Jeff Abbott - No Rest for the Dead

Her brother, the last person she needed or wanted to entertain today, breezed in uninvited. Since their childhood, he’d had a knack for tormenting her when she could least withstand it. He’d shown up just in time for “cocktails, wouldn’t that be nice?” and her lack of enthusiasm for the idea hadn’t deterred him from asking Elsie to roll out the liquor cart.

Having little choice, Rosemary left Elsie in charge of seeing that the children were given their supper and joined Peter, who had made himself right at home and poured himself a drink.

“Wild horses couldn’t have kept me away. I couldn’t wait to see what you have planned for an encore. Throwing china at Chris’s head, maybe? Driving his car into the swimming pool? I hope it’s something fabulously dramatic. A drink for you, Rosie? Forgive my candor, but you look like you need a little pick-me-up.”

“No, thank you. I’m surprised you’re not hungover. You were well into your cups last night.”

“But not so drunk that I didn’t appreciate the full impact of your performance. My God, Rosie.” He raised his glass in a mock salute. “You made me proud. Standing up to Chris, with past and present lovers hanging on every accusatory word. And the museum mucketymucks, looking on with their mouths agape. It was too, too much. Honestly, I didn’t know you had it in you.” He winked. “Makes me wonder what else you’re capable of.”

“Shut up, Peter,” she snapped.

He grinned at her over the rim of his highball glass as he sipped from it. “Will the cheating bastard be joining us for drinks?”

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

Peter laughed. “What did he have to say for himself today, now that his sins have been exposed? Has he repented? Brought you flowers? An expensive piece of jewelry?”

“I haven’t seen him today.”

Peter set his glass on the table and leaned forward. “Really?”

“He… he didn’t come home last night.”

“Hmm. Interesting. I wouldn’t peg him as the tuck-tail type.” Peter looked at her archly. “Of course, who could really blame him for staying away after the public dressing-down you gave him? I suppose he’s playing the injured party.”

“Which would be like him, wouldn’t it?”

Peter reached for his drink again and sipped it while watching her thoughtfully. “It’s unlike you to speak ill of Chris. Even knowing what a fornicating, lying, opportunistic bastard he is, you’ve always defended him. Until now. Why the switch?”

“He asked me for a divorce.” The secret was out. Everyone had heard her; there was no point in hiding it now. “He insisted on a divorce.”

“And you lost it. Or so I gather by last night’s scene.”

“Maybe I will have a drink.” She poured herself a glass of white wine and sipped from it, aware of her brother’s amused gaze. She wondered if he noticed that her hands were trembling.

“Imagine Chris showing up at the museum this morning,” he said around a chuckle. “How did he face the staff? Your friend Tony Olsen looked ready to kill him. He’s probably called an emergency meeting of the board of directors, but I’ll bet he was there to greet Chris-”

“Chris didn’t go to work today. At least he wasn’t there this morning.” She told Peter about the call she’d received.

“Where do you suppose he spent the day?”

“Honestly, I don’t care.”

“Bunking with one of his lovers?”

Rosemary acted as though she hadn’t heard.

“Perhaps making cozy with the beautiful Justine?”

Justine . Rosemary’s blood turned hot when she thought of Chris’s latest conquest. Everyone at the museum knew he had taken Justine on his most recent trip to France. She was the latest in a long line of pretty curators singled out for special attention by him.

Peter continued with his speculation. “Or maybe he’s with that redheaded bitch, the one with the long fingernails who was draping herself over him last night when you made your move?”

“They deserve each other,” Rosemary mumbled. Then, rousing herself, she said, “I don’t know where he is, only that I haven’t seen him since I left the museum last night.”

“As for the state of your marriage…?”

Tears filled her eyes. “My children,” she said hoarsely. “This will be awful for them.”

Peter linked his hands and turned them inside out high above his head, stretching luxuriantly. “Ah, well,” he said on a sigh, “maybe you won’t have to worry about the messiness of a divorce. Maybe Chris’s other sins have also caught up with him.”

She wiped her eyes. “What other sins?”

“Come now, Rosemary. You can’t be that naïve. If he breaks his wedding vows, do you really believe he would be true blue to other covenants?”

“What are you talking about?”

Peter brushed a nonexistent piece of lint off the leg of his trousers. “It’s not for me to say. Maybe you should ask Stan.”

Stan Ballard, their lawyer and estate manager.

“What would he know that I don’t?”

Rosemary could tell by her brother’s sly grin that he was itching to tell. “Remember Chris’s recently broken finger?”

She nodded.

“He didn’t get it by slamming the car door on it as he claimed.” Peter’s gaze wandered to the Golden Gate Bridge, which was shrouded in fog. He smirked. “If Chris doesn’t turn up soon, maybe someone should drag the bay for his body.”

At the SanFrancisco Police Department, Detective Jon Nunn’s cell phone rang. It was Tony Olsen.

“Mr. Olsen. What-”

“I thought we were past that ‘Mr. Olsen’ business.”

They’d known each other for a few years now, but for some reason Jon Nunn could only think of Tony Olsen as Mr. Olsen . But he humored him now. “All right, Tony . It’s been a while. What’s up?”

“Do you remember the McFall Art Museum?”

“Of course,” Nunn said, remembering all too well the awkward hours he’d spent there like a fish out of water. Olsen had enlisted Nunn and his wife, Sarah, for a charity event at the McFall-the museum’s feeble attempt to give back to the community by establishing summer programs to keep kids likely to commit crimes off the streets. Olsen said the exposure would be great PR for Nunn’s career, and he felt safer having Nunn and a couple of other cops in attendance while inviting a shady element indoors. Sarah jumped at the chance and enjoyed every minute of it.

“Well, you know I’m on the museum’s board. Chairman in fact.” Olsen paused. “Something’s come up that I was hoping you could help me with.”

“Sure, Tony.” Nunn was thinking the theft of a valuable painting, vandalism maybe.

“It concerns Christopher Thomas, one of our curators.”

Nunn remembered the name-how could he forget with the way Thomas had ogled his wife and every other attractive woman at the fund-raiser.

“He hasn’t been seen in a week. It seems he’s gone missing.”

Recognizing the seriousness in the older man’s voice, Nunn stepped into his cubicle to help block out the ambient noise in the Violent Crimes Unit, where detectives who weren’t actively detecting were talking on their phones or bullshitting with each other.

Nunn listened as Tony Olsen described an ugly scene that had taken place between Christopher and Rosemary Thomas at a black-tie museum function a week earlier.

“According to the staff, he didn’t report to work the following day, which was understandable,” Olsen said. “Everyone in the hall had overheard the confrontation. It was believed he was embarrassed and needed some time to sort things out with Rosemary.”

“That’s the wife?”

“Yes. She’s a dear friend of mine. She also works at the museum. A valued employee, a very knowledgeable woman.”