A Secret in Salem (20 page)

T
HE
H
OTEL DU
C
AP
-E
DEN
-R
OC, BUILT ORIGINALLY IN THE LATE
1800s as a private mansion, had become the most famous hotel in the south of France. Once a winter escape for the wealthy, some of its guests included literary greats, including Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

The month of May had been especially buzzy at the hotel, as many of the stars who attended the Cannes Film Festival stayed there. Everyone from Brad Pitt to Michael Douglas to Johnny Depp parked there when they attended the event, which, truth be told, was nothing more than a very glamorous sales convention.

Willy was waiting in the high-ceilinged lobby in one of the overstuffed white sofas when Jackson and Chance entered.

“Nice to see you again,” Willy said, rising to shake Jackson’s hand.

“You too,” Jackson said, taking a good look at Willy for the first time. Chance was right. He actually looked very together.

“Thanks for this,” Chance said, motioning to the room.

“I thought you two walking into my office might be a little suspicious,” Willy said. “Drinks?”

“Do we need them?” Jackson asked.

“You might.”

They moved through the massive hotel to the restaurant, which overlooked the crashing sea below. The salt air invigorating. The atmosphere, yes, spectacular.

“Bloody Mary for me,” Jackson ordered.

“Make that two,” Chance agreed.

“The usual,” Willy said to the mature waiter, who was a professional at the job.

“While you know how great it is to see you, I can’t wait any longer for the news,” Chance said with a sincere smile. “Lay it on us.”

Willy understood; he was nothing if not professional. “The toxicology reports indicated alcohol, which we knew. She had relatively high levels of mercury, from all the fish she ate, I assume, but nothing extraordinary,” Willy said.

“But?” Chance asked, sensing Willy’s hesitation.

“There was a significant amount of hydrogen cyanide in your mother’s system.”

“Cyanide?” Jackson gasped.

“From?” Chance blurted.

“She had to have been given it,” Willy told the stunned brothers.

“In other words—”

“Your sister was right,” Willy said. “Olivia Gaines didn’t die from that accident.”

Chance was thunderstruck. “Somebody killed her.”

“W
E HAVE VERY SPECIAL KIDS
,” J
OHN SAID AS HE KISSED
M
ARLENA
on her all-too-vulnerable neck.

“They knew we’d only had one night alone so far.” Marlena sighed as she melted at the touch of his tongue on her skin.

“You don’t mind?” John asked.

“I love it that you asked them to stay.” Marlena gazed into his blue, blue eyes. “I really do.”

“We’re going to have plenty of privacy for years to come, and they’ll be back at sea soon.”

They heard a brisk cough. A uniformed waiter who stood before them.

They were in Le Louis XV, the glorious Hôtel de Paris venue with Alain Ducasse as the chef. As Blake had told Marlena what seemed like aeons ago, dining in this belle epoque restaurant was a gastronomic experience one had to share.

“Sorry, didn’t see you there. But can you blame me?” John asked.

“Not at all, sir,” he said with a nod to Marlena. “May I take your order, or do you need a little more time?”

“We’ll leave it to the chef,” John answered him.

The waiter nodded and made his way to the kitchen through the elegant setting in whites and golds. Massive white fresh flowers graced the tables covered in white linen, and Lalique crystal chandeliers cast a soft, warm light.

“Beautiful.” John smiled warmly.

“It’s considered one of the most exquisite dining rooms in the world,” Marlena answered.

“Not it. You.”

Marlena could feel herself actually blush. She hadn’t done that in so many years, but as corny as it was, she felt as if she were on a first date with her real-life James Bond.

John was indeed drop-dead handsome in the tux she’d shed him of the night before. Marlena was in a shimmering opalescent Armani Privé white dress John had had Belle pick up for her that afternoon. She might have simple taste, but for this first dinner date with her husband, Marlena would bend to his every desire.

“When do we tell the world?” she asked.

“When the time is right,” he answered simply. “Not yet, though. I just want to get to know you intimately again first.”

That made her blush even deeper.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was having hot flashes,” she teased as she fanned herself.

