“So what happened?”
“Happened?”
“What went wrong?”
Diana stood. She walked over to the window and drew back the curtain. The backyard was as magnificent as the house. There were statues, gardens, and fountains. Laura could see a swimming pool, a tennis court, and a gazebo. Diana stared out, inhaling deeply as if the sight alone would make the air fresher and better to breath. “Sinclair broke it off.”
“Just like that?” Laura asked. “He was madly in love with her and he just let her go?”
Diana nodded, her eyes still looking out the window. Outside, a branch cast a thin shadow over her face. “One day it was love. The next . . . it was over.”
“Was that normal? I mean, did Sinclair Baskin do that sort of thing a lot?”
“Like I said before, Judy Simmons was an unusual case. I was surprised . . . at first.”
“But why did he break it off? His family? His kids?”
She still did not face Laura. “Not because of his family and not because of his kids.”
“Then what?”
A tight smile slowly came to Diana Klenke’s lips. “My husband loved this yard, Laura. When the weather was nice, he would come home from work early and just putter in the garden. Enjoying the fruits of his labors, he would say. He found gardening to be very therapeutic. Me, I hate gardening. But I do love the results. Don’t you?”
Laura nodded. “It’s beautiful.”
“I’m sorry. You were asking me about Sinclair and Judy?”
“Yes,” Laura said. “What ended their romance?”
Diana closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, she slowly turned away from the window, her gray eyes locking onto Laura. “His weakness. His weakness destroyed his relationship with Judy.”
“His weakness?”
“Beauty, Laura. Beauty came back and blinded him again.”
“You mean he found somebody else?”
Her smile chilled Laura. “Not just somebody else. Like I said before, Judy Simmons was attractive enough, but his last girl . . .”
“Yes?”
“She was incredible to look at, a woman sculpted by the gods. Her kind of beauty could twist a man’s mind, Laura. A man’s soul. And this woman did just that. Her beauty tore at Sinclair until the pain became unbearable. My God, she was gorgeous, nearly as gorgeous as—”
Diana’s words stopped so suddenly that Laura jumped. The color ebbed away from her face.
“What is it?” Laura cried. “What’s the matter? Diana?”
The older woman’s whole body trembled, her eyes wide and out of focus. “Mother of God.”
“What? What is it?”
“As gorgeous,” Diana said slowly, “as gorgeous as you.”
Laura’s eyes narrowed into thin slits. “I don’t understand.”
“The woman who stole him away . . . she looked just like you, Laura. You’re the spitting image of her.”
Laura’s face froze in confusion. A stray thought—an awful, unforgivable thought—stabbed at her chest with a pointed edge. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be. “She looked like me?”
Diana nodded.
Without thought Laura reached into her purse. Her mind and body were numb. She took out her wallet and thumbed through it. With trembling fingers she plucked out a photograph. “I know it’s been thirty years,” she began in a voice that had no tone, “but could this be the woman?”
She passed the picture to Diana Klenke, who once again slipped her reading glasses onto her face. She stared at the picture for a very long time. “Yes, that’s the woman.”
“How can you be sure? It’s been—”
“I’m sure,” Diana interrupted. “You don’t forget a woman like that.”
Laura snatched the picture back, almost defensive now. She held the picture against her chest as if it were more than just an image on paper. After a few moments, her hand pulled the picture back, her gaze studying the woman in the photograph as if for the first time.
Her mother.
“Mary,” Diana said suddenly. “Her name was Mary.”
Laura felt drained, helpless, like a shaken prizefighter who was not sure where the next punch was coming from.
“And one other thing,” Diana added.
“Yes?” Laura managed.
“That woman was the last person to leave Sinclair’s office before his suicide.”
GRAHAM knew he would have to make the call. There was no real reason to put it off. Besides, he had no idea what had happened in room 607 when David went up there. Baskin might have just been on the receiving end of a chewing out from his mother-in-law. Wouldn’t be the first time a mother-in-law butted in where she didn’t belong. Graham’s, for example, was a full-time nag. She probably wouldn’t fly across the Pacific just to nag him, but Graham wouldn’t put it past her either.
He picked up the phone and dialed Laura’s number. Graham was a pure procrastinator—had been that way since he was a kid. He liked to put things off, especially delivering bad news. He wasn’t lazy, mind you, and yes, he knew he would have to do it eventually, but if he put it off, maybe it would just disappear altogether or the world would blow up or reality would change. That was why Graham felt relieved when he heard the answering machine pick up.
He left a message asking Laura to call him and then took another swig of whiskey.
RICHARD Corsel loved to watch ice hockey. Players would gently glide across a floor of glacial grandeur, lost in the bliss of free skating, only to be on the receiving end of a bone-crunching wallop from some gargoyle with more facial scars than Michael Jackson in bright sunlight.
What a game.
Naomi was not so crazy about the sport, nor was she particularly happy about the way the twins had taken to their father’s passion. “You might as well have gotten them into professional wrestling,” she had scolded him.
“Come on, honey, it’s not that bad.”
“I don’t want my boys playing hockey—do you hear me?”
But Richard was not worried. After all, he had never played ice hockey. In fact, he didn’t even know how to ice skate. But the game was the perfect spectator sport. Richard became so involved in the banging and hitting and, yes, the artistry of the battle that thoughts of the bank and the bills and his own mortgage disappeared.
TV 38 was his station. They carried the Boston Bruins games, though that expensive cable station was starting to eat up a lot of the hockey schedule. He would probably have to break down and order SportsChannel soon, but he hated the idea of paying to watch hockey on television. There was something blasphemous about it.