Beneath the Raven's Moon Page 3

  “If you desire anything at all, each room is equipped with an intercom.” He indicates a small, black panel near the door. “Just press the button and give me a call. May I get you anything at the moment? Answer any questions?”

  No one speaks, so he bows and retreats from the room.

  “My father was so affected,” Billy scoffs when the door is closed. “Don’t you know he relished having a good, old-fashioned British butler? And a cook? After all, he was the lord of the manor. I wonder how many other servants he employed?”

  I see Madeleine roll her eyes. “I’m going outside for a smoke,” she announces and leaves the room, taking her drink with her.

  “She had a thing for dear old dad, you know,” Billy states when she’s gone.

  “A thing? You mean they had an affair?” I ask.

  Billy sneers. “They tell me nobody was able to get close to Malcolm Blount, but let’s just say, Madeleine’s no stranger to Ravenswood.”

  So that’s it. Billy’s jealous of Madeleine. She was close to my uncle, and obviously, Billy was not.

  The dining room at Ravenswood is about as cheery as the rest of the hulking old manor, a large, rectangular space heated only by the fire that burns in a huge hearth. It is dark and gloomy otherwise, despite the many candles that flicker throughout the room. I have no memory of this room at all. Perhaps because I was a child when I lived here, I took my meals in the kitchen.

  Billy takes the seat at the head of the table, with Madeleine to his right and me to his left. Everett Steele adjusts my chair before taking his seat to my left. His fingertips brush against my back, and I shiver involuntarily. I know why Billy, Madeleine and I have been included in Uncle Malcolm’s will, but what was Everett Steele’s relationship to Malcolm Blount? I realize he gave only a vague answer to Billy’s question, saying simply that he’d come here because he was invited. But he offered no reason why. Is he being purposefully evasive?

  Alistair and Edith serve our meal without uttering a word, and their silence descends upon our little group like a miasma. I feel stiff and awkward among these people and again wish I were back in my flat in London. Billy is the first to break the silence.

  “So, cousin Catherine, tell us about yourself. How can it be that I never knew of your existence, nor you of mine?” He gives a bitter laugh. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. My father never told me anything except to stay out of his life. And that he conveyed through his lawyer.”

  I wince and in spite of my dislike for him, I feel a pang of sympathy for Billy. He’s a jerk and a boor, but I’m sorry that he received such cruel treatment from his father.

  “I don’t remember your father, Billy. I lived here when I was a small child. I was only five when we left Ravenswood.”

  “But what about your mother? Didn’t she stay up with her famous brother?”

  “My mother…left here under unpleasant circumstances.” My chest tightens. Why am I telling these people this? But something inside me compels me to continue. I came to learn the truth of what happened here long ago. Maybe those gathered at this table have some of the answers I seek. I take a deep breath and go on.

  “My father had left us shortly before, and from what little Mother told me, I take it there was bad blood between my father and Uncle Malcolm. I gather Malcolm made Mother’s life a living hell after my father’s disappearance.” I still have a hard time using the word desertion. “We left, and to my knowledge, Mother never spoke to Malcolm again.”

  Billy leans forward with a wicked, expectant grin. “It must have been something hairy for her to do that. I wonder what happened?”

  I search my memory for the reason we took flight that stormy night. I vaguely remember the event, but not the cause. “I don’t know, and she’s never said. She just told me that she wanted nothing further to do with either Ravenswood or Malcolm Blount. In fact, she renounced her share of ownership of Ravenswood after she married my stepfather.”

  Billy’s eyebrows rise. I wonder if he’s thinking his share of the pie just got larger.

  “Where did you and your mother go?” Madeleine asks, and I see that she’s as intent on my story as Billy.

  “To New York at first,” I reply, thinking back through the fog of time. “I don’t really remember. As I said, I was only five.”

  “But she remarried?” Madeleine pressed.

  This is so painful. Maybe it’s a mistake to open this old wound.

  “Perhaps this is none of our business,” Everett Steele suggests, as if he’s read my mind. “Would you rather we changed the subject, Ms. Carmichael?”

