you to attend was one of the nation’s finest, and he never hesitated to pay the expenses, which I couldn’t have afforded by myself

  But every time I tried to pin him down about removing you from the school and bringing you to live with us, he made some excuse. And at last I came to realize that what he really wanted was for me to devote myself to his children and be a mother to them. He was very proud of his two children, although he was always hopeless at getting along with them. They came from an illustrious family, and I gradually began to understand that he did not want to tarnish them or their family by exposing them to the illegitimate daughter of a common waitress.

  My husband is a complex man. His congeniality and his generosity are quite real. He has many friends because he knows how to treat people, how to earn their admiration and respect. But his goal is power. Mastery. He operates expertly as a benevolent dictator, but the benevolence vanishes the moment his mastery is challenged. And in the long term, his closest relationships sour because deep inside he is a weak man who is severely threatened by the slightest challenge to his authority.

  In terms of how this affected our relationship—it’s simple—I am not a woman who can submit for long to another personality, and my efforts to resist the way of life he sought to press upon me quickly brought us to each other’s throats.

  For all intents and purposes, our marriage has been over for nearly twenty years. Then why, you wonder, have we remained married all these years?

  Because I made a bargain with the Devil.

  My soul was not at stake, but you, my daughter, were.

  April, this is the hardest part of all to tell, in part because for years I could not bring myself to accept that it was really true.

  That you are alive today is truly a miracle.

  My husband—the man I married and believed I loved— conceived and carried out a plan to have you killed. But he failed, because you yourself struck at and dispatched the assassin. For which they tried to put you in prison.

  “Oh, God,” April moaned.

  Rob held her closer.

  I now believe that the man—the illegal Mexican alien—who tried to strangle you when you were a girl of sixteen was hired by my husband to kill you. His motive was selfish and single-minded—he wanted nothing more to interfere with my concentration on his family, and particularly, on his son. He wanted me free from all ties, with no excuse left.

  When it failed, somehow I knew. I confronted him, and to my surprise, he acknowledged the truth. I threatened to go to the authorities. He pointed out that I had no proof, and that no one would believe me. I packed my things and told him I was leaving him. He made it clear that if I left, he would have both of us killed.

  It was then that we struck our miserable bargain.I would remain with him and masquerade as his happy wife. In return, you would be safe. ButI was not allowed ever to communicate with you again.

  April, perhaps you will wonder as you read whether I am telling you the truth. You will marvel that a woman as strong, independent, and self-reliant as you must recall me to be could be so much at the mercy of her husband. Why didI not simply go to the police? How did / ever get so enmeshed that it was impossible to extricate myself? Why, now that I am successful in my own right, have I not revealed Armand for the monster he is?

  In answer, all I can say is that unless you have been a woman controlled and oppressed by a man, you cannot imagine how devastating it is. You feel as if you have no choices. You are terrified, helpless, confused. You lose your will and the confidence that shape the events of your own life. You become a person whom you no lon
ger recognize.

  If you have heard anything about Power Perspectives, you know what happened to me (although no one ever knew why). I became severely depressed. I gained a large amount of weight. I lost all interest in my appearance, sometimes going for days without washing my face or my hair. I abused tranquilizers and alcohol, and I yearned each day for death.

  It ended with my conceiving a complex plan of suicide, every detail of which I lovingly planned and nearly carried out. Indeed, I was about to go through with it when a voice inside reminded me that if I died, Armand would have won. He would have reduced me to such utter submission that no spark of life remained in me—very literally.

  My life was my life. It was all I had, all that was my own. And I somehow managed to convince myself that some small part of it remained within my own control.

  Thus was Power Perspectives born, and with it, my own rebirth.

  Now Power Perspectives is strong. And so I am. Now, at last, I am ready to confront my husband and unmask his evil. I’m ready, at last, to end this marriage and be who— and what—I truly am.

  I’m ready also to proclaim my love for the person who has seen me through so much heartache in recent years. When I begin my life anew, it will be, I hope, with the true partner of my heart.

  And I hope too, when this is done, that you and I, my long-missed and yearned for daughter, will be reunited at last.

  The letter ended there—signed with a flourish—not Rina de Sevigny, but Rina Flaherty.

  Blackthorn skipped back to the beginning of the document and noted the date. “She wrote it a couple weeks before she contacted me for protection. She probably did confront him. And realized that he still held the higher cards.”

  “So he had her killed to prevent her from ‘unmasking’ him?”

  “I’d say so, yeah. She had slipped his control. She’d been getting away from him for a long time, clearly, but now it was really over. The marriage, his reputation, everything.”

  “So she did have a lover,” April mused, staring at the last few sentences. The true partner of my heart.“I wonder who?”

  He shrugged, then had to stifle an enormous yawn. “I’m not reading the rest of those files tonight. The sun’ll be up soon. Let’s get some sleep. You must be even more exhausted than I am.”

  She nodded with some reluctance. “Will the killer—what’s his name—Morrow? Will he name Armand when they question him, do you suppose?”

  “He’ll name him, all right,” Blackthorn said. “He’s got no choice. Either he names him or I cut out his heart.”

  April shivered. He sounded like he meant it, and she was glad! She pushed the computer aside and lay down.

  “There’s one thing I don’t understand. I can see why Armand decided to kill Rina. But why me? Why send that horrible killer after me?” She shook her head. “Armand and I got along well. I mean, I really thought he liked me. How was I a threat to him?”

  “I don’t think the assassin’s actions today had anything to do with Armand. It was personal. You somehow changed from being a professional hit to the object of an obsession. The guy had slipped over the line.”

  She snuggled closer, needing his warmth for reassurance.

