Today is the shortest day of the year. Dusk arrives at 3:00 p.m. I’m sitting in an overstuffed armchair, my legs folded up under me, an afghan across my lap, a cup of tea close at hand. Normally I don’t mind these brief afternoons. The flat is well lit and inviting. A small gas fireplace offers at least the illusion of warmth. We’ve furnished the place comfortably. There’s plenty of room by London standards, yet I feel as if the walls are closing in on me.
The rising star Victor Kemp brought into the company—Paul Guzman—was Kemp’s son. Most everyone suspected as much. He looked a bit like his father around the eyes. I always assumed Guzman was the mother’s name, a fact Brian confirmed. They’d had eyes on the mistress for years and on her two sons, at least until they left home.
As for Paul, the young man had turned out to be a valuable employee, streamlining practices and raising profits. I remember an earnest sort, a bit self-effacing, almost ethereal, with soft blond hair and wide upturned blue eyes hidden behind scholarly looking glasses. Not at all like his father in personality. Yet he must have entered into Kemp’s underground world at some point. Then he died in the boat explosion. How hideous of Kemp to drag his son into his revenge fantasy.
Guzman. As Brian reminded me, the name is ordinary, the Portuguese equivalent of Smith or Jones. Nothing suggests the owner of a fleet of cargo ships is related to the mistress of my mortal enemy or his bastard children.
I continue to obsess, not a week after Charlie drops his bombshell. Brian has promised to check around and report back. He may be able to get information from his Interpol buddies. I promise not to worry. It’s almost impossible not to.
I toss off the blanket, grab my cold tea, and head to the kitchen area to pop the cup in the microwave, still ruminating. Paul had a younger brother who never came to the office. I imagined him as an over-indulged second son. He didn’t appear at the memorial service either, not that I paid a lot of attention. He’d be somewhere in his thirties by now, I realize. Old enough to run a shipping business, providing he had the talent and discipline. I’m not sure he had either of those, but what do I know?
The key in the door brings me back to earth. Brian is home early, marking the official start of the holidays. He’s off next week. We plan to spend Christmas with the kids in the old stone farmhouse in Wales. Tommy and Maggie Edgerton will join us at some point. It promises to be jolly, providing I can get through tonight.
When Maggie suggested holding an engagement/ holiday party at their townhouse on the Friday before Christmas, I considered it a terrible idea. Most of the schools break a week or more before the holidays. Government offices close several days before Christmas, and only the most dedicated sort work after that. The vacation exodus is normally well underway by now, with Londoners getting out just as the tourists arrive. Who would stay around for a party?
There’s also the guilt factor. The bride’s parents traditionally absorb the cost of the wedding, which will likely be exorbitant. I know we’re handling the rehearsal dinner. What’s the protocol for an engagement party? Should we have chipped in? I have no idea. We’ve proposed dinner out, but Maggie won’t hear of it.
“You’re hosting six of us for a week in the country. And our house looks so lovely all dressed up for the holidays. We so want to show it off.”
I don’t say what I’m thinking; no one will show up to admire it.
I needn’t have worried. Maggie and Tommy have clout. Additionally, the lure of an excellently catered party with free drinks is enticement enough. Only a few people have declined. Even our children’s friends are willing to put off their destination vacations. Perhaps they’re planning to work right up until Christmas Eve. Michael and Kate run with an industrious set.
Since the festivities are tonight, I need to pull myself together. First, though, I throw my arms around my handsome husband just as he walks in. I let him go so he can hang up his coat. He turns back to me, ready to address the questions he knows I’ve been compiling all day.
“Francesco Guzman is supposed to be a lifelong bachelor. No family. No link to anyone named Paulo or Paul. Nor does he seem to be connected to Luisa Guzman, Kemp’s mistress and Paul’s mother. In all the years we monitored Luisa, we never encountered anyone named Franco. You do know she had another son with Kemp named João.”
“Yes, although I never met him. Victor never talked about him, except in passing. Paul mentioned a younger brother back in Rio who planned to move to New York. I think the two of them were close, although I can’t be sure. The younger one would be in his thirties now. That’s all I recall.”
“We lost track of the second son some time ago, I’m afraid to say. I had our people run a search for a João Guzman in Rio and in New York. We turned up thousands of names, as you can imagine. When we filtered for someone the proper age, we were left with five men. Believe it or not, not one of them has relatives named Luisa or Francesco.
He stopped and searched my face.