  I’m tempted to take his offer of rescue, but I’ve come this far, and I want desperately to learn more about my uncle. I’ll answer their questions, because in time, they’ll have their turn in the barrel.

  “No. I’m fine. Thank you. And please, call me Catherine.” I address Madeleine’s question. “Yes, my mother remarried. She waited for my father for three years, then filed for divorce. She’d met a wonderful man, Alexander Gray, whom she married shortly afterwards. He’s an American, but we’ve lived in London since I was ten. He’s CEO of an international telecommunications company.”

  “Happily ever after,” Billy mocks.

  My earlier sympathy for him has vanished. “Yes, Billy. I’ve lived a good life. And so have you, it would seem, at least financially. I’ve told you my story, now you tell me yours.”

  He’s visibly surprised at my demand. I guess he’s not used to others calling his hand. I catch a smirk of satisfaction on Madeleine’s face. Billy says nothing, but I hold my ground. Nobody speaks for a long while, then Billy drains his wine glass and bangs it resolutely down on the table. “Sure, why not? Although I don’t have a wonderful stepfather in the picture. Or a mother either, for that matter.”

  His story isn’t as happy as mine. It is, in fact, dismal. His mother, Jane Fortune, was one of Malcolm’s many mistresses. Blount’s rule with his women was “no commitment, no kids.” Jane broke the rule and became pregnant with Billy. When she refused to have an abortion, Blount threw her out. “Banished” is the word Billy uses.

  “But dear old dad was getting rich and famous by this time,” he tells us, wearing his anger at his father on his sleeve. “Mom wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily. She was a smart woman.”

  I take it from his use of the past tense that Jane Fortune is dead. According to Billy, his mother threatened an expensive paternity suit, complete with a full-blown tabloid scandal just at a time when Blount’s career was taking off, so my uncle cut a deal. He set up a generous trust fund for his son, another for Jane, under the agreement that both would remain out of his life forever.

  I’m beginning to understand the depth of Billy’s anger. He longs fiercely for the love of his father, love he never had, love he now has no chance of acquiring.

  “So he waved his magic money wand, and poof, we were banished.” Billy stabs viciously at his prime rib.

  “What happened to you and your mother?” Madeleine asks, ignoring Billy’s truculence. “You must have been just a toddler at the time.”

  He chews his food and doesn’t answer for a long while. I’m beginning to wonder if he heard her, when he replies in a matter-of-fact tone, “Mother had a life to live, and she got on with it. I was raised by a nanny, and when I was old enough, I went to boarding school. And then she died.”

  That uncomfortable silence descends again on our little group, and my appetite has long fled. I will be glad for the morning and Mr. Steiner’s visit. Maybe tomorrow night I’ll be winging my way back to London.

  “Well, isn’t anybody going to ask how she died?” Billy demands, and I’m sorry I encouraged him to tell his story. He seems determined now that we know all the gory details of his unhappy life.

  Madeleine sighs heavily. “Okay, Billy, since you want to tell us, how did she die?”

  “Drowned. They say she died in a freak boating accident off Montauk Point. Personally,” he adds, cutting at another thick chunk of meat, “I think she was murdered.”

  Chapter Five

  “Maybe you should be a writer like your father,” Everett Steele suggests dryly. “What makes you think she was murdered?”

  Billy glares at him. “You think I’m making this up. I wish.” He pours more wine into his glass, and I notice the bottle trembles in his hand. He isn’t making this up, and it’s as hard for him to talk about as it is for me to discuss my father’s desertion.

  “Billy, you don’t have to…”

  His quick glance cuts me off. “It’s time the truth came out,” he growls. “My mother had been partying with friends in the Hamptons. According to witnesses, they were all pretty drunk or stoned when they went out on one of their yachts for a sunset cruise. They claimed everybody was so messed up, they never knew when she disappeared. She fell overboard, they guessed. Her body, or what was left of it, was washed on shore a few days later.”

  Nobody speaks for a long moment, then Madeleine remarks, “Sounds like it could have been an accident. Why do you say it was murder?”

