Keepsake (14 page)

“Leaving the top position open to you.”

“I was to be Rina’s successor.”

“Perhaps that is what you believed. But the instructions in her will are very clear.”

“I don’t think the company should suffer just because she was guilty of some sort of sentimental nostalgia as she was nearing
the end of her life.”

“She had no way of knowing that the end of her life was upon her,” April said quietly. “She was murdered.”

Tension filled the air between them. “I’m not likely to forget that,” Isobelle said.

“Nor am I. You asked what I was afraid of. Well, there’s another thing. My mother held this job and she was assassinated.
Now I am sitting where she sat. I’d be a fool if it didn’t occur to me that whatever got her killed could put me in danger,
too.”

“Unless you killed her.”

“But I happen to know that I didn’t. Therefore I know that the killer is still out there. And that he—or she— might strike
again.”

“If you’re so afraid of that, why are you here?” Isobelle said. “Why not run back to your safe little bookstore in Boston
and hide?”

“I prefer to face my fears. As for mysteries—they exist only to be solved.” She paused. “My mother and I had been estranged
for years. But she was my mother. Somebody killed her, and I intend to find out who. I also intend to do the job she gave
me. If either of those two goals disturbs you, that is your problem, not mine. I am willing to work with you, but if you really
plan to fight me all the way, you’ll have to be prepared for the fact that I will not hesitate to fight back.”

Isobelle nodded coolly, but April thought she caught a glimpse of surprise in her expression. “I’m glad we understand each
other so well,” she said. Then she turned and marched out of the room.

“She’s a bitch,” Isobelle said to Charlie. “The trouble is, she’s a smart bitch. So it’s not going to be as easy as I’d hoped
to manipulate her.”

Charlie shook his head. They were together at her place on the evening of April Harrington’s first day at work, but Isobelle
had shown no interest in sex or D&S or possible excursions to the Chateau. She was pacing the huge living room of her loft
apartment, fretting about what was going to happen to Power Perspectives.

“I can’t believe she took the job. I thought she was a devoted little bookseller from Boston who wouldn’t have the guts to
venture into a business she didn’t even begin to understand. I underestimated her, dammit.”

“Isobelle, calm down. You’re probably overestimating her now. My impression is that she’s taking this on as something of a
challenge. She’s not truly interested in Power Perspectives, and she doesn’t appear to believe in your mother’s basic precepts.”

“So what? Neither do I. The point is that millions of people do believe in this self-help crap. As long as she understands
that, she can capitalize on it.”

Charlie was sure that in her heart Isobelle did believe in it. Otherwise she wouldn’t be so passionate about making Rina’s
precepts work. Isobelle was flinty on the outside, yes, but he knew better than most people how vulnerable she was.

“Seize your power,” was the key to getting what you wanted out of life. Isobelle knew it, and so did he. Power Perspectives
was successful because Rina de Sevigny’s carefully programmed system of setting goals, enforcing mental discipline, changing
deep-seated negative beliefs into positive ones, and rewarding oneself lavishly for passing each milestone was a solid, psychologically
sound method of effecting real life-transformation.

You truly could take your destiny in your own hands. And you could affect other people’s destinies as well.

Charlie remembered how desperate his own life had
been until he’d met Rina and heard about Power Perspectives. Scion of a once-wealthy family that had lost all the power and
influence of a former generation through drinking, gambling, and foolish investments, Charlie had grown up suffering from
depressions so severe that he had, on several occasions, planned meticulous suicide rituals. The last one, three years ago,
had been simple—involving a bottle of Chivas and the George Washington Bridge.

Rina had been driving into the city on the night when he’d nearly heaved himself into the abyss. She had been one of several
motorists who’d pulled her car over and tried to stop him. The others had made no impression on him. But Rina had.

She’d come right up to him (no one else had done that—they’d hung back as if afraid that the desire to fling oneself off a
bridge was a communicable disease). “You’ve truly come to the end of a road,” she’d said to him. “Every negative thought you’ve
ever had, every shameful act you’ve ever committed, every wrongheaded belief you’ve ever espoused have all conspired to bring
you to this bridge.

“You can jump or you can take my hand. Either way, your old life is over.”