“To a life with you and a love with you always,” John said, raising his champagne glass.

Their fine crystal flutes pinged as they toasted.

The waiter brought the first of four courses. It was fresh cod salad with warm potatoes and black truffles.

“Not quite the Brady Pub, but it’ll do.” He smiled.

The Brady Pub, one of the main gathering places in Salem, was not exactly gourmet, but it stirred a lot of lovely memories.

“Do you think you’ll ever want to go back there?” Marlena asked.

“To Salem?” he said. “I miss it, sure. But once again, it’s all about timing. For now, Europe ain’t so bad.”

The food was incredible as was the talk. They reminisced about the good times and none of the bad that had haunted them in the past.

When they were about to be served the classic bittersweet citrus dessert, the waiter brought them a phone.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Evans, but there’s a call for you,” he said.

“Here?” Marlena said surprised. John shrugged as she answered.

It was Shawn.

“Marlena, I am so, so sorry to bother you, but Charley Gaines is trying to reach you,” he said. “She’s sounding pretty desperate.”

John could see by her expression he knew so well that this was important.

“Charley Gaines,” Marlena told him. She was deeply torn.

“Doc, we’ve got a life full of romance ahead of us,” John said as he signaled the waiter and indicated they wanted the check.

“Let her know I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Marlena said into the phone.

She hung up as the waiter returned.

“I love you, John,” she said.

“You’d better, ’cause you’re stuck with me,” he answered, signing the check to their suite with a flourish.

“G
REED, FOR LACK OF A BETTER WORD, IS GOOD
,” G
ORDON
Gekko proudly proclaimed to the assembled investment brokers in the Oliver Stone film
Wall Street.
Not surprisingly, it was Richie’s favorite movie, and he’d seen it at least once a year since its release in 1987.

“You should never have gotten caught,” Richie slurred as he wagged his finger at the screen.

The screening room at the villa was the place Richie had stayed most in the last few days. Although the August weather was gorgeous, and the house had over 12,000 rambling square feet, the longer he was confined, the more he wanted to be in a cocoon. The screening room afforded him that. Plush crimson walls and deep purple sound-absorbing drapes enveloped the room, which had leopard-print lounging chairs and a fully stocked bar.

“Michael Douglas, you lucky son of a bitch,” he chortled to no one as he poured himself another shot of vintage Macallan from its nearly empty Lalique bottle. He swirled it in the snifter, then took a swig.

“You’ve still got that face and that un-fucking-believable wife.” Richie laughed. “A divorced sex addict who went through rehab and ended up with Catherine Zeta-Jones. You know you’re my hero?”

The film played on as Richie mused about how his life mirrored Gekko’s. Top of the game, reviled but respected, and then landed in the clink for a dozen years.

“Maybe when I get out I’ll write a book,” he said. “You listening to me?”

Of course neither Gordon Gekko nor the man playing the role replied.

Richie swirled the deep caramel liquid again. “No one’s ever gonna listen to me again, are they?” he muttered.

His life was in shambles, his wife dead, and his Macallan nearly gone. He’d also fired Kelsey, the housekeeper so willing and so curvaceous under her short white uniform, and he certainly couldn’t pay for one of the dozens of girls he’d had stored around the Côte d’Azur.

He picked up the remote and turned up the volume.

“I don’t like losers, sport. Nothing ruins my day more than losses,” Gekko spouted.

Richie raised his glass to the screen.

The scathing words about Richie’s womanizing rang in her ears.

“How could I have been so stupid about him, Emilio?” Kelsey cried softly to her brother.

They were in her cabin on the lowest desk of the überyacht, as she lay on her bed in the staff quarters of the
K
. They were
utilitarian with no windows, but the beds were comfortable, and at least she had a job. This wasn’t a time to be out of work.

“Men are pigs,” Emilio answered. “Especially the Gaineses and Kasagians of this world,” he continued while wiping her tears.

“I know…” she answered, sniffling. If she hadn’t known before, the bitchfest at Gemma’s lunch would have sealed it.

“If Serge Kasagian makes you any promises…” He scowled.

