Dark Homecoming (23 page)

I
nside their car, Joe and Aggie looked over at each other.

 

“Huntington was having an affair with Rita,” Joe said.

“Seems possible,” Aggie admitted. “You think he killed her to keep her from telling the wife?”

“Seems possible,” Joe echoed.

“So what's the connection to Jamison and Audra?”

“Maybe he was having affairs with them, too,” Joe quipped, starting the car.

“I suspect there's more to this than just an extramarital affair,” Aggie said.

“I suspect you're right,” Joe said, backing out of the Huntington driveway. “A whole heck of a lot more.”

“The chief's not going to like us involving David Huntington,” Aggie told them as they headed down the street.

“We can't worry about the chief right now. We have a murder to solve.”

“But we'll have to worry about him eventually.”

“So let's wait for eventually,” Joe said.

He stepped on the gas.

“N
icki,” Liz said into the phone.

“Hey, sweetie! You remembered! My first full day back on dry land!”

At the sound of her friend's voice, Liz started to cry.

“Liz?” Nicki asked. “Oh my God, babe, what's wrong?”

“I . . . oh, Nicki . . . I'm so afraid.”

“Afraid of what, honey?”

“There's been another murder . . .”

“Oh, my God, no. At your house?”

“Of a girl who worked here.” She sobbed. “And I think . . . I think she and David . . .”

Liz couldn't go on.

“You think she and David what, honey?” Nicki asked gently.

“I don't know what I think. But just now, on the news, they're reporting on Rita's murder and it's all so terrible and they're saying that David is wanted for questioning. He's a ‘person of interest,' they're saying.”

“Oh, no, baby. Where is David?”

“He left for Europe this morning. He was acting so weird before he left.”

“Oh, my poor Liz . . .”

“I can't reach him. But Rita . . . the girl who was killed . . . she had a number for him on her phone. A number I never knew.”

“Liz, sweetie, don't despair . . . don't panic . . .”

“There are reporters outside in the street. A couple of them got onto the property and were banging at the door. We didn't answer. We're not answering the phone.” She caught her breath. “Oh, Nicki. Something terrible is happening here.”

“Hang tight, baby,” Nicki told her. “I'm going fly down to be with you.”

“Oh, no, Nicki, there's no need . . .”

“Yes, there is, Liz. You're upset. And I'm only in New York. I don't have to be in Atlantic City for another two weeks. I've wanted to come to see you anyway. It's a short flight.”

“It's really, okay, Nicki, you don't need to do that. I just needed someone to talk to . . .”

“Well, now we can talk in person. I'm going to look at flights and call you back. In the meantime, just chill, okay?” Nicki's voice was warm and reassuring. “I'm coming down to be with you. Everything is going to be all right.”

Liz was still crying when she ended the call.

She looked around the room.

She was completely alone.

But the fragrance of gardenias overwhelmed her.

“T
hose men in the street,” Mrs. Martinez told Variola, stumbling breathless into the kitchen through the back door, “they are like hyenas. Shouting at me, grabbing at me.”

“What did you say to them?” Variola wanted to know.

“Nothing, of course.” The older woman's eyes hardened as she looked at the chef. “But what they told me . . . I cannot abide this any longer.”

“Be careful what you say now.”

Mrs. Martinez was shaking her head. “Rita was a foolish girl. A troublemaker. But she didn't deserve to die.”

“No, she did not,” Variola agreed. She took a deep breath. “She did not deserve to die.”

“This can't go on,” Mrs. Martinez said. “I am done with it. From here on out, I am done. Even if I have to quit my job here. I am done. I have my children, my grandchildren to think about.”

Variola frowned. “Oh, but I'm afraid it's not that easy, my dear. Not that easy to walk away from. Once you get involved, Papa Ghede does not forget.”

Mrs. Martinez became distraught. “I thought this would help my family! That's why I became a part of this . . . for no other reason. I am not like the others . . . you know that! I thought I could help my family by taking part. We have struggled so much . . . been poor too long!”

“I know your reasons,” Variola said quietly.

Mrs. Martinez grabbed hold of her arm. Variola stiffened.

“But now I can't risk anything happening to them,” the older woman cried. “I can't risk my babies! My little Marisol and Luis!”

