“Annabel,” he said, so softly that she had to lean toward him, dangerously close, as if she were about to kiss him, not hear the most terrible words she would ever hear, “my mother and I are re-opening the investigation into my father’s murder. We can prove that Hollings Jayquith had Senator Ransom assassinated.”
She was blank. The words meant nothing. It was impossible.
“Your father,” said Daniel, putting it simply, “had my father killed.”
Seven
HIS MISSION, THOUGHT ANNABEL. His twenty-five wishes. I told him to make the wish. My pennies were so powerful, they brought me love. What if his quarter was that powerful, and brings him revenge?
He holds my father responsible for his father’s death!
Her head reeled. It separated from her body, to float sickly above the laughing guests and the singing violins. Rosebushes filled the air with rich romantic perfume.
She tried to see deep into him, right up to the soul. “Daniel,” she whispered, “you have to be wrong. You cannot have any proof. My father would never do such a thing.”
Or would he?
How well did she really know Hollings Jayquith? How well did anybody? With his only child, he was loving, good, generous, wonderful. But in business? In the material world he possessed? What was he where she had never witnessed him?
A sliver of ice formed in her heart. For one thin sharp cold moment, she believed Daniel.
The shudder of horror—that she could betray her father by allowing the thought in her mind, that anybody could allow that thought—shook her.
“I’m sorry,” said Daniel. He sounded as if he had been through not one wringer, but a thousand. “I didn’t arrange this to hurt you. I didn’t know who you were at the Egyptian Room. I should have, but I wasn’t thinking along those lines.”
He was sorry. Sorry that he planned to bring the world down on them. Not one camera shoved into her flinching face, but hundreds. And she would have to walk among the cameras and the gaping sightseers without batting an eye, because that was how, in America in the twentieth century, you showed courage. You faced the camera.
Annabel tried to get her thoughts in order. Find Aunt Theodora. Tell her. Go home. Telephone Daddy in Japan. Get lawyers. Prepare statements.
In the dark, Daniel’s eyes were faint glints, his hair only a blur. I’m in love with him, she thought. He could say a thing like that and I’m still in love with him.
“Daniel Madison Ransom!” said Theodora Jayquith. “What a pleasure.”
Oh, Aunt Theodora, thought Annabel. A tourist like all the rest, come to pay homage to Senator Ransom’s little boy Daniel. Just you wait!
Daniel proceeded to shake hands with Theodora. “It’s wonderful to meet you at last, Miss Jayquith.” He sounded as if he meant it. “I’m looking forward to being on your show this week.”
No! thought Annabel. He can’t be going after Daddy that way! Not on Theodora’s show! Daddy’s own sister has to be a part of destroying him?
“My dear Daniel, you could have met me any time.” The fabulous earrings dipped and swung beneath her hair. “We are going to have a fruitful discussion. You’re my only guest. I’m giving you the entire show.”
A gift Daniel would throw back in her face with violence. Is he enjoying this? wondered Annabel. Is he reveling in using her? I thought she virtually sponsored Senator Ransom. What history have they never told me?
“There’s so much to talk about,” said Theodora. “We’ll show the film clips, of course, in memory of the tenth anniversary of your father’s death.”
“Murder,” Daniel corrected her.
Theodora never responded to correction and she didn’t respond to this one. “I’ll have a thousand questions to ask, of course,” she said.
“You won’t need questions,” Daniel told her. “I will have a statement.”
Theodora’s long gaudy laugh filled the air. The idea that a guest thought he could appear on her show and not deal with her questions was quite amusing.
Annabel was having difficulty catching her breath. Only a few hours ago, she and Emmie had kidded about possible Jayquith scandals. This was beyond scandal. This was murder. One of America’s most famous. A trial for Senator Ransom’s death would mean publicity beyond anything the Jayquiths had ever known. Her wonderful father. How would he bear up under this? She would have to be the brave daughter who stood by her father’s side, right or wrong. And surely, her father was right, not Daniel.
She wanted to drive to her mother’s grave. Race her car at a hundred miles an hour and take the turns on screaming tires and get there, and do nothing but sob. Fling herself down on the soft cemetery grass, kept as if grass mattered to the people who lay beneath.
