Naked Came The Phoenix

Chapter Ten

DETECTIVE TOSCANA FELT AS IF HE were in a nightmare. Here he was staring down at another corpse, and he had not the faintest idea who had killed him or why. Howard Fondulac was as dead as Claudia de Vries had been, if not quite as spectacularly, and it was unfortunately just as obviously murder.

How he wished it could have been suicide! That would have tied it all up nice and neat and he could have left this artificial place and these artificial people, and especially their itsy-bitsy food, and gone home to a sane woman who knew how to cook and was handsome and fun and wasn't obsessive about her appearance.

But before he could go anywhere, or have a square meal rather than a flat one, he had to find out who killed Claudia de Vries and Howard Fondulac, and please heaven before anyone else turned up strangled, drowned, or otherwise terminated with extreme prejudice.

The wraithlike Ondine had been shepherded away by Christopher Lund, an irritating cross between a nursemaid and a guard. His relationship with the girl was an interesting example of codependency. Toscana wondered just how much they needed each other as opposed to how much they thought they did. Ondine was unique, at least until someone else became the model du jour. But Lund could be replaced by any other ambitious young man with an eye for a golden chance when he saw it.

Who made the money, both of them, or only she?

And what was Ondine really doing at Phoenix Spa? Trying to put a few curves onto her bones, so she looked a bit more like a woman? Not on the scraps of rabbit food they fed people here! He didn't know how anyone kept body and soul together. If it had been starvation that killed the two victims, he would not have been surprised, but Howard Fondulac had most definitely had his throat crushed by the leather straps of this infernal machine. It even looked like a contraption designed to torture or kill, invented by the Spanish Inquisition. It was a pity he couldn't use it to get the truth out of someone.

The medical examiner and the crime scene technicians were on their way, but unless there were fingerprints, there was nothing they could tell him that he couldn't see for himself. Since the machine was part of the spa equipment, all the guests could reasonably say they had used it and justify their prints being found on the handles and adjustable parts, so that avenue of evidence seemed closed.

Detective Toscana turned away with a sigh. It was back to interviewing everyone and asking all the same old questions, of comparing the answers to try and spot a lie or, better still, a meaning! A meaning would be good! Lies were a dime a dozen with this bunch.

Caroline Blessing was about the only one who seemed like a real person. She was quite decent, and she looked so wounded. Hardly surprising, considering the death of Claudia de Vries and the discovery of her body, not to mention the shock of learning the truth about her husband. She was a nice little thing who could use a bit of comfort about now. But he would wager a meatball and pepperoni pizza she'd get damn little warmth from her mother!

Ondine stared at Toscana with watery eyes. The poor girl looked like something you put on charity posters to make people give donations. "This could happen to you, too!" sort of thing.

"Why did you go into the gym?" he asked her again. Her frailty made it highly unlikely that she meant to use one of the machines herself. "I'm waiting, Miss, uh, Ondine!"

She lowered her gaze, staring down at her hands on her lap, like a sulky child. "I was looking for Emilio Constanza," she replied.

"What made you think he'd be in the gym?"

"Nothing! It just seemed a good place to look."

"When did you see him last? Had you agreed to meet him someplace?"

"I can't remember when I saw him," she said crossly. "Yesterday or the day before. And no, I hadn't agreed to meet him anywhere."

"Why were you looking for him then?"

She looked up at him with disgust. "Do you really need me to spell it out for you, Detective?" She was waiting, one perfect eyebrow arched enquiringly.

"Humor me," he said. "I've forgotten what it's like to be twenty, and I never knew what it was to be a world-famous model."

She stared at him and gulped air.

He waited.

The expressions crossed her face one after the other: anger, humiliation, fear, confusion, anger again. She settled for self-pity. "No," she agreed soulfully, "and you probably don't have any idea what it's like to be lonely! People want you only because it boosts their egos to be seen with you, or because you can make even the most shapeless clothes look good, or because you can bust your butt selling their lousy rags that people wouldn't touch otherwise! I needed to speak to someone who wasn't looking for what he could get out of me!" She leaned toward him. "I knew Emilio. Well, let's just say he wouldn't want to date me-or any woman."

