Her Own Rules

  I heard the laughter and warmth in her voice as she said, “Yes, I think you are, chérie. It was Madame Creteau who told me, when I was at the boulangerie early this morning. She said Phyl had told her you were due around five o’clock this afternoon. I hope I am not calling at a bad time.”

  “No, no, it’s lovely to hear your voice. Still, I must admit the village tomtoms never fail to surprise me. They’re the equivalent of bush telegraph in darkest Africa.”

  “That’s a unique way of describing it, yes,” she exclaimed, laughing. “But you know how the locals love to gossip, to be into everybody’s business, they just can’t help it. They mean no harm. I’m glad you’re back. I’ve really missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you too, Marie-Laure. How’s Alexandre? And the girls?”

  “We are all well, Vivienne.” There was a moment’s hesitation on her part, and then she said in a low, sympathetic tone, “I want to tell you again how sorry I am about Sebastian. It is such a loss for you. I do hope you are not suffering too much.”

  “I’ve been sad, of course, that’s only natural. And in a way, I feel as if a door has been suddenly slammed on a period of my life that was very special to me,” I murmured, sitting down on a nearby chair, glad to talk with her for a few minutes. “As you know, we didn’t see that much of each other lately, because he was traveling constantly, but we kept in touch by phone. Obviously his death has been a great shock to me. It was something I never expected, Marie-Laure.”

  “How could you? He wasn’t old, only in his fifties, and he always appeared to be so fit to me.”

  “Yes he was, and I think I’ll feel much better when I know how he died. Unfortunately, Jack hasn’t had the autopsy report from the police yet.”

  “Really. I thought you’d know everything by now,” she said, sounding surprised. Then she went on rapidly, “There’s been nothing more in the newspapers here. A few days ago they were filled with stories. The French press made his death sound most suspicious.”

  “So did the New York papers. But what can you do. . . . Anyway, to be honest the way he died is a bit of a mystery I was glad to finally get away it was all so upsetting. Of course, I had to stay for the memorial service, it was very important to me that I attend.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Very well. It was held yesterday, and the church was packed. A lot of dignitaries were there from our government and from foreign governments as well. And there were delegates from the UN, heads of charities, people from all over the world actually. The famous and the not-so-famous. It was very gratifying to me that so many people came to pay their last respects. But I crept away once it was over, picked up my luggage, and went straight to Kennedy. I couldn’t wait to get back to my normal life.”

  “And I can’t wait to see you. Can you come to dinner on Saturday night? It’s just us, just the family. Perhaps you’d like to bring Kit?”

  “Thanks, I’d love to come and I’ll ask him later. I know he’s been painting furiously, trying to finish the last big canvas for his show next month. I haven’t called him yet. I just haven’t had a chance,” I explained.

  “You’ll come by yourself if he’s not available, but I’m certain he will be. Oh yes, I’m very sure of that,” Marie-Laure said knowingly, always the incurable romantic. “I had better go, Vivienne. I’m in the middle of paperwork for the antique show next weekend.”

  “And I must unpack. See you on Saturday, darling. Oh, about what time?”

  “Around seven. Ciao.”

  “Bye, Marie-Laure.”

  We hung up and I went in search of Phyl.

  Leaving my bedroom in one of the new wings, I walked along the hallway which linked this new part to the original structure. The latter was built entirely of large stones, ranging in color from soft sand and golden tones to various pale pinks and deep grays and all were exposed in the sixteenth-century manner.

  Dating back to 1567, or thereabouts, the nucleus of the mill was a central area composed of four huge rooms that we had turned into the main living quarters. Virtually undamaged when Sebastian bought the mill for me, the interior rooms only needed repairs to their walls and ceilings. These were the rooms where the olives used to be pressed between gargantuan circular stones, and they were impressive. Immense vaults, several of which were thirty feet high, separated these massive spaces from each other and added to the grandeur.

  A number of smaller rooms, forming the outer perimeter of the original structure, were in the worst tumbledown state when we took possession of the property. All needed to be rebuilt; this we did, turning them into a series of storage rooms, pantries, and a laundry.