“You risked them the moment you agreed to take part,” Variola told her coldly.

“I had no idea . . .” Mrs. Martinez dissolved into tears.

Variola shook herself free of her and moved across the room. “For now, just go about your duties as usual. Say nothing.”

Mrs. Martinez looked over at her, terror shining in her bloodshot eyes. “All of my duties?”

“All of them,” Variola responded in a low voice.

“I can't . . . not anymore.”

“Do it for Marisol and Luis, if you're so worried about them.” Variola lifted the tray she had prepared earlier, holding a bowl and a pitcher. She handed it over to Mrs. Martinez. “Now get moving.”

The other woman hesitated, then took the tray. “It can't go on . . . it's not working. Not the way we had hoped.”

“Go on with you,” Variola said, looking away from her.

“We had such great hopes for you, Variola. We had thought you could do what you promised. But now . . . it is all falling apart.”

Variola said nothing as she lifted a large knife from a drawer. She slid her fingers along its shiny, sharp blade.

“When does it end?” Mrs. Martinez asked. “Tell me, Variola, when does it end?”

Variola turned savagely on her, brandishing the knife. “Go! Do what you are obligated to do! Ask me no more!” The fury spewed from her lips. “Variola will tell you when it ends! You do not tell Variola!”

Mrs. Martinez gasped a little, then turned and ran up the back stairs with the tray.

Variola dropped the knife onto the countertop. It rattled against the granite. She covered her face with her hands.

L
iz sat on a concrete bench in the back garden, her hands folded in her lap, surrounded by spiky red alpinias and spidery blood lilies. The buzzing of bees filled the air. The sun was almost directly over Liz's head, baking down on her, causing beads of sweat to pop out on her brow. Her eyes were fixed on that ungodly cow angel, standing several feet away from her, its white marble glowing in the sunlight.

But it was the sculpture's black wings that held Liz's gaze.

What sort of place was Huntington House? Why had Dominique commissioned such horrible things?

And was she really gone? Or did her spirit still wander the earth, as the servants believed, killing those who had angered her in some way—like Audra, Jamison, and Rita?

And if so, would she strike next at Liz, who had, after all, removed her portrait and dared to try to take her place as mistress of Huntington House?

She knew it was absurd. Completely irrational. But Liz would rather believe that the ghost of Dominique, and not David, had slit Rita's throat.

He killed her because he was having an affair with her
, Liz thought to herself as a beautiful yellow butterfly danced above the flowers. That was what Rita had been trying to tell her. She'd had an affair with David, and they'd conducted it in the last room on the left of the servants' quarters. And, if Rita was to be believed, there was another woman there last night as well. Another of David's paramours? Had Rita discovered them? Is that why David had killed her?

No
, she said to herself, shutting her eyes.
David didn't kill Rita! Dominique did!

She had tried reaching David, of course. But all she had was an email address. She didn't have that secret number that Rita had had—that secret number that confirmed for her, like nothing else, that David had been carrying on an affair with the chambermaid. Maybe not recently; Liz left open the possibility that the affair had happened while Dominique was still alive. But still. . . if he'd cheated on one wife, Liz thought, he could cheat on another.

She ran her fingers through her hair. A couple of birds in the tree above her began a high-pitched chatter.

David hadn't loved Dominique, at least not at the end. This Liz knew. He'd been very unhappy; Dominique had been vain and difficult. So maybe David might be excused for having an affair under those circumstances.

But then who was the woman Rita saw go upstairs, if not yet another girlfriend of David's? Was that room in the servants' quarters, the last one on the left, the place where he had gone after he left Liz, ostensibly to search the house? Had his real purpose been to join his ladylove, hidden in that room? Had he then told the woman that they'd been caught, and that she had to leave? Had he then driven over to Mickey's bar and slashed Rita to death?

The police had come by and taken David's car. No doubt they were searching it for blood and other evidence.

Liz wondered what Paul Delacorte had told the police—if he really had emailed David about business problems brewing abroad. Had he really encouraged David to get on the next plane to Amsterdam to manage the situation? Liz wondered if Delacorte might be in on any shenanigans, if he knew of David's affair and was helping him shield it. If so, Liz wouldn't have been surprised. She remembered the old lech's hand on her knee last night.

