THURSDAY
I woke early, having spent a fitful night; my sleep pattern was off, my eating pattern was off – I felt generally dreadful. I couldn’t put my finger on anything that was specifically wrong with me, but I did feel as though I was running a bit hot and cold.
When I told Bud, he replied in a very Bud-like manner. “You know what it’s like on airplanes – you’ve probably picked up a bug. Now it’s coming out. Hopefully no more than a head cold. Let’s make sure you get lots of rest, and fluids.”
I sat up in bed and laughed. “Rest and fluids? Will that be before, during, or after we’ve been grilled by Worthington?”
Bud looked at the bedside clock, and groaned. “It’s only half five. Why are we both even awake?”
“I couldn’t sleep, and you kept snoring, so I gave you a bit of a shove. A loving one, of course. But maybe it was a bit too hard, because…well, you’re awake now.”
Bud snuggled under the duvet. “Not for long, I hope. I need an extra hour. You do too. Come on – head down, eyes closed. You’ll drop off.”
“Thanks, Mum.” I remained in my sitting position until he was snoring again – which took about five seconds – then I applied my mind to our situation.
I knew we were in for another big day – one that didn’t hold the promise of a single gallery or museum, sadly, but which needed to be used as wisely as possible. As such, I wanted to have everything clear in my head, so I could ask Worthington the minimum number of questions to elicit the maximum amount of illumination and insight. I decided I’d make a list; I like lists – they help me organize the mass of stuff that usually rolls around in my fevered little brain…which made me wonder if I had a high temperature, which made me wish I’d packed a thermometer.
I told myself it was probably just another form of a hot flash, and padded up the stairs to the lounge, where I peered out of the windows, toward the river. It looked bitterly cold outside; the road itself was dark and wet, and the trees along the embankment glistened icily in the street lights. I shivered, then settled myself on the sofa, pulled a throw over my feet, and started to make a list in my head of everything I wanted to know.
It was a long list, because I didn’t know much at all. I’d learned a fair bit about Oleg Asimov, had picked up a few conflicting insights into the dynamics between Sasha and Bella, but hadn’t learned much about Charles. It occurred to me that no one had really mourned Charles’s loss at all, except maybe Felicity, then reasoned that maybe everyone was completely numb, following so many deaths. I’d made up my mind about many aspects of Felicity’s personality, and yet couldn’t come to grips with Renata’s at all; she was incredibly…guarded. Sly was the word that slid into my mind when I thought of her – but why? Vinnie was the greatest puzzle; I imagined him sleeping, just yards away, beyond the wall I was staring at. How on earth did he play into this tragic mess?
I made coffee to distract myself from my thinking – which helps a great deal, sometimes. However, not on this occasion. I perched at the counter on a stool, my coffee in hand, trying to work out who had killed Sasha.
I sipped my coffee and once again pictured the scene as everyone had left the main salon that fateful evening – was there a look, a glance, that I’d not recalled? Did anyone say anything when the body was discovered that might suggest they weren’t shocked? As I ran through it all in my head, the only reaction that stood out – as it had done on the night – was the way Renata had been so incredibly cool. She’d remained untouched by the death of the woman with whom she’d worked closely for many years. I examined everything I’d observed about Renata, and realized she was…sly – there was that word again! – and guarded…but she was also…fake, in some way. What was it about her that was bugging me?
I put down my coffee, closed my eyes to the stage where everything goes blurry, and began to hum – it all helps me when I need to put my eidetic memory to work, though I really don’t know why. I called to mind every encounter I’d had with Renata, since I’d first met her. And that was where I began…
She’s entering the salon for drinks, though Julie isn’t with her…Julie walks in with everyone else, their coat on her arm, and announces their arrival. Not Renata. She doesn’t make eye contact with anyone except Sasha – that’s to be expected, I suppose. She moves to stand in a dim corner. Okay – she works for Sasha…she’s there to make up numbers at the dinner table, to even out the male/female ratio. Maybe she feels a little awkward? Is it even normal that she’s been invited? Maybe. Now Sasha walks toward her. I can see she’s holding a crystal tumbler. No ice. Where did that come from? From Bella, who’s at the drinks’ trolley? I re-run that part…no, not Bella, Sasha poured it herself – I saw her do it. And it’s not water, it’s vodka. Sasha pulled a bottle out of an ice bucket and poured neat vodka. A lot of it. Okay, did Renata drink it? Yes, I see her take a mouthful – not a sip, a mouthful. That’s quite something. Did I see if she’d emptied her glass before she left for the terrace with Sasha? I’m alone in the salon, waiting for everyone to do what they’re doing, standing where she had stood, looking at an antique cast list for a performance of Othello…and I see Renata’s tumbler, empty, sitting on a ledge, abandoned. Yes, she drank it all. Fast.
