Naked Came The Phoenix (24 page)

Fascinated, she flicked through the folder's contents, misty-eyed at the memories it evoked. She was sure they'd been to that performance of
Love's Labour's Lost
together. Yes, she remembered now. They'd gone on a double date with those two seniors that they'd met at the Harvard-Yale football game. Claudia had spent the whole evening sulking because the more handsome of the two boys had clearly preferred Hilda. Hilda's present smile was pure malice at the recollection.

Right at the back of the folder was a thick wallet of photographs. Suddenly, Hilda's memory provided its own snapshot. Claudia, filled with delight over her parents' Christmas gift, one of the new Kodak Instamatic cameras, gathering her friends into groups and making them pose for pictures. "Smile, everybody!" had become the words most often on Claudia's lips that semester.

Intrigued to see what had survived of her own past, Hilda opened the flap and pulled out the faded color photos. The first half dozen were an assortment of girls from the dorm. Hilda herself appeared in three of them, her hair perfectly lacquered in a beehive, showing off her small, neat features to their maximum advantage. Her face relaxed as she drifted back in her mind to those cozy dorm chats, drinking hot chocolate and eating cookies late at night, girls perched on narrow beds and pillows on the floor, gossiping about their lives and loves. They'd still believed the world was theirs for the taking, convinced the golden days would run forever. God, she wished she'd known then what she knew now.

The next picture hit Hilda's nostalgic mood like a cold pool after a sauna. Claudia had framed her subjects perfectly. They were leaning against a car. Hilda was in profile, head thrown back, mouth open in laughter, her arms thrown around the slim hips of the boy who was pulling her close to him, his own narrow, triangular face grinning sheepishly at the camera. "Tad Blake," Hilda hissed, her lips pulled back tightly over her teeth.

She had forced Tad Blake from her memory with the systematic efficiency she'd brought to every area of her adult life. The foolish conviction that she'd been in love, the fumbling passion that had left her life in ruins, Tad's refusal to accept that her nightmare was anything to do with him, his protestations that she couldn't expect him to believe he was the only one she'd given herself to-it had all been consigned to a section of her memory marked "Do Not Enter." The temptation to rip the photograph to shreds was almost overwhelming. But she controlled herself. She didn't want torn photographs in the office trash to tell their tale to any passing police officer. She grabbed the photograph and stuffed it in her pocket. She'd dispose of it later, somewhere its remains wouldn't be found.

Her action revealed the next photograph in the bundle. It was Tad again, but this time he was the one seen from the side. An involuntary gasp escaped Hilda's mouth. Her mind rebelled. It couldn't be. Could it?

Intently, she studied the picture. Tad's flaming red hair had faded to a dull auburn as the film chemicals had degraded, but her memory supplied the missing tones. Okay, the hair was the same. But that was no proof of anything, not in these days of flawless hair tinting. But that profile was undeniable. The pointed chin, the high forehead. They were identical. Hilda pulled the other picture from her pocket. Substitute her neat little nose for Tad's, and you'd be looking at the unmistakable profile of Lauren Sullivan.

Hilda stared at the photograph, a confusion of thoughts and images tumbling through her head. It looked as if Claudia had left her a legacy that could yet prove even more advantageous than the spa. Lauren Sullivan. What a coup.

The encounter with the psychic had unsettled Caroline. Phyllis Talmadge was right. Playing air cello in the woods was no substitute for the real thing. She decided to head back to the cottage.

She was going to have to face Hilda sometime; if her mother was there, at least she'd get it over and done with. Then she could open the windows and sit looking out over the lake playing one of the Bach cello suites. Number three, she thought. That would lift her out of this despair and rage and remind her that there was a place inside her where beauty could still live.

Caroline hurried through the woods, paying scant attention to her surroundings, already hearing those first haunting notes in her mind's ear. By the time she emerged on the path, she was almost trotting. She pushed open the door of the cottage, humming the theme of the first movement under her breath, and stopped short. To her astonishment, she found Raoul, not Hilda, sitting in the morris chair, looking as relaxed as if he were in his own sitting room.

