The Chase: A Novel (6 page)

Claire stared at the fax. What was going on? Who was Suttill? Who was Elgin? Then she looked at the date—it had been sent just two days ago. What the hell was this about? Why had David hired the Thompson Cantwell Investigative Agency, a firm based in London?

Bewildered, she put the fax and photo back on David’s desk. Maybe she was so dazed that her mind was failing her; perhaps there was an obvious explanation for David’s sudden interest in two army officers from World War II. Claire realized she was too tired to dwell on the subject. But of course, she must mention to Murphy what she had found.

Claire took both items in hand and went to find the detective.

David’s lawyer came to her the following day.

Claire sat stiffly and unfeelingly in the wide-open living area of her father’s vast Tiburon home, which overlooked the bay from the top of a hill in a very exclusive neighborhood of multimillion-dollar redwood homes. Jack Thorne, a tall, lanky, bald lawyer, sat on a chair beside the glass coffee table, where the housekeeper had placed two cups of coffee, a sugar bowl, and creamer. Neither one of them drank the coffee. He opened his briefcase and removed documents. He had come to read the will.

Jack Thorne coughed. “Claire?”

Claire wore a straight skirt and short-sleeved turtleneck with stockings and mid-heeled pumps; everything black. She was devoid of makeup, her hair pulled severely back in a twist. Claire knew she looked like a grieving widow, and it gave her a sense of satisfaction.

She felt like burning everything colorful in her closet. Soon she probably would. She also felt like throwing out all of her makeup—every single lipstick, blusher, and eye shadow.

She felt like rampaging through their home, turning over chairs and knocking over the furniture.

But nothing would bring David back or absolve her of the guilt for her role in his death. Nothing would take away the ball of fear she was trying to keep buried deep inside.

“Claire? I’d like to read the will.”

Claire looked at him—he was actually a family friend. She kept her hands clasped in her lap. “Is it really necessary? I assume I’ve inherited any assets David held singly.”

Thorne nodded. “There weren’t many, the estate is held jointly. There’s the car, the sailboat, a few minor stocks, and it’s all yours.” He smiled a little at her.

Claire shrugged. She did not give a damn about David’s Mercedes, Sunfish, or some small stock portfolio. “You didn’t have to come all the way out here just to tell me that.”

“Of course I did, Claire. He also specifies that he wishes to be cremated, his ashes scattered over the bay.”

Claire nodded. “I know. He mentioned it once or twice.” She inhaled to fight sudden tears. “I just always thought I’d be scattering his ashes in fifty years or something.” Her voice broke.

“I know. This is terrible. Are there any leads?”

Claire shrugged and quickly recovered her composure. “I haven’t heard from the police since I left the house yesterday morning.”

Thorne nodded.

She looked more closely at him. Something was wrong. There was something in his eyes that she did not like. “Jack? What’s wrong? Is there something you have to tell me—that you don’t want to tell me?”

“Yes, there is, Claire. But maybe we should wait a week or so to go over some details that eventually you will have to deal with.”

Claire was as rigid as a board. She stared at his heavily lined face. “What kind of details?”

He hesitated.

“Jack?” Her tone was as sharp as any whiplash, and she heard it. But she was alarmed now. “If there is something serious that I should know about, then I must know, and so be it.”

He sighed. “Claire, David has been in trouble financially for some time.”

Claire looked at him, not quite understanding. “What?”

He repeated himself.

She fought to make sense of what he had said. “David told me we’d taken a hit recently. All of our money is held jointly. When I was twenty-five and came into my trust from my mother’s family, he took charge of that money. I hope you’re not talking about our mutual investments?”

“I am.”

Claire just stared.

“There’s not much left, Claire,” Jack Thorne said grimly. “What?”

“In the past several years, he moved most of your portfolio into technology stocks. You surely know what happened. There’s not much left.”

Claire was stunned. “What do you mean? My mother’s family left me a quarter of a million dollars, which David invested for us when I was twenty-five. That was over seven years ago. I believe he added a percentage of his earnings every year. By now, we should have close to a million tucked away.”

