Dark Homecoming (18 page)

R
ita couldn't quite believe what she was seeing when she arrived at Huntington House for work the next morning.

Carrying freshly laundered sheets upstairs, she paused on the landing. The portrait of Dominique was gone!

In its place was merely its outline, a large dusty rectangle. The blue wallpaper that had been behind the portrait was a more vivid color than the sun-bleached paper around it.

So it had finally come down . . .

Rita heard a voice from the top of the stairs.

David's voice. Talking on his cell phone.

She hurried up to the second floor. She spotted David in his study. His back was to her, and he was giving instructions in Dutch to some overseas business colleague. She slipped into the room without him noticing, closing the door behind her.

Setting the sheets in her arms down on a chair, she moved quietly across the room to her intended target.

As soon as David ended his call, Rita's arms snaked around him.

“Jesus Christ!” David shouted, shaking her off and looking back at her.

“What's the matter, David?” Rita purred. “Aren't you happy to see me?”

He glared at her, saying nothing.

Rita smiled. “Don't you realize why you had such a sudden and overpowering desire to come home?”

“Rita,” he seethed, “I told you to leave me alone . . .”

“I left you alone all day yesterday, even though I was
dying
to see you.”

“Look, Rita . . .”

“Really, David. Haven't you stopped to wonder? Why did you feel so compelled to come home, David? It was
me
. Admit it. You were thinking of me.”

Rita knew it must be true. The doll that Variola had given her . . . it had enabled her to break the spell on David and allow him to once again feel his love for her. While she refused to win him back through hocus-pocus, all the doll really did was liberate David so he could admit the truth . . .
that he loved her
.

But his face appeared far from loving.

“Get this through your head, you stupid, stupid girl,” he snarled. “I
didn't
think of you. I
never
thought of you! The only time you came into my mind was when you so inappropriately called me on my private phone to tell me about my brother.”

“David, I know you love me . . .”

“Look, Rita, I tried to be kind to you. I tried to be careful of your feelings. But you just won't get it!” His face was beet red. “I
don't
love you! I
never
loved you! I
used
you, Rita! I was an unhappily married man and I
used
you! Get that through your head!”

It was as if David had physically struck her. Rita took a few steps back, staggered.

“I came home because I was concerned about my
wife
,” David told her. “My wife—to whom I intend to remain married. My wife, whom I love very much.”

“No . . . it was me . . . me who brought you home . . .”

David pushed past her. “One more scene like this, Rita,” he told her, “and you are fired.”

He pulled open the door and stormed out into the corridor.

Rita didn't know what to do, what to say, what to think.

That doll Variola gave her . . . it was worthless!

Variola was a fraud!

But so was David.

He lied to me all that time
, Rita thought.
He let me think he loved me when he was just using me.

His words echoed in her ears.

In that instant, all of Rita's affection for the man mutated. Soured, corroded.

Changed into hate.

Now she didn't want his love.

Now all she wanted was revenge.

Rita picked up the sheets she had set down on the chair. When the moment was right, she decided, she would tell that dear, sweet little wife of his all about her husband's affair.

David had asked her to be Liz's friend. And good friends told each other things they needed to know, didn't they?

Then she'd go back to Detective Foley. She'd reveal everything she knew. She'd tell him what Jamison had revealed to her the night he was killed—that Audra had been killed right in this very house, and that Mrs. Hoffman, quite possibly with David's knowledge, had had the body moved out to the grounds.

Wouldn't Detective Foley love to know that? Wouldn't little Liz love hearing it, too?

Oh, the scandal Rita would bring to Huntington House.

A scandal that might even ruin David financially, if it appeared he covered up a murder in his house.

Maybe he'd even go to jail . . .

Rita walked out into the corridor carrying the sheets in her arms and wearing a smile that stretched across the entire width of her pretty face.

“What's got you in such a cheery mood?” Mrs. Hoffman asked her when she saw her.

“It's such a beautiful day,” Rita responded, “why shouldn't I be smiling?”

And she went on smiling for the rest of the day.

L
iz held tight to David's arm as they made their way into Roger's crowded gallery. The Naomi Collins opening gala appeared to be a great success: the room was packed with people, so full that Liz could barely see the art on the walls—which, having seen it before, she really didn't mind. David seemed to know everyone there. From the moment they arrived he was stopped, greeted, embraced, and enthused over. “David, how good it is to see you!” “David, I'm so delighted you've come!” “David, you look marvelous!” A mass of floating faces—men, women, mostly old, all obviously wealthy—overwhelmed Liz. Usually David introduced her—“This is my wife, Liz”—whereupon the eyes of Palm Beach society briefly studied her before offering a tepid “How nice to meet you” or “I've heard so much about you.” Liz wondered what they had heard, and from whom. Their names she tried to commit to memory but they all quickly blurred together. She and David did not pause to talk with anyone; they just kept pushing through the crowd, Liz clutching on to her husband as if for dear life. Where they were going, Liz wasn't sure. She just let David lead the way.