She felt sad about Rita. She had been so young, so pretty. She'd never really felt she could trust Rita, but the young woman had been kind to her last night. Still, as Liz thought about it, Rita's kindness to her had possibly been a ruse, a way to get her upstairs. There, Rita had hoped, she'd surprise David's latest girlfriend by introducing her to his wife. Did Rita see it as some form of revenge for having been dumped by David?

But if that scenario was true, then where had the woman gone? Was Rita wrong about which room she'd entered? Had the woman slipped out somehow before they got there? But the door was locked from the inside. None of this made any sense at all.

Liz supposed the easiest thing to believe was that Rita was unstable—hysterical. There was never any woman who snuck upstairs. And Rita's killer was some stranger at the bar, with whom she'd flirted, and who followed her out to her car and killed her for whatever psychotic motivations drove him to do such things. None of this had anything to do with David, or with her. On reflection, that seemed the easiest to believe—the theory that made the most sense.

So why didn't Liz believe it?

Because there were two other dead employees of Huntington House, and a third one just made the likelihood of all of them being coincidences very low indeed.

She had no one she could talk to about any of this here at the house. Mrs. Hoffman had merely said tersely that it was best they said as little as possible to the police and to anyone until David returned; we wouldn't want to make the scandal any worse, she asked, would we? Then the housekeeper had disappeared somewhere in the house. Liz had thought about talking with Variola; the chef had offered a sympathetic ear in the past, and Liz thought Variola might be able to help her feel better again now. But in the end, she'd agreed that Mrs. Hoffman was right: until they heard from David, the best thing was to say nothing to anybody.

She was conflicted over the fact that Nicki was coming to see her. It was a sweet, lovely gesture, of course, and certainly Liz would be glad to have a real friend to lean on, someone unconnected to this house and its secrets, someone who would be there for her and for her only. But Liz also knew Nicki's tendency to stir the pot. Nicki wasn't known for her discretion; Liz was going to have to insist that her friend not go around telling off Mrs. Hoffman—or worse, snapping at detectives Foley and McFarland when they asked questions that seemed too tough on Liz. Nicki was likely to start shouting at the reporters in the street, and no doubt she'd confront David, too, when he came home, badgering him to tell what he knew.

Liz sighed. She was going to have to keep Nicki on a short leash or she just might set a match to this powder keg, making everything much, much worse.

If only there was one person she could trust . . .

At that very moment, a hand gently gripped her shoulder.

“I hope I'm not disturbing you,” came a familiar male voice.

Liz looked up. Roger stood above her, looking down at her. The sun reflected the quiet concern in his eyes.

She sprang up and was immediately in his arms. “Roger!” she cried.

“There, there, Liz,” he said softly in her ear.

“Oh, Roger, it's all so terrible.”

“I know. I heard it all on the news. The police are publicly asking David to return from Europe as soon as possible.”

She looked up at him. “They're calling him a ‘person of interest.' ”

“That doesn't necessarily mean suspect.”

“I know, but . . .”

He placed his hand gently against her cheek. “You can't possibly think he had anything to do with Rita's death, do you?”

“I . . . I don't know what to think. He acted so strange before he suddenly left . . .”

“David often acts strange when it comes to business matters.”

Liz nodded, breaking free of Roger's embrace and taking a few steps away from him. She had let herself forget for a moment that there were eyes everywhere in this house.

“I just worry . . .” Liz couldn't finish. “Oh, Roger, she had a private number for David on her phone. An international mobile number.”

Roger nodded.

“You knew this?” Liz asked.

“I never knew for certain, but . . .” He hesitated, then spoke. “Liz, during the last couple months of Dominique's life, we all noticed how . . . how close David and Rita had become.”

“So he
was
having an affair with her!”

“I don't know how close.” He hesitated again. “But Dominique suspected as much.”

“Did she confront Rita?”

“Not that I know of. There wasn't really all that much time. Rita hadn't been here very long before Dominique died.”

Liz's brain was processing this new information. “So then . . . possibly . . . when David and I returned here, Rita was hoping their romance might continue.”

“Do you think it did?”