“You know I’d do anything to ease your mind, Suzie. Let me ask you this: did Victor Kemp ever involve himself with any aspect of human trafficking? Think carefully.”
“I don’t need to think at all. He hated the idea. He said so on several occasions. It wasn’t about the morality of it. He had an aversion to potentially unmanageable entanglements. Humans are messy and capricious, he told me. He meant they were difficult to control. Victor Kemp wouldn’t have touched any part of that trade, and I don’t see him involving his offspring.”
“There you have it. Francesco Guzman is not Victor Kemp. Now if I’m not mistaken, we have a party to attend. I’ve picked up a bottle of Krug for Kate’s parents, and no, I won’t tell you how much it cost. Less than they’re shelling out for this bash, I’ll wager.”
“We both know Tommy and Maggie are thrilled to be hosting. And it was very clever of you to pick up such a classy gift. I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.” I glance at the mantelpiece clock and gasp. “Oh dear, I really have to get moving if I want to be ready.”
Brian pulls me to him once more. He smells clean and masculine and warmly familiar. I look up into the face I love and see the glint in his green eyes.
“Let’s at least get you out of this robe. Although I can’t be responsible for what happens after that. I imagine you can dress quickly enough, when all is said and done.”
I don’t argue.
~
Three hours later, we pull up to the elegant city dwelling of Lord and Lady Edgerton. They’ve got a country home as well, but Maggie loves to be in London. The townhouse is located in an upscale neighborhood adjacent to Green Park. Brian and I had planned to walk there by way of Hyde Park and its holiday markets. Our afternoon diversion has put us behind schedule, though it’s improved my mood.
For all that, we’ve arrived pretty much on time, even a bit early. I’m wearing a high-neck, deep-green silk sheath by a designer named Niu Niu. Brian looks quite handsome in jacket and tie. We’re more than presentable.
Potted pines festooned with tiny white lights frame the door, which is covered by an enormous wreath. We’re ushered into the narrow foyer by a polite young person in white shirt and black slacks. A formal dining room to our right sits adjacent to an ascending staircase. The ornately carved banister is draped with fresh pine boughs. Flame-shaped bulbs flicker in the wall sconces that run along the hallway and up the stairs. The effect is as intended, as if the house were lit by candles. We’ve stepped into a Victorian Christmas.
To our left is a cozy library with a gas fireplace. Seasonal carved pieces sit on the mantle, among them a Father Christmas, a delicate looking reindeer, and a snowflake. A fat tree decorated with cut-glass ornaments squats next to a bookshelf of old books. First editions, no doubt. The room appeals to Brian, I can tell. I tug on his sleeve to keep him moving ahead.
The action is in the back of the house. Maggie has completely redone the rooms to suit the entertainment needs of a socially active couple. The space combines a family room with an enviable kitchen boasting a double oven, a six-burner Viking range, and a granite-topped center counter. One young woman oversees food preparation. Another puts the finishing touches on a table laden with delectables. Two fresh-faced waiters are circulating with trays. The bar looks predictably well stocked. Glass patio doors open onto a small deck and a pocket-sized back yard. Its gardens lie dormant, but the tiny lights strung around the fence and wound through the tree branches brighten the area.
Two men in suits stand on either side of the room, backs to the wall, hands folded left over right in front of them. Brian identifies them as security. Their presence comforts me.
I’m happy to have a chance to chat with our hosts. Tommy receives our gift with pleasure. He pounds Brian on the shoulder.
“Excellent choice, old man. We’ll save this for New Year’s in Wales.”
Within an hour, the house is crowded with a mix of young and mature adults. Kate and Michael (I can’t call him Mike, as his chums do) have arrived with a group of their friends in tow. The young women are dressed in black dresses and impossibly high heels. The men wear jackets without ties. The Edgertons have invited approximately sixty people. It looks like everyone has accepted and then some.
Annie and Mark show up with Betsy and Sam Harrigan. They greet us warmly. I’m stuck by the incongruity of my situation. How did it happen that a woman who spent so much time hiding, faking, hurting, and being hurt has ended up with real friends? Don’t go there, I remind myself. Tonight is about celebrating.
Brian, ever attentive, nudges my arm. “Let’s get drinks in everyone’s hands. What do you say?”
“I say it’s a marvelous idea. I just want to give our future daughter-in-law a hug first.”
Kate Edgerton is a magnificent-looking woman in a green dress not dissimilar from my own. I smile at that. What distinguishes her physically isn’t so much her athletic figure or even her warm hazel eyes, though both are appealing. It’s her hair, a full mane of auburn curls that tumble past her shoulders. The image of redheaded grandchildren running around the stone farmhouse fills me with delight.
