Keepsake (7 page)

“What authorities?” Isobelle asked.

“Well, a representative of the local bureau of the FBI, I believe.”

There was a stir in the room. Isobelle laughed, Christian frowned, and Armand gave a classic Gallic shrug. Only Blackthorn,
April noted, did not seem surprised.

“Is that really necessary?” Armand asked. “Surely, considering all we’ve been through during the past few days, they will
grant us some privacy?”

“I know this is a difficult occasion for all of you,” the lawyer said. “Believe me, it is difficult for us as well. Madame
de Sevigny was not only a valued client, but a personal friend.”

She had had a lot of personal friends, thought April, if the impressive turnout at the funeral was a reliable indication.
But so far no one had stepped forward admitting to be her deadly enemy.

“But her death is a police matter,” the attorney continued, “and I’m afraid the authorities do indeed have the right to the
information contained in the will…”

He was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door. A tall, lanky, middle-aged man entered the room. He held up a wallet and a
shield. “Agent Martin Clemente, FBI. I hope you’ll all excuse the intrusion, but our Manhattan division has taken charge of
this investigation.”

“Well,” said Stanley, “let me say that this is most unusual, at what would normally be a private reading of the decedent’s
will, but I do understand that when a death is a police matter—”

“Just so,” Agent Clemente said.

“I’m sure the FBI have every right to be here,” Christian de Sevigny said. “Why don’t we get on with it?”

Stanley nodded and began.

The will was the usual instrument, filled with legalistic phrases and long passages that were of no particular interest. He
finally began reading the bequests, which apparently began with the small ones, to friends and distant relations, which seemed
to April an unreasonable method of heightening everyone’s suspense. Charles Ripley received a legacy of $20,000 which was
earmarked for him to “return to college, should he desire to do so.” Blackthorn also received a bequest (so that’s why he
was here) of a landscape painting, “in memory of his wife and life partner, Jessica.”

He’d had a wife who had died? April watched his face and noted that his face appeared drawn and weary. She felt a brief rush
of sympathy.

“As you know,” Stanley said, looking up from the document, “many of Madame de Sevigny’s financial interests were jointly held
with her husband. This includes real estate and securities. However, she maintained separate ownership of her business, Power
Perspectives, Inc., and, as the sole proprietor, she was entitled to determine the deposition of that property.”

He paused. There was a collective shifting in the room as everybody waited. April glanced again at Isobelle. She was leaning
forward eagerly. April had heard that during the last couple of years Isobelle had been a creative partner with Rina in building
Power Perspectives into a successful business. Would she be as charismatic a leader as Rina had proved to be?

“Mme. de Sevigny made an alteration in her will just a few weeks ago,” said Stanley. “There is no evidence that she was under
any stress or coercion at the time. I personally handled the matter myself.”

He sounded slightly defensive, April thought.

“I will read you the relevant portion of the will, which says, in essence, that Madame de Sevigny has left Power Perspectives—both
its controlling interests and all its assets—which are considerable, to her daughter, April Harrington.”

What?

April heard a gasp from somewhere on the “family” side of the room. She tried to control her own response, although she was
sure everyone must have heard’ the sound of her convulsive swallow.

“The will further provides that if said April Harrington is unable to be located, if she refuses the legacy, or if she dies
without issue, Isobelle de Sevigny will inherit in her stead.”

Isobelle stood, her dark eyes flashing. “So suddenly I
am second in line to the throne?” she spat out. “This is impossible. Who is this woman? She turns up out of nowhere and lays
claim to my stepmother’s estate? It’s unbelievable. I object to this. There’s something very suspicious going on.”

Armand touched his daughter’s arm. “Isobelle. Please. This is not the place for an outburst. Sit down.”

“No, Papa, I won’t sit down. Rina has been murdered in front of our eyes and now this woman… this woman who may have been
her murderer… she is the one to inherit control of Power Perspectives? I’ve been working very closely with Rina. I had understood
that I was her heir. What is this nonsense about an alteration in her will?”

“Isobelle.” Armand’s voice was low but the air of command in it was powerful. He gave a quick glance at Agent Clemente, who
was watching the proceedings impassively. “That will do.”