  Throughout the mill we laid down new tile floors, put in many additional windows, doors, and extra beams to reinforce the ceilings. Sebastian had insisted we use old wood and stones for our remodeling, either culled from the mill’s rubble or bought from local builders; we also selected only those tiles and other materials that had an aged look to them. It was impossible to distinguish the new from the old, and the finished effect was awe-inspiring in so many different ways, but mostly because the infrastructure looked as if it had been there forever.

  The hallway led down three steps into the kitchen, which was the crux of the central area of the mill and part of an open floor plan. The dining and living rooms flowed off it, as did the library Although it was full of the most up-to-date appliances, it had great warmth and a rustic, country charm with its ceiling beams, exposed stone walls, and terra-cotta floor. Adding to the cheerful Provençal mood were the many baskets, copper pots and pans, dried herbs, sausages, and cheeses hanging from the beams.

  An enormous stone fireplace was the focal point, its generous hearth holding a giant-sized basket of logs, polished-brass fire tools, and tall wrought-iron candlesticks, almost five feet high, topped with plump wax candles.

  An old French farm table surrounded by wooden-backed chairs stood in front of the fireplace, and I went and sat down at it.

  Phyl was standing near the stove and she glanced at me as I did so. “A watched pot never boils,” she said, nodding at the kettle on the stove. “I’m making you a cup of tea. I was going to bring it to you in the bedroom.”

  “I’ll have it here, thanks, Phyl. And then I’d like you to help me unpack, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “‘Course not,” she answered, and glanced anxiously at the kettle again.

  “By the way, Michel didn’t leave, did he?” I asked. “I haven’t paid him yet.”

  “No, he’s still here, Mrs. Trent. He drank a coffee, then went out back with Alain. To have a cigarette, I suppose.”

  I nodded and said, “Phyl, the house looks wonderful. You’ve kept it up beautifully. Thank you.”

  She said nothing, but from the look on her face I knew she was pleased. Taking the kettle off the stove, she carried it to the nearby sink, poured some water out, and returned it to the gas stove.

  “A watched pot,” I reminded her, and reached for the telephone as it began to ring.

  “Hello.”

  “I can’t believe you’re home and you haven’t called me,” Christopher Tremain said.

  “Hi, Kit. Listen, I haven’t called anyone yet. And you are at the top of my list. You just beat me to it by a few minutes.”

  “That’s good to know. How are you? Did you have a good trip?”

  “I’m well. And the trip was quick, easy.”

  “Then you’re up to having dinner tonight? At least, I hope you are.”

  “I’d love to see you, I really would. But I need to unpack, get settled in, get my papers organized, the usual stuff. You know what it’s like. And after all, I have been away for almost three months.”

  “Don’t I know it, darling. But all right, I’ll let you off the hook tonight.”

  “Marie-Laure’s invited us to dinner on Saturday.”

  “That’s great, you’ve got a date. But what about tomorrow? Can we have supper?”

  “Yes, that’ll be nice.
How’s the painting going? Did you finish your last canvas?”

  “I did. On Tuesday night, or rather, in the middle of Wednesday morning. I’m feeling a bit done in, but I’ll be up and running by Saturday.”

  “Are you sure about supper tomorrow? Maybe you’re too exhausted.”

  “I’m not going to cook it, just eat it. Listen, Vivienne . . .”

  “Yes, Kit?”

  “I just heard about Sebastian. His death. This morning on CNN. They had some coverage of his memorial service. I’m sorry Are you holding up?”

  “Yes, I’m fine, thanks.”

  “You must think I’m thoughtless, not calling you, but I didn’t know. I’ve been leading an isolated existence.”

  “You don’t have to explain, I realized you were probably holed up in your studio, going at it around the clock.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes, I’m positive. What time do want to have supper tomorrow?”

  “You call it, Viv.”

  “About seven-thirty, is that okay with you?”

  “Yes. I’ll come and pick you up and you can give me a drink before I take you out on the town.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Mrs. Trent, you have a phone call,” Phyl said, walking down the steps that led out from the library to the swimming pool.