He pursed his lips. “Actually, the net sum in that portfolio is forty-two thousand dollars.”

Claire stared. Surely she had misheard.

“Claire?” he asked softly.

The comprehension crashed over her all at once. She stood. “Oh, God.” Their investments had been reduced to almost a bit more than her annual income—but less than one fifth of what David made.
He had literally lost everything.

“Are you okay?” Thorne was also standing.

She was going to have to move. Soon. She could afford to live in their house for maybe two or three more months. Not that she wanted to live there now, but she had never dreamed she would have to sell out of necessity and under duress. The sooner she moved, the better, she realized with another stab of fear. So she would not deplete all the savings that she had left.

Claire smiled brightly. “I’m fine, Jack,” she said with conviction, but it was an utter lie. “I’m a little surprised, but that’s all.” Her lifestyle would have to change as well. Immediately. But she could manage that. She had no intention of leaving the Humane Society to look for a better-paying job, even though she had a master’s in business administration; she would never give up the work that meant so much to her.

“When you want to talk about it, you should give me a call,” Jack Thorne said. “I’d be more than happy to advise you, Claire, with no charge.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Claire said. “But you must bill me for your time.” She held herself proudly. “I might just give our accountant a call.” She would have to plan a budget instantly.

“You should do that,” Jack said. “As soon as possible.” He began packing up his briefcase. “I’m leaving a copy of the will and some other reports, including financial statements, here for you. They’re yours to keep.”

“Great,” Claire said, the smile plastered on her face. She must not unravel now. After all, this was a low blow, but it was nothing compared to finding David on her terrace with his throat slashed about thirty-six hours ago.

“I can find my way out,” Jack said.

“I’ll walk you to the door.” Claire smiled firmly and marched him to the front door of the big house. Paintings of various sizes and value, representing hundreds of different schools, covered every inch of space in every room. Claire shook his hand and let him out. Suddenly she was aware of the art that surrounded her. She had never really paid attention to its value; now, she wondered if Jean-Léon had really meant for her to own the Courbet.

Then she turned and walked back into the living room. She could never sell it. She refused to cry. Crying would not solve anything. But she couldn’t help wondering if her financial straits were, somehow, her just deserts for failing David in his time of need.

It was cold and windy at the beach where the mourners had gathered to scatter David’s ashes. Claire stood between her father and the Dukes, foremost among the crowd. A cleric was speaking. Claire did not hear a word he said.

Claire had worked hard to gather up her last reserves of strength. In the past few days, she had hired a broker, and as soon as word of David’s murder died down, the broker would put the house up for sale. Her entire life had changed, or at least it felt that way. It was as if she had stepped unknowingly across a huge divide—and there was no way back. David was gone. She would sell the house and move. Although she would continue to devote herself to her work at the Humane Society, Claire somehow felt as if she had changed fundamentally inside. She did not feel like the same person. She wondered if she would walk through the rest of her life carrying the huge burden of her guilt while hiding the little, intrusive knot of fear.

And David’s killer still had to be brought to justice.

If the police had any suspects, they were not revealing anything.

A hundred somberly clad people—everyone bundled up in coats due to the weather—were listening to the cleric drone on about David’s exemplary life and God’s will. Most of the mourners had been at David’s birthday party, and the detective, Murphy, had also come to the service. David’s family had appeared—they lived in Atlanta—but his parents remained dry-eyed and aloof on the other side of the crowd. Occasionally one of his sisters dabbed her eyes with a tissue. Claire wondered if the murderer was actually present now.

It was a horrible thought. Claire tried to tune in to the cleric, but again, it was so hard to understand what he was saying. He kept saying how wonderful David had been. A wonderful husband, a wonderful son, a wonderful partner to his associates.

Claire closed her eyes. Clearly the cleric had not known David at all. He had been a decent husband, but he hadn’t had anything to do with his own family. Or maybe he hadn’t even been a decent husband—he had somehow lost almost all their savings, most of which had been inherited from Claire’s mother.