Toscana thought her words had a ring of truth. "Do you do that often, Miss Ondine, confide your loneliness to the hired help?"

She blushed scarlet, the color rising in a deep wave up her pallid face. She stood up sharply, tipping her chair and almost sending it over.

"Sit down!" he ordered.

She remained standing, but she did not leave.

"All right, suit yourself," he said, sliding back in his own seat. "When did you last see Mr. Fondulac alive?"

She thought about it for so long he was almost certain she was concocting a lie, judging what she could get away with.

"I can't remember," she said at last, looking him straight in the eye. "Maybe breakfast, or I might be confusing it with another day."

He leaned forward suddenly. "Tell me exactly what you saw as you went to the gym. Start from when you left your room. Who did you see, where, and when? Who were they with and what were they doing?"

She started slowly, obediently, like a child reciting a lesson. "Christopher and I had been talking… actually he had been talking, I just listened, or pretended to. He doesn't know the difference. I left him in my cottage and walked down to the edge of the lake. Then I saw that psychic, and I thought I'd quite like to talk to her." She shrugged. "You never know, she might be for real. But actually she was a terrible bore. All she talked about was herself, although how she could do that for fifteen minutes without actually saying a thing, I'll never know."

"You were with her for fifteen minutes?"

"About that. It seemed like longer." She pulled an expression of disgust. "I saw King David going up toward the gym." She was watching his face quite carefully. "Then he came out again within a minute or two…"

"Be more exact! How many minutes?" he demanded. "Two-five-ten?"

She smiled, that slow, dreamy smile with wide eyes that she used for the cameras when she was advertising an exorbitantly expensive perfume that was supposed to have men hurling themselves at your feet. "I'm not any good at time," she said sweetly.

"Try!" He meant to keep his voice level, and failed.

"I can't. It matters too much," she protested. "You're asking me to say something that might cost a man his liberty, even his life!"

An idea flashed across his mind with sudden illumination. "You went to see Howard Fondulac because you're fed up with being a clotheshorse, and you want to be an actress! Howard Fondulac's comeback, and Ondine's first movie!" He grunted. "You'd be good at it."

"Do you think so?" she was very obviously pleased.

"Sure!" he said. "You know how to play all the tunes, and you wouldn't know truth from fantasy if it rose up and bit you!"

She drew in her breath slowly, then let it out again without speaking.

Toscana did not speak either. Did he really think Ondine might have killed Fondulac? Why should she? He needed her far more than she needed him. Unless, of course… Another idea struck him. What if Fondulac had managed to persuade Lauren Sullivan to commit herself to working with him? Then he might have rebuffed Ondine.

"That's all," he dismissed her. "For now."

Lauren Sullivan greeted his question with laughter, full-throated, easy hilarity, as if it were the one truly funny thing she had heard in all this miserable affair.

"Good heavens, Detective," she said, controlling her mirth at last. "I'm sure you don't mean to be insulting, but I assure you, I have no need whatsoever of descending to work with a man like that. I'll pretend you didn't ask and tell you frankly that I was vaguely sorry for him, but even he had more sense than to imagine I would agree, and more dignity, even when he was drunk, than to ask me."

There was something about her luminous beauty that enthralled Toscana even though he kept telling himself she was a suspect. Sitting here talking to her, hearing that wonderful voice, he felt as if he were part of someone else's story, and they would all live happily ever after, however unlikely it now seemed. She may look guilty, circumstantial evidence might pile up against her, but in the end it would all unravel and it would be someone else who was the killer.

"When did you last see Mr. Fondulac?" he said aloud.

"About ten minutes before that awful scream," she replied. "I was in the shower just through the passage from the gym."

"Did anybody see you?" he asked.

Her eyebrows shot up and she gave a sudden, delicious laugh. "No! I'm an actress, Detective, and I accept that I court the public eye a good deal, but there are some things I do not perform for viewing, and taking a shower is one of them!"

He felt the heat rise in his face and could have kicked himself for his clumsiness. He started to explain, to apologize, then stopped abruptly. It was time he reexerted his authority.