  “As for the original motive for your murder, I suspect Armand wanted to accomplish two things—scuttle Power Perspectives once and for all and throw any suspicion more firmly onto somebody else. Isobelle, for example. Or Charlie, her lover. She appeared to have the strongest motive for Rina’s death, and with you out of the way, things would look even worse for her.”

  “So what you’re saying is that his plan to have me killed was completely cold and analytical. I wasn’t real to him, wasn’t a person. I was just a pawn in a deadly game.”

  “Something to be moved around and controlled, yes. That’s how he treats people. I suspect the only person who is real to Armand is himself.”

  “I’m remembering that day on the docks as he and my mother sailed out of my life. I was just a kid—bewildered and scared. And I felt nothing from him. He didn’t care what happened to me. I was completely insignificant. I hated him for that.”

  “Smart kid. You saw the real Armand.”

  She shuddered. “I feel sick.”

  He wrapped her in his arms.

  “Now what?” she whispered.

  “Now we get him,” Blackthorn said.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  When the doorbell rang, Kate was working on her newest mystery story, “The Bathroom Murders,” which featured a teenage girl as the amateur detective who foiled the killer and solved the crime. She opened up to find April and Mr. Blackthorn and that FBI guy who’d questioned her in the hospital. They came in, and they were followed by two New York City cops. They all looked pretty grim, and she felt a wave of fear. Had they come to arrest Daddy?

  April drew her aside. “It’s okay, Kate,” she said gently. “Is your grandfather here?”

  “Yeah, he’s been staying here for a couple days. Are you okay? They said you were missing!”

  “I’m fine. Where’s your father?”

  “He’s in his study, I think.” Actually, he was in there with Daisy, who had shown up unexpectedly. But it didn’t sound like anything too disgusting was going on. In fact—she’d listened a little at the door—Daisy had been crying. Maybe they were breaking up. If that was true… well, Kate felt a little guilty. Maybe she shouldn’t have sent Daisy that anonymous letter…

  “Grandfather’s upstairs.” She glanced uneasily at Blackthorn and the cops. “What are they doing here?”

  “They need to talk to your grandfather.”

  “Why?”

  Blackthorn joined April. He was right on top of her, she thought. Like they were close. She’d thought it before and now… Jeez, just as she’d maybe gotten Daisy out of the way, Blackthorn was all over April.

  “The guy who shot you?” he said. “We got him last night.”

  She shook her head. Got him? “What d’you mean? Is he dead?”

  “Nah. Hospitalized, though. Surrounded by guards. He killed a lot of people. The FBI searched his apartment and found a scrapbook full of evidence. He’ll be going to prison for the rest of his life.”

  “Wow,” she said. “I’m glad. You mean the case is, like, solved?”

  Blackthorn nodded. “He told us who hired him, yes.”

  Kate squeezed herself with her arms. “Not my father?”

  April hugged her hard. “No, Kate. It was Armand.”

  Grandfather? She felt a coldness touch her. Yeah, she thought. She remembered the night she’d slept at his place and gotten caught searching through the books in his library. Sometimes, Grandfather, like, wasn’t all there.

  “What’s going on here?” a voice behind her demanded. Daddy. She turned around as Blackthorn’s attention shifted.

  The FBI guy was already starting up the stairs. Didn’t they need a warrant or something? Or were they like vampires—if you let them in, they could do anything they wanted?

  Daisy was at his side, but they weren’t touching. Her makeup was all streaked from her tears.

  God, thought Kate, it was like everybody had gone crazy.

  April left Kate to her father and the policemen who were explaining it to him. She and Blackthorn went to the foot of the stairs to meet Armand.

  He descended, dapperly dressed, as usual, his face pale but composed. His eyes focused on April and his pupils dilated as if he were surprised to see her here, healthy and alive.

  She knew for certain, then, that it was true.

  But when he reached the bottom of the staircase Armand looked right at her as he said, “These accusations hurt me very much. How could you believe such a thing of me, April?” He sounded sincerely wounded. “These men are accusing me of planning my dear wife’s death.”

  “And mine,” April said.

  “There is no basis whatsoever for these accusations,” Armand said. He sounded convincing enough to make her understand why he’d been able to
fool so many people for so long. He was either a superb actor, or he believed his own lies.

  “Your hit man confessed,” Blackthorn said in a clipped, angry voice.

  “And you would take the word of some thug—some professional contract killer—over mine?”

  “I would take my mother’s word,” April said quietly. She held up the computer diskette that she’d found behind the photograph. “You didn’t have it, after all, I did. She left it to me, along with an explanation of the first time you tried to have me killed, when I was sixteen years old.”

  Armand blanched. For the first time, he looked uncertain, old. He turned to his son. “Have you nothing to say?” he demanded. “This is your home. How could you allow these people to enter on such a fool’s errand?”

  Christian shook his head. Daisy was beside him; he took her hand. “You’re my father, and I would stand by you if I could. But I’m sorry to tell you that I believe the accusations.” He glanced at Daisy. “They make sense, now that Daisy has told me the truth about her relationship with Rina.”

  As April looked at Daisy Tulane, whose tear-streaked face testified to some profound personal trauma, the last piece clicked in her mind.

  I’m ready also to proclaim my love for the person who has seen me through so much heartache in recent years. When I begin my life anew, it will be, I hope, with the true partner of my heart.

  Daisy stepped forward. Her hands were trembling but her voice was proud as she said, “I can’t hide it any longer. I’ve decided to withdraw as a candidate for the Senate. I don’t think the state of Texas is ready for a bisexual politician who once had a serious love affair with another woman.” She paused, turning to Armand. “Rina was my lover. She was going to leave you, as you know. What you didn’t know—what we desperately tried to conceal for a thousand different reasons—was that she was leaving you for me.”