A harpist was playing at the back of the gallery; the soft music lilted through the dull roar of milling conversations. Given how hot the evening was, most everyone, Liz and David included, was dressed in beige or tan linen; temperatures were still in the nineties. But the occasional red dress stood out from among the crowd. Everywhere Liz went, eyes seemed to follow her:
there she is, David's wife, how different she is from Dominique.
Liz tried not to meet their gazes, keeping her eyes on the back of David's head as they pushed through the mob.

He was, thankfully, once again the man she had married, the man she had fallen in love with. How good, how considerate, he had been to her this past week. There had been very few business calls, and plenty of time together, lounging at the pool, taking walks on the beach, sharing candlelit dinners, just the two of them. And he had made love to her with such skill, such tenderness, that Liz thought she would never again know such bliss. “We're still newlyweds,” he'd reminded her, quoting his brother. That they were.

A couple of times, lying in his arms after sex, Liz had carefully ventured into areas she knew David was not comfortable speaking about. But he hadn't pushed her away.

“I wish you had told me more about Dominique, and about the unhappiness here at Huntington House,” she'd said softly one night.

“I'm sorry. I should have. I'm sorry I let the servants fill your head with their stories . . .”

“Did Dominique really practice witchcraft?”

“Oh, she and Variola were always brewing something up . . . island mumbo jumbo . . . but I suppose it was really nothing more than herbs and flower remedies.”

“Sometimes,” Liz said, almost dreamily, “I smell gardenias. I know that was Dominique's scent. I smell it sometimes . . . even when no one's around.”

“Liz, you're too smart to believe such things.”

“But I've been frightened, David.” She hesitated. “I thought I saw something the other day.”

He looked over at her sharply. “What did you think you saw?”

“A horrible woman . . . a terrible face. Dressed in an old robe, prowling around the sculpture garden.”

He had sighed. “We've had some problem with vagabonds getting onto the estate. There's an area where the wall is fairly easy to scale. I'll have Thad keep an eye out.”

Liz supposed that could have been the case. She remained convinced that she
had
seen someone that day. She'd never questioned Thad to find out what, if anything, he had discovered after Roger told him about the trespassing woman. She hadn't wanted to hear more talk of witches and ghosts. Surely Thad, with all his superstitions, would claim it was Dominique, back from the dead.

“It's just all been very strange, David,” Liz said. “The fragrances . . . the sound of footsteps coming from a place I can't pinpoint . . . from behind the walls . . .”

He took her gently by the shoulders. “It's my fault, darling. I should have told you more before I left, instead of letting your imagination run wild.”

“So tell me now,” Liz had said. “Tell me about Dominique.”

David had leaned back against the pillows. “I was very much in love with her once,” he said. “But then . . .”

Liz had waited, wondering what he might say.

“The love didn't last,” David finished. He went quiet. That was all he was willing to say.

“Why didn't it last, David?” Liz asked.

“I don't want to talk about the past.” David had sat up at that point, pulling Liz close to him. “I now have a wife whom I love very much. Can't we just focus on the future?”

She had murmured her consent and let the conversation end there. It wouldn't do to harass him. He would just clam up again.

But another night, after another round of tender lovemaking, Liz had tried once more to discover her husband's secrets.

“Why didn't your brother like Dominique?” she'd asked.

David had lifted one eye up to her. “He didn't tell you on one of your outings?”

“He just said that Dominique wasn't always the nicest person.” She began tracing David's face with her forefinger. “Yet clearly he'd been fond of her at one point—after all, he painted the portrait of her that was hanging in the stairwell.”

“Oh, yes,” David said, closing his eyes. “He painted the portrait. That he did.”

“I can tell that Mrs. Hoffman doesn't care for Roger. Given how close she was to Dominique, I can't help but wonder why . . .”

“You'll have to ask her then. What went on between Dominique and Mrs. Hoffman, I never much delved into. It seemed every time they came home from a trip into town they had more plastic in their cheeks and their lips had turned into suction cups.”

Liz smiled. “She's quite the sight, isn't she, Mrs. Hoffman? Does she actually think all that work has made her look younger?”

“She was encouraged in it by Dominique. It all started the day Dominique turned thirty. She was desperately scared of getting old. That was when she hired Variola, and began taking all her potions and treatments.” He laughed lightly. “That's what their witchcraft, if you can call it that, was all about. Keeping Dominique young.”

“Thirty isn't old,” Liz said.

“I hope you still think so when you get there,” David said, opening his eyes and looking up at her. “There's too much focus around here on looking young. Such a premium placed on youth. Don't listen when Mrs. Hoffman starts in on how you look, or someone else looks.”

“She can be very hard,” Liz acknowledged, remembering the day by the pool when she'd placed Dominique's photo beside her.

“Hoffman's a strange old bird, but she knows this house better than anyone. She's been here since my parents ran the place. Just let her do her thing, darling, keeping the house running, while you carry on with your own life. Don't let her get you down.”

“I just don't understand why she doesn't like Roger . . .”

“I told you, Liz. My brother is a troublemaker.”

“Is that why you said he lived far away?”

“I said we lived in different worlds. You took me literally.”

“Well, all I know is, he was very kind and sweet to me.”

