Trophies (10 page)

If I went to the gallery party in civilian
clothes, it would downplay those choices or at least keep them
discreet. But that seemed wrong, as if I was ashamed of what I'd
become. And that wasn't true at all.

If I wore uniform, it would throw my choices
in their collective faces — tantamount to inviting attack.

I found myself staring into my own reflected
eyes. "What would you do?" I asked my twin in the mirror.

Same thing you're doing, mate.

My white mess-dress uniform hung on the back
of the door. I fussed over the insignia, measuring the angles to
perfection and polishing each little bit of metal to a sparkle. I
gave particular attention to the crossed golden arrows on the
lapels, wishing I could plant one in the middle of my brother's
forehead. At least my combat decorations and proficiency badges
looked impressive, even if I couldn't bring myself to wear the
Bronze Star. The Kraut and Sherlock insisted upon awarding it after
my run-in with the sniper. But I hadn't gotten the sniper and it
seemed dishonest to wear the medal or ribbon.

With the jacket on and buttoned, I took a
last look in the mirror. I still looked just as ordinary. But at
least it was a dressed-up ordinary.

I tried tilting my head back and looking down
my nose at the mirror. But without the Roman hook, the effect was
bally ridiculous. I sighed. I'd have to face the family without
that particular genetic weapon.

As I turned to leave, my glance touched on
Uncle Hubert's old ring. I paused. Truly, it was garish. Worse, it
was horrid. People hadn't worn such large, ornate jewelry since the
previous century. Or two.

I slipped it on. Regulations allowed it.
Besides, it really did have a lovely shine when I angled it toward
the light.

Downstairs, Caren awaited me, her eyes wide
as she crossed her arms beneath her breasts and rippled her
shoulders. When we'd first met, at the housewarming party of a
mutual friend, I'd worn this same uniform, and she watched me from
the corner of her eye for what felt like delicious hours. Toward
the end of the evening she trapped me in the quiet corner of a busy
room, wanting to know the meaning of every ribbon, badge, and
patch, and her eyes deepened as she listened without blinking to
every word I said. But now, she wasn't looking at the uniform, but
at me.

I paused at the foot of the stairs, suddenly
awkward. "Is this suitable, do you think?"

To my relief, she didn't hesitate.
"Perfectly."

"It's not quite as formal as a tuxedo. Well,
it would be, if I'd worn the bow tie rather than the four-in-hand."
Hell, I was rambling. I nearly bit my tongue hauling that horse to
a stop. A deep breath, and I tried again. "Will you be all
right?"

Caren had volunteered to stay behind and
guard the house against a return visit by our friendly neighborhood
murderer. I didn't like it but could see no alternative short of
hiring a security guard and, with my luck, that was his cover
profession.

She smiled. "You've only asked me that
nineteen times." She hefted the Walther P-38 from the table near
the front door. "Are you certain you don't want to take this with
you?"

"And you've asked me that at least as often.
If I wanted to carry tonight, I have other pistols, including a
nifty little PPK that fits beneath this jacket without advertising
its presence quite so openly. But I really don't believe my family
hates me all that much."

Her expression deepened. "You know what I
mean."

I could only hold that sensual gaze for a few
seconds, unless I abandoned going out and instead stayed in with
her. But I'd promised Patricia and I couldn't go back on it.
Besides, Caren wasn't about to let me take her to bed, not until I
made some sort of commitment. So as soon as I felt myself sliding
toward that particular cliff, I turned away. Mercifully, a car
honked outside: the cab.

"I'll be all right, Caren. You worry about
yourself and don't hesitate to use that pistol if you need to."

"I promise." She stepped out for a moment
beside me, Walther in plain view for all the world to see — and if
the house was being watched, I wanted the watcher to see it — then
she stepped back inside.

I waited until the deadbolt struck home
before clattering down the granite steps to the cab. At least he
hadn't driven off without me at sight of the gun.

This was a pre-opening party; the actual
opening was tomorrow night. Earlier today, I rang up the estate
attorney's secretary — I still hadn't caught his name — and
arranged the reading of Aunt Edith's will while the family were all
in town; that was as courteous as I intended to be. Then I phoned
Priscilla Carr, the gallery owner, and discussed the possibility of
postponing the party and show until a more appropriate time.