  “Not another one,” I groaned, pushing myself into a sitting position on the garden chaise. “I never knew I was so popular with so many people in Lourmarin.”

  “It’s Mr. Locke,” she said, coming to a stop next to me. “He’s calling from New York, he said.”

  As she spoke I glanced at my watch. It was three-thirty on Friday afternoon and therefore nine-thirty in the States. Taking the cellular phone from her, I pressed line one. “Hello, Jack, I thought you’d be in Paris by now.”

  “Hi, Viv. I will be. Later today I’m taking the French Concorde. At one-thirty. How is it there? Warm and sunny, yes?”

  “Correct. I’m sitting near the pool relaxing.”

  “Viv, I’ve heard from the police. Detective Kennelly called me. Ten minutes ago. I just hung up from him. The autopsy report’s in.”

  I sat bolt upright, swinging my legs off the chaise, gripping the phone that much tighter as I did. “What does it say? What’s the conclusion?” I asked urgently.

  “Suicide. Sebastian committed suicide. He died of barbiturate poisoning. Complicated by an excessive amount of booze.”

  For a fraction of a second I was stunned. Then I gasped, “I don’t believe it! That can’t be! Sebastian would never commit suicide. There must be some mistake.”

  “Afraid not. That’s the Chief Medical Examiner’s verdict. That he killed himself.”

  “But—but—couldn’t it have been accidental?” I suggested, grasping at straws.

  “No, Viv. It wasn’t an accident. There was too much of everything in his system. The Medical Examiner did innumerable tests. They’ve ruled out everything else.”

  “What about the gash on his forehead?”

  “That didn’t kill him. I just told you. Barbiturates and alcohol did him in. That’s what Kennelly said.”

  “How can the Medical Examiner be so sure it wasn’t an accident?” I demanded, my voice rising in my anxiety.

  “I just told you. There was far too much of everything in his bloodstream, brain, tissue, and organs. The stuff had to have been taken on purpose. You can’t argue with a toxicology report. Facts are facts, they don’t lie.”

  “But he’d never kill himself. Not Sebastian,” I protested, truly convinced of this and therefore still disbelieving.

  “How can you say that!” Jack snapped impatiently. “You’ve not been married to him for years, Vivienne. Nor spent much time with him lately. How could you know what was in his mind?”

  “He was happy,” I blurted out. “Very happy that day—”

  I stopped short, suddenly realizing I did not wish to say any more than this.

  “Sebastian happy!” Jack spluttered. “Come off it! He was never happy. Not in his entire life. He was always morose, somber. On the edge. He was a killjoy and a spoilsport. I ought to know. I lived through enough of his moods.”

  I felt a rush of cold anger sweep through me and I wanted to berate him, tell him he was wrong, tell him that he was being cruel, judgmental, and unfair. But I held myself in control, and said steadily, in a contained voice, “He seemed happy the day we had lunch at Le Refuge, that’s all I’m trying to say, Jack.”

  “That was on Monday. By Saturday he’d taken his life.”

  “So that’s when the Medical Examiner set the time of death?”

  “Yes. Saturday night. And why Sebastian did it we’ll never know. All I know for sure is that Chief Medical Examiners don’t make mistakes.”

  “I just can’t believe it,” I repeated.

  Jack said, “Believe it. That’s what happened. It was suicide.”

  “And so bang goes your theory about an intruder,” I remarked.

  “And yours about a heart attack or a stroke,” he shot back.

  “Jack, how do the police explain the mess in the library? The overturned lamp and chair, the scattered papers?”

  “They don’t. Because they can’t. They weren’t there.”

  “But they must have some sort of theory, surely? They’re used to this kind of investigation.”

  “They don’t speculate. They only deal in facts, Vivienne.”

  “He must have staggered around,” I said, thinking out loud. “Before he went outside. I wonder why Sebastian went outside, went to the lake, Jack?”

  “I’ve no idea. And these are imponderables. We’ll never know more than we know now. Listen, I gotta go. I gotta call Luciana. Fill her in. Get to the airport. See ya, kid.”

