Multiple Exposure A Sophie Medina Mystery (30 page)

It wasn’t a joyous reunion. Katya looked stunned when she recognized Attar and kept shaking her head angrily.
Go away. Leave me alone.
Attar, no longer the charming flirt he’d been a few minutes ago, took her arm and leaned close to say something only she could hear. Katya yanked her arm free and spoke to him sharply. Instantly Duval and one of the valets surrounded them, Duval hustling Attar to the limo as the valet helped Katya up the steps and into the house. A moment later Attar’s car swung past my gate and I caught sight of his face through the open car window.

He was furious.

By the time I walked over to the little temple, the lovely light had turned dull and flat. I took my photographs anyway and wondered what Katya was doing at this party after the falling-out she and Scott Hathaway had at the National Gallery the other night. Perhaps Roxanne had invited her, unaware of the relationship that existed between Katya and her husband. It would be interesting to see what the chemistry was between them this evening and whether the two of them avoided each other. But after our encounter yesterday at Hillwood, I didn’t want to run into Katya either.

And what about her unpleasant meeting with Attar just now? Why were they so upset with each other? Was it personal or, more likely, political? I already knew firsthand what Katya would do to further Arkady Vasiliev’s political ambitions and her daughter’s future. But just how far would she go to make sure that Taras Attar didn’t stand in their way?

The other, more remote, possibility was that their feud had its roots in something that happened the year she was at Georgetown with Hathaway and Attar. But more likely, this was a case of Occam’s razor, and the simplest and most obvious explanation was the correct one: Katya and Attar sparred just now over politics since they were in opposite camps.

Still, something nagged at me that there was another piece of the puzzle missing. I finally gave up trying to figure out what it was and headed back to the tent. There I found Harry, a bright scarlet beacon in a room of swirling colors, giddy party guests, and free-flowing champagne.

*

The rest of the evening passed as though we were actually in Paris on the eve of La Belle Epoque—an optimistic era of prosperity, innovation, flourishing arts, and world peace—known in America and Britain as the Gilded Age. An orchestra played Schubert, the Strausses, Lizst, Brahms, Bizet, Tchaikovsky—the nineteenth-century romantic composers—and later in the evening shifted to the dance hall cabaret music of the Folies Bergère and the Moulin Rouge, which had been in their infancy on the night the three emperors had dined in Paris. The meal was, as Harry promised, out of this world and surprisingly faithful to the original dinner. I tried everything: a creamy chicken soup and another soup with fresh peas and sorrel, truffle soufflé, lamb with a puree of broad beans, roast chicken with adobo paste, lobster cooked in bouillon and glazed with aspic, quail pâté, stuffed duck, stuffed eggplant, and, fortunately, no songbirds on toast. A waiter hovered at my elbow filling my wineglasses with sherry, Madeira, and so many fabulous vintages I lost count.

Just before dessert—
bombes glacées,
two frozen concoctions of raspberry-rose and blueberry-lavender ice cream decorated to look like the Firebird and Blue Constellation imperial eggs—Roxanne and Scott Hathaway got up on stage as the orchestra took a break. Scott quieted the room, which had become more raucous thanks to vast quantities of wine and other alcohol, and introduced his wife, heaping praise on her for the success of the evening. As he spoke, Katya Gordon stood up and threaded her way between tables to a doorway that led to a small side pavilion and the restrooms. Hathaway spoke for another few minutes before kissing Roxanne and handing her the microphone in the midst of boisterous applause.

Roxanne’s speech about the Save the Potomac Foundation was passionate as she discussed its work and thanked the audience for their generosity. I watched Scott Hathaway step off the stage and, instead of returning to his seat, casually walk around the perimeter of the room until he was standing next to the main exit. When he slipped outside, Roxanne momentarily lost her place in her speech.

“I need some fresh air,” I said to Harry. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

The timing of their departures was too much of a coincidence. Katya Gordon and Scott Hathaway must have already arranged a private meeting somewhere. I found them by the swimming pool, standing next to a small waterfall that cascaded into the lighted turquoise water. Under a bright high full moon and the flickering reflection of the water, Katya’s blond hair had turned snow white and Hathaway’s white bow tie and the collar of his white dress shirt glowed like they were luminescent. I slipped behind the gate, where I could watch them screened by a row of ornamental cypresses.