Mama, I’m in love but it went wrong! He wants to ruin Daddy! Maybe he can ruin Daddy.
The ice shard in her heart grew larger and stabbed more deeply. Did she really want the truth? What if the truth … what if Daniel was right? Annabel scoured the thought out of her mind. She changed her Egyptian Wing wish. Forget true love. She needed truth.
Mama, how am I going to have it both ways? Love Daniel and still keep Daddy safe?
Mama … is Daddy safe?
From the shadows, Jade O’Keeffe watched them pair up, separate, and come together again, like froth on an ocean wave. Theodora. Annabel Jayquith. Daniel Madison Ransom. Emmie Pearse flowed up, the boy Alex in tow. Mrs. Pearse came and went. Annabel vanished.
These people had always had this. Their lives had fallen into place complete with beauty and wealth, excitement and grace. While she, Jade, had been left with dust and debris, dullness and dumbness.
And buses. She had thought the bus driver would never calm down when she said she was staying in Litchfield. “You don’t have any responsibility for me,” she said. “Stop worrying. I’ll be fine.” Jade did not want bus drivers caring about her, for heaven’s sake. She wanted billionaires and television stars worried about her.
Jade had no difficulty crashing the wedding reception.
Fascinating, when you thought about it. There were clearly guards here. They looked like men who had also grown up in ugly industrial towns, hiding behind good suits not quite right for them. Jade was wearing her very best outfit, too, in fact, her only “best” outfit. She had bought it especially to meet Theodora. It was vivid, because Jade, like Theodora, wanted to stand out. She had agonized over the style, having no idea what was stylish in New York. She had been very overdressed for the bus ride up to Litchfield, but somewhat underdressed for a society wedding. Jade made up for it exactly as Theodora would: a swagger and a head thrown back ready to fight.
The guards had not seen Jade, but what hurt was, nobody had seen her. These people were so busy with each other! So involved, so flirty and silly. They were the champagne they drank: nothing but bubbles.
So this was the famous debutante. The billionaire’s beautiful daughter. Annabel Hope Jayquith.
My cousin.
Annabel was so fair skinned that Jade was startled. Had the girl never in her life been in the sun? Did rich people not get tan?
Theodora held Daniel Ransom by the shoulders, lightly shaking him in a puppy owner way. Then she laughed. Horrible sound. Jade felt condemned, like an old building about to be razed.
Jade had planned to march right up to the woman; plant herself in Theodora’s face, earring to earring. So, Theodora. Recognize me?
But a person who could laugh like that could do anything. What if Theodora saw no resemblance? What if Theodora found Jade’s attempt to look like her insulting? Or worse, what if this had happened to her before? What if Theodora dismissed Jade, saying to her crowd, these little fanzoids never give up. And then laughed that terrible metallic laugh in front of her jet set, and turned away, forgetting Jade in a heartbeat.
But I, thought Jade, I can laugh like that, too. So I, too, can do anything. There are other ways to get in. Guards are stupid, and sometimes chauffeurs are stupid.
She found the chauffeur, the one who had driven Annabel and Annabel’s skinny plain friend. “Such a headache,” said Jade. “I simply can’t last as long as I promised Annabel. Please just swing me by the house.” With a stab of fear, she realized she did not know if the chauffeur had even come from Annabel’s estate, let alone knew the way there or could get in. Too late to worry about that now. “I need to lie down for an hour,” she explained. “Then come back for me, so I won’t miss the rest of the party.”
The chauffeur gave her a long look. For a moment Jade thought she had gauged this wrong. Overplayed her hand. Perhaps the Jayquiths were housing none of these wedding guests. Don’t turn me down! Jade thought, hating him, too. I won’t deal with bus drivers and limousine drivers! I won’t, I won’t! I want to deal with the real thing, with Hollings and Theodora and—
“Of course, miss,” said the chauffeur.
Yes! thought Jade. She nearly shot her fist in the air and yelled in victory.