"This is a double murder investigation, Miss Sullivan. I need to know the truth so I can arrest whoever is responsible before it becomes a triple murder, or worse."

She sobered up instantly, and the pallor of her face made him realize how fragile her control was. "I was probably the last person to see him," she admitted. "Apart from whoever killed him, and that certainly wasn't me. I walked through the gym because I was looking for Hilda Finch and I'd seen her going that way, but she wasn't there, so I gave up and had a shower. It wasn't all that important."

"Mrs. Finch was going that way? When?"

She bit her lip. "Almost five minutes before I did." She looked at him steadily, very well aware of what she had said.

"Why did you want to see her?" he pressed.

"She owns the spa," she said reasonably. "It was to do with treatments, and… personal."

He let it pass. He would never prove otherwise anyway. "Thank you, Miss Sullivan. That's all for now."

She rose and left, walking with her own individual grace. He could not help watching her, and the image stayed in his mind for several minutes afterward.

Naturally he sent for Hilda Finch next. She kept him waiting fifteen minutes, answered all his questions simply and briefly, and denied any responsibility for either Howard Fondulac's or Claudia de Vries's deaths.

"For heaven's sake, Detective!" she said tartly. "I own Phoenix Spa. Do you imagine I want any more deaths here? Claudia spent millions advertising this place. One death is difficult to overcome, but with hard work it might be accepted as misfortune. A string of them is a catastrophe!"

Looking at her sharp, elegant face with its penetrating eyes he could believe the reputation of the spa was her chief concern and the murders potentially a financial problem. He certainly learned nothing more from her, and she left him feeling more confused than ever, wondering whom to see next and what to ask.

Caroline had refused to see Douglas after their first sharp and very brief encounter, but she knew that a showdown was inevitable sooner or later. She couldn't remain locked in her room indefinitely. And she would not allow him to make her a prisoner, damn him!

It happened early the next day down near the lake with the sun glittering off the water and a very slight breeze carrying the scent of flowers from the bushes around the cottages. She saw his familiar figure striding toward her, and for an instant she felt the old pleasure, as if nothing had happened and everything was perfect, as it had been only a week ago.

Except that of course it hadn't. If she were not so naive she would have known that. She turned to face him, swallowing hard and straightening her shoulders.

He stopped in front of her.

She struggled to keep control and use her brain instead of the emotions boiling up inside her: grief for what she had lost and hope that perhaps it wasn't totally gone after all; shame for the fool she had been to be taken in by him; and rage at his duplicity, the way he had used her. "Yes, Douglas, what is it?" she said a little breathlessly.

"Have you had time to reconsider your decision regarding a divorce?" He was straight to the point. It startled her that he did not try any charm or prevarication at all. It was unlike him not to attempt the easier way first. He believed in his own power to win people, and to be honest he had had good cause to. Damn it, she had given him good cause! When had she ever failed to melt into his arms when he tried hard enough?

"And why should time make any difference?" she asked icily. "Would a day, or a year, change the facts?"

His smile was chilly. She used to think he was so handsome, almost beautiful because of the confidence and the charm and the kindness inside him. Now he was ugly. There was a slackness somewhere, a meanness of spirit.

"Time could change your perception of the facts," he answered. "You might develop a much clearer idea of what is important and what isn't."

"You mean I might acquire your idea of it!" she said witheringly. "Please, God, I hope not! The day I believe power and office mean everything, and honesty means nothing, I'd be better off dead!"

"Yes." He shoved his hands hard into his pockets and stared down, then up again quickly. "Well, death is a whole other subject. One I'd prefer to avoid, if possible."

She felt a chill ripple over her, and it was not from the breeze off the lake.

"I care about my career, Caroline," he went on. "And I intend to succeed. I don't think you have fully appreciated that."

A tingle of danger passed over her, but she ignored it. "Of course I appreciate it!" she said angrily. "'And I wanted to help you with it. I imagined being by your side…" She was forced to stop by the emotion almost choking her. Why was it so desperately, agonizingly difficult to watch a dream die?

