stories. Obituaries inside.”
I pulled the newspapers toward me. Jack had brought the New York Post, the New York Times, and the Daily News, and as I spread them out in front of me I saw that they were more or less saying the same thing in their different ways. A great and good man had been found dead, circumstances suspicious. All three papers decried his death, sang his praises, mourned his passing. They carried photographs of Sebastian and they were all fairly recent ones, taken in the last couple of years. He looked wonderful—distinguished, handsome and loaded with glamour, dangerously so. But that had ceased to matter.
Skipping the Post and the News for the moment, I concentrated on the Times. The front page story by the reporter who had spoken to me on the phone yesterday was well written, careful in its details, cautious in its tone, and scrupulous in its accuracy. Furthermore, I was quoted verbatim and without one word I’d said being altered or paraphrased. So much for that. And certainly there was nothing sensationalized here.
I turned to the obituary section of the New York Times. A whole page was devoted to Sebastian Lyon Locke, scion of a great American dynasty, billionaire tycoon, head of Locke Industries, chairman of the Locke Foundation, and the world’s greatest philanthropist. There was a simplified version of his life story; every one of his good deeds was listed along with the charities he supported in America, and there was a fund of information about the charity work he did abroad, especially in Third World countries. It had obviously been written some years earlier, as most obituaries of famous people were, with the introduction and the last paragraph left open, to be added after the death of the particular individual had occurred.
Glancing at the end of the story, I was surprised to see only four names. I was mentioned as his former ward and his ex-wife—as if the others had not existed—along with Jack and Luciana, his children, and Cyrus Lyon Locke, his father, whom I’d completely forgotten about until now.
“Oh my God! Cyrus!” I cried, lowering the paper, looking over the top of it at Jack. “Have you been in touch with your grandfather?”
“That old coot! He’s more dead than alive. Rotting in Bar Harbor. In that mausoleum of a place. It ought—”
“But have you talked to him?” I cut in. “Does he know about Sebastian’s death?”
“I spoke to Madeleine. Yesterday. Told her everything. The old coot was sleeping.”
“Did you tell her to bring him here for the funeral?”
“Certainly not. He’s too old.”
“How old is he?” I asked, frowning. Cyrus’s age escaped me for the moment, but he had to be in his eighties.
“He was born in 1904. So he must be ninety. And he’s too old to travel.”
“I don’t know about that…look, he should come, Jack. After all, Sebastian was his only son.”
“His last surviving son,” Jack corrected me.
“So what did Madeleine say?”
“Not much. As usual. Gave me her condolences. Talked about Cyrus being frail. But not senile. I can’t stand her. She’s the voice of doom. Even when she’s wishing you well.”
“I know, impending disaster does seem to echo in her voice. And I’m sure what she said about Cyrus is true, that he’s not senile. Cyrus Locke has always been a remarkable man. Quite remarkable. A genius, really.”
The phone rang, interrupting our conversation. I went to answer it.
Picking up the receiver, I said, “Hello?” and then glanced over at Jack. Covering the mouthpiece with my hand, I murmured, “Talk of the devil. It’s for you, Jack.”
“Who is it?”
“The voice of doom with an Irish accent.”
“Hello, Madeleine,” Jack said into the phone a split-second later. “We were just talking about you. And Cyrus. Vivienne wants to invite you to the funeral, Madeleine.”
I glared at him, silently mouthing, “It’s not my funeral.”
Ignoring me, he listened to Madeleine for a few minutes, said good-bye, and hung up. He lolled against the door jamb with a thoughtful expression on his face. “I left this number at the farm. With Carrie. Mrs. Crane’s niece. She came in to help. Until her aunt gets back. Tonight.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said, and sighed, threw him a reproving glance. “Tell me, Jack, why is it you have the need to put the burdens of this family on me most of the time? This is not my funeral. It’s your responsibility. Yours and Luciana’s.”
“Forget Luce. All she wants to do is run. Back to London. To that twerp of a British husband of hers.”
“Isn’t he coming for the funeral?”
“Who?”
“The husband. Gerald Kamper.”
“Who knows. But he wants to come. The old coot. Grandfather.” Jack made a face. “To the funeral of a son who loathed him. Can you beat that?”
“I knew he’d wish to be present.”
“Merde,” Jack muttered half to himself.
“It’ll be all right, we’ll manage well enough,” I reassured him. “And it is only natural he wants to attend his son’s burial.”
“Only natural! Don’t be so stupid! There’s nothing natural about Cyrus Locke. Just as there wasn’t anything natural about Sebastian. He had no feelings. Neither does Cyrus. Faulty genes, I suspect. And the old coot’s a monster like his son was. Better he remain in Bar Harbor. With his secretary-housekeeper-mistress-jailer. Or whatever the hell she is. I—” Jack stopped and grinned in that awful, ghoulish way of his, and added, “We won’t be able to keep him away. Cyrus wants to be sure.”
“Sure of what?”
“That Sebastian’s really dead. That he’s three feet under. Kicking up daisies.”
“Oh, Jack.”
“Don’t oh Jack me in that pathetic way. Not this morning. You did it yesterday. All day. No tears either. I’ve had enough. You’re just a sentimentalist, kid.”
“And you’re the most unpleasant person it’s ever been my great misfortune to know. You disgust me, Jack Locke. Sebastian’s dead and you act as if it’s of no consequence, as if you don’t care.”
“I don’t.”
“Talk about Cyrus being unnatural. You certainly are.”
“Chip off the old block, eh?” He laughed hollowly.
“You make me sick. Sebastian was a wonderful father to you.”
“Go and tell that to the Marines! You should know better. He was never a father to me. Never cared about me.”
“He did.”
“I’ve told you before. I’m repeating myself. He couldn’t love anyone.”
“He loved me,” I announced and sat back, glaring at him.
Jack laughed harshly, and there was a disdainful expression on his face when he exclaimed, “Here we go again! He was crazy to get you into the sack. That I’ll readily concede. He had the hots for you. Even when you were just a kid. He couldn’t wait to get into your panties.”
“That’s not true.”
“Sure it is. We used to call it the Gradual Seduction of Vivienne. You know, like the title of a play.”
“Who?”
“Luciana and I.”
“What do you mean? Why?”
“Because for years