He’s not going on Aunt Theodora’s show until midweek. This is Saturday. We could blockade him. Aunt Theodora could just refuse to have him on.
“Annabel, how stunning! So interesting! Of course Venice is always interesting.” Annabel was forced to gossip with an old Wythefield roomie of Venice’s and chat with Mrs. Pearse. “I’m so glad Venice wanted to be in the country for the reception,” said Mrs. Pearse. “So many wonderful memories here. So many including you, darling.” She hugged Annabel.
Annabel had spent many holidays here, Emmie as many at Annabel’s. Hollings encouraged his daughter to bring friends home, and he’d take them to dine in wonderful restaurants and shop in wonderful stores. They might find themselves whisked off to Switzerland or to the islands. If Annabel was in the mood for tennis, they would be popped into the limousine and driven out to the country.
Where will we be driven now, if Daniel has his way? thought Annabel. Out of the country entirely? What memories am I about to add to my store? The memory of the day our lives ended in mud and dirt?
No. Kicking Daniel off Theodora’s show would add fuel to his argument. He could claim that Theodora—and her network and all the media—had conspired together to keep the murderer from being exposed. So Daniel had to go on. It was just that Theodora had to be ready. And it was up to Annabel to tell her. If Theodora would for one minute stop gushing over Daniel, Annabel would do so.
Beneath the soaring yellow tent, Venice and Michael were waltzing, which seemed the least likely dance for Venice. Venice thought that of all bridal traditions, the weirdest was to give the best possible party, invite your very best friends, have the best food, drink, and orchestra—and then leave! Honeymoon? Forget it! Venice would party until the last guest fell to the floor in exhaustion. By then the earlier fadeouts could be kicked awake and Venice could party for days.
Candice was dancing with J Thiell, and Mrs. Pearse with Gavin. And I, thought Annabel, I actually still want to dance with Daniel.
The hot flushing love had been replaced by such pain that she wondered if eighteen-year-old girls could have heart attacks. But it is a heart attack, thought Annabel. Just not one a medical doctor could chart.
People were changing clothes. Bridesmaids exhausted by their uncomfortable dresses, groomsmen sick of cummerbunds and high starched collars, were reappearing in tennis shorts and blue jeans. Annabel ducked inside, hoping for privacy in Emmie’s room but of course it was packed with girls … every one of whom was listening eagerly to Candice’s version of how Daniel Madison Ransom refused to have a Jayquith for a partner. “You poor baby,” sympathized Candice. “I wonder what magazine the photographer was with. Did you recognize him, Annabel? He got you just as you started to cry, you know. What’s going on, Annabel, honey?”
Smacking Candice had its appeal. But she’d better get used to this. In a few days, the whole world would be a Candice. “It’s long-standing,” said Annabel, implying that if Candice were anybody, she’d know already.
Annabel dropped her gown on Emmie’s bed. It slithered off to land on the floor, as heavy as if a body were still in it. The corpse of my previous life, thought Annabel. She yanked on jeans and a white blouse and jogged out of the house. Theodora was dancing with J Thiell again. Annabel couldn’t discuss anything in front of Mr. Thiell. In a way she did not understand, Mr. Thiell and her father were competitors, although their businesses did not conflict. It was as if they had a point system, and were always vying to see who had scored highest.
Avoiding all eagerly signaling parents and guests, Annabel swept across the lawns. She would get Daniel to herself, somehow, someway.
Emmie and her new friend were teasing each other over the racket selection in the tennis locker. So was Daniel. He tipped a racket in her direction, like a flippant private saluting his sergeant. Maybe he thought he could get out of this because he was cute and he was Daniel Madison Ransom. Of course, he was cute, and he was Daniel Madison Ransom, and maybe he could, because if she didn’t get a grip on herself, she would forget that her father came first.
Emmie and the cute boy took a court.
Annabel and Daniel were as close as they had been at the Temple of Dendur, but they were not surrounded this time by stones and strangers. They were alone in a garden in the soft summer dark.
Annabel tried to think of convincing arguments. The only argument that came to mind was that Daniel should wear white tennis shorts all the time. He had a great body, much stockier than it had seemed in wedding tails. Curls of hair on his legs and arms waited for her fingertips to brush them.