"I intend that you shall be," he said, and for an instant he seemed uncertain whether to try being charming or not. The smile was there, but then it faded and the hardness returned. Perhaps he realized it was too late.

"I won't!" she retorted, and now she sounded like a petulant child.

"Grow up, Caroline!" he said sharply, staring across the lake, his face hard. "It's time you started to think like an adult and faced a few realities of life. This is not kids playing games where you can throw your toys away and storm off in a sulk if it doesn't go your way." He turned back to her. "If you don't want to get very badly hurt, then you'd better start thinking of the consequences of your behavior."

She exploded with a bellow of laughter, rough edged with fury and indignation. "That's wonderful, coming from you! I'm not the one whose career is in jeopardy because I went whoring around the place with anything that wasn't nailed down or had four legs! And was careless enough to be photographed doing it!"

He blushed dark red, but she wondered if it was shame for having done such things, or embarrassment at his own stupidity in having been caught and recorded for posterity, in particular for the newspapers and the divorce court. She was afraid it was the latter. She might have forgiven him had it been the first.

His eyes were hard and bright, far colder than the sun glittering off the blue lake. "I intend to deal with that," he said between his teeth.

"Oh yes? How?" she jeered. Anger was easier than tears. Self-pity would destroy her. It opened up like a great hungry pit in front of her, filled with the death of her dreams, the most tender and vulnerable and precious dreams she had ever known. That was a kind of murder as well. She would have to learn to hate him for that! The deceit of it, the deliberate cruelty.

He was impatient. "Well, for a start, you are going to forget about the whole incident and behave like the loving, loyal, and admiring wife you were last week. You are going to-"

"I am not! I am going to divorce you," she shouted. "And if you think for half a second that you are ever going to touch me again, you're out of your mind!"

His eyes widened. "My dear girl, I don't give a damn whether I touch you again or not! As no doubt you are now aware, I can take my pick of any number of very beautiful and willing women."

"Don't be so squeamish, Douglas. There are names for women who are willing to be so obliging. And usually you have to pay them for it!"

He gave an abrupt little laugh. "I've got dozens of friends who'd understand me very well; they can't afford not to!" He shook his head, and his voice was brittle. "No, Caroline, you'll play the loyal and trusting wife in public, whatever we do in private, because I intend to get into the Senate one day, possibly even the White House. I have no intention whatever of allowing you to parade your small-town outraged virtue to stop me."

She was aware of a sense of danger, and yet she couldn't help herself from going on. "Small-town virtue, as you put it, has stopped more powerful men than you, men who were better at not getting caught!" she said witheringly. "Good heavens, Douglas, even if your 'friends' in power don't care about your appetites, surely they have enough sense to care about your crass clumsiness at getting caught! A villain is one thing, a fool is quite another!"

She felt the satisfaction run warm all through her at the fury in his face and the knowledge that out here where anyone might see them, including any wandering reporters, he dared not even let the rage show in his body language, much less actually hit her. She very nearly smiled.

"Talking about getting caught," he said deliberately, his lips thin. "A bit careless of your mother getting 'caught' when she was at college, wasn't it? Not like the Hilda Finch I know. But of course she wasn't Finch then, was she!"

Caroline felt the blood drain from her face. How could he know that? For a moment she was dizzy, the sunlight was glaring, blinding her.

"Don't tell me you didn't know?" Douglas's voice came from far away. "But of course you know, or what I'm saying wouldn't mean anything to you, would it? And you wouldn't look like you'd just seen ghosts walking."

"How could you?" she demanded. "She would never have told you! She doesn't trust you and never did!" She was challenging him as if the fact that he shouldn't know meant that he didn't.

What did it matter how he knew? He did, that was the only ugly, horrible reality that counted.

"Claudia de Vries, darling! Who else?" Now he was mocking her. "Really, I'd have thought you could have worked that out for yourself. You're a disappointment, Caroline. Not only are you a prude and childishly unrealistic, but you're slow-witted as well. Don't make me spell all this out for you. Just acknowledge the facts and behave like a well-bred congressional wife."