"If it was only Trés," Prissy had said, "I'd
agree, and wholeheartedly. This must be a rotten time for you and
all your family. But I have the other two artists to consider, you
know, and one of them has family in from out of town, too. Please,
Charles, please, don't do this to me."

So instead of being shut with a wreath on the
door, the Carr Gallery was lit up like a Christmas tree, warm
inviting lights within, cold blue ones flooding the outside,
orange-yellow streetlamps fading into insignificance down the
sidewalk in the humidity off the river. Almost overhead, the
pattern was broken by a dark spot where one of the sodium bulbs was
out of action. A private electric truck, riser elevated, took up
two parking spaces as a worker fixed it. Prissy wanted everything
perfect for the show, inside and out.

The Carr Gallery was an old, converted
red-brick warehouse. Prissy leased the upper stories to independent
lawyers and accountants, but the lower floor was a rabbit's warren
of showrooms, storerooms, and offices. Before the war, I'd
considered it a lark to break in and test her security, but I
hadn't done such silly things for a while now.

The old door with the bullet hole and
bloodstains was gone, replaced by shimmery oak with a spotless
satin finish. The dark splotches on the red brick and the cement
stairs had also vanished, and no chalk outlines decorated the
sidewalk where Aunt Edith had sprawled. But I still remembered
exactly where she'd lain, how her legs curled and her eyes stared
blankly up, and there was the precise spot where her shoe had
fallen.

At that moment, I'd have given anything to
turn around, leave that spot behind for the rest of my life, and
return to the house, if only Aunt Edith and Patty would be there
awaiting me. We could read Shakespeare aloud to each other, the tea
tray between us on the table beneath the intoxicating red roses,
and everything would be all right again.

But instead a banner draped across the upper
windows of the gallery, announcing the opening of the
Friends
and Fantasies
show, tomorrow night's date bracketing the title.
It seemed a very poor substitute and I can't say it thrilled me. I
took a deep breath, forcing myself away from the sidewalk and that
bloody empty hole now in my life, and showed the security guard at
the door my invitation. I managed to thank him without sarcasm when
he let me in, even though I felt like a Christian entering the
Coliseum in the year 70 A.D.

And there were Father and William. Father
stood with his back to me, leaning on a black cane that matched his
dark suit. William, in elegant deep navy and maroon, stood at his
shoulder, facing the door, and our gazes locked as soon as I
crossed the threshold. I knew it was William because he looked
exactly as Father had when I first left England for Boston; even
the sneer down the family Roman nose, with his head tilted back to
maximize the effect, was the same. And I'm certain he recognized
me. He held my glare for five long seconds while my heart pounded
in my chest — it was so like the last time we faced each other,
years ago, that I caught myself counting my heartbeats and telling
myself I no longer feared him — then he turned away as if I didn't
exist, murmured in Father's ear, and took both their champagne
glasses to the buffet table on the far wall.

I turned the other way, slipping between one
canvas be-decked wall and a free-standing display, hunting for
Patricia. I intended to take a quick look about, pay my respects,
chat with Prissy and the two artists, whoever they were, then get
out of there. I could tell already, the family were as happy to
have me there as I was to join them. My past was invading my
present when I thought I'd locked the damned thing safely away.

Unfortunately, it didn't happen quite like
that.

"Charles." Patricia appeared from behind
another free-standing exhibit, took one step toward me, then
paused. Her chin tilted to one side, her eyebrows lowered. "I'm
glad you came."

She sounded uncertain of more than her
welcome. What she read in my face, I could only conjecture. But the
possibilities weren't pretty.

In uniform, I generally managed to keep my
hands out of my pockets. "Well, I did promise."

She wore her tea-length pink silk, which — as
she very well knew — I considered glorious on her swirly curves.
Her mousy hair was swept up in some complicated manner that framed
and softened her angular face, delicate tendrils curling near her
ears; chestnut and golden highlights glittered in the room's
spotlighted brilliance. At first glance I wished she wasn't my
cousin. The hell with the uniform. I gathered her close.