Standing to one side is Harry Goldston. Stout and red-faced, Harry is every inch the proverbial stalwart friend. He worked in Africa with Michael and Kate. Widgy is with them, looking for all the world like a version of Prince Harry.
The others I don’t recall meeting, like the blowsy blonde woman in the too-tight, too-short dress who is hanging onto her escort for dear life. I’ve never seen him before, either. He’s a bit older than the others, in his thirties, and handsome in a vaguely predatory sort of way. His dark hair curls at his collar; his dark-brown eyes turn up at the end. He looks familiar, probably because he’s a type. Latin playboy, I decide. Someone as attractive as he is ought to be filled with preening self-confidence, yet he appears uneasy, even anxious.
The hairs on the back of my arm stand on end.
I’m a firm believer in intuition. So is Michael. He’s had plenty of reasons to stay alert throughout his life. I’ve no doubt his senses are fine-tuned to pick up on various hazards. Yet, as I watch him tonight, he appears relaxed, focused on his friends and his future bride. He’s not in the grip of any sort of premonition. I can’t say the same for me. My spidey sense has kicked into high gear.
“Suzanne?” Annie comes up behind me and rests her hand on my arm. “Is anything wrong?”
She follows my gaze. The dark-haired man realizes he’s being watched and looks back at us. Astonishment flits across his face, followed quickly by a look of anger so naked Annie and I pull back. Which of us is he glowering at and why? I’m staring at his face, then at the hand that’s emerging from his pocket. Before I have time to yell, he’s pointed a gun and fired in our direction.
I move to block Annie, unsure where the gunman is aiming and how good his aim might be. The bullet nicks her in the elbow; she cries out. I hear a second shot, but I don’t know where it ends up.
I’m half-supporting my friend, who is holding her arm. Mark and Brian are instantly with us. Annie is remarkably self-possessed for a shooting victim. On the other hand, she is babbling, which might just be shock.
“Is Suzanne hurt? Is someone else? I heard another shot. Where is security? Did you catch the gunman?”
Mark gently tells her to shut up. She subsides, her face ashen.
The security men and several other capable looking-individuals have rushed Michael’s group. I assume they’ve wrestled the man with the gun to the ground.
“We need a doctor!”
I hear my future daughter-in-law’s voice and my head snaps up.
I push my way into the tangle where a moment ago a group of young people stood, most of them with nothing more than fun on their minds. Except one. I note the absence of the dark-haired, dark-eyed shooter and spot Brian running for the door. Then I see my son lying on the floor, and everything else fades away. Three sets of hands rest on his stomach: his, Kate’s, and Harry’s. Six hands covered in blood.
“Mrs. Foster, he threw himself in front of the gunman.”
Harry is sweating heavily, pressing for all he’s worth in order to keep God knows what from leaving my son’s body.
“Christ, there’s so much blood!” he exclaims. “Come on, man. Hang in there.”
Kate is on Michael’s other side. She’s gone white, but she stays composed. She repeats her orders for water, for a doctor, for something to staunch the wound. The friends move off, all terribly efficient. The young woman from the kitchen rushes over.
“Let me help; I’m a nursing student,” she says. She reaches over Harry’s shoulder. Now there are four pairs of hands on my son.
Someone has brought over a pile of snowy linens from the dining room. Those will be expensive to clean, I find myself thinking.
“Harry, let her in.” My not-quite-daughter-in-law catches the young man’s eye and looks in my direction.
Brian appears suddenly, shaking his head. The gunman has gotten away. Clever bastard. No matter. I saw his face. I have an idea who he is. I might even know who sent him. I’ll take care of them both in due time.
He lives, I think before I can stop myself. There’s no time to process that revelation, so I file it for now.
I kneel by my only child, next to the kitchen helper/nursing student. She’s used up nearly all the linens and is trying to decide where the helping hands can do the most good. I reach in to offer another set. Perhaps a mother’s hands can do what no one else’s can. The garnet blood soaks into my emerald silk dress. Red on green. A holiday party gone horribly wrong.
“Michael, I’m here,” I whisper. I look down at my son. He ‘s drained of color. His eyes stay closed. I take his icy red hand in my bloody warm one and squeeze. I imagine he squeezes back, but I can’t be sure. In the distance, an ambulance sounds, its two-note refrain propelled by a single directive: hurry!