"Or what?" She wanted to sound defiant, brave, and above all confident. She only sounded panicky and defensive.

"Oh, please!" he said wearily. "Do we have to play this all out to the bitter end?"

Caroline's mind raced, horrible possibilities crowding one after another. Would Douglas try to blackmail her mother as Claudia de Vries had? What would he do now? Did he merely know about the child because Claudia had told him, or could he prove it?

Anyway, these days who cared? Quite possibly it would simply add a little mystery and glamour to what had previously seemed a very staid and shallow, boring life. Her father was not around anymore to be hurt or embarrassed about it. Who was socially ruined because of a youthful tragedy these days?

And there was the other question she would like to have avoided ever asking. How much did she care, anyway? She and her mother had never been close, and the few rare confidences over the last two days did nothing to undo a lifetime's pattern. Would she live the rest of her own life tied to Douglas, living out a hideous charade of a marriage, to save her mother from possible embarrassment?

No, definitely not. Hilda could clean up her own mess.

She put her hands on her hips. "I suppose you also took Claudia's proof of this event?" she said with raised eyebrows.

"What do you think I'm going to do, blackmail your mother?" he said in surprise.

"Aren't you?" she countered. "Or, more exactly, blackmail me?"

"Hardly over that!" He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "At least, not exactly," he amended. "Who cares if Hilda Finch had an illegitimate child thirty-something years ago? It would hardly be headline news."

Caroline was startled how deeply she resented his casual dismissal of her mother. It stung her pride, and she found herself instantly defensive, which was very odd. If ever there was anyone completely capable of looking after herself, it was her mother. But still she retaliated. "Not like a congressman caught on camera in what I imagine were some fascinating poses!" she said. "That would be news, illustrated news at that. A little difficult to deny… darling!"

His face was white, his eyes glittering. "I think there's really only one person interested in your mother's indiscretion, but he would be very interested indeed, especially when he knows that it was Claudia de Vries who told me."

"My… my half brother? I gather it is a brother, because you said 'he'?" she asked, finding herself breathless, her heart pounding.

"No, fool!" he said tartly. "Detective Toscana!"

It was all hideously clear now. She saw it in the triumph in his face, the leering knowledge that he had terrified her, and she could not conceal it.

"Rather a good motive for murder, don't you think?" he went on calmly. "All the years of hate, blackmail, power. Not to mention the little matter of inheriting all this rather lucrative little business?" He gestured widely around him at the buildings, the lake, the trees and flowers, the cottages in the distance. "A lot of people have killed for a great deal less, never mind greedy women like your mother, who have endured years of humiliation and fear of exposure."

Caroline's mouth was dry, her heart pounding so violently she was sure she must be shaking with it.

"You… wouldn't…"

"No, of course not," he agreed, leaning a little toward her. "I'll help you conceal your mother's crime, darling." He emphasized the last word sarcastically. "Just as you'll help me conceal my little affairs… won't you!"

She stared at him. "I… I can't! I told you before, I haven't got the pictures anymore. Someone took them!"

"Oh, please! Can't you do better than that?" His tone was one of exquisite derision.

"It's the truth!" she said desperately. "I haven't got them! Douglas, I swear it!"

He looked as if she had hit him. He stood motionless for several seconds, fear and rage equal in his face. Then he mastered himself again and stared at her venomously. "Then you'd better find them, hadn't you? Or your mother is going to be arrested for murder, and this time it'll stick!"

"I… but…" she started.

"Find them!" He turned on his heel and marched away, his back stiff, his shoulders rigid, feet almost silent on the grass.

She was amazed how intensely it mattered to her. She never even considered not trying to save her mother. The pain that had existed between them was irrelevant. All she could think of was the cello, as if that one act of kindness had obliterated all the quarrels, the criticisms, and the loneliness. She must find the photographs and give them to Douglas-whatever it cost. She'd deal with leaving him afterward, after Detective Toscana had found out who had killed Claudia and Howard Fondulac. Or if Toscana didn't, then she would find out herself… and prove it. Damn Douglas. Damn him, damn him, damn him!