bet you did!”
Darby didn’t answer.
“He didn’t tell you why. Did he? Why I came back?”
“Not really.”
“I loved it. I couldn’t get enough. But I was slipping, slipping into something I couldn’t control.” She leaned out, pulling away from him slightly, before placing her hot cheek against his shoulder. “He’s watching. I can feel it. I’ll have to go to him. I was becoming a whore and loving every moment of it with any and every man. I knew I had to stop.” Tears formed in her eyes. “Something died in me that night. I just stood there in the shower as it died. I don’t know what it was or if it’ll ever come back. I just knew I had to stop.” She brushed her eyelashes with the back of her fingertips, smiled, and slid away toward her husband.
Parker opened his arms and clasped them about her waist. He looked silently toward Darby. Darby couldn’t discern what the man’s thoughts were or even imagine his feelings.
As he turned to leave through the French doors he felt a nudge at his elbow. Tunstan was struggling into a leather jacket and adjusting his tan beret. “May I exit with you?” he clasped Darby’s arm. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow. I want to show you something. I want you to take it.” He bowed his head, almost ushering Darby along.
Outside, Darby followed the now dour-faced art investigator toward a Mercedes, parked alongside Parker and Celeste’s Lexus. Hughes fumbled in his jacket’s pocket, found his keys and unlocked the passenger’s side front door. He opened the glove compartment, hesitated momentarily, then handed Darby a small handgun—a 9 mm, semi-automatic Beretta. “Here! Take it!” he glanced up at Darby with remorse in his voice. “I was going to use it. What the hell! You might need it some day. It’s registered, but no one will know.”
Darby examined the gun carefully before slipping it into his pocket.
“I need to get on back to Philly, visit some relatives there, and return to Boston. I want to get started again on the only thing I love.” He hesitated; then clicked his keypad, as his trunk door snapped open and rose upward. He smiled. “A little something for Stephanie before I depart. I plan to give it to her in the morning.”
Darby stared into the trunk. There lay a watercolor of Montesereno’s villa. Tunstan had captured its Italian beige and golden-pink hues, its ornate door and iron grillwork with a whimsical flair all its own. Nor had he left out the Villa’s spacious grounds, pebbled approach, sprawling lawn, and ancient oaks.
“Take it to your cottage,” stated Tunstan. “It needs to dry more. We’ll both present it to her tomorrow, at breakfast, or whenever she gets up.”
Darby lifted the canvas with extreme caution so as not to smear a single brush stroke.
“Maybe it’ll inspire her to paint one day. She’s a sweet kid. If I could afford to stay longer, I’d teach her how to paint. I need to get back. There’s an art show coming up, and I need to be seen again. Art dealers will be there from all over. Wish you could come yourself.”
“I, too.”
“Maybe I’ll paint you one day. I rarely, if ever, forget a face. ‘The Professor’s Cottage!’ Or maybe better ‘The Chaplain’s Garden.’ I can see it now.” He waved his right hand in a majestic arc. “The ginkgo tree; the petit maison; the garden, and, voilà, yourself, seated in contemplation beside the laurel!”
“Sounds rather cruel to mar nature so. Maybe you’d better stick with still life or poring over lacquered layers of brush strokes and fingerprints.”
Tunstan shut the trunk door with a loud thump. “In the morning,” he said. “Besides, I think someone else wants to see you,” he nodded toward the house.
Darby looked back. Celeste stood in the door light, cloaked in a fur coat that covered her slender shoulders down to her ankles. She clutched the collar of the fur, enwrapping herself in its shiny sheen, and stepped down.
“Goodnight!” whispered Tunstan. “Get that painting in the cottage.” He tipped his beret to Celeste and returned indoors.
“I’m glad he’s gone!” Celeste said. “Has Parker come out?”
“No! Not that I can see.” Darby leaned the painting against Tunstan’s car. “I’ve got to get this painting inside. Did you want to talk?” he asked, lamely. He could feel the blood pounding in his temples. He didn’t want his stay at Montesereno to begin like this, or end this way, either.
“I need more than talk.” She reached for his hands, clasped them, and clenched her fingers about his. “At least, let’s walk.” She put her forearm under his coat’s left sleeve and began walking slowly toward the Garden. “Sometimes, I never talked with them, you know. We just undressed, ran our hands over each other’s genitalia and had sex. Often with multiple partners. Sometimes we used cuffs. They’d pull my hair back and choke me.” She looked away; then raised her face searchingly toward Darby. “I miss it. God, but I do. As for Parker, he’s like a deer in the headlights. He knew what I was doing. He wanted me, too. He wanted to watch. Yes! Watch! He didn’t tell you that, did he?” she stopped, before lifting her eyes to stare into Peterson’s. “Well, he did! I took him once. He wanted to go back. He made me feel more like a whore than the others. That’s right. They just wanted sex, their libidos fulfilled. Parker wanted humiliation.” She pulled Darby along, slowly, while all the while clutching his arm. Her hands were trembling. “I don’t think our marriage can survive. We’re too far-gone. He wants me now only out of carnality, out of anger. Maybe love. I don’t know,” she choked on her words. “I don’t like what I’ve become. But I crave it! I want you to take me. He’ll never know. He won’t care, anyway. He just needs me because his job’s in jeopardy. Come!” she pulled on his hands, on his arms. She climbed on her tiptoes to kiss him.
Just then car lights loomed into view. A dark limousine entered the Villa’s gates and approached the house. The two stood there, looking up past the corner of the Inn, hand in hand, and watched as a second vehicle, a black Crown Victoria, swung in behind the first. The cars pulled up under the lamplights in front of the house. Five men got out, three from the limousine and two from the black Ford. They ascended the front stoop, knocked, and appeared to enter. Darby could hear the door close.
“They’re either state police or politicians,” said Darby. “They love riding around in Crown Victorias!”
“Maybe they’re celebrities!”
Moments later, the French doors opened and Parker stepped out into the cold. The light of the living room cast his silhouette large and bituminous against the velvet dark, illuminating the patio’s plants and tall urns. “Celeste! Please come in! We’ve been asked to remain quietly in the living room. Jon Paul said he’d explain in the morning. We’re not to ask questions. Please, Celeste, come in! That goes for you, too, Professor.”
Celeste gave Darby a quick glance, released his hand, and hurried toward her husband. Parker glared at Peterson but said nothing. He held the large doors open for his wife. He closed them as she entered.
Darby quickly returned to Tunstan’s car to retrieve the painting. Just as he unlocked the cottage’s latch, the backdoor to Garnett’s office opened and Jon Paul stepped out. “Peterson! We need you in here. Please!”
Chapter 6
Inside