April sat still with her hands clasped in her lap. This is crazy, she was thinking. It made no sense at all. She couldn’t
really blame Isobelle for protesting. If she’d been in her shoes, she’d have squawked about it, too.

She rose unsteadily. I’ve got to get out of here, she thought. To the group at large she murmured, “You’ll have to excuse
me for a few minutes, please.”

April found the nearest ladies room and locked herself into a stall. She felt queasy, excited, and scared—all at the same
time. All she could see was the expression on her mother’s face during the last few moments of her life, when she’d suddenly
realized that she was looking once again at the face of her only child. “You ruined my life!” she had cried out to her mother,
and Rina had reached out toward her. “April, wait,” had been her last words. Whatever she’d meant to say after that, whatever
explanation
she might have tried to give had been blasted into silence by the murderer’s bullet.

Now her mother, who had left her standing on a cold pier mourning the departing hulk of an ocean liner, had acknowledged her
at last.

In her mind’s eye she saw Blackthorn’s cold, unfriendly gaze. Great, she thought. Now he must be convinced she was guilty.

“I’m going to challenge the will.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Armand de Sevigny said to his daughter.

“Don’t interfere with me, Papa,” Isobelle cried.

The scene in the conference room after the will reading had devolved into exactly the sort of chaos, thought Rob Blackthorn,
that murder investigators love. The family was upset, and the terms of the will had been a surprise. He couldn’t have picked
a better time to observe them all.

He exchanged a quick glance with Marty Clemente, whom he knew well from his former days with the FBI. Marty raised his eyebrows
slightly in acknowledgment. Blackthorn was glad Marty was on this case, and not some young, overly idealistic, wet-behind-the-ears
type. He might even be able to trade some information with Marty.

“Isobelle, I strongly suggest you control your emotions before you say something you regret,” Armand said.

His tone was scathing, and Blackthorn noted that Armand seemed to have lost much of his usual geniality. He had aged in the
few days since his wife’s death. His eyes were duller, his step heavier. Blackthorn had wondered if their marriage was a happy
one, but there was no denying that Armand was grieving.

Was the new will a revelation to him or had he known his wife’s wishes in advance?

Clearly it had been a revelation to Isobelle. Her face was crimson and her eyes were blazing. This was very much in character,
for she was the sort of woman who never missed an opportunity to be dramatic. With her raven hair and her striking figure,
she usually had everyone’s attention, anyway, but everyone’s attention was never enough. Blackthorn knew that the one person
whose love and respect she had always yearned for was her father’s, and that, for some reason, she’d never been able to secure.

Christian, as usual, was inscrutable.

How different the siblings were, Blackthorn thought. Both in looks and in temperament. Isobelle was passionate, nakedly so.
Christian, on the other hand, was cold.

He didn’t like Christian much. He didn’t like the way he masked his feelings with that cold chiseled expression; he didn’t
like what he suspected was going on behind those Arctic blue eyes.

Isobelle, though… She was an interesting woman. Full of energy, always on edge. Isobelle, he knew, had a great hunger for
life and all its adventures. Most of all, she needed to prove to her father and her brother that they had sadly underestimated
her talents.

Gaining control of Power Perspectives would have been a way for her to do it. No wonder she was upset.

The conference room slowly emptied of everybody except
the family, Ripley, Clemente, and Blackthorn. Now that the initial outburst was over, nobody was saying much. Blackthorn knew
that this was because his presence and that of Marty Clemente placed inhibitions on the family that they otherwise wouldn’t
have felt.

Well, to hell with their inhibitions.

“So what are you all going to do about her?” he asked.

Several pairs of eyes shifted in his direction.

“April Harrington. I take it from the reactions that the terms of Rina’s will were something of a surprise?” He paused. “Or
had she shared her intentions with any of you?” He looked at Armand.

“Is this some sort of official inquiry?” Christian bestirred himself to ask. “Didn’t you used to be associated with the FBI?”

