Fortune's Deadly Descent (15 page)

“Really? You’re sure?”

“On the train he spoke what sounded like perfect French, but obviously I wouldn’t have picked up his accent. And, I mean, I was frantic about Benny. Then when he switched to English he had a heavy, very convincing French accent. Totally put on. The man’s Meryl Streep.”

Oliver touches my shoulder, looks at me like he might break down. “I’m fine,” I say.

“No, you’re not.”

He gets me on my feet again, and sends me into the bathroom to shed the wet clothes. “There’s a robe on the back of the door.”

Moments later, I’m down to my underwear in the wan light of an ancient skylight, goosefleshed. My bra is uncomfortably damp in back, so I take that off, too, and put on the terry robe, one of the pension’s few extras—that and, surprisingly, Wi-Fi.

“Better?” Oliver asks, when I’m seated again.

I nod.

“So…” he says.

“Moreau was telling us back in Zurich how the man on the train spoke in a way that reminded him of an English detective series he loves. I wasn’t putting much stock in Moreau’s tangents at that point, but what the man said in the alley just now makes me think the same thing, that it was coming out of a book, or a crappy movie. I got the feeling he was playacting, at least not a seasoned criminal.”

Oliver lowers himself onto the edge of the bed across from me. “Did he see where we’re staying? Do you think he followed you here?”

“He took off in the other direction, but who knows? Maybe he figured we’d go to Moreau’s and waited, then saw me set off on foot. He found me
somehow
. Could somebody have told him we’re here? Maybe he’d been planning on staking out the pension.”

“We have to get out of here,” Oliver says, and immediately grabs up his backpack and starts to stuff the few things he’s gotten out of it back in. “And we have to hide the car.”

The Rover makes me think of my missing computer again, and the fact that I haven’t yet puzzled out what he—or they—want from it. But that will have to wait.

“Oliver, hang on,” I say. “I’m not done. You need to hear what else he said. Sit, OK?”

Reluctantly, he drops the pack and sits again.

“I don’t know what it means, or whether it’s a hopeful sign or not, but he said this isn’t about Benny.”

“OK.”

“He also said he and I both know Benny’s not my son.”

“Do you think this leads to Dad? Or Isabel? How else—”

“The part about Benny not being mine sure as hell does. But the rest, I don’t know. When I said I’d give him money if that’s what he wanted, he said this whole thing was bigger than my family’s money. Not
my
money. I’m very clear on this. He said it’s bigger than you and all
your family’s
money. I mean, the Hagen shares belong to me—there
is
no other family. Even Benicio doesn’t have access to it.”

“I never knew that.”

“It’s true. But never mind. The man could only have been talking about the past, earlier Hagens, or the company itself. And the way he said it—it was as if I touched a nerve with the word
money
.”

For a quick second I’m lost in the past, thinking of my great-grandmother Annaliese. She’s the whole reason I have what I have. She founded Hagen Pharmaceuticals with my great-grandfather Walter. One could say she is the hand that feeds me. Was the man from the train somehow referring to her when he said bigger than my family’s money?

Oliver stares past me for a moment, digesting his thoughts, then says, “Wait. Back up. What did he mean when he said it’s bigger—
what’s
bigger?”

“I don’t
know
, Oliver.
It
. The situation, the reason behind all this. In other words, it’s not about Benny, though obviously he’s caught up in it, and it’s not about the Hagen money, though that’s caught up in it too.”

I snug the robe and pull my cold feet up under me. “So what’s bigger than money?” I ask him.

“A mother’s love,” he answers in a way that manages to sound both jokey and dead serious.

“Besides that.”

“Family honor? Revenge?”

“I’m thinking of something my mother once said:
When somebody tells you it’s not about the money, it’s about the money
.”

We both ponder this a moment.

“There’s the money itself,” I say. “And there’s how it was made and who made it. That’s why his saying
your family’s money
seems so significant. And, really, you should’ve heard the disdain in his voice.”

“What about those old lawsuits?”

“Right,” I say. “But according to Isak, they all fell apart, and his office checked everyone out anyway. One of them’s even dead.”

