Murder by Design Trilogy

by Mary Jane Forbes

  “What for?” Gilly tensed. The mere suggestion of the city caused her pulse to quicken.

  “I had a call … a tipster. He says he has some pictures he wants to sell to Wellington. From the sounds of it, it may be the evidence Wellington and DuBois, as well as myself, have been waiting for. They may show Eleanor helping Sacco off the yacht to his death. At least that’s what I hope.”

  “I see. That would be good for you wouldn’t it? You might get the ending to your exposé you want. I hope for both of your sakes, and Mr. Wellington’s, that they show something that DuBois can use as evidence.”

  “Me, too. And, I also stopped by to let you know that I’m running again.”

  “Running?”

  “Yep, like training to run in this year’s Seattle Marathon.”

  “You look good.” Suddenly flustered, she added, “I mean trim, well, you always look trim. You know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean, but it’s fun to watch you try to say that you’re looking,” he said with a grin spreading across his face.”

  “When’s the race?”

  “It’s always held the first Sunday after Thanksgiving. I’ll print a course map for you. Maybe you can cheer me on.” Again he grinned, enjoying that he was making her uncomfortable, a person who always maintained her control, at least since she returned from Paris pregnant. “You could hand me a bottle of water at mile sixteen,” he teased.

  “A marathon is hard isn’t it? Twenty-six miles?”

  “Twenty-six point two to be precise, Ms. Wilder.” He held Robyn’s little red curls next to his face. “Maybe if you’re good your mommy will bring you to see me run,” he whispered into the baby’s ear causing her to giggle with another round of the hiccups.

  “Here, I’ll take her. I have a bottle ready.

  “I’ve got her. Go get it.”

  Gilly returned and put the warmed bottle into Skip’s outstretched hand.

  “What do you do to train? And didn’t you say you won a marathon in college?” Gilly asked.

  “Ah, your mommy was listening to me when I told her about my big win in Oklahoma.” Robyn was fixated on Skip’s face as she sucked on her bottle cradled in his arms.

  “First, I dusted off my training journals from that year, and, yes, I finished first. That was the only one, however. Placed fourth and fifth in two other marathons. This time, for me, it’s not so much winning the race but proving that I can run the distance. So … just to let you know that I’ll be waiting for you until the end of the race, until the hoopla is over.”

  “Waiting for me?”

  Skip looked up from Robyn’s dark button eyes and at Gilly, her green eyes questioning what he was saying.

  “Yes, waiting for you, Gilly. If you still have yourself walled off, a wall so thick I haven’t been able to break through, then it will be time for me to move on.”

  As Skip left he flipped the lock on the door, looked back at Gilly and Robyn, and shut the door. Always the protector.

  ───

  “HEY, ZAK, IT’S ME.”

  “About time you called, Sheridan. Did you see anything of interest?”

  “Oh, Ya. Zak, baby, we’re back in business. Just wait ’til I show you. We’ll have a snorting good time when I get back tomorrow night.”

  Chapter 10

  ───

  IT WAS A DAY OF surprises. First, Sheridan arrives unannounced. A big surprise. But even more shocking was that the hardcore New Yorker had taken a job on the west coast leaving Paris for Los Angeles. Then, while the former roommates shared a cup of coffee in the loft, Skip knocked, walked in after a two-week absence, and laid down an ultimatum—get off your high-horse by Thanksgiving or he was not going to be around to pick up the pieces any longer.

  Now alone in the loft, the sun passing its arc sending shadows creeping over the floorboards, Gilly shed her black jacket tossing it on her bed, and adjusting her white blouse under the waistband of her black slacks. She pulled the coverlet up to Robyn’s chin, kissed the sleeping infant, and backed away from her crib returning to the studio side of the partitions.

  Hearing a knock, she wondered who would be visiting this time. She walked to the door, flipped the lock, and pulled it open.

  Stunned, she grasped the edge of the door for support.

  “Gillianne, you are more beautiful than I remembered. I could not bear to wait any longer. Forgive me, s'il vous plaît, for not calling first. I … I was afraid you might turn me away.”