She was blonde, petite, and mesmerizing. She had a strength emanating from her that he could feel right through the haze induced
by seven ounces of whiskey. When she reached out her hand to him, it was as if he’d had no choice. He’d taken it and become
her disciple. And he’d gotten to know this woman who had saved him, her virtues and her flaws.

Now she was gone.

But her insights—and the program she had created to
advance them—would live on. As with any philosophy, the message was far more important than the messenger.

As for April Harrington, her arrival on the scene was an unexpected complication. But Power Perspectives taught several methods
for dealing with unexpected complications, and Charlie Ripley knew them all.

He went to Isobelle and took her in his arms. No erotic submissiveness tonight; tonight he was her protector. Another thing
for which he could thank Power Perspectives—by seizing his own power, he had won the woman of his dreams.

“Don’t worry, my love,” he whispered. “April Harrington won’t last long, I promise you. She feels no commitment and she has
no goals. She’ll be gone in a blink, and Power Perspectives will be ours.”

He felt her stiffen in his arms. “Ours?”

Damn!
“Yours,” he said smoothly. “With myself as your loyal and humble servant, dear Mistress.”

“Okay, so let’s run through the likely probables,” Blackthorn said. “Who killed Rina de Sevigny? And why?”

He, Carla, and his third employee, Jonas Gold, were meeting in a Mexican restaurant on the Lower East Side, munching taco
chips dipped in hot salsa as they waited for their dinners to arrive.

“I vote for the husband,” Carla said. “I figured I wouldn’t like the guy. But I do like him. That makes me suspicious. I got
lousy taste in men. All the ones I like turn out to be sleazeballs, sooner or later.”

Blackthorn grinned. “Armand is certainly wealthy enough to have hired a killer—although that can be said for everybody in
the de Sevigny family. We can probably make a case that he had some sort of motive. Not financial, though—he’s a lot richer
than his wife was.”

“Sexual?” Jonas suggested. “Was the deceased fooling around with anybody?”

Blackthorn shrugged. “It’s possible. So far nobody’s come forward to suggest it.”

Jonas was jotting down notes on a portable computer. He was young—only twenty-six—long-haired, sloppily dressed, 6 foot, 5
inches tall, and skinny but strong. He loved alternative rock music and computers, and he was one of the best karate and Tae
Kwon Do experts Blackthorn had ever met. He lived for kung fu movies and information hacking, and as far as Blackthorn knew,
he had no social life. But he was extremely bright.

“From the picture on the back of her books and tapes, Mrs. de Sevigny appears to have been an attractive woman,” said Jonas.
“Looks younger than her age. Certainly looks younger than her husband. There may be a lover tucked away somewhere.”

“I’ll work on that angle,” Carla offered.

“I talked to Marty Clemente this morning,” Blackthorn said. “He’s going to cooperate with me, for old times’ sake.” He spoke
dryly. Marty hadn’t been too forthcoming until Blackthorn had called in a few debts from a long time ago.

“Okay, what the hell, I’ll share,” Marty had said after some heavy horse-trading. “You want to know why?”

“I can see you want to tell me,” Blackthorn had said.

“Because I’m kindhearted, that’s why. This is the first time you’ve shown a real flicker of professional interest in anything
since Jessie died. I thought you were a burn-out case, Blackthorn. And that would have been a shame, because you used to be
one of the best.”

Blackthorn had grinned. “Well, thanks, Marty. I appreciate that, you kindhearted son of a bitch.”

“One of the things Clemente told me was that the FBI got a call from some literary agent who claims to have met April Harrington
at the convention just before her
mother was murdered,” he said. “Claimed she’d had a chat with Harrington in the ladies room and that Harrington said that
her mother had once had an affair with JFK.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that story,” Carla said. “Is it true?”

“Yup,” said Blackthorn. “Rina was one of JFK’s conquests. Or maybe it was the other way around. Are you ready for the latest
JFK assassination theory?” He removed a small tape machine from his pocket and placed it on the table. Over the sounds of
a mariachi band playing in the bar, they all listened to Christian’s call to the FBI. Clemente had given Blackthorn a copy
of the tape.

I’ve never been a conspiracy buff, personally, but what if there was some kind of plot? And what if Rina knew something about
it?

I know it’s far-fetched. You’re probably better off investigating Rina’s clients, not to mention the strange and unpleasant
people who my sister hangs out with. But I’m sure you don’t want to leave any stone unturned.