  He was gone as usual, before I could even say goodbye. I clicked off the cellular phone, lay back on the chaise, and closed my eyes. My mind was racing.

  I was furious with Jack. His attitude about his father appalled me. Since Sebastian’s death he had not been able to speak about him without sounding critical or churlish. I found this disrespectful, insulting to Sebastian’s memory, but there was no point taking Jack to task about it. My words would be falling on deaf ears.

  Only a few minutes ago he had spoken to me about Sebastian’s death as if referring to a stranger, without emotion or feeling. Or concern for my feelings either. He was cold and heartless, and this troubled me.

  Back in Connecticut, just before the funeral, I had wondered if Jack had killed his father. But I had dismissed that idea. Now I wondered again if Jack had done it, after all. Had he given his father doctored drinks, alcohol laced with barbiturates? A deadly mix, we all knew that. Did doctored drinks equate the perfect murder?

  I sat up with a jolt, impatient with myself, and squashed this horrendous thought. I doubted Jack had killed his father. He was difficult, even hateful at times, but he was not wicked.

  I also doubted that Sebastian had committed suicide. He had no reason to do so; he had everything to live for. I knew this for a fact. I knew it because Sebastian had told me that himself, he had told me he had never been happier, that he was about to start a new life, begin his life all over again.

  Lying back on the chaise, closing my eyes, I reconstructed our lunch together at Le Refuge, relived the last time I had seen Sebastian Locke alive.

  I was early. It was only twenty minutes past twelve. Nevertheless I increased my pace as I hurried up Lexington Avenue, heading for Le Refuge on Eighty-Second Street. I was due to meet Sebastian at twelve-thirty and I wanted to get there before he did.

  I succeeded, but only by a few minutes.

  I just had time to sit down at the table and catch my breath before he walked in, as punctual as he always was.

  A few heads turned to look at him discreetly as he headed toward me. And even if the other patrons didn’t know who he was, they could not help noticing him. He was tall and distinguished and he had the most glamorous aura
about him.

  At fifty-six Sebastian was as slender and athletic-looking as he’d always been, and I thought he was more handsome now than ever, with his deep tan and the wings of white in his dark hair. He wore a gray pinstripe suit, his white shirt set off by a pale-gray silk tie, and as always he was immaculate from the top of his well-groomed head to the tips of his well-polished shoes.

  His face was serious, but his bright-blue eyes were smiling as he arrived at the table. Bending over me, he squeezed my shoulder and kissed me on both cheeks before sitting down.

  “Vivi, my darling girl, I’m so glad to see you.”

  “I am too,” I said, smiling across the table at him.

  Then we both started to talk at once, and stopped instantly, laughing at ourselves.

  “It’s been months, Vivi, I feel I have so much to tell you,” he said, reaching out, grasping my hand, holding it tightly in his.

  “Almost a year,” I remarked.

  “Is it that long?” A dark brow shot up in surprise. “Too long then, darling. We must rectify that at once, not let it happen in future. But thank God for the telephone.”

  “Yes, thank God for it, but you don’t use it as often as you used to, or should,” I murmured, and added swiftly, “However, that’s not a reproach.”

  “I know it isn’t. And you’re right. You’ll consider this is a poor excuse, but I have been in some out-of-the-way places. Not to mention trouble spots, and phoning can be difficult at times. As you well know, having been there with me on many occasions.”

  “You’ve been doing wonderful work, Sebastian, cutting through all that red tape in so many countries, getting so much done. You’ve worked miracles lately,” I praised.

  “I’ve had a lot of good help. And we’ve been able to bring aid to people directly, which has been a breakthrough. Getting food, medicine, and medical supplies to those who are truly in need is gratifying. We’ve also managed to move in qualified doctors and nurses. Mind you, I’m afraid I’ve been creating more ripples than usual, if not indeed waves, wherever I go. I’ve antagonized a lot of people, Vivi, by refusing to deal with disintegrating governments and bureaucratic nincompoops who are quite frequently corrupt.”