  Maxime stood in the doorway, a bouquet of red roses in his hand, his dark eyes pleading, warm, full of love and apprehension that she might very well turn him away. His black suit fit his large six-foot-one frame perfectly, his white silk shirt open at the neck revealing a tuft of black chest hair.

  “Gillianne, I was a fool. Can I come in? Just a little while? See our baby?”

  Gilly leaned her head on the steel, fireproof door, holding the edge with both hands.

  Our baby!

  She willed herself to breathe, inhaling deep breaths, gathering strength. Backing away from the door she weakly waved her hand for him to enter.

  Maxime walked through the door stopping on the other side of the threshold, afraid to reach out. She looked as if any sudden move on his part she might shatter.

  Gilly slowly walked away from the open door and Maxime. She looked across the loft to the window. A bird sat on the sill looking back at her. Continuing to breathe deeply she tamped down the tension that held her. How dare he arrive at her doorstep without so much as a letter, a note, a call.

  Maxime laid the bouquet of roses on the conference table, giving her time … time to do what? Throw him out?

  Gilly turned to face him. He was standing ten feet from her … a world away. “Congratulations, Senator.” Her green eyes sparking as she said the words. “I imagine your wife is pleased with the outcome of the election.”

  There, she thought, the last words he said to me that night in Paris but this time I’m skewering him.

  “Can we talk, Gillianne? There is so much I have to say. I—

  “Maxime.” She took another breath. The mere saying of his name catching in her throat. “Maxime,” she tried again. “There is nothing you can say that I want to hear. You’ve made the trip for nothing.”

  “Maybe in time you will forgive me, let me into your life. I wish to hear how you’re doing, how our child is doing. Gillianne, I always wanted a baby, even like this I consider her to be a miracle. The days we spent in Milan … Monaco … my dear beautiful Gillianne, she was conceived at that time. We loved each other. I can’t presume you could ever love me again that way, but I dream of it, of you, of … let me see her. I beg you.”

  Excited chatter and laughter preceded Nicole and Gabby as they burst through the open doorway. Nicole stopped cold, held her arm out stopping Gabby from passing her, her eyes wide in alarm looking from Maxime to Gilly to Maxime and back to Gilly. She grasped Gabby’s hand, rooting her to her side. “Are you all right, Gilly?” she whispered her eyes continuing to dart between the pair standing in front of her.

  “Yes. Maxime dropped by. How about that? All the way from Paris … he dropped by. Maxime, this is Nicole, my roommate in Paris, and Gabby my agent. They know all about you. Actually, it was Nicole who let the cat out of the bag that you were married. In fact, she dropped that little bombshell shortly after we parted at the airport on our return from our romantic weekend in Milan. Fancy that.”

  Maxime turned back to Gilly. “The baby.”

  “Nicole, Gabby, please come in but leave the door open. As I said, Maxime is about to leave. But before he leaves, he wants to see my baby. What do you think?”

  Nicole raised her shoulders.

  “Maxime, if you see the baby, you’ll leave?” Gilly asked.

  “Yes, Gillianne, I will leave.” He stood his ground. For all his sweet words he still presented a powerful, determined, figure. But he made no threatening move, nor were his words said in a dema
nding tone. But, he was firm in his request.

  “Gabby and Nicole, please wait here while I get Robyn.” Gilly took a tentative step. Her legs didn’t buckle. Inhaling another deep breath, she walked through the partitioned hallway with firm strides, and stood beside the crib. Gripping the rail she shut her eyes. Do I have to do this, she wondered?

  With another deep breath, Gilly quickly picked up the sleeping baby, wrapped the blanket around her, held her tight against her breasts, kissed her mop of red curls, and retraced her footsteps.

  Standing in front of Maxime, she folded the soft pink blanket back so he could see Robyn’s little face. She opened her eyes, looked at the man in front of her, her big dark eyes looking into a matching pair crinkling at the edges as a smile slowly filled his face.

  “Ma petite princesse. Belle, belle. Précieuse. Les boucles rouges comme ta maman,” Maxime whispered. He opened his hands to Gilly. “May I hold her?”

  Gilly pulled back.

  “S'il vous plaît?”

  Gilly looked at Gabby. She shrugged in response. It was Gilly’s call.

