T. Bunn - Winner Take All

“Whom should I say is calling?”

Kirsten recognized the precisely superior tone. “You know exactly who this is.”

A fragment of hesitation, then, “I beg your pardon?”

“First of all, I want to thank you.”

“What on earth for?”

“Saving our lives. Secondly, I want to check some facts.”

“I am still waiting,” Evelyn Lloyd replied, “to learn whom I am addressing.”

“You knew something was wrong when you learned about Kedrick selling his hotels. He had to have something serious going on for him to want that much money at this point in his life.” When Evelyn did not respond, Kirsten added, “Did you know he’s purchased Dale’s house with the remaining funds?”

“Young lady, I thoroughly detest this insinuating tone of yours.”

“My guess is you’ve tracked his every step,” Kirsten continued. “The only problem was, it simply isn’t done in your circle.”

“What isn’t?”

“Going after your own husband.”

The woman on the other end was silent so long Kirsten feared she had hung up. Then Evelyn said, “Obviously you are addressing the wrong person. But whoever it is that has acted in such a manner, I would say they had an uncommon appreciation of the cold sweet taste of careful revenge.”

“I’m not looking to blame anyone,” Kirsten said. “I just want to find the child.”

This time the pause was even longer. “Not here.”

Then the phone went dead.

Evelyn Lloyd took great care with her dress and makeup. Everything she selected bore the invisible stains of memories made bitter by lies and deception. The gown was a Dior one-off, designed for the first reception they had given after completing the renovations of Kedrick’s family castle in Wiltshire. The work had taken three years and almost four million of her dollars. They had brought in woodworkers from the Garonne region of central France, the only place they could find people still skilled in the Jacobean style of paneling. The step-in fireplace was carved from massive blocks of white Grecian marble, sculpted as close to the original sketches as they could manage in this day and age.

Her diamond-and-emerald necklace had also been a gift from Kedrick-acquired with her funds, of course. They had celebrated their ninth wedding anniversary with a weekend getaway to Paris. They had taken a suite at the Ritz and walked across the Place Vendôme to the same jewelers who had served Kedrick’s great-great-grandfather, back in the family’s heyday. That same weekend had been Kedrick’s first occasion to hear Erin Brandt sing. The young diva had lit up the Paris Opera House with a brilliance that had outshone even these fabulous gems. Evelyn fastened the necklace into place, grimacing at the bitter irony of such tainted and poisoned joy.

She gave her makeup a careful check, then crossed the foyer to Kedrick’s office. The servants all had been given the afternoon off. The apartment was uncommonly still. The only sound came from Kedrick’s sound system. She recognized the muted strains of Tchaikovsky’s tragic opera Eugene Onegin . Even here was a note of fatal correctness.

Evelyn pushed open the doors and entered the stage.

Her husband was seated behind his massive stinkwood desk. His cell phone lay open and waiting upon the leather blotter. His hair was a scattered sheath of winter wheat. His face looked ravaged with strain. He cast her a glance, then started to look away. Then it gradually registered. She stood with regal dignity, both hands holding the handles to the double doors. “Yes?”

“I came to inform you,” she said, “that this particular script will not play out as you intended.”

He sought to gather himself, but failed. “I beg your pardon?”

She started to walk over and turn off the music, but decided it suited the occasion more than silence. The final act was building now. Onegin was about to confront the utter depravity of his misdeeds. “Let me guess. You and your minions can’t locate the child.”

Awareness dawned within that burning gaze. “What are you saying?”

“You couldn’t possibly think that I would let you get away with all this. My only regret is that I did not think you capable of murder. But then, I have always sought to believe the best in you. Even when you have constantly sought to prove me wrong.”

“My dear, you are not making-”

“The authorities are seeking your Mr. Jones and that strange little German fellow as we speak.” She rose up to her full height, wishing there was some sense of satisfaction to be found in this moment. Some vindication. “And both Marcus Glenwood and Kirsten Stansted are alive.”

He took the news as he would a blow to the heart. “What?”

“I failed to protect Ms. Brandt, though heaven knows she deserved her fate as much as anyone. But as for these two, my guess is they are now sharing their suspicions with the proper authorities.”

The rage she had always known was there gradually fueled the ravaged features. “Then there is nothing to keep me from exacting my final revenge upon you.”

“Revenge for what, Kedrick? Remaining blind to your deceit for far too long?” Evelyn stepped back enough to call into the foyer, “Come here, please.”

The muscled young detective stepped in alongside her. Evelyn watched her husband descend into the dust of defeat. She then pointed to the sound system. In this production Onegin confessed to his life of misdeeds, then shot himself in the temple. “Perhaps you should consider the wisdom of your one and only love.”

Judge Rachel Sears pointed Kirsten into the seat directly in front of her desk. They were in Sears’ private office on the district courthouse’s ninth floor. Photographs of her husband and child were situated on her desk and the two window ledges. The sofa upon which Marcus sat was beige leather. The feminine tone was matched by the three chairs and the Indian carpet and the desert scenes on her walls. Kirsten tried to keep from paying Marcus any attention, but it was hard. He looked increasingly pale, as though his strength continued to seep from some undetected wound. She wanted him back in bed, resting and comfortable. She wanted the same for herself. But not yet.

Judge Sears had the gaze of too many hard days compressed into too little time. She did not shout. She did not need to. Her presence was commanding, even here in her personal space with the judge’s robes hung on the back of her door. “You want to tell me what has happened here?”

“I don’t know,” Kirsten replied. “But I can guess.”

Wilma Blain was seated beside the court stenographer over by the window. Kirsten was alone in her front-and-center position, taking the full brunt of Sears’ gaze. “Erin Brandt and Kedrick Lloyd had a long-term affair. Kedrick was spellbound by her. Erin was Erin.”

Judge Sears had the ability to bark at scarcely above a whisper, “What is that supposed to mean?”

Wilma Blain said mildly, “Why don’t we just let the lady tell her tale.”

The judge and the DA exchanged a long glance. Then Sears turned back to Kirsten and rolled her finger. Go.

“Erin Brandt was a magnetic, alluring, beguiling diva. More than anything, she wanted a starring role at the Met. She considered it the jewel in her crown. There were obstacles. She thought Kedrick Lloyd, as a Met board member, was in a position to give her what she wanted. She used him.”

“The child is Kedrick’s?”

“Kedrick thought so. And that was enough for Erin. But still Kedrick could not get Erin a debut at the Met. So to punish Kedrick, she married Dale.”

“Why?”

“Dale Steadman is Kedrick’s best friend.”