Marty said, “Mr. Blackthorn is no longer associated with the FBI. I am in charge of this investigation.” He removed a small
tape recorder from his jacket pocket and laid it in the middle of the conference table. “I will be speaking with each of you
individually, but yes, this is an official inquiry, beginning now.” He switched it on, identified himself, the date and time,
and the others in the room.

“Don’t you have to read us our rights, or something?” Christian said sarcastically.

“Not at this time, no. None of you is being charged with a crime.”

“Well, I’m not afraid to speak on the record,” Isobelle said. “I have nothing to hide. And I’m convinced that the will that
was just read is fraudulent. Somehow or other the Harrington woman got to Rina, pressured her, maybe even blackmailed her.
She convinced her to change the will, and then she had her killed. She ought to be in prison, not inheriting Power Perspectives.”

“Sounds rather far-fetched to me,” Christian said.

Isobelle ignored him. “I’m going to have our attorneys get to work immediately on challenging the will.”

“No,” Armand said. “That would be most inappropriate.”

“Papa, please—”

“It is clear enough that everyone is upset by the developments this morning,” Armand said. “And I suspect that the more we
brood about it, the more upset we will be. Therefore, now, without delay, I will tell you that I have made up my mind about
this situation.” He paused. “Your stepmother’s will must be allowed to stand unchallenged.”

“Excuse me, Papa, but there’s no way I can agree,” Isobelle said.

“I haven’t asked for your opinion,” Armand said.

“No, you never do.”

Blackthorn could hear the resentment in her voice. For years, he knew, Isobelle had hoped to be her father’s successor. But
congenial though he was, Armand was an old-fashioned sexist. He had insisted upon grooming his languid son to succeed him,
even though, as far as anybody could tell, Christian could have cared less.

“Kindly do me the courtesy of hearing me out,” Armand said. He was either ignoring the tape recorder, Blackthorn thought,
or posturing for it. He wasn’t certain which.

“The truth is, an injustice has been done. For this I blame myself. I knew that Rina had a daughter. I even met her, many
years ago. As I recall, she was a difficult child. Uncouth and wild—quite unlike the woman we have seen today. If I had ever
dreamed that she would turn out so well—so dignified. But it did not occur to me.

“I’m afraid I encouraged Rina to send the child to boarding school in the States rather than bringing her to Paris. As you
know, Rina was at the time quite a different
class of woman than I was accustomed to associating with. Although she was never ashamed of her beginnings, I confess that
I was.”

Armand shook his head sadly. “I take no pride in admitting that I felt a need to mold her into the woman I wanted her to be.
The prospect of molding the child as well seemed an impossible task. Rina had never disciplined her. She was out of control.
My concern was for you. I thought April would be a bad influence…” His voice trailed off.

Blackthorn was intrigued by the description of April Harrington as uncouth and wild. But how she could have been a bad influence
on Christian and Isobelle was more than he could imagine.

“I now believe that out of snobbery and fear I made the wrong decision,” Armand went on. “I am ashamed of myself for this.
I separated a mother from her child. It was inexcusable.”

Too bad April Harrington had left the room. Blackthorn wondered what she would think of this admission.

“The child grew up, naturally, to resent us. As for her mother—” he shrugged “—it is clear from the dispositions made in her
will that she wished to rectify the wrong done to the only child born of her body. Power Perspectives was Rina’s inspiration,
her own personal adventure. She, not I, created it and built it into what it is today. I wish everyone to know that I support
my wife’s right to decide what to do with the company. And I believe that she has made a just choice.

“Therefore, it is my decision that her will will not be contested. I trust that is clear to all of you?”

“I haven’t the slightest interest in contesting Rina’s will,” Christian said. “The entire subject is a matter of supreme indifference
to me.”

Armand turned to Isobelle. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her dark eyes were burning. “A just choice?” she repeated.
“Even if there is some justice in trying to make up for past wrongs, there were other ways she could have done it. Certainly
her choice was not a wise or a sensible one. This is business, Father. How can you sit there and assert that some woman we
don’t even know—some—some shopkeeper—is the right person to run a multi-million-dollar company? For all we know, she’ll destroy
it! Or is that what you secretly hope?”