“Did you bring them?” Hathaway’s voice carried across the water.

“I said I would, didn’t I?” Katya sounded irritated as she pulled an envelope out of her purse and passed it to him. “An eye for an eye.”

“Katya, don’t.”

“Don’t act so noble, Scott,” she said. “Now we’re even.”

“Even? Don’t talk to me about
even.
This is the last time, you understand? After that I’m done.” Hathaway stared at the envelope. “I think you should go.”

A thin cloud drifted in front of the moon and in the shifting chiaroscuro lighting, their angry profiles turned as hard and cold as marble.

Finally Katya said, “So be it,” and whirled around to leave.

It took a moment to register that in about thirty seconds she would walk right past me. I inched closer to the fence, hoping she would be too preoccupied to realize I was there. But as I stepped back, my heel caught on a sprinkler head. I reached for whatever was nearest so I wouldn’t fall. It felt like I’d grabbed a fistful of razor blades: a rosebush, full of long, sharp thorns. I gritted my teeth as Katya swept by and disappeared into the darkness. I stood there, waiting for Hathaway to leave next. Instead, a door quietly opened and closed on the far side of the pool and a light in his office came on, shining onto the terrace through the French doors. After about thirty seconds it went out.

My hand throbbed and my palm was covered in blood from at least two deep puncture wounds and scratches that were bleeding profusely. If I didn’t do something soon, I’d have blood all over my mother’s beautiful expensive gown.

There was a powder room across the hall from Hathaway’s office; I had used it yesterday. His office was still dark and there was a chance he hadn’t locked the outside door. I took off my heels and held them in my unbloody hand, slipping through the gate and keeping to the shadows. Just before I went inside the house, I rinsed the blood off under the waterfall—the water was full of chlorine, which made the cuts burn—and then used the last two tissues in my evening bag as a bandage, winding them around my palm.

I knew I was going to look for that envelope when I let myself inside; it was just a question of whether I did it before or after I cleaned up. The tissues had temporarily stopped the bleeding, so I walked over to Scott Hathaway’s desk in case this was the only chance I had. He’d been here less than a minute so it seemed the logical place to temporarily stash something of value. He’d left the envelope in his top drawer.

I brought it over to the French doors and took out half a dozen old black-and-white photographs with my good hand. Even in the dazzling moonlight it was difficult to make out much detail of gray on gray, but I didn’t dare risk turning on a light. The photos were of a much younger Scott Hathaway, probably in his early twenties. Taken with a telephoto, he appeared to be walking through a field surrounded by woods. Another series of pictures showed him getting on a bicycle with odd-looking handlebars that curved around like a ram’s horns and riding away. I turned over the photos. Nothing written on the back and the date was too faded to make out in the dim light.

I had been so absorbed in the photos I hadn’t heard the footsteps in the hallway until they stopped outside the office door. For the second time tonight, I moved into the shadows and hid behind one of the heavy gold curtains. If that was Hathaway and he’d returned for the envelope, I was doomed.

The door opened and a woman said,
“No, el senador no está aquí. Creo que ha salido.”

One of the maids.
The senator isn’t here. I think he’s gone out.

She shut the door with a soft little click and I flew across the room, slipping the envelope back where I’d found it. My tissues and my hand were blood soaked again and the powder room was just across the hall.

The hall was empty and the powder room door was ajar. I cleaned my hand with soap and warm water, using a monogrammed paper hand towel as a new bandage to stop the blood. A maid was waiting outside when I opened the door, an expression of polite disapproval on her face. Possibly the same maid who had checked Hathaway’s office.

“Is everything all right? There are restrooms in the tent, you know.”

I gave her my best apologetic smile and slipped my injured hand into the folds of my dress. “I’m sorry. There was a such a long queue.”

“A queue?”

The British word confused her. “A line. Excuse me, but I ought to be getting back to my father.”

It wasn’t until I had nearly reached the tent that I realized I didn’t have my purse. Nor could I remember the last time I’d seen it. I’d set it down—where? The waterfall by the swimming pool, when I stopped to rinse my hand? Please, God, no—the senator’s office?
On his desk?
Or maybe the powder room?