Oliver frowns. He gets up and has a quick look out the window. “Are you going to tell the police—the guy’s right here in town.”

“It’s hard to see what good that’ll do. Think how Petit acted. He seemed to have absolutely no interest in putting two and two together. What the hell is going
on
in this town?”

I’m just about to stand and go next door to my own room, when Oliver kneels at his pack and pulls out a steno pad and pen. “Let’s get everything down while it’s still fresh in your mind,” he says. “Anything you can think of about this guy.”

“I think I’ve already told you everything,” I say. “His forearm was just about crushing my throat.”

“OK, there was the accent, the
your family’s money
thing, and the fact that the way he put things made it sound rehearsed or canned or something.”

“I was scared,” I say, “but at the same time part of me didn’t believe he was really a thug.”

Oliver writes. Then he says, “What did he have on? Start with his shoes.”

“I don’t know. I heard him running up behind me, just for a second or two, and I thought,
This isn’t somebody in running shoes
. It was a heavy sound, leather maybe, with a hard heel?”

“Pants?”

“Jeans. Kind of darkish.”

“Jacket?”

“It wasn’t the trench. A rain jacket, I guess. Black. Kind of shiny?”

“Could you see his shirt?”

“No.”

“Hair?”

“Still choppy, brown. I don’t know. Nothing stood out.”

“Eye color?”

“Still brown.”

“Did he have any smell?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Try harder.”

I close my eyes; replay the man’s voice. “Wait. He
coughed
a couple of times. I think he smelled like old cigarette smoke.”

“Good. That narrows it down to about 99.9 percent of all the men in town.”

“Remember, he was American, though.”

“Anything else?”

I close my eyes again, think of his fingers around my face, and I see the gold of his wedding band. “He’s married,” I say. “He had a wedding ring.” I bring my hands up, half-consciously mimicking him.

“Awesome,” Oliver says, writing.

Then I realize that the dullish glint I saw was to my left. “It was on his
right hand
,” I say in a burst.

“Really?”

“I’m sure.”

“So who does that?”

“Germans,
sometimes
. Eastern Europeans?”

He scribbles again.

“The woman on the train didn’t say anything about a wedding ring,” I say. “She knew what make his watch was, and noticed the stain under his nails, but not
that
. Is that strange, or not?”

Oliver glances up looking a little distracted, then says, “Ah, I wanted to tell you I did some research while you were gone.” He tips his head in the direction of his laptop.

“On what?”

“Not what, who.”

“The lovely Seraphina?”

“
No
,” he says, but the mention of her name changes his face, makes him cross and uncross his legs. “Emily Sandstrom.”

“Oh dear god. Can we just please drop her?”

“I did a simple search, and found a bunch of stuff. She’s involved with some charities and has some other business ventures. Outside of Hollywood.”

“You did all of this in twenty-five minutes?”

“Fifteen. Technology age, Mom. I know you have no desire to talk about her—”

“That would be putting the best possible spin on it.”

“I know, but I need to tell you anyway,” he says, and forges ahead before I can respond. “It’s common knowledge that Emily’s a backer of some restaurants—and apparently she turns a lot of the profits over to kids’ charities. They’re all, you know, mainstream—Children’s Defense Fund, Make-a-Wish. Like that. I guess what I’m saying is that she doesn’t seem crazy or anything, just the opposite, in fact.”

I’m not sure what to say. After a moment, I ask, lamely, “What kind of restaurants?”

“Mostly sushi.”

“I
hate
sushi,” I say. Actually, everyone in the family hates sushi. Even Benny.

Oliver nods uneasily.

“I thought you wanted us to get out of the pension.”

“I do,” he says. “But listen. I clicked on a link for the outfit that owns the restaurants, the R. Sebastian Group, and there was a list of upcoming projects? One of them is on
Bildungstrasse
in Zurich.”

This I am not expecting. I feel my whole head flush, feel a throb in my carotid. I stand and swing open the casement window, needing air.

“Mom?”

I hold up a hand.

“Are you all right?”