"What are you doing here?" Caroline demanded.

He raised his perfectly shaped eyebrows. "Hoping for a word with you, my dear Caroline." She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a hand to silence her. "I wanted to discuss the return of something that belongs to you."

She glared at him, suddenly putting two and two together. "It was you who left those photographs lying on the table for Detective Toscana to find, wasn't it? And then you came back for them later, didn't you?"

Raoul smiled. "Clever Caroline."

"But why?"

"I thought it might muddy the waters with the cops. You see, Claudia had a very profitable little sideline going. Some friends of hers needed a little political clout on their side, and your charming husband was in a position to meet their needs. Of course, he took a little persuading."

"Claudia was blackmailing Doug?" Caroline crossed to the sofa and sank into it. She knew her husband was a double-dealing, two-timing bastard when it came to love, but she didn't think his politics were as corrupt as his sex drive.

"Such a coarse word, blackmail. I prefer to think of it as oiling the wheels of commerce. And with your mother taking over my living, I figure I'm going to need all the commercial support I can find. I didn't want the cops stumbling over the real dirt that Claudia had on Doug, so I decided to serve them up a delicious little red herring."

Caroline frowned. "I don't understand. You mean she wasn't blackmailing him over his infidelities?"

Raoul laughed. "You're so naive. You really think in this day and age that your husband's constituents would vote him out of office because he can't keep his fly zipped? Oh, it might lose him a few votes here and there with the fundamentalists, but it would pull in a lot more from all the guys who would love to be doing exactly what he's doing. But thankfully, our local detectives are just as credulous as you are. They won't doubt for a moment that keeping those photographs away from you would be enough of a reason for darling Doug to do what Claudia asked."

"You're saying there's more?"

Raoul crossed his legs. He looked as pleased as a cat that had just incapacitated a mouse. "Here's the way I see it. While it won't harm Doug's career in the long run if the world finds out what a sleaze he really is, it would be better all around if things just continued as they are. I don't think there's any need for you to get a divorce, Caroline. Don't rock the boat. Keep things on an even keel. Make it easy for Doug to earn the money he's going to need to keep me satisfied."

Caroline shook her head in disbelief. "You're crazy. I wouldn't stay married to Doug to save my life."

"Oh, I think you would. And that's just what you're going to have to do. Because what I know about Doug won't just destroy him. It'll destroy you, too. You'll be a social outcast. There's not an orchestra in the land that would give you a job. No, let me rephrase that. There's not an orchestra in the whole world that would have you. You'll be a leper for the rest of your life."

He was enjoying himself, she could see that. And she hated him for it. But there was something concrete underpinning his flesh-crawling confidence. "I don't believe you," she said defiantly. "Whatever Doug has done, it's his responsibility. It can't reflect on me."

"Oh, but it does, Caroline. Because you were a willing partner in this… enterprise."

"You're not making any sense at all."

Raoul uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, elbows on knees. "I assume you know about your mother's little indiscretion?"

Caroline's head came up, her eyes widening in astonishment. Claudia must have confided in her husband, she thought wildly. But what did this have to do with her and Doug? "You're still not making sense," she said, less certain of herself now.

"The child your mother gave up for adoption all those years ago went to a Mr. and Mrs. Blessing," Raoul said, grinning like a Halloween pumpkin.

Panic started to clench in Caroline's chest. She could feel her heart thudding, the cold sweat of fear breaking out on her neck. "No," she gasped, her pupils dilating as the adrenaline pumped into her system and her breath began to quicken.

"Oh, yes," Raoul said. "In keeping with that fine Southern tradition, you've been sleeping with your brother."

"You're lying. Where's your proof?"

Raoul got to his feet and crossed to her. Caroline shrank back against the soft cushions. He reached out and grabbed her left hand. "There's your proof. That angled little finger. You and Doug share the same genetic defect."

Caroline gazed at him in a long moment of stunned silence. Then her face crumpled and her shoulders started shaking. But she wasn't crying. It was laughter that shook her slender frame. "That… that's your proof?" she managed to squeeze out.