  Billy grasps his knife in one hand, fork in the other and turns an angry look on Madeleine. “Because it was,” he snarls. “I know it because I saw it.”

  “You were there?” I ask, startled.

  He hesitates, then lays the utensils on the table. “No, I wasn’t there,” he says evenly, apparently trying to control his deep rage. “I was in my bed at boarding school two hundred miles away.”

  “I don’t understand,” Everett says.

  Billy toys with the knife, twirling it on the snowy white linen tablecloth, as if contemplating what to say next. “I’ve never told anyone this,” he says at last, sounding more resigned than angry, “except the cops on the case, who thoug
ht I was nuts. Don’t ask me why I’m telling you now, but…I have these…ah…visions from time to time. I see things from far away. Call it ESP. Or remote viewing, or what you will. But I saw what happened to her in a dream I had that night. She was on a boat with a man who strangled her and threw her overboard.”

  I am so embarrassed for Billy Fortune I can hardly breathe. Apparently, the others feel the same. No one speaks.

  “You don’t believe me, but damn it, it’s true,” Billy explodes. “That’s okay.” He retreats back into his anger. “No one else believed me either. Certainly not the cops. They hushed up the whole thing. After all, those are some pretty wealthy folks out there. Gotta protect their own, you know.” Suddenly, Billy jerks his chair back and throws his napkin on the table. “You can think what you want. I’m out of here,” he utters and storms out of the room.

  “I’m speechless,” Madeleine says after a long moment.

  “Have you known Billy long?” I ask, curious about my impetuous, emotionally screwed up cousin.

  “I found out about Billy quite by accident,” she tells us. “At a party in New York a few years back. He was drunk and claiming that he was Malcolm Blount’s illegitimate son. Naturally, since I’d been Malcolm’s agent for a long time, I was rather…surprised. I introduced myself to him, thinking it would shame him into telling the truth, but instead, just the opposite happened. He asked me to give his father a message.”

  “What was that?” Everett asks.

  Madeleine looks down at her plate, then raises her head and replies, “He said to tell Malcolm Blount to go fuck himself.”

  Everett clears his throat. “And did you?”

  “No. But I was scheduled to come here on business the following Monday. Malcolm never came to New York, you see. I always called on him at Ravenswood. When I saw him, I asked why he never told me he had a son.”

  “What did he say?”

  Madeleine leans back in her chair and dabs at her face with her napkin. “He came completely undone. I’ve never seen anyone lose it so badly,” she says. “His face contorted and his eyes nearly bulged from his head. He cursed me and accused me of conspiring with ‘the little bastard’ to get to him again. Of course, I had no idea what he meant, but he wouldn’t believe me. He fired me on the spot, said he never wanted to see me again and sent me back to New York.”

  She is visibly shaken at the memory.

  Mother’s words, demented bastard, come to my mind. “Why would he overreact like that?”

  “I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now, but I can assure you, I was devastated. You see, I’d put all my eggs into Malcolm’s basket, so to speak, and to be fired as his agent would have put me out of business. But…”

  She hesitates, then laughs unhappily. “What is it about this place that makes everyone want to tell their secrets?”

  “You don’t have to tell us anything,” I say.

  “Do you mind if I smoke?” she asks, fingering her gold cigarette case. Since she’s seated across the large table from me, and I’m not allergic to cigarette smoke, I don’t mind. Everett says he doesn’t either. She lights up, and like Billy’s, her fingers quiver.

  “What I started to tell you was that Malcolm’s firing me wasn’t the worst of it. We were…lovers, you see.” The cigarette glows brightly as she draws on it. “I’m a smart woman, but I’ve done some foolish things in my life, giving myself over completely to Malcolm Blount being one of them. Not only did I sever my ties with other clients when he agreed to let me represent him, I also began to see less and less of my friends and colleagues, as he demanded all my attention.” Moistures shines in her eyes. “You’re wondering how I could have lost my wits like that.” She exhales a cloud of smoke. “You would have to have known Malcolm back then. He was powerful, good-looking, sexy…”

  A long moment passes before she continues her story. “By the time this blowup happened, I had only one other close friend in the world, Shelley Parker, my personal secretary. She knew all about Malcolm and me, and although she warned me against trusting him so completely, she kept our personal relationship a secret. Malcolm wanted no one to know about us.”