She realized she had stiffened and her fists were clenched. The anger was trying to take her over again. She must not blame David. He hadn’t intended to lose their money. But she could be angry with the killer for what he had done.

Claire tuned out the droning voice of the cleric. Elizabeth took her hand and whispered, “Just a few more minutes, dear.” Claire managed to smile at her.

Elizabeth smiled back, but concern was reflected in her reddened eyes. She had also been crying. She had loved David, too.

In spite of the wind, the day was blindingly bright. Claire wore sunglasses because she did not want anyone to see into her eyes and past her facade. That facade felt so incredibly fragile now, yet Claire was determined to cling to it with all of her power. She was determined to accept condolences, but she didn’t want people to tell her how sorry they were. She just wanted to go home—and find David’s killer.

Except she had no home, not with her house currently under a police quarantine, and soon to have a
FOR SALE
sign in front of it.

She was vaguely aware of William leaning between her and Elizabeth and whispering to her. “It’s almost over. Just a few more minutes, Claire.”

Claire nodded at him, a small smile adhering to her face as if it had been sutured into place. Her mouth was beginning to ache.

Claire suddenly noticed what the cleric was doing. He was approaching her. Panic filled her; he was holding the urn.

He gave her a kind smile.

I can’t do it
, Claire thought wildly. David was in that urn, and she was supposed to scatter him across the bay? It was ridiculous, absurd—grotesque. As grotesque as finding him dead just minutes after she had been contemplating when and how to ask him for a divorce.

The cleric handed her the urn.

And a face in the crowd suddenly came into focus just to the left and behind the cleric’s black-garbed shoulder. Ian Marshall was staring at her. He was wearing aviator-style sunglasses with reflective lenses; still, his expression seemed grim, and there was no mistaking who he was.

Claire realized she was holding the urn. She didn’t quite know how that had happened, but now her smile failed her. She stared at Ian, and her heart began a heavy beat inside her breast.

Jean-Léon had her arm. Claire did not move.

She had been flirting with Marshall upstairs while a killer had been cutting David’s throat. Claire had no doubt. David had been playing the piano when she had gone upstairs; when she had come back down, he had been gone.

What had Marshall been doing upstairs in the first place?

Suspicion and hostility consumed her.

Claire stared at him. Her father was speaking into her ear, but she did not hear him.
He had said he’d gone upstairs to use the toilet, because the one downstairs had been occupied. But there were two other bathrooms downstairs, as well as the powder room off the foyer. How could they all have been occupied?

What had he been doing upstairs?

It was wrong. Something was wrong with his explanation.

Of course, he could not be the killer. The killer had been downstairs murdering David while Ian was upstairs, right?

No, that was not necessarily true. When she had gone downstairs, Ian was gone, and David had also been missing.

“Claire?” Jean-Léon tugged on her arm. “Everyone’s waiting. Or should I do it?”

Claire looked from Ian Marshall, whose stare was unremitting, to her father. She had only vaguely heard him, but she knew he wanted her to scatter David’s ashes. She nodded, allowing him to lead her across the sandy, pebbled stretch of headlands, and somehow they were walking over to the edge of the cliff.

David had been cold and hostile to Marshall. They were not friends—that had been obvious. So Ian had lied to her when he had said, oh so calmly, that they were
.

Claire faced the swirling waters a hundred feet below. Now she was supposed to turn the urn upside down and scatter David’s ashes. Tears blinded her. The one last wave of grief and loss took her by surprise, washing over her richly, sickeningly. David was gone. The bay sparkled and glittered. Jesus. David was gone, reduced to a handful of gray ashes, and maybe, just maybe, Ian Marshall was somehow involved.

She had to tell Murphy. Immediately.

There were rocks on the beachhead below.

Claire stared down at the water; she stared down at the rocks on the small strip of beach. She saw neither the sand nor the shore nor the rocks. Instead, she saw David sitting in the iron lawn chair with his body covered in blood. Then she saw Ian in her den, intruding when she had escaped there to be alone.