I opened my eyes. That was useful – only someone who’s used to drinking a great deal could have done what Renata did and remain upright. I asked myself if I’d seen any other signs that might suggest Renata was an alcoholic, or at least an unusually heavy drinker. She didn’t drive anywhere – probably a good thing – and she was given to remaining still…maybe trying to manage cravings? The only form of addiction I truly understand is my own to nicotine; when I’m desperate for a cigarette, I try to keep myself busy, and fall back on chewing nicotine gum as though my life depends upon it. I’m down to just a couple a day at the moment…which I’m quite proud of, though Bud thinks I should be past that stage by now. I wondered how Renata managed to function in what was surely a highly pressured work situation if she drank, and told myself to talk to Bud about it. During his career he’s worked with several officers who’ve had to step down and take a leave of absence to get treatment for alcoholism – he’d know more about telltale signs in the workplace than me.
I sipped my coffee, thinking about Renata again, and realized I knew nothing about her background, other than that she’d joined the Townsend agency after I’d left. Could her family background be important? Piers had mentioned that Renata’s support of Sasha when Oleg was dying had been born of her own experience. Had his addled brain replayed that motif when he’d been talking to Worthington? Were the papers Piers had mentioned at that time concerning Renata’s father something that needed to be queried – or should I take them to be the outcome of his having taken too many drugs? Yes, I decided it was worth asking Worthington about that subject.
Then I considered that, with Sasha, Piers, and Charles all being dead, if it weren’t for the political overtones, I knew I’d be looking at this as a case of internal family strife taking a deadly turn…so should I discount the political angle? Was this a situation like the one portrayed in the portrait of The Ambassadors at the National Gallery, after all? Were political shenanigans clouding something that had, at its heart, a much more personal, domestic situation? Had the arrival of Worthington thrown me off? I understood why a person like Worthington had been called in: Vinnie had contacted someone who didn’t answer a simple 999 call; John had been anxious to avoid any hint of scandal on behalf of his fiancée and her family; Bud had phoned one of his connections – at John’s request – which had given a domestic situation an international angle. Yes, it made sense that someone of Worthington’s stamp would show up.
But then the shutdown had come…from “on high”. Why? Why shut everything down like that? I was utterly convinced that Sir Simon had pushed for it, despite Worthington’s “non-answer” to my direct question – so why would he do that? And I came back to my original reasons…to protect himself, or to protect the reputation of the Asimov family, and – by extension – the Asimov business empire. Or was it the other way around?
And there I was again, facing that concept – safeguarding reputation. Not spoiling the legacy. Keeping the Asimov family name free from stain. Oleg was dead, his legacy – his businesses – should have lived on through his three children owning them. Oleg had put plans in place to allow for the professional input and oversight of an experienced pair of hands, in the shape of Sir Simon Pendlebury…who was more than equal to the task, and an old school-friend of Piers, to boot. I stopped – but had they really been friends in school? Or had they merely attended the same school at the same time? There’s a huge difference. The conversation between Piers and Sir Simon about “jolly old japes” seemed, to me, to have been Piers’ over-zealous attempt to remind the knight of the realm of what they had in common. It had jarred at the time, because it had been an incredibly odd way for a man to be acting when grieving for his wife…unless…yes, unless Piers felt he needed Sir Simon to think of him as an equal. Someone who might deserve to be involved in running the Asimov companies in his own right? I made a mental note to find out who inherited Sasha’s shares in the company. I assumed Piers would know the terms of his own wife’s will, and possibly what was due to happen to the shares; unfortunately he, too, was dead, so I couldn’t ask him…but I could ask Worthington.
I stood and rolled my shoulders to unhunch them; without knowing definitive causes of death for Piers, Charles, and Sir Simon, I couldn’t get anywhere. All I knew was that Piers had been ranting, then died in bed. That Julie been ranting when she’d attacked Felicity. That Charles had been ranting, then drowned in his bath. There was a link…a commonality. So maybe Felicity hadn’t been lying after all? But…why was everyone acting in such an extreme manner? I drew a blank – I needed information before any amount of additional thinking could get me anywhere. I checked my watch. If we had to be ready to leave with Vinnie by seven, so he could drive us to Beulah House by eight, I had to hit the bathroom, then wake Bud.
I padded down the stairs, though, since I was about to wake Bud in any case I wondered, even as I was doing it, why I was bothering to be so stealthy. However, it was worth it to be able to watch him sleep for just a moment. To see him look so peaceful, his hands clasped like otter paws on his chest, his face hardly lined at all. I could see why Othello had acted as he had before he’d murdered Desdemona…though I had no intention of killing my spouse as he slept. However, I knew that waking him would kill his dreams which – whatever they were – appeared to be making him happy. It was a great pity, but it had to be done, so I did it as gently as I could, with a kiss. And it was as I kissed him that I thought of the handkerchief, embroidered with strawberries…