Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (71 page)

     Before he left, Ivan said, "But I won't give it up, Miss Roberts. I'll take on other clients and expand my agency, but I'll never stamp your case closed. Who knows? Maybe someday something will show up unexpectedly, something that will lead us right to your sister."

     Philippa walked for a long time afterward, following the sometimes wide, sometimes narrow streets of Paris, involved in her thoughts. When she came to the Tuileries, the large formal gardens facing the Louvre, she strolled among leafless trees and fountains that had been turned off for the winter. A lone ice cream vendor sat engrossed in
Le Figaro
, not even bothering to look up at the sound of Philippa's footsteps on the gravel. An elderly couple struggled by on canes, supporting each other, both in long black coats and berets. Philippa couldn't tell if they were male or female or both. And a young girl with long braids, wearing a school uniform, was kneeling in front of a crying child, looking at his mittened hand and saying, "
T' as bobo à la papatte?
"

     Philippa looked at the barren trees standing against a gun-metal sky, and she felt a stab of disappointment run through her like a sword. Something had suddenly vanished from her life. The hope of finding her family, even though it had been a small hope, was gone. And Ivan's final report had been such a sad, despairing one: Philippa's father killed by her mother; her twin sister working in a Texas whorehouse. Would that have been her fate, too, if the Singletons hadn't adopted her for a thousand dollars? Johnny had given her a good life, the best he knew how. And Philippa had been sheltered in a convent, while her sister...

     Where was she now, the woman who was Philippa's same age and who no doubt bore a strong resemblance to her? Was she still alive even, or had she come to some tragic end?

     Philippa finally accepted the fact that she would probably never learn the truth, and that perhaps she had never been fated to know. It was time to stop searching, time to stop mourning the past and look toward the future.

     Suddenly she saw her life rushing by, and she realized that she was wasting precious time. Hurrying back to her hotel suite, she said to her
startled secretary, "Cancel Munich and Rome. There's been a change of plans!" Philippa picked up the phone and asked the operator to get her Perth, Australia. She couldn't wait to hear the joy in his voice when she told him she was coming to join him,
now.

     But as she was about to give the operator the number, she stopped. No, she thought, hanging up.
I'll go there instead.

     Paul was down there, sailing his new yacht, the
Philippa
, practicing for the Sydney-Hobart race.

     I won't let him know I'm coming, she thought in excitement. I'll just show up. And he'll be so surprised.

A
S THE TRAM CAR BUMPED AND SWAYED OVER THE FIRST
support tower, the passengers laughed nervously and tried not to look ahead, where appallingly thin wires looped up to the top of the mountain, swinging perilously over deep canyons and ravines, seeming to just miss the ragged granite slopes and gnarled pine trees. The passengers also tried to keep from looking back to where the desert, flat and safe, slowly dropped away from them. They fixed their eyes instead on one another as they talked and smiled, many still clutching champagne glasses from the boarding lounge, most of them sitting, but a few brave ones standing and watching the mountain walls appear to draw nearer as the tram crept slowly up the narrow ravine.

     Philippa sat in a wool coat, with a sweater underneath, but she felt the arctic alpine air nip at her ankles, where there was a small gap between the cuffs of her wool slacks and the tops of her boots. Charmie sat opposite, holding tight to a gin and tonic as she found the carpeted floor of the car immensely interesting. Ricky was one of the standees, one of the few who
looked up at the towering mountain with something close to eager anticipation. He wore a dark blue ski outfit, purchased at the Marriott, and he looked, Philippa thought, very striking; she did not fail to catch the admiring glances he received from other female passengers.

     She did not, however, notice that one of the passengers was staring at her—a man with dark hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and a closely cropped beard. His knee was going up and down like a jackhammer as he watched her. If she had been aware of him, she would not have known that when his hand went down to feel for something in his boot, as if to reassure himself that it was there, that he was touching a knife that only the night before had taken the life of a young waitress.

     She was embroiled in thoughts fixed between two points: Beverly Burgess and tomorrow's board meeting. On the one side, she might be going to Star's to find her sister; on the other, to find a traitor.

     A memory came to her from many years ago: Johnny, dancing around the kitchen in his tuxedo, saying to a young Christine, "Friends, Dolly! Always remember that friends are what count in this life. Family, relatives are fine, but you can't choose them. Friends you can choose."

     She wondered now if, in a way, Johnny had been referring to himself, because he had not been her real blood father, but in fact her best friend. Had it been his way of preparing her for the truth he must someday tell her about himself—a day that ultimately never came? She would never know. But as she thought now of the deep love she and Johnny had had for each other, the trust and caring and respect that had marked their relationship, she understood what he had meant about friends. And it brought her some measure of comfort to think that, if Beverly Burgess did not turn out to be her sister after all, she still had her friends, about whom she cared a great deal and whom she loved dearly.

     Charmie, Alan and Hannah, and now Ricky—these were her family. These were the ones she could count on and trust. Thank God, she thought, for Charmie and Hannah.