“I learned my lesson,
irmão
,” she insisted. “Mama would be so upset with me.”

“She never has to know,” Emilio said, giving her a half smile.

“I was so, so bad…” Kelsey said.

A chirp sounded on Emilio’s mobile. It was Serge.

“Wonder where he wants me to drag her to this time?” he said and answered the call. “Mr. Kasagian, sir?”

“Get my wife out of here for a few hours, Emilio, and I couldn’t care the hell where,” the philandering Serge Kasagian snapped.

Emilio hung up.

“So he can have his booty call,” Emilio said, getting up to leave. “It had better not be you,” he warned again.

“Never,” Kelsey answered. She would not allow herself to be taken in by another misogynist liar, no matter how charming or rich he was. Richie Gaines had promised to marry her if he was ever free, and now he was.

Instead he had fired her.

And now she hated him.

J
ACKSON AND
C
HANCE WERE IN THE LIVING ROOM LOOKING AT
the portrait of Olivia by the contemporary Spanish master Enrique Senis Oliver that hung over the fireplace.

She was in gauzy white amid a sea of phalaenopsis orchids, wearing rows and rows of pearls that dipped deep into her ample cleavage.

“Cyanide,” Jackson said.

“How and why?” Chance was incredulous.

“I’m more interested in knowing who,” Jackson said, straightening the shoulder on his six-foot frame.

“And how we find out how and who,” Chance added.

“Right now we’re not exactly the poster boys for honesty and decency,” Jackson said. “Will anyone care?” He sighed.

“While we’re ‘in great news’ mode, you should see this.”

Jackson picked up his iPad from the side table and opened Spectator.com.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Chance winced as he saw the first full list of investors who’d been royally duped by their father all these years.

“So many in the medical profession,” Jackson said, shaking his head in shame. “Nurses, technicians, even hospital workers. I remember Dad telling us how he liked to help the little investors too.”

“Helped them out of their retirement,” Chance said, sadly.

“Wiped so many people out totally.”

“It always sounded too good to be true, but whenever anyone asked for a distribution, he gave it to them,” Chance said, trying to defend them.

“Because he could in the beginning,” Jackson said as much to himself as his brother. “That’s how Ponzi schemes work. The new investors’ money is used to pay off the older ones.”

“But we were his CEO and attorney. How can anyone believe we weren’t involved? How could we have been so stupid?” Chance countered.

“He’s one smart motherfucker, bruv. Our crime is that we trusted our own father.”

Charley entered in time to hear the exchange. The words cut deeply, and she opted to ignore them.

“Dr. Evans called, and she’ll be here any minute,” she said softly.

“Would you like us to go?” Chance asked.

“Just while I bawl my eyes out.” Charley answered.

The security-gate buzzer buzzed. On the monitor, they could see a town car with two passengers in the back.

“Hi, it’s Dr. Evans,” Marlena said into the speaker.

The gates swung open, and the town car pulled into the drive.

Chance opened the front door as the driver opened the rear door for Marlena.

“I have no idea how long I’ll be,” Marlena said as she leaned in to John, who was sitting on the other side of the backseat.

“I’ve waited this long; a few more hours won’t kill me.” He smiled warmly and waved his iPhone. “I’ve got my toys.”

Chance came out to greet her. “Thanks so much for coming so late,” he said. Unable to not notice how well-dressed she was, he added, “Armani Privé?”

“My husband and I were having dinner,” she said, “but we’ll pick up where we left off later.”

“He doesn’t need to sit out here and wait,” Chance offered. “Why doesn’t he join my brother and me in the den for a drink?”

“That’d be lovely; thank you,” Marlena said.

For a houseful of crooks,
she thought,
they certainly know their manners.

Charley felt the weight of the world lift off her shoulders the minute she saw Marlena. She had never had an actual psychiatrist before, and the relief she felt was overwhelming.

“I took you from something,” Charley lamented, noticing what Marlena was wearing.

“Anticipation makes the heart grow fonder,” Marlena assured her. “But this isn’t about me; it’s about you.”

