4
CHEVY CHASE, MARYLAND
THURSDAY, NOON
OCTOBER 29
Rebekah parked her silver Beemer on a side street, pulled the strap of her handbag over her shoulder, and stepped into the bright October sunlight. She gave the hood a quick pat. She loved her Beemer, her twenty-eighth birthday present from her husband. She sighed. She had to hurry or she’d be late to her daughter-in-law’s whoop-de-do planning luncheon. Celeste wouldn’t like that at all. But her meeting with her client, Mr. Herriot, had taken longer than expected. The news she’d had to give him hadn’t made him at all happy. She didn’t blame him. Mr. Herriot had even heard of Carlos Bizet, and when she’d pointed out the details that were his trademarks, he couldn’t argue with her. He’d even grudgingly thanked her, after he’d calmed down. Delivering bad news was never her idea of fun. She’d much rather be toasting the client with champagne. Well, now she’d taken on the best of clients, Mrs. Venus Rasmussen, a venerable icon of Washington, D.C., society, and still the active CEO of Rasmussen Industries. She’d hired Rebekah to authenticate a group of six paintings she wanted to purchase for the newly remodeled executive reception area in her headquarters. Better to hire Rebekah up front than to buy the paintings and find out she’d been had, Mrs. Rasmussen had told Rebekah.
Rebekah forced herself to slow down, to breathe in deeply, to reboot. She wasn’t all that late, and no one would care anyway if she missed the soup course. So why not enjoy the perfect fall day, feel the cool breeze stirring the fallen leaves in nearby yards? She decided to relish her block-long walk to Celeste’s house in this quiet, elegant neighborhood in Chevy Chase. When she’d driven by Tucker and Celeste’s house a few minutes earlier, she’d seen the big circular driveway bulging with the cars of all Celeste’s cronies and heaven knew who else, and continued on to park next to a nice shaded curb a block away.
She’d told Rich that Celeste had only invited her to this planning luncheon because she didn’t see a way out of it. The last thing Celeste wanted was for Rebekah to complain to her husband. Rebekah knew Celeste would just as soon see her on the next transport pad to Timbuktu, considered her only a trophy wife of a rich man suffering a midlife crisis. Rebekah wouldn’t be surprised to learn Celeste offered that opinion to anyone willing to listen, and that most people Celeste knew would listen happily.
Her husband had patted her cheek, told her to suck it up because Celeste was important to him. Of course, he meant her family—with their huge donations, the power they wielded was important to keeping his seat in Congress for another term. “She also has an excellent cook, so you’ll eat well. As for all the other people there, they’ll be pleasant and, of course, talk about you behind your back when you’re out of hearing. At least it’s for a good cause.” He’d tapped his hand over his heart. She still didn’t want to go, but obligation was the engine that ran most everyone’s life, particularly if you were a politician’s wife. You were gracious even when you wanted to punch the mouth trying to manipulate you.
Even though Celeste was holding the planning luncheon at her own home, she wanted the main event, a huge formal charity function, to be held at her father-in-law’s magnificent house in Kalorama Heights. Rebekah had wondered aloud to Rich why Celeste wouldn’t want to hold the charity function in her own lovely old Georgian house on Hempstead Road.
“Because,” Rich had told her patiently, “Celeste considers me a power in Congress, thus a draw to the big spenders.” And he’d rolled his eyes and grinned.
One of her husband’s best qualities was that he never took himself too seriously. She’d said, “I wonder how it makes Tucker feel to know he’s not important enough or his house grand enough to host this shindig?”
“Were I my son, I would be royally pissed.” He’d shrugged. “It’s not my problem. If Tuck doesn’t like it, it’s up to him to stop it.”
Her thoughts went back again to the events of last night, her memories of Zoltan tumbling into her brain. In the bright sunlight on this crisp October day, what had happened now seemed preposterous, unbelievable. When Rich had met her at the door last night, he had drawn her in and kissed her deeply. She’d settled willingly against him, breathed in his seductive Armani scent. Had he worn the same scent for his first wife? She felt ashamed and hugged him tighter.
“So tell me, my beauty, about this Zoltan. Did you find out what your grandfather wanted to talk to you about?”
She heard no mocking in his voice, no barely hidden sneer, even though she knew he didn’t believe the dead had a working voice any more than she did. But he knew her grandmother believed and Rebekah was curious, so he encouraged her to go if she wished. She raised her face. “Grandfather called me Pumpkin again—through Zoltan. But of course he didn’t really because he’s dead, so how did she know? She invited me to come back, but I’m not going. All of it was really absurd.” She paused a moment. “She’s a charlatan. I didn’t even wait to find out what she hoped to gain from it all.” She shook her head. She felt the beginnings of a headache.
“So John, your grandfather, didn’t speak to you, he spoke to you through her? Did you recognize his voice?”
“Not really. He wanted to talk about a story he’d told me as a child.”
“A story? Oh sure, you told me several of them he’d entertained you with when you were young. But one particular story?”
She nodded. “Actually, one I never told you, a secret story, only between us, only for me.” Her head began to pound. She drew a deep breath, held his dear face between her two hands, and smiled up at him. “I’m not going back.”
Bless Rich, he’d only patted her face and led her into his study. He knew she loved this large room, all dark wood, rich burgundy leather sofas and chairs, and built-in bookshelves that reached the ceiling.
Her husband had sat beside her on the soft leather sofa, lightly stroked his hand over her cheek. “Tell me, was Zoltan at all convincing?”
“Well, she’s remarkably talented and has all the bells and whistles, like dimming lights, fire leaping up in the fireplace, that sort of thing.” She sighed. “Rich, I really want to forget it.”
He took her hands between his, kissed her fingers. “Let it stay between you and the Departed, at least for now.” He grinned as he spoke. Again, there was no judgment, no sarcasm in his voice.
Rebekah tucked her legs beneath her and leaned into her husband. “Enough about mediums. Tell me about your day.”
“I arranged a meeting with Jacqueline tomorrow, and I know she’ll want my support about her most recent skirmish with the president over his tax-cut proposal. Trust me, most everyone is afraid she could blow up the party’s re-election chances if she oversteps.” He sighed, sat back, and sipped his brandy.
“If she persists, smile at her and tell her the last thing she wants is to lose her own position as Speaker of the House.”
He laughed and kissed her forehead next to where her headache still brewed.
That’s not important right now. Put it away. Focus on Celeste and this blasted lunch, maybe practice a sincere smile.
Rebekah looked to the left, then to the right. Except for her Beemer, Hempstead Road was practically empty of cars this time of day. Well, it was never jammed with traffic any time of day, actually. She was about to step off the curb when she heard a car engine coming up from her left, closing fast, terrifyingly fast. She whirled about as a white SUV screeched to a stop beside her. A big man dressed in black, wearing a mask, a hoodie pulled over his head, jumped out and grabbed her. Rebekah screamed and kicked up at his groin, but he turned in time and her knee struck him hard on his thigh. He cursed, jerked her arm up high behind her, and raised a syringe.