The Chase: A Novel (7 page)

Why had he wandered off and into the den, alone, when the party was confined to the living area and the terrace? None of the other guests had ventured around her house.

Claire turned and looked over her shoulder, directly at his silver reflective lenses.

“Should I scatter his ashes?” Jean-Léon asked. “Claire? Everyone’s waiting.”

Claire focused. She wasn’t holding merely a pot of ashes; she was holding David. There had been a will, she had read it, and this was what he had wanted. Claire clutched the urn to her chest. She looked down. The water was so bright. The rocks, so big and jagged. And she thought,
Good-bye. Goodbye, David.

This is really good-bye.

Claire stepped abruptly forward to the very edge of the cliff and turned the urn upside down. As she did so, it slipped and fell; David’s ashes lifted on the wind. Claire watched the urn crashing down onto the rocks below, finally shattering.

She shivered as she watched a few last ashes drifting on currents of air.

There was a pressure on her arm. Jean-Léon was guiding her back toward the crowd. People were approaching them. Claire sought the smile she had somehow lost minutes ago, managed to find it and drag it back into place. Instantly, her mouth hurt, aching from being held so long in one impossible position. Claire began accepting condolences, shaking hands.

“So sorry . . .”

“Claire, how terrible . . .”

“In time . . .”

The murmurs and gazes were being directed at her. Claire was surrounded now by strangers—she knew everyone but couldn’t recognize anyone. Voices and more voices, pity and more pity. She had become separated from her father, whom she saw on the other side of the crowd. Control. Now was not the time to unravel and lose control. Her smile became firmer. Yet there was a pressure in her chest that was uncomfortable and sickening, even frightening, and it would not go away. Almost desperate, she looked around for the Dukes and finally saw Elizabeth, who, being so tall, stood out. But she, too, was far away, with dozens of dark-suited men and women between them.

“Terribly, terribly sorry . . .”

“If there is anything we can do . . .”

“We truly must tell you how sorry we are. . . .”

Claire looked for Elizabeth. Across the crowd, their eyes met, and Elizabeth understood and began to weave through the mourners to come to her. It was then that Claire saw Marshall again.

He had left the crowd of mourners and was waiting for cars to pass so he could cross the road and find his own vehicle. Anger sizzled inside of her. Why had he lied about being David’s friend? And just who the hell was he?

Claire shoved into the crowd. Someone gasped her name; Claire ignored it. She thought she heard Elizabeth calling her, and then her father. Claire did not stop. Resolution filled her. It was a good feeling to have. It chased away the panic.

Somehow she made it through the crowd and to the road, where the cars were double-parked up and down the far side, against the steeply sloping ridge of the headlands. Just as Claire reached the blacktop, she saw Ian Marshall, pausing before the door of a black sedan. Claire ran across the road—almost in front of an oncoming car.

It swerved to avoid her, the driver honking angrily at her.

“Claire!” Ian ran to her and grabbed her arm. He seemed pale, but surely not because of her close encounter.

Claire shook him off abruptly. “We have to talk,” she said.

“You have to be careful,” he began. “That car almost hit you!”

“Hardly.” She looked at his black Mercedes. “I need a lift.” She started toward his car, feeling just how squared her shoulders were. Her short strides felt hard.

He fell into step beside her. “Claire, are you all right? Maybe you should stay with your father. I’m sorry about David.” They paused beside the driver’s door of the sedan and faced each other. He slid off his sunglasses.

“Are you?” She did not remove hers.

He seemed startled. “Excuse me?”

Claire felt herself flush. “I’m sorry. What I mean is, I need to ask you some questions, Ian.”

His eyes had seemed soft with concern. Now they filled with a wariness she had seen once before—when David had stepped into the den and caught them there together. “What about?”

“You said you were David’s friend. We’ve never met.”

“I guess David and I were more business associates. What’s this about, Claire?”

“You said very distinctly that you were his friend.”

He stiffened. “It was just a way of speaking. Like, hey, how are you, nice to meet you—I’m a friend of David’s.”

So she had been right, they weren’t friends. “What kind of business are you in? Are you a lawyer?”

He hesitated. “No, I’m not.”

Claire began to feel like he didn’t want to answer her questions. “What kind of business could you have had with David? And what do you do?”

“He was advising me—in a kind of offhand and
friendly
way. As a favor to a mutual friend. And I told you what I do. I consult for firms doing business mostly in Europe and the Middle East.”

Claire didn’t get it. “Consult how? On what?”

“Look, Claire, I can see that you are feeling a bit upset right now—”

“I’m not upset, I’m pissed,” she said, shocking herself.

“Maybe we should give this conversation a rest for a few days. I could call you next week.”

Claire didn’t really hear him. She was stunned. Had she just said that she was “pissed”? She didn’t even use that kind of language. Her heart was racing now. “What?”

“You’re upset.” His tone was gentle. “As you should be. What happened to David was terrible. I can call you next week, when some of the shock has subsided.”

She looked him in the eye—through the black lenses of her sunglasses. “You don’t want to answer my questions, do you?”

He stared. “No. Not today. Not here. Not now.”

Oddly, his answer made her feel savagely satisfied.
He was hiding something
.

“Shall I give you a ride to your father’s?” he asked.

As if she wanted to get into the car with him, when he refused to answer her questions, when he might somehow be involved in what had happened to David. “I’d like one of your cards. I’ll call
you
” she said.