I ran back to the house, nearly colliding with Hathaway inside the door. The maid who found me sneaking out of the powder room was with him.

“That’s her,” she said.

My mouth felt dry.

“I believe this is yours?” He held out my purse.

Once again I tucked my bad hand into the folds of my dress. “Thank you. I was just coming back to get it.”

“I see. Maria was about to go looking for you.” His eyes strayed down and I think he noticed my clenched fist as I took the purse with my other hand. Maybe they would count the silverware after I left.

“I’m glad I didn’t have to put her to any trouble.” I hoped he’d attribute my obvious relief to recovering my lost property so quickly.

“You look familiar. Have we met?”

“I’m Harry Wyatt’s stepdaughter, Sophie Medina. My mother is ill so I came this evening as Harry’s date.”

“I mean, before tonight,” he said. “I’ve seen you somewhere.”

“I was one of the photographers at the National Gallery reception a few days ago.”

“Ah,” he said. “So you were.” He was still studying me.

“I should be getting back to Harry,” I said. “He’ll wonder where I’ve been.”

I didn’t turn around but I knew he was standing there on the terrace watching as I made my way back to the tent. If the purse had been anywhere but the powder room, he would have said something, had questions for me . . . wouldn’t he?

*

On the drive home, Harry said, “You’re awfully quiet, kitten. Everything okay?”

“Fine,” I said. My hand had finally stopped bleeding and I’d made sure Harry never saw it. “Probably too much fabulous wine and champagne and good food.”

He kissed me good night at the front door and made me promise to come out to Middleburg for a weekend as soon as I could.

It took a long time before I fell into a turbulent, muddled sleep. The dreams came right away: Katya Gordon and Scott Hathaway standing together, limned by moonlight, as she said over and over, “An eye for an eye, Scott. Now we’re even.”

Finally I sat up in bed and said out loud, “Even for what?”

20

In spite of all the wine, champagne, and Madeira I drank last night, I woke up surprisingly clearheaded early Sunday morning and went for a quick run while it was still cool. When I got home, I showered, changed, and walked downtown to St. Matthew’s Cathedral on the corner of Connecticut and Rhode Island Avenues. Nick had never been much on organized religion—he always joked he was waiting for the Rapture—but since he’d vanished, I’d been faithful about attending Mass every Sunday and it had gotten me through some dark days. In London, I went to a little convent chapel in St. John’s Wood, known informally as the American church. Today was the first time I’d set foot in St. Matthew’s since I’d been home, and I’d forgotten how beautiful it was, the shimmering mosaics and inlaid stone reminding me of palaces and monuments I’d visited in India.

I’d also forgotten the Latin Mass was at ten o’clock, and when the Gospel reading from Saint Mark mentioned adultery, my mind wandered to Katya Gordon, Scott Hathaway, and Taras Attar. I still didn’t understand what was going on among the three of them, but after seeing all of them last night and what I’d learned from Father Pat about the long-ago animosity between Scott and Taras over Scott’s exotic dancer girlfriend, I wondered if Katya hadn’t also been part of some complicated love triangle. Maybe this was the oldest of scenarios: revenge-fueled jealousy and payback for being spurned. If Katya and Scott had continued to be lovers, perhaps she decided to blackmail him by telling his very wealthy wife about the affair, threatening his marriage and his career. Adultery, as Saint Mark said, could be a powerful motivator.

As for the conversation I overheard in the National Gallery implicating Hathaway in a plot to assassinate Attar, by now it seemed Duval was right and I’d somehow gotten that story completely wrong. On the contrary, Attar was staying with the Hathaways, where it was far easier to protect him from an attempt on his life than if he were in a hotel. And if anyone had murderous thoughts about Taras it was Roxanne, who seemed exasperated at putting up with the ego and Casanova antics of her husband’s friend while he was a guest under her roof.

Mass ended at eleven. On my way out, I stopped in one of the chapels, lit a candle for Ali, and knelt to say a prayer for her. Outside, the temperature had climbed to the high eighties and the humidity had returned. Clouds had rolled in and it looked and felt like we’d soon have rain.