Rain blows sideways against the glass. I widen the V of the robe, wet a hand and swipe it down my cheek and neck, which doesn’t help. I can’t catch my breath, and the drowning sensation brings panic. Oliver gently turns me around, takes me away from the window.

“You’re hyperventilating,” he says. “C’mon. Straighten your back, long slow breath.”

I close my eyes and try to breathe like a Buddhist as Oliver strokes my upper arms. The moment passes.

When I’m seated again, hands folded in my lap, I say, “Oliver, Benny’s school is on Bildungstrasse.”

“This has gotten so bizarre,” he says. “What the hell does this
mean
?”

“It means
something
.”

“Isak knows Emily was texting Benicio,” he says. “They must’ve looked into who she is. And the thing in Zurich, if we figured it out, how could they not?”

“If they know, Moreau knows. Unless Isak cut him out of it. But he probably found out, anyway. Moreau has a…shrewdness, I guess.”

“So why didn’t he tell us?”

I shake my head.

“Jesus,” I say after a moment, “she’s right in our
goddamn
backyard—”

“I haven’t even told you the last thing,” Oliver says.

“How could there be
more
?”

“I said she’s involved with several other restaurants—a steak-house, some Mexican-Asian fusion thing?”

“OK.”

“The website has a picture of her at the most recent opening. In Paris. Last week.”

“Benicio was in Paris last week,” I say.

“I know, Mom. I know.”

Was Benicio the one who first came up with the idea of taking Benny to Aix? Hard as I try, I can’t seem to remember. But what I
do
remember is how supportive he was, so involved in the plans from the start. And then? At the last minute, Benicio had to go to Paris for research.

“I need to go to my room and make a call,” I say, reaching for Oliver’s cell.

Oliver nods and types something into his laptop.

I close the door behind me and dial. Benicio answers in a voice that clearly expects Oliver.

“What the fuck were you doing in Paris?” I say.

I don’t wait long enough for him to not respond, before I say, “Tell me exactly
what
research for
exactly which
film? Every single detail. And go slowly. I’m writing it all down.”

“What
is
it, Celia?”

“Was she there? And for god’s sake don’t say,
Who?
”

“Yes.”

I’m going to be sick right here on the floor. I sink to the chair and squeeze the armrest. “And don’t tell me,
It’s not what
you think, Celia
. If it’s not what I think, then tell me what the fuck it is.”

“First, you have to understand I don’t love Emily, I love you. You have nothing to worry about on that score.”

I hear what sounds like a long sigh.

He says, “I tried to keep this secret as long as I could, but now everything is so screwed up. All right, here’s the story: After we met with Emily about the part, someone asked her how the restaurant side of her life was going, so she explained what they had in the works, and she said one would be opening in Paris. I jumped in and told her about Benny, and the more we talked the more amazing she thought Benny sounded. Then someone said,
You should let him think up a dish for one of the restaurants
. She said,
What a neat idea
. I thought nothing would come of it—it was just people having a drink and talking. And then we discussed the role again, and how she might have a conflict, depending on the shooting schedule—for what it’s worth, I should tell you that Paul ended up giving the part to someone else. But as we were getting ready to leave that afternoon, Emily stopped me and said she’d just gotten the wildest brainstorm: Why not design a whole menu around Benny’s concoctions? She said,
He could be the Mozart of food!
Again, I didn’t think it was anything to take seriously, but she called me after I got home and we talked, and I talked with her partners, and we texted back and forth, as Moreau told you, and somehow it all went ahead. So yes, I did lie to you about Paris—it was actually a business meeting. They’d already lined up a space fairly close to Benny’s school, which would be handy for everyone. Anyway, it was going to be a huge birthday surprise for Benny—and for you too. I know how hard you’ve been working with him.”

I can see the face he’s making now—that boyish sorrowful look he gets that morphs on a dime into openness, into love. My eyes sting as they tear up against my will.

He goes on, “So I went to Paris early, and then you and Benny were supposed to arrive and you’d see the plans for this wonderful thing, a restaurant that would cook the recipes Benny invented.”

It’s all so absurd. Laughter spits from my throat, the kind verging on mania. “For god’s sake, Benicio.”