  Gilly put the baby in Maxime’s large hands. He gazed down at his daughter, touched a red curl. Robyn batted his chin and grasped his finger. “My little one. Beautiful, beautiful. Red curls like your mother's.” He raised the tiny fingers to his lips.

  Seeing Maxime’s gesture conjured up the image of the many times he had kissed her hand. She swiftly lifted her daughter from his arms and backed away.

  “Goodbye, Maxime.”

  Ironic, she thought. She just said the words she had uttered as she left him standing in the Paris restaurant after he told her he was running for the Senate, that he and his wife had reconciled.

  “Au revoir. I love you … and our beautiful baby. Merci. I will keep in touch.” Maxime nodded to Gabby and Nicole. He turned for one last glimpse at Gillianne holding their baby, paused, and then he was gone.

  Chapter 11

  ───

  Paris

  THREE MEN, DRESSED IN suits and ties, strode across the elegant Place Vendôme, between the Garnier Opera House and the Louvre, then under the white canopy and through the glass doors of the Ritz Carlton. The youngest man of the three approached the maître de l’hôtel at the Vendôme Bar. “My name is Skip Hunter. My companions and I have a lunch appointment with a man we have never met. Has—

  “Ah, yes, Monsieur Hunter. Follow me, s'il vous plaît.”

  Hunter, DuBois, and Wellington followed the man through the sumptuously appointed bar. Rich terra-cotta walls, carpet, upholstery under a polished wood cantilevered ceiling provided a warm atmosphere and backdrop for tables covered with white linen. A single pink flower circled with green leaves in a small crystal vase, and crystal salt and pepper shakers were centered on each table. The bar opened at 10:30 a.m. It was now 10:35.

  A man sitting in an oval booth watched the gentlemen approach. His lips turned up slightly as he recognized two of the three men. The man remained seated casually taking another sip of his double martini.

  The maître de l’hôtel left the men as they stood facing the man sitting, grinning up at them.

  “You’re expecting us?” Skip asked.

  The man nodded, maintaining his grin.

  “I recognize you. You’re the steward I saw on the Lady Margaret, but I don’t know your name. What is it?” Skip asked.

  “Monsieur Charles de Gaulle.”

  “Very funny,” DuBois said in a low voice. “What’s your real name, pal, or we’re leaving. We didn’t spend almost two days traveling here to play games.”

  “Ah, Detective? I am right, yes?”

  “Yes. Your turn.”

  “Monsieur Sean Lacroix, at your service. Have a seat, s'il vous plaît.”

  The men settled in the booth as a waiter stepped to the table, taking their drink orders. The men said nothing, waiting for their drinks—a fresh martini for Lacroix, scotch for Wellington, and water for DuBois and Hunter—and the departure of the waiter before they spoke.

  Lacroix, looking over the edge of his glass, asked, “You must be Monsieur Wellington?”

  “Yes, and let’s get on with this. We all know why we’re here. Give us the pictures,” Wellington demanded.

  “Not yet. I have seven prints in my jacket pocket. I will show you two of them. But, first you will give me $5000.”

  “We settled on $2000 each. Two pictures—$4000,” Skip whispered angrily.

  “Oh, that was days ago, Monsieur. The price is now $2500 each. A bargain I assure you.”

  Wellington opened a leather wallet and handed Lacroix three traveler’s checks—$2000 each. “Here’s six thousand—a thousand on account for the third picture,” Wellington said.

  Lacroix reached into his inside jacket pocket retrieving two pictures, laying them in front of Wellington.

  The pictures were dark. Two figures were illuminated by three candles on a nearby table. The candlelight was enough to identify Eleanor Wellington holding up Gerald Sacco as he leaned against her. She had a hand on his foot. His foot was on the lower rail circling the yacht’s aft deck. The other picture was more than likely taken seconds later showing Sacco hanging out over the water.

  Without saying a word, Wellington opened his wallet again, counted out three more traveler’s checks and laid them on the table in front of Lacroix—six thousand in his pocket and another six on the table. Lacroix reached for the traveler’s checks but Wellington quickly set the crystal vase with the pink flower on top of the checks keeping his fingers around the vase.