     "Dear Philippa," Hannah wrote, "I write this letter because I cannot face you and tell you in person what I have done. By the time you receive this, the missing money will be restored to Starlite and the accounts will balance and
I will be gone. I regret that I cannot offer you an explanation; believe me, it is easier on all of us if I don't. I also regret having to tell you that in order to replace the missing money, I had to sell my shares in Starlite, which, as you know, total nearly 5 percent. If, by this action, I have weakened your fight against the Miranda takeover, I am truly sorry. There was no other course of action open to me. I have valued your friendship more than I can say, and I will carry fond memories of our years together with me always."

     She signed it simply "Hannah," folded the sheet once, and slipped it into an envelope, which she placed next to her purse on the bed. She would send it by messenger to Philippa at Star's after she had exchanged her stock certificates for cash.

     Hannah dressed with unusual care as she got ready for her special meeting, which was due to take place at noon, on the northeast corner of La Cienega and Wilshire. When they had finally contacted her, agreeing on a price for her Starlite stock, the person at the other end of the line had specified the time and place where the exchange was to take place. Hannah had had no voice in it; she was their pawn. She selected a beige linen suit with heavy copper jewelry; then she combed out her short brown hair, dashed a hint of blush on her high cheekbones, and drew a soft brown line around her Indian eyes.

     When she went downstairs she was surprised to find people traipsing through the entry with tables, chairs, and awnings. And then she remembered: her Christmas party. It would have to be canceled.

     "There are going to be some changes concerning the party," she told her personal secretary, Miss Ralston. "I'll explain when I return." Realizing that she would also be telling Miss Ralston that her services would no longer be required, Hannah began to understand just how many lives were going to be affected by what she was about to do.

     As she went through the front door, she saw an unmarked van pull into the driveway. A young man in T-shirt and jeans came up the steps carrying a clipboard; he was from the Emerson Gallery and had a delivery to make.

     The sculpture—Alan's Christmas surprise! How could she have forgotten?

     "Bring it inside, please," she said, standing back out of the way. A florist's truck had also just arrived, and men were unloading massive Christmas
sprays of red and white carnations for the party. Hannah felt her anxiety grow. How on earth was she going to send all this back?

     When the man from the gallery came in with a large box, he said, "Want me to open it for you? It's kind of heavy."

     Hannah wrung her hands. It was getting late; if she wasn't at the meeting place exactly on time, the deal was off. "All right," she said uncertainly, feeling the familiar change in her heart's rhythm, a sudden uneven gallop that made her run back upstairs for her pills. She swallowed one dry, then put the bottle in her purse. By the time she was back downstairs, the sculpture was out of its packing.

     "Wow," said the deliveryman, whistling. "This is really something."

     Miss Ralston, who had been overseeing the distribution of flowers and tables, came over and said, "Oh my goodness, Mrs. Scadudo. What a stunning piece!"

     Titled
Phoenix
, the sculpture was of an eagle made out of clear polyester resin, being born out of a darker eagle cast in bronze. It stood fourteen inches high and it had cost Hannah sixty-five thousand dollars. Alan had been trying for months to get it.

     "Where shall we put it?" Miss Ralston asked, unable to take her eyes off it.

     Hannah suddenly had an idea. Alan was due back from Rio today, and since there was a chance he would go straight to the office before coming home, Hannah would take the sculpture there now, as a surprise for him to help soften the bad news she would tell him later. Hannah hoped to persuade Alan to go away with her—to sell everything they had and start over somewhere else.

     As she guided the electric blue Corvette down the winding drive, aware that this was one of the very last times she would follow this route, Hannah had to fight back the tears in order to see where she was going.

     Alan marched through the busy fashion department, where designers and cutters said, "Welcome back, Mr. Scadudo," and into Hannah's office. "Where is my wife?" he said to her secretary, abruptly and irritably; he was
tired and jet-lagged and would have appreciated someone meeting him and Caspar Enriques at the airport. He had been forced to take a cab and see to it himself that Enriques was checked into the Beverly Hills Hotel, whereupon the Brazilian gentleman had immediately changed into a swimsuit and taken off for the pool.

     "I'm sorry, Mr. Scadudo," the young woman said. "She hasn't come in today. I don't know where—"

     He turned and walked out. The next office down the hall was Ingrid's. He paused and listened at the closed door, wondering if Hannah was in there. Then, having heard nothing, he knocked and entered at the same time.

     Ingrid was on the other side of the room, going through bolts of fabric with one of the head designers. "Alan!" she said. "What a surprise! They said your flight was due in at nine o'clock tonight."

     "Christ, so that's why no one was there to meet us. We came in at nine o'clock this
morning.
" He ignored the person who was with Ingrid and, without being invited to do so, crossed over to the bar, poured himself a quick bourbon, and said, "Have you seen my wife?"

     "Do you mean lately, or in general?"

     "I'm in no mood for games, Ingrid."

     "And I'm in no mood to be snapped at, Mr. Scadudo."

     He glared at her. Then, glancing at the designer, who did not make any move to leave, he said, "Come into my office, please, Ingrid. There is something I'd like to discuss with you."

     She followed him in, closing the door behind herself. "Yes, Mr. Scadudo? What did you wish to see me about?"

     He looked at her, the tall, arrogant blonde who had said "Mr. Scadudo" with a certain disdain. "I'm not sure I care for your attitude," he said.