Resurgence Page 3

  She breaks the houseguest rules and makes the immense four-poster bed, her body remembering better than her mind their coming together in the night and again at dawn. Desperate, frantic couplings, as though each time was the first time.

  She finds her way down the grand central staircase to the ground floor and the kitchen, where Anthony tolerated her cautious embrace before his father drove him to school a short time ago. Simon wouldn’t tolerate any form of embrace when he left with his grandmother soon after for an appointment with the pediatrician. She can either feel left out and left behind for not being invited to go on either errand, or remember that they regard her as a guest.

  As a guest, unsure to what extent she’s alone, she helps herself to a fresh cup of coffee and enters an enclosed veranda only glimpsed yesterday. Here, she confronts several suits of armor and a glass display case of ancient weaponry. Her jeans and sweatshirt are as out of place as Simon’s Big Wheel in this environment. And even more at odds with the setting when she returns to the first floor to contemplate the great hall with its walk-in fireplace, minstrel’s gallery, soaring cathedral ceiling, and towering window wall.

  Shouldn’t she be wearing one of those high-bodiced bosom-busting gowns of the Tudor era or perhaps a brocaded straightjacket and pleated lace choker of the Elizabethan period? And what of her feet? Are running shoes in any way acceptable in an environment that harkens to a time when no true chatelaine would be shod in anything clumsier than re-embroidered silk and kid leather?

  She sits down on one of the enormous sofas that could be dollhouse furniture given the sheer scope of this room. Even the concert grand piano positioned in front of the window wall is dwarfed by the surroundings. The tabby cat suddenly appears out of nowhere, as cats do, springs onto the sofa, and gives her a lesson in adaptability by kneading a velvet toss pillow into submission and settling down to bathe itself as though to the manner born.

  “Thank you,” Laurel says, ruffling its fur before leaving her coffee cup on a side table for staff to clear away.

  Struck with the need to communicate to other than a cat, she goes in search of the room housing the fax machine. Someone—preferably an outsider—must be told of her utter awe and amazement even though she was never so ill-informed as to think British rock stars didn’t live well, and were not the rescuers of many a great stately home fallen on hard times.

  The nearby chiming of a clock makes her wonder what’s taking Colin so long. Nine distinct strikes indicate he’s been gone three-quarters of an hour and he said he’d be right back. And she may be dependent on his imminent return if she expects to find anything resembling a home office. With the little cat running interference and rubbing her ankles whenever she stops to reorient herself, she continues to get nowhere until she thinks to retrace her steps on the floor above—the bedroom floor—where she finds the room she’s looking for in a matter of seconds. Something else to make Amanda laugh.

  As hesitant and surreptitious as Anthony must have been when he stole in here to send the bogus fax, she approaches a large well-equipped desk. She feels a little more relaxed after sitting down—she’s not up to mischief, after all. While drafting in pencil the update she’ll send to Amanda, the fax machine announces an incoming. She ignores it as none of her business and goes on with her writing. Then the phone startles her with its unfamiliar double trill. This too she ignores as none of her business and not her place to answer. But when it continues to ring, stops for brief intervals, then resumes ringing, she’s afraid not to answer. It might be Colin, letting her know he’s been delayed; it could be Anthony’s school calling to say he’s spewed all over his classmates again, or Rachel calling to ask if anything else should be added to her marketing list.

  “Yes?” she says, unconcerned with answering formalities.

  “David Sebastian holding for Colin Elliot,” a crisp British voice says.

  “He’s unavailable. May I take a message?”

  “And you are?”

  “I am Laurel Chandler, affianced to Colin Elliot and well qualified to take a message. Put David on.”

  After some muffled background debate, David comes on the line. “Laurel?”

  “Yes, I believe we now have that established. What is it? Colin should be back any minute. Shall I have him call you?”

  “Perhaps not. Ah . . . something’s come up. Something has happened that he should know about as soon as possible, so it may be better for you to tell him the minute he returns rather than risk—”

  “Tell him what? Risk what?”

  “We’ve . . . we’ve lost Rayce.”

  “What do you mean lost?” Laurel jumps to her feet.

  “His London housekeeper found him two hours ago.”

  “David, you’re not making sense. Lost, found, make up your mind . . . oh . . . oh Jesus Christ, no . . . no!”

  David’s silence confirms the worst. She’s literally staggered by the realization, forced to hold on to a corner of the desk for support until she thinks to sit back down.

  “What happened?” she gasps. “Was it a heart attack? A stroke? An accident?”

  “Too soon to say with absolute authority, but preliminary findings point to overdose of a controlled substance.”

  “Shit! Where are you? How is this being handled?”

  “I’m still at his Holland Park place—that was his housekeeper who placed the call for me—and so far the situation is being handled badly because the property was already swarming with paparazzi when I arrived. First responders no doubt attracted them to the known residence of a high-profile celebrity. Impossible to prevent.”

  “Then word is out. I can expect to see this on television, hear it on radio.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “And that would be the risk you wished to avoid on Colin’s behalf—his learning of this through broadcast media.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Will you be making an official statement?”