  I wonder, but do not ask, if his “no commitment, no kids” rule applied to her. I suppose it did. She’d been just another mistress, after all.

  Alistair and Edith appear and clear the table. “Mr. Fortune has left?” Alistair inquires. “Will he be returning for dessert?”

  “I don’t think so,” Everett tells him.

  The pair retires to the kitchen and returns with fruit-filled crepes topped with crème fraîche. Whatever one could say about Malcolm Blount, he must have appreciated excellent cuisine, and Edith certainly delivered. I’m surprised Blount wasn’t overweight. Then I think about it. Maybe he was. I have no idea what he looked like. There were no photos of him on his book jackets, and Mother certainly never kept any pictures around.

  When Alistair and Edith are gone, Madeleine picks up her dessert fork and stabs absently at the crepes. “She died shortly after that,” she says, and having lost the thread of conversation, I don’t know what she’s talking about.

  “Who died?”

  “Shelley. She was mugged on her way to work one morning. Robbed and stabbed and left dead on the sidewalk.”

  Madeleine’s face is positively bleak, and I wish she would change the subject. I have no desire to hear about another violent death, but Madeleine won’t let it go.

  “She was all I had left, and then she was gone. I grew so despondent I couldn’t work for six months. At one time, I thought about killing myself. And then, Malcolm called.”

  She leans forward and at last scoops up a bite of the tender crepes. “You will think me a hundred kinds of fool, but when he asked me to come back, it was like someone turned on the sunshine again. I don’t like to admit it, but I guess the truth is, I loved the bastard. He meant everything to me, not just income. I missed him, and I wanted him, and I was so hurt and miserable and lonely…”

  And vulnerable, I want to add. And I feel sure Malcolm Blount knew that.

  Much later, I stand at the window in my bedroom suite, listening to the wail of the wind sighing mournfully around the sills and over the rough stone walls of Ravenswood. Perhaps it’s not the wind at all I hear, but ghosts trapped in this godforsaken place. If not ghosts, at least dark, ugly secrets the likes of which I heard tonight from Billy and Madeleine.

  The rain has stopped, and the waning moon appears ragged through the scuttling, unsettled clouds. I draw my fleece robe around me and shiver. I know I have ghosts here. I can feel them. My ghosts are secrets bound somehow to Malcolm Blount. Mother claimed it was Malcolm’s fault that my father left. But what did Malcolm do that would turn a man away from his wife and child forever? Why didn’t my father take us with him? Didn’t he love us? I turn my back to the window and climb onto the high bed, deeply troubled.

  The bed is so large, I feel like a child in it. I crawl beneath the covers, and I get the strange sensation of being next to my mother’s body, of her holding me and comforting me. I’m filled with a deep sadness, and a lump forms in my throat. But no concrete memory surfaces. I toss in the bed, trying to rid myself of this inexplicable melancholy.

  Staring into the darkness, my thoughts turn to Everett Steele. Of the four of us gathered for this dismal little party, only Everett held his silence tonight. He rarely spoke, and as soon as dinner was over, he excused himself, saying he had a script to read. What was he to Malcolm Blount? Why is he here?

  Why do I care?

  Chapter Six

  The morning dawns chill but bright, with a promise of a spring on the wind. I suspect it is faux spring, however. I don’t know how it is in New York, but at home in England, such a day can beguile a person, lull him into hope that at last the long, gray days of winter are over only to slap a blanket of snow on the meadows that very afternoon. March is a mean, deceitful month.

  Not knowing the schedule for the day, I am up and dressed early. In spite of having had only a few short hours of sleep, my body clock thinks it’s noon, even though my watch reads seven a.m. I slip out the door and shiver in the gloom of the hallway.