“I don't know.” She thought about it some more. “Actually, no, I don't think it did. David was only here such a short time, and we were always together. Unless he was sneaking off to see Rita in the middle of the night after I was asleep . . .”

Even as she spoke the words, she recalled last night, how she had fallen asleep expecting David at any moment, only to wake up and realize he hadn't come back . . .

“Oh, Roger, I don't know what to think,” Liz said, and she started to cry.

Once again Roger wrapped his arms around her. How good his arms felt.

“You don't deserve this, Liz. You deserve to be treated like a queen.”

He reached down and kissed her on the forehead.

She looked up.

Their eyes held.

He bent down to kiss her on the lips.

But at the last moment, Liz pulled away.

“They're watching us,” she whispered.

“Who's watching us?”

“This house! Everyone!”

“Liz, maybe you need to get away for a while.”

She stared at him. “That's what they want. They want to drive me out of here.”

“Who wants that?”

“Mrs. Hoffman.” She paused. “Dominique.”

“Dominique is dead.”

“I've been smelling gardenias all morning. All through the house. Even out here.”

Roger sighed. “Are you being serious, Liz? Are you trying to tell me you think her ghost is responsible for all this? Have the servants' stories finally gotten to you?”

“I just know that something very strange is going on in this house. And while yes, it looks bad for David, I think Rita's death is part of something much larger, much more sinister.”

“And why do you think that?”

“Because Jamison was killed after telling me that he believed Dominique's ghost had killed Audra, and because Rita was killed after she tried to tell me something about a woman who had snuck into the house.”

“A woman tried to sneak into the house?”

Liz nodded. “Rita said she saw her come in the back door and go upstairs to the servants' quarters.”

“And where did this woman go in the servants' quarters?”

“The last room on the left.”

Liz noticed what could have been a slight flicker of recognition in Roger's eyes.

“I suspect that's where David and Rita used to meet to carry on their affair,” Liz continued. “Rita assumed the woman was there for a similar rendezvous with David. But she wasn't there when we went inside, Roger. There was no woman in the room!”

He smiled kindly. “So Rita was mistaken. Or deliberately lying.”

“The door was locked from the inside, Roger. Someone had gone into that room! And then promptly disappeared!”

He took a step toward her, attempting to take her hand. Liz resisted him.

“Liz,” Roger said. “Listen to yourself. You're not making sense.”

“I didn't claim any of it made sense,” she replied.

“So you think the woman was a ghost. Dominique's ghost, most likely.”

She looked away. “I don't know what to think.”

Roger laughed gently. “But if so, Rita knew Dominique. She would have recognized her.”

“Maybe she did. Maybe she thought seeing Dominique back from the dead would scare me to death. I don't know, Roger. All I know is that both Jamison and Rita tried to give me some information, tried to warn me in some way, and immediately thereafter, both of them were murdered. There has to be something in all of that.”

“So are you going to give the police this information?”

“I'm waiting until I speak with David. I owe him that much.”

Roger was nodding. “Of course.” He let out a long breath. “Oh, Liz, I wish I could help you. I just don't know what to say to all of this.”

She smiled, and this time took his hand on her own initiative. “Your friendship means the world to me.”

His face tightened. “David has no idea how lucky he is.”

“You're sweet, Roger.”

“If I were him, I would never leave you. I'd always be by your side.”

He lifted Liz's hands to his lips and kissed her palm.

“Have your parents heard the news?” she asked.

“If they have, they wouldn't call me,” Roger replied. “But I'm sure they know. This won't be very helpful for Huntington Enterprises stock.”

“I have to believe that David is innocent,” Liz said.

“And therefore, these murders are the work of some avenging ghost.”

“David wasn't here when Audra was killed,” Liz reminded him. “He was on a cruise ship somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic, with
me
.”

“That's a pretty solid alibi.”

“So whoever killed these three people—”

“You don't believe the three deaths could be unrelated?” Roger interrupted.

Liz shook her head emphatically. “No. That's just impossible to believe. The same killer murdered Audra, Jamison, and Rita—and for similar reasons, I believe. And whether human or something else, something we can't explain, there is some connection to this house.” She paused and looked over at him. “To Dominique.”

“What do you intend to do now, Liz?” Roger asked.