  “Yes, of course, but not until I have something more definitive from the medical examiner and confirmation that Rayce’s several families have been informed. The entire London office is on it as we speak.”

  She has a hundred more questions and half that many reminders and cautions. To enunciate any of them now is to accept the role David hoped she would play before she landed the client for herself instead of his management practice; to operate as his backup and one-woman oversight committee now is to suggest she’s already having second thoughts about her so-called abdication. That this awareness could seep into a consciousness preoccupied with shock and disbelief is a little unsettling, but it’s a good indicator of how far she’s come toward being true to herself.

  “Keep me in the loop.” She clicks off without saying goodbye and punches in a set of numbers hoping she’s correctly remembered the country code. So much for leaving sleeping New Yorkers undisturbed. She gambles that she can complete a call to Amanda before Colin returns and does manage to get through with the worst of the news before hearing his approach.

  “I’ll call back as soon as I can.” She ends as a storm of trepidation sweeps over her.

  “Laurel . . . sweetheart, where are you? I’ve collected the morning papers whilst I was out and you’ll have a good laugh when you see what the Sun has to say . . . Laurel?” Colin peers into the room.

  A little after noon, a subdued group assembles at the long refectory table that saw such a joyous gathering a day ago. No one wants the lunch that’s been prepared, including Simon, who seems to have picked up on the prevailing mood. Chris Thorne, who arrived on horseback when he learned of the tragedy, is nothing if not pensive—brooding, even—as though it wouldn’t take much more to transform his dark good looks into something sullen and saturnine. Susa Thorne, who arrived later, is a sphinx compared to yesterday, and possibly more beautiful in her numbed silence.

  The Earles and other staff became distant and strictly in service once the news reached them. Gemma Earle is now screening phone calls
at the far end of the kitchen, where a muted television set is tuned to the Sky channel and a continuous loop of conjecture about Rayce’s death.

  Laurel has hardly taken her eyes off Colin since giving him the news and his devastation is a horrible thing to see. When she’s not looking at his ashen countenance, she’s touching him in some way, making no secret of her concern that contains fear as well as compassion.

  When Gemma signals that Colin should take a particular call, he remains unresponsive, slumped where he is until the handset is brought to him and he’s told that Nicola Bridgman, one of Rayce’s adult daughters, is on the line. He doesn’t exactly liven to the task, but does manage to murmur a few words of condolence before the conversation becomes one-sided. Then it’s apparent to every person at the table that he’s being subjected to an earful; a readily overheard, however unintelligible, tirade that goes on unabated when he drops the receiver mid-rant.

  “She’s wanting to know how the fuck I could let this happen. Me. It’s me she’s holding responsible.” Colin overturns a chair on his way out of the room. “Some things never bleedin’ change,” he bellows as he slams the outside door hard enough to rattle the glassware.

  Laurel’s impulse is to go after him; the others warn her off with Chris as their spokesperson.

  “Leave him be for now, luv,” he says, “He’ll be all right, we’ll all see to it.”

  She can’t very well argue with the experts, and she can’t torture herself one second longer with faithless thoughts about dissociative disorders as brought on by overwhelming events. And she cannot remain passive—in houseguest mode—even if she does give the appearance of working on David’s behalf as well as Colin’s.

  FOUR

  Midday, April 13, 1987

  After sipping potent Bloody Marys that have no effect and picking at salads they don’t want, lunch conversation tapers off into the desultory, then stops altogether. Amanda stares out the window as though skaters still occupied center stage at Rockefeller Center—as though she could see some truth other than the dominant one. Nate gives her another minute or so before interrupting her somber reverie with one of the less burning questions spawned by Rayce’s sudden death.

  “By calling you first . . . by calling you more than once this morning, do you think Laurel was hoping you’d offer to go there and assist in some way?”

  “I think she would’ve asked directly if that were the case.”

  “Does she think you’re now working for me?”

  “I kind of doubt that. I mean, things have been happening awfully fast, but I don’t think she—”

  “I believe that’s exactly what she thinks and because of my fracture with Colin she can’t see her way clear to raid the enemy camp,” Nate says.

  “You don’t consider yourself the enemy, do you?”

  “No, but Colin does and Laurel’s first allegiance has to be to him.”

  “Speaking of trying to get your head wrapped around something, your split with Colin came as almost as big a shock as hearing about Rayce,” Amanda says.

  “I thought you, of all people, might have seen it coming.”

  “Why? I had no special insight . . . did I?”

  “Yeah, you did. When I told you I thought more was going on than met the eye regarding the Cliff Grant and Gibby Lester murders, you were given a close-up view of the asshole I was making of myself by linking weak coincidences and stretching vague similarities—and honoring some sort of imaginary covenant in a way that was screwing with damn near everything I did.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting I shared your views about Grant and Lester?”

  “No, but I am suggesting you give them no more importance.”

  A waiter comes to remove their wasted salads before she can respond one way or another. The interruption allows her to change the subject.

  “How long were we on the phone this morning?” she asks.

  “An hour, maybe more. I wasn’t keeping track.”

  “Thank you for calling. It helped a lot.”