John was fascinated by the Gaines Villa. While he now had a vast
amount of money, he had lived a large portion of his life in the Salem PD and loved the simple life as a cop.

“You mind?” he said, loosening his tie and popping open the top buttons of his shirt.

Through his tumultuous and exciting adulthood, he’d had many personas but always felt best as just one of the guys.

“Please,” Jackson said. Both he and Chance were in typical Monaco fine light linen, but even in his Brioni tux John made them feel at ease.

“What’s your poison?” Chance asked him, indicating the bar.

John laughed. “You don’t know how funny that is actually.”

He knew if he told them of the poisons that had crippled him for the last few years, they wouldn’t have believed him. “Have any Budweiser?”

In fact, they did. No matter how much the French hated Americans, they had to admit their beer was one of the truly great thirst quenchers.

“Your wife reminds me of someone,” Chance said as he retrieved the icy can from the refrigerator. “Not sure who.”

“Me too,” Jackson realized. “Those eyes that light up, I think.”

“Like Charley’s,” Chance said. “She’s a mess, Mr. Black.”

“John,” he said. “If anyone can help your sister, it’s Doc.”

John took the beer in the bottle and drank the elixir. Say what you will about the finest champagne, when it’s beer you crave, there’s nothing better.

“John?”

Marlena was in the open doorway.

“We all need to talk.”

Marlena saw their confusion.

“If anyone can help tonight, I think it’s you.” She then turned to Jackson and Chance. “My husband was the most successful undercover agent the ISA ever had. If anyone can solve this puzzle, he can.”

“I don’t think we should meet in here,” Jackson said. “Dad’s in the screening room, which is right above us.”

Charley was sitting on one of the suite’s four overstuffed sofas, her legs tucked under her, when Marlena entered in front of Jackson and Chance. John took up the rear, and when he saw Charley, he was startled.

“Didn’t realize you were quite so gorgeous.” He smiled with that crooked smile that made Charley feel at ease.

“I’m pleased to meet you—”

“John,” he interrupted before she could finish. “I’m really sorry about your mother.”

I’m sorry about Olivia too,
she thought.
Devastated. But she wasn’t my mother.

“Thank you,” she answered.

“What can you tell me about the night of the accident?” he asked gently.

Charley recounted the details as she remembered them.

She recalled the frantic day at OMG and Olivia’s early departure to have her hair done by Beverly Hills’ finest. That Olivia had been overly excited about the bash on the
K
because of all the celebrities who loved her, and that she had been drinking her
favorite Dom Pérignon rosé with caviar and tea sandwiches when Charley joined her downstairs.

Charley’s voice was shaky as she told John that she didn’t blame them, truly, but Jackson and Chance were supposed to have been with them and driven to the party. When they hadn’t shown, Olivia had taken the driver’s seat instead, not wearing her seat belt. Chance had broken the news to her that there had been cyanide in her system, which had to be why she was dizzy and nauseated as they had driven the Route de la Grande Corniche.

“And then you hit the railing,” John concluded.

“I tried to control the car, but I couldn’t,” Charley said, choking back tears.

“This wasn’t your fault,” Marlena assured her.

“If I’d seen that man on the bike earlier, I could have reacted faster,” Charley said, feeling guilty.

“What man on a bike?” Jackson asked.

“Just some guy. He appeared out of nowhere,” she answered.

John let it all ruminate. “Cyanide reacts really quickly in the body. Can you show me where you were before you left the house?”

“We can show you,” Chance offered.

He and Jackson led John toward the infamous bar off the foyer as Marlena poured Charley a fresh glass of water with lemon from the ready tray nearby.

“Would wine be okay?” Charley asked ruefully.

“It usually makes things worse,” Marlena told her. “As a doctor, I’d tell you to avoid it, but it’s your call.”

Charley studied Marlena’s face, and the warmth in it was
appealing and convincing. She took a long, satisfying sip from the crystal tumbler.

“You were really with the ISA?” Jackson asked.

“For a number of years, yes,” John answered. “Now and then, I get called back into duty.”

“A real James Bond,” Chance said.