Dangerous to Know. Barbara Taylor Bradford

to him, had committed suicide years before. His half brother Malcolm had drowned in a boating accident on Lake Como in Switzerland, in questionable circumstances. And Fiona, the youngest sibling, was the one who had vanished into thin air seven years ago, lost somewhere in that nether world of drugs peopled by the addicted, the depraved, the pitiful, and the homeless. The walking dead, Sebastian had called them.

      Ever since her disappearance, Sebastian had been searching for Fiona and, as far as I knew, detectives in the employ of Locke Industries continued to look for the vanished woman.

      The ancient patriarch Cyrus Locke aside, there were only Jack and Luciana left. And neither of them had children. How tragic it was that the Locke dynasty had so badly disintegrated into such a sorry state over the years; this great American family was almost finished, defunct. Malcolm Lyon Locke, the founding father, would turn over in his grave if he knew. I couldn’t help wondering what he would think of his descendants if he were alive. That canny Scotsman from Arbroath, who had set sail for America from Dundee in 1830 and had been a millionaire by the time he was twenty-eight, would most likely be disappointed. And I, for one, wouldn’t blame him.

      If Luciana continued to hate the idea of children and would not permit herself to conceive, and if Jack did not remarry and beget a child, then the Lockes truly would be extinct. Well, not quite. There were some cousins, grandchildren of Cyrus’s brothers Trevor and James, but they were somewhat ineffectual, nonentities really, who kept in the background and lived off their unearned incomes.

      There was a knock on my bedroom door and I heard Jack’s voice calling, “Can I come in, Viv?”

      “Yes,” I answered and as I went through into my bedroom the door opened and he rushed in, looking triumphant.

      “I’ve done it!” he exclaimed. “I talked to the pastor over in Cornwall. Funeral’s set for eleven. Burial forty-five minutes later. At Cornwall Cemetery. Up the road from the church.”

      “I know where it is,” I murmured. “I was thinking, Jack, maybe we ought to ask a few people back to the farm for lunch—”

      “A wake? Is that what you mean?” He looked at me curiously.

      “No, of course not,” I replied, shaking my head swiftly. “Not a wake. Just a simple lunch for a few close friends and family.”

      He guffawed. “That’s a belly laugh! What family?”

      “There’s you and Luciana. And me. And your grandfather and Madeleine. You can’t very well send them back to Maine without feeding them. Also, I’m sure some of your Locke cousins will want to come. And there will be a few of Sebastian’s friends, people from Locke Industries and the Locke Foundation. His assistants, his secretaries, close colleagues.”

      “I suppose you’re right,” he admitted grudgingly, looking put out. “We’d better make lists. Compare notes later.”

      “What about the other wives that are still alive coming to the funeral? Betsy Bethune, for instance?”

      “You can forget about Betsy,” he muttered. “She’s playing the piano in Sydney. She’s apparently on some sort of world concert tour.”

      “And what about Christabelle?”

      “Good God, Christa! What made you think of her? I don’t know where she is. Neither does Luciana. She’s probably dying. Of cirrhosis of the liver. Somewhere. Don’t invite her. Luciana’ll have your guts for garters. She can’t stand her mother.”

      “What about the memorial service at St. John the Divine?” I asked, changing the subject.

      “Luce is responsible for that. She promised to handle it. Today.”

      “Did she finally agree to have it there? You know how…how contrary she can be.”

      “You call me a flake, her contrary. You’re being pretty damn tough.”

      “I am. It’s about time somebody called it correctly.”

      “Brutally honest today, kid. Is that it?”

      “Yes. And you’ve been callous, cruel, and coldhearted about Sebastian. Savage, in fact. I find that hard to tolerate. You’re impossible, Jack.”

      “Okay, okay. Let’s call it quits. Put our gloves away. Shall we?”

      “My pleasure.”

      He swung around and headed to the door, but paused on the threshold. “Let’s just get him buried. And memorialized. Then I can beat it. Go back to Paris.”

      Instantly, a nasty retort sprang to my lips, but I bit my tongue, and I said in a cool, businesslike tone, “You’d better have the public relations people at Locke Industries prepare the various announcements, and then we’ll go over the material together. Just to make sure they strike the right note. That is, if you wish me to help you.”

      “I do. I’ve just spoken to Millicent Underwood. At the foundation. She’s already working.”

      “Amazing.”

      “What is?”

      “Your sudden and inexplicable efficiency.”

      “I want to get this out of the way. Over and done with,” he answered. Then he smiled at me.

      I stared at him.

      I took in that wide, genial smile, noted the complete lack of concern in his eyes, registered yet again the absence of sorrow, and I knew. He was glad. Jack was glad that Sebastian was dead.

      This clarity of vision on my part, this sudden rush of knowledge stunned me. I could only incline my head before I turned away from him, walked across the floor to the small writing table in the seating area of the bedroom.

      I stood with my back to him, composing myself. “I’ll start making my list,” I mumbled without turning around. I could not bear to look at him.

      “See ya, Viv.” Jack slammed the door behind him and was gone.

      I remained standing with my hands resting on the writing table, trembling, endeavoring to calm myself. And with growing horror I could not help wondering if Jack Locke had come back to America to commit a crime. Had he returned to murder his father? The mere thought of this sent a chill trickling through me.

      I felt chilled to the bone for the rest of the day as I went about my chores, trying to keep busy. I put my papers in order, filed my notes, and labeled the tapes from my tape recorder. The moment I finished a story I categorized all of the relevant research material and put it away for safety, and now I welcomed doing this. It kept my mind occupied.

      At the end of the afternoon, not long after Belinda had gone home, I lit the fire in the den, made myself a large mug of tea, and settled down in front of the blazing logs.

      Not unnaturally, my mind was on Jack and that terrible thought I had had about him earlier in the day. I turned this over in my mind now. It was one thing not to care very much that your father was dead, but quite another to actually be joyful about it. Was Jack happy because he had detested Sebastian so much? Or was it because he was going to inherit all that money, all that power? I seriously doubted that power meant anything to him but certainly the money did. And people did kill for money.

      I sat staring into the flames, endeavoring to squash my disturbing thoughts without much success. My mind kept turning on Sebastian’s death and Jack’s possible involvement in it. Patricide. There was nothing new about that. It was an old story, as old as time itself.

      Suddenly I had the need to talk to someone about my worries; the problem was there really wasn’t anyone I thought I could trust. Perhaps Christopher Tremain. Certainly he was the only person who I felt absolutely sure about. Kit was kind and wise, and he had proved to be a good friend to me.

      I was nothing if not decisive, and so I reached for the phone on a nearby table, lifted the receiver, began to punch in the numbers