  “Show us all the pictures. If they are as you say, you will receive $18,000—seven pictures at $2500 a piece is $17,500 a large sum. If, and that’s a big if, they divulge as much as the first two, you will have a nice tip of $500. Now let’s see them.” Wellington, fingers still holding the vase, looked into Lacroix’s eyes daring him to hand over the pictures.

  Lacroix reached again into his jacket pocket and handed the packet of five additional photos to Wellington.

  Wellington withdrew his hand from the vase. Lacroix quickly picked up the checks as Wellington scanned each picture handing them in turn to DuBois, and then on to Skip. Without a word, Wellington again reached into his wallet and handed the additional checks to Lacroix.

  DuBois narrowed his eyes. “Mr. Lacroix, how did you get these pictures?”

  “I took them. At the time I knew the couple as Elaine Winters and Gordon Silvers. To be honest, I was taken with Elaine. Excuse me, Monsieur Wellington, but your wife was a looker, a beautiful woman. And, she knew it. Flaunted her body. It’s no wonder that poor Gordon Silvers followed her to the rail, drunk as he was. Anyway, I had taken several pictures of her during the day, on the lounger, almost naked.”

  Wellington showed no emotion. He drained his scotch and signaled the waiter to bring him another.

  “Anybody on that yacht could have taken these pictures. Why should we believe you?” Skip asked.

  “Well, you see, I have the camera … all the pictures.” Lacroix glanced at Wellington. Grinned at Wellington. “Want to see ’em?” Lacroix said with a lecherous look.

  DuBois answered for Wellington. “I want to see them. You have the camera with you I presume?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. I thought maybe you would like to see the rest,” Lacroix said grinning as he jammed his hand into his jacket’s right front pocket. “Of course, we’ll have to come to an agreement on how much they’re worth,” he said opening his hand to tantalize the detective, closing it quickly around the small camera.

  “Let me see what you have and we’ll discuss it,” DuBois said.

  Lacroix put the small camera into Dubois’s outstretched palm. DuBois handed it to Skip. He turned it on, advanced a few frames. He nodded to DuBois and handed the camera to Wellington.

  “Mr. Lacroix, I can’t pay you for the pictures on the camera,” DuBois said. “A defense lawyer would certainly argue against your credibility, and say that I bought your testimony.
However, what Mr. Wellington does is his business. And, if Mr. Wellington gave us the pictures and the camera then a prosecutor would surely see that they were entered into evidence … provided you testify as to how you obtained the pictures.”

  Lacroix smiled. “Let’s see, that means I have to travel to the States … on your dime … or at least Monsieur Wellington’s dime. Is that right?”

  “Yes,” DuBois said. “That’s right. But we will also take the camera with us. Now!”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Lacroix said looking up at the ceiling, then back at DuBois. “I suppose you can take it for another six grand. Now!” He grinned at Wellington who finished advancing the pictures.

  “Excuse me a minute, Mr. Lacroix. Skip, stay with our friend here while I have a chat with Mr. Wellington.” DuBois nodded toward the bar.

  Perching on a barstool, DuBois looked straight ahead at the mirror. “Philip, we would have a stronger case if we had a video of this guy giving his story, his deposition.”

  “I agree, Mirage. Can the local police handle that for us?”

  “Yes, but, if we involve the locals they might want in on the case, muddy it up. After all Eleanor was arrested in Monaco. It would be cleaner, quicker, if we took Lacroix’s deposition in Seattle. However, he’ll probably ask for an additional incentive, if you catch my drift.”

  “Yes, I catch your drift.”

  “With the pictures and his deposition, I think the prosecutor could go for a murder indictment.”

  “I see. By all means, let’s do it!” Wellington said.

  Returning to the table, DuBois addressed Lacroix. “It may be a few months before Mrs. Wellington’s trial. However, I’m sure a videotape of your deposition would suffice. What are you doing for the next few days, Mr. Lacroix?”

  “Why nothing that matters, Detective. What do you have in mind?”

  “I’d like you to come back to Seattle with us … a quick trip.”

  Wellington reached again for his wallet, and laid three more checks in front of Lacroix.