She only hesitated a moment. Then her arms
tightened about me. I lowered my face into the artful arrangement
of her hair and was tickled by more than the tendrils when she
showed as little concern for her appearance in that comfortable
moment as I did for mine.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, barely audible
through the background chatter.

I kissed her cheek. "How's Trés?" It wasn't
my main concern but I knew she wanted me to ask.

Her face lightened as she stepped back. "The
doctors think he may already be out of danger. He's still in ICU,
but they say they'll move him out first thing in the morning if he
does well tonight."

Young and strong. I didn't remind her of the
family obstinacy. We were getting along fine; I wanted that to
continue. Sometimes it wasn't entertaining, being the only person
this mouse would challenge. "That's great."

"Now come and see his pastels. They're
marvelous." She tilted her head again, for all the world like a
little girl using her charms to get her way. The brilliant track
lighting shone its spotlights on and about her, a screen star on a
hardwood stage with a party as a backdrop.

I couldn't stop my glance toward the
entrance. But Father and William, in heated discussion, hovered
over the punch bowl, neither of them glancing our way, and the
display she indicated was in the other direction. "All right,
let's."

I'm no expert on art in any format and I
certainly hadn't intended to waste any time on the displays. But
after we ducked past several people I didn't recognize, my glance
at the first pastel became a prolonged stare.

It depicted a yellow rose, each petal edged
with crimson, dark green leaves mixed with the red ones of new
growth. I recognized it — Aunt Edith had one in the bed near the
statue of the sword-maiden and its heady scent was interwoven in my
memories as an integral part of Shakespeare. Although the pastel
only pictured one rose, the detailing brought the actual bush to
mind, intricate lines insinuating its upright growth, long stems,
tiny thorns, big leaves. I even imagined I could smell it.

The second pastel, a step along the wall,
showed a white cabbage rose glistening with dew. I didn't know that
one, but the other five stretching beyond each grew in one of Aunt
Edith's flower beds. I'd helped her prune and mulch and feed them
for years. The single pastel flowers bloomed in their frames, each
spotlighted by a miniature sun, just as the bushes bloomed in the
garden.

I have to show Aunt Edith these pastels,
she'll adore them,
I thought, and then remembered she was dead.
My throat tightened dangerously. "Damn."

Patricia misunderstood me, perhaps not
hearing the catch in my voice through the chatter rippling about
the showroom. "I told you, they're marvelous. Do you know them?
They're Mum's best roses."

Her mother, my Aunt Viola, hybridized roses
as a hobby. "Did she send them to Aunt Edith through the years?" I
hadn't realized.

"Yes, except for the white one. We didn't
think it would do well in Boston."

"This is amazing." It was easy to stare at
those pastels; it was almost as good as sitting out by the flower
beds themselves; and the lump in my throat eased. Maybe they'd work
in the white living room in my condo. But Aunt Edith's house was
mine now, and who knew what I'd do with two residences. Perhaps the
pastels would work in her formal parlor or along the stairs if I
got rid of all that modern stuff. Overload; I couldn't go there and
closed my eyes against the emotional flood.

The only thing I was certain of was, I liked
the pastels. And considering they'd been done by William's son,
that was pretty amazing.

"Come and see the oils now."

Again I checked Father and William's
location. They strolled about the far side of the showroom, wading
in and out of the pooled spotlights beyond the punchbowl and
momentarily visible between bodies and displays. They still argued
without glancing our way and I couldn't decide if I liked that or
not; it seemed insulting even if it was safest. Again, Patricia's
chosen direction led away from them and deeper into Prissy's maze.
"The oils, then."

On our way to the oils we passed Patricia's
elder siblings, Ralph and Miriam, giggling shamelessly in a corner
behind free-standing displays. The twins were opposites in
appearance — he slight and dark, she sturdy and brown, both with
good-natured smiles and those signature green eyes — and duplicates
in silly behavior. They'd done everything together, those two,
while maintaining their individuality, earning graduate degrees
from the same Cambridge college, he in one subject, she in another,
and then having a double wedding (no, not to another set of twins).
They even broke their legs (his right, her left) while skiing on
the same day. And together they'd opened an interior design firm in
London. They had to be doing well, too, judging from the caliber of
their clothing. Ralph's suit had definite traces of Armani in the
cut.