  “I was going to call you today anyway—just not so early—so we could both say our ‘holy shits’ about Laurel and Colin. That was supposed to be the headline news,” he says.

  “In the positive column, it still is. I have to say, though, that when she didn’t show up for the concert Friday night and couldn’t be found, I thought she’d totally flipped out and maybe even run away.”

  “The concert . . . Jesus . . . I hadn’t thought about that yet. The final concert, as it turns out . . . and the live album . . . Jesus god, do you care to think what that will sell?” He grimaces. “Sorry, crass of me, but I can’t help projecting.”

  “I already thought about that and how the album will have to be marketed so as not to appear blatantly insensitive. And I’ve been thinking about the inevitable repercussions from canceling a major tour—the domino effect—and wondering how they’ll be able to hold a funeral or memorial service or whatever during Holy Week. Sunday’s Easter, you know.”

  He didn’t know. And he’s chagrined not to have considered these other practical matters, even though they don’t affect him. That is, after all, the way his mind used to work until he derailed himself with an overactive imagination and overdeveloped sense of responsibility.

  They order coffee and stick to neutral subjects until right out of nowhere she asks how hard it would be to book Royal Albert Hall on short notice, and follows that up with a series of seemingly unrelated questions that when strung together are only electrifying.

  This wisp of a girl with her unruly Pre-Raphaelite hair and serenely go-straight-to-the-heart-of-the-matter mind must not be allowed to escape. He’s about to say as much when his pager goes off. The call is the one he’s been waiting for, the only reason he wore a pager for the first time in weeks.

  “The London office. I’ll be right back.”

  He finds a secluded public phone, places the call and for the second time today is stunned speechless by news from the UK. He must have heard wrong. That cannot be true. First of all, a veteran user wouldn’t be apt to delay gratification by ingesting coke instead of snorting; second of all, Rayce Vaughn, for all his troubles, was never ever considered at risk for suicide.

  On his way back to the table, Nate experiences an undeniable rush with the realization that all bets are off regarding his recently renounced behavior.

  “Forget everything I just said about ignoring similarities and coincidences,” he says when he sits down, “and feel free to go on sharing my views.” Responding to Amanda’s puzzled expression, he explains that word leaked from the London medical examiner’s office confirms cocaine to be the probable cause of Rayce’s death.

  “Preliminary findings indicate a massive amount of unusually potent product taken in by mouth.”

  “By mouth?”

  “He fucking swallowed it, Amanda, and the rumors have already begun. They’re saying it was no accident, because users of Rayce’s experience don’t accidentally swallow blow. Not in lethal amounts, anyway. I think we should be prepared to see his death ruled a suicide.”

  “No way. He was so happy . . . at the party and, omigod, at the concert on Friday, he was incredible, he was off the charts and he couldn’t have delivered like that if he was getting ready to off himself and he couldn’t have been so up for the European tour if he wasn’t gonna see it through and . . . and . . . I have trouble even believing he started using again, let alone . . . Something’s wrong here, they have to be wrong about this.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, and now I have to hope all my bridges are not burnt.”

  FIVE

  Afternoon, April 13, 1987

  Because it’s midafternoon on a Monday when everyone ought to be at work, Hoople Jakeway feels more at ease about parking in plain sight on Old Quarry Court. Of the many things observed on Saturday, one of the most useful has to do with showing up here on a weekend when more people are free to take notice. He won’t do that again even though a face-off out
here in the open isn’t the worst thing imaginable. It’s the chance encounter and being outnumbered in a closed-in space that worries him most, as he hefts his tool case and makes the trek to the side door of Laurel Chandler’s garage. Just thinking about Saturday’s brush with more than bargained for produces sweat; he’d rather cut off Audrey’s head again than repeat any of that.

  He forces the grade door as he’s done before, and sucks his breath in hard when it opens. The lawyerwoman’s car is in the garage. It’s not supposed to be there now; she’s not supposed to be home now.

  For the second time in as many days, he’d chant oaths and swears if he knew any good ones. Instead, he crouches in the shadow of her car—the showoff version of a Jeep Wrangler—and readies for a face-off. When it doesn’t come, he braves up to enter the house with the expectation the Chandler woman’s in there and this is the chance he was denied on Saturday. But that expectation weakens in the kitchen, where the icebox door is propped open and the insides are stripped of everything but a box of baking soda.

  The expectation fades altogether when he sees that the outside of the icebox has been stripped as well. And that’s all the proof he needs. There’s no need for a trip upstairs to look for missing valises and count empty clothes hangers; the absence of the age-yellowed children’s drawings that were stuck to the icebox with little alphabet magnets says plain as talk that the lawyer-woman’s gone away again and won’t be coming back for a long while.

  Hoop leaves the way he came in, with shoulders back and head high, like he had every right to be there. On the inside he’s a churn of disappointment and fuddled purpose. Saturday’s limited success counts for nothing as he drives away with no set direction in mind.

  Thirty minutes later, he’s on Route 22 like some homing device steered him to the neighborhood of the storage unit yard and the Family-Mart where he provisioned himself a week ago. But he’s not ready to talk to Audrey, and he’s not looking to buy anything else.