“Yes, so he could get under my skin, and make me feel guilty for leaving you, which I do.” David pulled her close and kissed her. It made Liz think of the kiss Roger had given her—and made her feel all the more troubled by it now.

“All my life,” David went on, “Roger has been jealous of me. He always felt I was Dad's favorite. If I was, it's because I didn't get in trouble. I applied myself. I went to school and joined the family business. I made Dad proud. Roger hung out with musicians and artists and got himself arrested for marijuana possession any number of times.”

“When was this?”

“Back when he was a kid.”

“David, I'm not going to judge anybody for smoking pot, especially when they were kids . . .”

“But he's still underhanded, darling. I'm sure of it. Where does he get his money? Dad's given him nothing except his house, and Roger still manages to live like a king. Fancy cars, elegant parties . . .”

“His gallery has become very successful,” Liz said.

“You mean to tell me he makes that much money selling weird art?” He shook his head. “How he's ever managed to hoodwink people like Mrs. Delacorte and Mrs. Merriwell, I have no idea. These ladies are pillars of society. My mother's friends. And they're buying junk from my brother.”

“He's a good salesman,” Liz said. “Nothing wrong in that. And maybe he's right. Maybe we just don't get ‘art.' ”

She was suddenly yanked out of the memory by the sudden burst of applause from the crowd all around her. She looked around Roger's gallery. Everyone was turning to look at something.

David stopped walking. “Shit,” he grumbled. “I was hoping to get to some private corner before they started all this.”

“May I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen?” The voice was Roger's. He had hopped up onto a chair to get the crowd to stop talking. “I'd like to introduce our artist.”

Catching Liz's eye, he gave her a little smile before going on with his announcement.

“Tonight I am thrilled to have Naomi Collins with us, a brilliant new force in the art world, someone who challenges our notions of beauty and power and faith.”

The crowd parted to reveal a tall woman with short black hair, a shiny helmet with bangs cut straight across her forehead that made her look like that old silent movie star—what was her name? Louise Brooks, Liz thought. Naomi Collins was wearing a bright red dress, and she'd joined Roger up on a chair, offering a small, bashful wave to the assemblage. Liz clapped her hands along with everyone else. She noticed that David did not.

Roger was going on about what Collins meant to the art world—how she was pushing boundaries and changing definitions—but Liz tuned him out as she looked around at the crowd. They all looked so chic and fashionable and very, very rich. Watching Roger intently was Mrs. Delacorte, and Liz noticed several other well-dressed ladies of a certain age hanging on his every word. Occasionally one of them would glance over at Liz. She saw the disapproval in their eyes.
Really,
they seemed to be thinking,
that little mouse has married a Huntington?

“Will you look at that?” David whispered to her. “Nearly every painting has a red dot next to it.”

“What do the red dots mean?”

“They've been sold. And look at the prices. Ten, fifteen, thirty thousand dollars! Jesus, my brother's made a fortune tonight.”

Roger had finished speaking. Naomi Collins was thanking the crowd for coming. Then there was another round of applause and everyone went back to milling about and sipping wine. David took Liz's elbow and guided her over to a corner, whispering to her that they'd made an appearance and now they could leave. But just at that moment he was approached by a tall older man with a short clipped white beard and deep-set green eyes who started talking about stocks and bonds, and Liz knew they wouldn't be leaving quite yet. David sighed and introduced the man to her as Paul Delacorte. “Paul's on our board of directors,” David explained.

“Oh,” Liz said, shaking the man's hand. “I believe I've already met your wife.”

“Delighted to meet you, Liz,” Mr. Delacorte said as his creepy green eyes looked her over. His wife had been condescending to her, but Delacorte was an old lech as he appraised Liz up and down. She even saw the tip of his tongue slither out from between his lips for a second, like a snake.

She was about to slink off and grab a glass of wine when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned around. It was Roger.

“Thank you for coming,” he said to her.

“What a successful event,” she said. “Congratulations, Roger.”

He smiled. “This is the first time my brother has ever been to my gallery. That's your doing, Liz, and I'm grateful.”

“You're coming to our dinner party next week, aren't you?”

“Actually, I'm afraid I . . .” His voice wavered. “Unfortunately, I have a conflict. A previous engagement. But thank you for inviting me.”

“It's David, isn't it? You think David doesn't want you there.”

“No, Liz, I'm telling you the truth. I have to be somewhere else.”

She frowned. “I'm sorry, but I don't believe you. Look, David came tonight. I want the two of you to be friends.”

“Perhaps you and I being friends is the best we can hope for.”

She felt a twinge of missing him. How much fun they'd had. How much of a savior Roger had been when Liz had been feeling her lowest.

“I told David I wanted you at the party. He didn't object. Besides, your parents are flying down from New York.”

Roger smirked. “That's hardly an enticement to get me there, Liz.”

“I could use the moral support meeting them myself.”

“I'd love to support you, Liz, but I simply have a conflict I can't break.”

Liz looked at him. “It's not David, is it? It's me.”

She saw the confirmation in his eyes. She remembered their kiss. Did Roger have feelings for her that he worried might complicate things?

“We're friends, Liz,” Roger said, smiling kindly at her. “Let's be happy about that.”