Tom Savage - Mrs. John Doe

“I think I might know,” Nora said. “But first I must ask you something, Bill. Do you know where your driver is?”

Bill stared. “Andy? I have no idea. He’s off today and tomorrow. He asked for some family time-” He broke off, then leaned forward. “Why do you ask? What is it, Nora?”

Nora shook her head. “I’m not sure.” She looked down at her hands in her lap, surprised to see that they were visibly trembling. She clasped them together.

Bill Howard studied her face for a moment and then reached for the tray on the coffee table. He poured out martinis, took one over to his wife, then came back around the table and handed a glass to Nora. She raised it to her lips and drained it, the gin searing her throat before slowly warming her. She didn’t normally drink gin; she would have preferred a vodka martini, but this was England, where gin was a way of life.

Bill took her glass and refilled it. “Here, but go slowly with this one. Now, why did you ask about Andy Gilbert?”

Nora sipped her fresh drink before replying. She still hadn’t worked through everything, and she wasn’t yet sure how to explain her adventures of the last few hours. Also, deep down, she hadn’t completely dismissed Bill as a suspect. In light of this new information, this French intelligence official, it now seemed unlikely that Bill was Mr. X, even ludicrous. She’d known Bill for so long. More to the point, Jeff had known him even longer, and Jeff clearly trusted him. Still…

Jeff. Where was he right now, this minute? Would Bill Howard be able to decipher the odd conversation she’d overheard in Leicester Square today? She leaned back against the couch, gulping down more of the chilly, warming martini. She wanted all of this to be over. She wanted nothing more than to be back on Long Island, in her home with her family, her students, the health club, and the hair salon, and shopping for groceries at Whole Foods. For once in her life, the actress was tired of outlandish drama; she craved the real world.

“Nora?”

She blinked and focused on Bill Howard. He and Vivian were watching her expectantly. Nora hadn’t answered his question, and now a pang of nausea pierced her stomach. What had her mother always said about stress and alcohol?

“Andy Gilbert,” she said, choosing her words. “Bill, I think your driver may be involved with this arms deal. He met another man in Leicester Square today, a man named Yussuf. I overheard their conversation. Never mind how-I’ll tell you that part later. This Yussuf character is the one who was on the plane from New York with me, and he’s been following me ever since.”

Bill was nodding. “The pocketbook thief.”

“Yes.” Nora winced as another wave of nausea began. She looked over at Vivian, who seemed perfectly composed on the opposite couch. Her flighty friend was Caesar’s wife, after all-she certainly knew how to take all this surprising news in stride. But now the room seemed to be spinning around Nora. Choking down a sudden urge to gag, she continued. “They met in the square, and they mentioned that man you just showed me, Nassim, and two other people who just arrived in England. There was something about a Cessna cargo plane at three o’clock, and someone named Copperfield. They’re all going to meet up at Laura’s at noon. Do you know who Laura is?”

Bill Howard watched her, frowning. “Laura? I have no idea. I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“Of course you do,” Vivian said. “Laura Grantham.”

Bill smiled indulgently at his wife as he fiddled with his cellphone again. “Viv, Laura Grantham is ninety-six years old. She’s a life peer, the widow of one of our most distinguished members. She was an agent in the war, for heaven’s sake; she shot and killed three high-ranking Nazis. I hardly think these two-a-penny terrorists will be warmly received at her mansion in Belgrave Square.”

Vivian shrugged. “No, perhaps not.”

Nora nearly laughed at all this, an exchange straight out of a Noël Coward play, but another wave of nausea assailed her stomach. She clamped a hand over her mouth as a bitter taste flooded her throat. She felt warm, clammy, but her hands were cold. She grabbed her Coach bag and rose unsteadily from the couch.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” she murmured. “I’m not feeling very well.”

“Oh, my dear, of course you’re not!” Vivian was immediately at her side, grasping her arm, leading her toward the stairs by the archway. “I can’t imagine the stress of these last few days. But don’t you worry. If anyone can find Jeff, it’s Bill. Let’s get you up to my room.”

“Please don’t bother, Viv,” Nora said. “It’s just my nervous stomach. I frequently have trouble with it. I’ll be all right. I have some medicine in my bag, and I-”

They were at the bottom of the stairs when the doorbell rang. Bill Howard leaped to his feet.

“Don’t answer that, Viv!”

His wife let go of Nora’s arm and turned to him, smiling. “Calm down, darling. If those people were following you, I hardly think they’d ring the bell, do you? It’s just Shane Garson from the grocer’s with Claudia’s cream.” She turned back to Nora. “Are you sure you’ll be-?”

“I’m fine,” Nora said, smiling despite a fresh wave of nausea. “You go ahead, I’ll just be a few minutes.” She hurried up the stairs before her friend could insist. If she was going to be sick, she didn’t want Viv fussing over her. She wanted to be alone to collect herself, and to think.

The upstairs hallway yawned before her. She looked down the stairs to see Bill resuming his seat in the armchair and Vivian disappearing into the foyer to answer the doorbell. Then she staggered down the hall to the first door, the master suite. She went inside and shut the door behind her, leaning back against it for support. She switched on the light, a bright chandelier that illuminated a landscape of pink and gold, more flowers everywhere. The glare and the décor stabbed at her eyes, so she switched the light off again.

The door to the bathroom on the far side of the room was open, and the lights were on in there, so she moved toward the light, bumping against the edge of the bed as she went. It seemed to take forever to get from one side of the bedroom to the other, her boots wobbling on the soft carpet. Her sense of balance had deserted her, and her stomach was getting worse. She rarely drank, and she’d just augmented her overwhelming anxiety with two extra-large gin martinis. Her mother’s long-ago advice echoed in her swirling brain.

The hot acid flooded her throat again. She lurched into the bathroom and moved quickly over to the commode, where she sank to her knees and vomited.

On Nora’s birthday last year, her daughter had taken her to see a Broadway show. It had been a limited engagement with two big stars in the leads, so tickets had been scarce, but Dana had managed it. They’d gone into town on the train for a matinée performance, just the two of them. The play had been excellent, a revival of one of Nora’s favorites, and Dana had loved it too. Afterward, they’d returned to Long Island and driven home from the station to find Jeff waiting there with everyone she knew. Aunt Mary, her friends, her colleagues, and many of her students had crowded into her darkened living room. Dana had switched on the lights as they entered the house, and in the sudden, blinding glare, fifty laughing people in party hats had leaped out before her, tossing streamers and shouting, “Surprise!”

The light was unbearable. Vivian had redone her bathroom in shades of white and gold, and the illumination bounced back at her from every surface. She was slumped on the tiled floor, her hot cheek pressed against the freezing wall tiles, wincing at the assault on her eyes. She flushed the toilet and pressed her hands against the walls, pulling herself to her feet. Then she switched off the light and made her way over to the sink, grateful for the soothing darkness. The faint glow from the back garden shining through the pebbled-glass window above the commode was enough for her. She made out the fixtures on the sink, but she couldn’t see her reflection in the mirror above it, which was probably a mercy. She figured she must look like absolute hell.