She swallowed. Who comes first—your father or a boy you don’t even know?
Daniel broke a single white rose from the bush nearest him. In his large hands, it was miniature. One by one, he snapped off the thorns and then held the rose out to her.
She remembered the whorls and curls of his fingerprints, and folded her arms tightly to keep from taking the rose. Daniel, still holding the rose, put his hands lightly on her arms, but there was nothing light about the way they felt. He gripped her intensely, as if to draw out of her bones what he needed from her. The rose brushed her face, and he let go of it, and let his lips brush her face instead. They kissed. It was the lightest touch imaginable. It might not even have happened.
It wasn’t enough.
They kissed again, and this wasn’t a fraction enough, so they kissed each other’s cheeks and foreheads and throats and hair.
The only name in her world was Daniel, and the only name in his was Annabel.
The dreams. The plans. They were happening. They were this stretch Cadillac, this serious bland-featured man in a uniform. He was not just somebody driving a car, he was a real chauffeur. He opened the limo door for her, she got in, and he closed it after her. Yes! thought Jade.
She sat very still, soaking up textures, willing herself to act as if she had always had this, and always would. The limousine seemed not to have gears. It oozed forward. Too quickly the drive was over. The chauffeur inserted a plastic card in a monitor and the immense iron gates swung outward. They would have crushed a car in their path. Lights tripped by the motion of the car came on as they passed, illuminating them like a ball field for a night game.
The house was not at all what Jade expected. Architecture in the Litchfield hills had been uniform: immense, elegant, white colonials with black shutters. There might have been a law that Connecticut houses must look like that.
The Jayquith mansion was a jagged startling collection of separate buildings, connected by glass halls, sharp-edged towers, and fierce stone angles. Spotlights made pinkish pools, casting overlapping shadows, like eclipses. Vertical siding forced the eye upward. It was a demanding house. The house of people who got everything they wanted: even gravity obeyed them. It was the house of people who said, I don’t care what anybody else does—I want windows in this place, in this shape, and I want them now.
Yes! thought Jade.
She put her hand to the door handle before she remembered that it would
be opened for her. She was impatient to leap out. It took the chauffeur forever to get out and come around and—
Somebody else opened the door.
They have a doorman? thought Jade. Like apartment buildings?
But the man who had opened her door was no employee.
He was—he had to be—Hollings Jayquith.
Jade’s poise evaporated. She was a little girl facing a big important man. She was trespasser, he was king. Her stomach hurt and a headache began, dull in the back, as if it were cutting off her blood supply. The hours of practice failed her. She could not remember how she had meant to act. She could no longer imitate the fling of Theodora’s head, the arrogant stance, the know-it-all smirk that came before the killer smile.
“I expected Annabel,” said the man, his voice the absolute reverse of Theodora’s. Soft, but not nice soft. Mean soft.
“She’s still at the reception,” said Jade. Would the man recognize her? See his sister in Jade’s bones and hair and glittering green eyes?
Hollings Jayquith said nothing more.
Jade forced herself out of the car. The man did not move to give her room. She was pinned between him and the vehicle. The chauffeur stayed on his side, resting against the open door. The men might have been her jailers, or keepers.
Don’t let them see you’re afraid, thought Jade. Prove you are one of them. She said baldly, “I am Jade O’Keeffe. I am your niece. I am Theodora’s daughter.”
The silence rested around them. It lasted, and lasted. It thickened like gelatin. He did not say, Yes, you are. He did not say, Yes, you look exactly like my sister.
“An interesting claim,” he said at last. Hollings Jayquith did not glance at the chauffeur, but she could feel his wrath toward the man. The driver was not supposed to bring strangers onto this property. So why did he? thought Jade. But she must not drift off now. She must remember her purpose and pull it off.
She opened her handbag. It was too large; she knew that from the reception; no woman had had a big purse. She did not let herself look down and scrabble among her stuff like an old woman too confused to locate her change. Her fingers located the envelope and she took it out and handed it to him.