His eyes widened. “Okay,” he said, drawing out the single word. He reached into his breast pocket, then said, “I don’t seem to have my wallet, or my cards.”

He was full of shit. He was lying. What was going on?

“I see,” Claire said, feeling her cheeks burning. She was going to speak with Murphy the minute she got back across the street.

“Claire, what is this about? I can understand why you might be angry—but surely you’re not angry at me?”

She smiled her socialite’s perfect smile. “Why would I be angry with you, Ian?”

“I don’t know. We just met. In fact, I thought we hit it off rather well.” His gaze was searching.

She felt triumphant for not having removed her sunglasses. “I am a married woman, Mr. Marshall,” she warned. Too late, she could have kicked herself, as she was a widow and the warning was certainly a giveaway that she knew he was not being straight with her. Besides, today he hadn’t made a pass. Today there was no chemistry.

“What?”

She corrected, “I mean, I’m a grieving widow.”

“I am aware of that. Have I done or said something inappropriate? Because if I have, I am terribly sorry.”

She wet her lips. She wanted to ask him if he had left the party the moment he had left her upstairs in the hall, or if he had lingered. But she did not. Murphy could ask him that.

But did she really think him capable of murder?

Claire wasn’t sure. She knew only that he was being highly evasive—he didn’t want to answer her questions, he had no business cards, he wanted to call her next week. She would not hold her breath. And she still didn’t know what he did for a living.

But she could find out. David’s secretary, Geraldine, knew everything in David’s life, right down to the size of his shoes and suits.

Ian suddenly touched her shoulder. Claire stood very still. “Things will get better, Claire. I mean, as far as David goes.”

She stared, not responding.

“Can I call you next week? To see how you are doing? As a friend,” he added quickly.

They weren’t friends. They were strangers who had been attracted to each other briefly during a party. But that was before David had been murdered. “Of course.” She put on her smile again.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that. It hurts me when you try so hard to pretend that you’re okay and nothing is wrong,” he said quietly.

Her chin came up. Her shoulders squared. “I will deal with life my way, Mr. Marshall, and you may deal with
your
life
your
way.” She nodded abruptly and turned to cross the road.

“You’re a strong woman, Claire. It’s obvious. You’ll get through this. It will just take some time,” he said to her back.

This time, Claire waited for the traffic to subside before crossing. She did not answer him.

The moment she settled in the car beside her father, she reached for the phone. Murphy had not been present when she had rejoined the mourners, clearly having taken off with his partner.

“I think that went well,” Jean-Léon said, pulling back onto the road carefully, easing into the slow-moving traffic.

Claire didn’t answer. Instead, she dumped the contents of her purse into the center of her lap.

“What are you doing?” her father asked with surprise.

Claire was usually neat and organized. “I’m looking for that card Murphy gave me. You know. The detective in charge of the murder investigation.” She sorted through tissues and a mirrored compact, several bobby pins, her wallet, her house keys.

Jean-Léon took the phone from her lap and hung it up. “What’s this about, Claire?”

She finally took off her sunglasses. “I want to know if he’s questioned Ian Marshall about David’s murder.”

“Marshall? The guy from New York? The one you were just talking to on the road?”

“Yes. He’s from New York?”

“That’s what he said,” Jean-Léon said as they drove alongside the bay but hundreds of feet above it. “I met him at the party. We only spoke briefly. I didn’t like him.”

That made Claire stop searching among the items and debris in her lap. “Why not, Dad?”

“I don’t know. An instinct, I guess. I think you should stay away from him. Why did you chase him over to his car?”

“Because he claimed to be a friend of David’s, and that’s not the case. I want to know who he is and what he does,” Claire said. “Do you know?”

Jean-Léon stared at her searchingly for a moment. “He said something about consulting for firms that are start-ups in foreign countries. I didn’t push. A few people commented about how you two were together after that night. I told everyone he was an old family friend to explain your behavior. I think everyone accepted it.”

Claire met his eyes. “I’m sorry. You didn’t have to lie on my account.” God, even her father, who was so astute, could not figure Ian Marshall out. He was becoming a full-blown mystery. Or was she the one who was paranoid and hysterical, in her state of loss?

He stared at her directly again. “Claire, I am worried about you. You know you can stay with me as long as you need to, as long as it takes for you to get settled again.”

Claire started. Her father was not the kind of man to worry. He was too preoccupied with acquiring new talent or old masters to think about much else. She was touched. Her heart melted instantly. “Thanks, Dad.”

“I don’t want anyone taking advantage of you right now,” Jean-Léon said, surprising her anew.

Claire stared. “What?”

“We don’t know this Ian Marshall, and I don’t think you should be involved with him. We don’t know what he wants, Claire.”

Claire trembled. He was right. But why the warning? “Dad? Do you know something about him that I don’t?”

“I told you everything that I do know. Again, it’s just my intuition, but I have very good intuition, and I think the man might be trouble. I’ll call Murphy for you as soon as we get to the house. I want an update on the investigation, anyway.”

Claire nodded, relieved that her father would help, and suddenly exhaustion overcame her. She stuffed her things haphazardly back in her purse and closed it. She would take a nap the moment she got back to the house, she decided, and then she would call Geraldine and find out just who Ian Marshall really was, and what it was he was after.

She was determined to reach the truth.