“I love it,” said Carla. “Gee, I’ll bet Rina was in Dallas on the day of the assassination. I’ll bet she knows who was shooting
from the grassy knoll. Now since it can’t have been the sainted FBI—” she grinned at Blackthorn “—I’ll bet it was the CIA
and now they’ve killed her for it. Rina de Sevigny was the Last Living Witness to the Kennedy assassination. Wow, maybe the
shooter who got her in Anaheim is the same guy who fired the second gun in counterpoint to Oswald’s.”

“Thank you, Carla.” Blackthorn grinned at her. “Very helpful.”

“I suppose we’ll have to check it out,” Jonas said.

Carla raised her eyebrows. “You’re kidding.”

Jonas sipped from the neck of a bottle of Lone Star beer. “No stone left unturned.”

“You computer nerds love that conspiracy shit, don’t
you?” said Carla. “Fact is, people kill each other for the simplest damn reasons. Couple of years ago when I was still on
the force we had a guy who killed another guy on a commuter train cause he didn’t like the newspaper the victim was reading.
Wasn’t that he objected to their bias or the way they covered the news, either. He didn’t like the sports columnist. Thought
he was trashing the Mets. Thought anybody reading a column by a man who trashes the Mets oughta die. Shot him in the throat
and the guy bled to death all over the sports section. ‘What’s black and white and red all over?’ was the joke of the day.”

Blackthorn and Jonas both chuckled.

“Anyhow,” Carla went on, “seems to me the real purpose of Christian’s message is to get the Feebs off his own back and send
‘em chasing after his sister instead. They don’t like each other much, do they?”

“Nobody in that family seems to like each other much,” Jonas said.

Their orders arrived. Blackthorn had the combination plate—two chicken enchiladas and a beef taco. Carla had chicken fajitas,
which came sizzling, and Jonas got ready to dig into a mammoth chimichanga special.

“So does Isobelle really hang out with ‘strange and unpleasant people,’ whatever that means?” Carla said as she piled a tortilla
with chicken, peppers, tomatoes, and onions. “Somebody needs to check that out.”

Jonas pointed the neck of his beer bottle at Carla. “She’s tough, isn’t she?” he said to Blackthorn.

“Relentless.”

“I needn’t remind you that Isobelle’s got the best motive,” Carla said. “She’s the one who lost out when Rina de Sevigny changed
her will.”

“We do have a report of frequent arguments between Isobelle de Sevigny and Rina de Sevigny,” Blackthorn
said. “Apparently they were having ‘creative differences’ at work during the last few weeks before the murder.”

“She certainly wasn’t too happy at the reading of the will,” Blackthorn said.

“Just imagine how pissed you’d be if you killed some guy to get his job and found out the guy’s outwitted you and handed the
job to somebody else,” said Carla. “Hell, it wouldn’t seem fair, would it?” She took a huge bite of her fajita and heaved
a sigh of pleasure.

“We’ll definitely have to focus some of our energy on Isobelle,” said Blackthorn. “I’m sure Marty will be doing the same thing.”

“Me, I’m sticking with Christian,” Jonas said. “He’s too eager in his attempts to divert suspicion. Any theories on a possible
motive?”

“He’s always struck me as a coldhearted bastard,” Blackthorn said. “I got the feeling there was some sort of tension between
him and Rina. But it’s possible that neither of Armand’s children ever accepted her as their mother.”

“What happened to their real mother?” Jonas asked.

“She died about a year before Armand de Sevigny married Rina,” Blackthorn said.

“Lotta deaths in this family,” Carla noted. “Christian’s wife is also dead. Car accident. Now he’s the single father of a
twelve-year-old kid.”

“Not a very good father, either, from all accounts,” said Jonas. “Kate, the daughter, has been reported missing twice in the
last ten months. One of the reports made it all the way to the FBI. Turned out that on both occasions she ran away from home
due to conflict with her father.”

Carla sat up straighter “Did she accuse him of child abuse?”

“No. She accused him of being an asshole.” Jonas
shrugged. “Hey, I’m serious. That’s what she told the precinct cops. They investigated and put it down to ‘my daddy doesn’t
understand me’ teenager crap. Social Services evaluated and didn’t find a problem.”