Raoul frowned. This wasn't how it was supposed to play. "You think incest is some kind of joke?"

Caroline struggled to take command of herself. With a final gulping hiccup, she managed to control her hysterical laughter. "My finger… It's not a genetic defect. I broke it badly when I was six years old. It happened at our cabin up in the mountains. By the time we got to a hospital, it was too late for them to straighten it out without surgery. So they just let it heal crooked." The stunned look on Raoul's face almost made her lose control again. "That's one of the reasons I took up the cello. My physical therapist said it would help to strengthen my hand."

Raoul took a step back, his scowling face a mask of suspicion. "You're making this up. Claudia had paperwork."

Caroline shook her head. She'd sobered up now and anger was beginning to assert itself. "Paperwork can be forged. Doug isn't my brother. Believe me, I'd know. And I'm warning you now. If a single word of your lies ever leaks out, I'll hit you with my hospital records and as many X rays of my hand as you care to see. Not to mention the DNA tests that would prove absolutely that you're a liar. It won't be me facing ruin, Raoul. It'll be you."

He was pale now, all his self-assurance gone. He was pathetic,

Caroline thought. No wonder Claudia had made sure he'd had no financial stake in her business. She stood up, contempt in her eyes. "Now get out of here before I call Detective Toscana."

Raoul turned on his heel and fled, leaving Caroline with the first unmixed moment of triumph she'd felt since she'd raided the fridge what seemed like a lifetime ago. What a piece of work Raoul was. But at least she knew one thing for certain. He'd never have the guts for murder.

The technicians had finally completed their work on the crime scene that had been a state-of-the-art nail studio and had moved on to Karen McElroy's last resting place in the foot spa. They'd lifted the heavy shelving away from Ondine, and now Vince was left alone with the medical examiner. Dr. Richmond pulled a face as the tacky nail polish attached itself to her overalls everywhere she touched it. "God, Vince, this is terrible," she complained as her latex-gloved hands began their initial probing of Ondine's body.

"Isn't it always, Sarah?"

"Bodies, I don't mind. But I've always thought cosmetics were more trouble than they were worth." There was a horrible slurping sound as Dr. Richmond turned the body over. Vince tried not to think about it.

Sarah Richmond's expert fingers moved over Ondine's shattered body. "The skull's pretty well crushed. Blunt-force trauma everywhere." She glanced up. "Those shelves must be damn heavy." She ran her hands expertly down the supermodel's torso. "Broken ribs, sternum feels like it might have gone, too." She was talking to herself, requiring no response from Vince.

"Sounds like she'd have taken less damage if she'd been hit by a truck." Vince knew what he was talking about. He'd seen the crushed results of vehicular homicide more times than he cared to remember. "Has she taken a beating, or was it the shelves falling that killed her?"

"Hard to tell at this stage," Sarah said absently. "I'll be able to say for sure once I've done the autopsy and matched up her injuries with the shelf unit." Then she frowned. "Hang on a minute. This isn't right." She leaned forward, delicately peeling back the waistband of Ondine's jogging pants. "There's something here, Vince. Can you get a photographer back here?"

He called for the cameraman and stooped over the body to try to make out what Sarah had seen.

"Look," she said. "There's something taped to her body, just alongside the hipbone." She leaned back to allow room for the photographer. Then she picked at one corner of the adhesive tape, pulling it free to reveal a small key. Vince reached into his pocket for a plastic evidence envelope and held it open for Sarah to drop the key in.

He held the envelope close to his face. "It may be small, but it's a serious-looking key," he said. "I'd guess a safety-deposit box or a safe. But I haven't seen anything around here that this would fit."

Sarah shrugged. "There's no reason why it belongs here. Maybe it's the key for a safe back home?"

"So why carry it taped to her skin? Why not keep it in her purse?"

Before they could speculate further, Mike rushed in, looking as pleased as a puppy dog who has finally mastered continence. In his hand, he clutched a videotape. "Vince, I think I've got something for you."

Vince brightened visibly. Anything that might move this bogged-down case forward had to be worth listening to. "Shoot, Mikey," he said.