Vivian took a deep breath. “You’re right. Sorry. I guess I’m still a little unnerved myself. I just want to be sure that marriage to Hamilton is what you really want.”
“Hamilton is perfect,” Lyra said. “Mother and Father adore him. Father says he’s the right man to take control of the company someday.”
“Father is wrong. You’re the right person to take control of the business. We both know that.”
“That is never going to happen,” Lyra said. “Father is very old-fashioned about such things. He loves us but the idea of a woman running a shipping business is beyond him.”
She sounded resigned, not bitter, Vivian thought. Lyra had evidently reconciled herself to her future.
“I know,” Vivian said. She tried to think of something positive to say but nothing occurred.
“Hamilton does listen to me when I talk about business subjects,” Lyra continued. She was very earnest now. “Unlike Father, he is very modern in his thinking, especially when it comes to women. He respects my opinions. He says he intends to consult with me on important matters when it comes to Brazier Pacific. I’m sure he will be open to my advice.”
Alarm jolted through Vivian. “Lyra, please don’t tell me you’re marrying Hamilton because you want to help run Brazier Pacific. I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Don’t be silly,” Lyra said firmly. “I love Hamilton. He’s absolutely perfect. Just ask the parents. Oh dear, I’ve got to run. I have a tennis game with Marsha this morning.”
“Lyra, wait—”
There was a click and the line went dead.
Vivian placed the receiver gently in the cradle. She knew Lyra better than anyone. Something was wrong.
Chapter 9
Jonathan Treyherne read the headlines in theAdelina Beach Courierwhile he sipped his morning coffee from a fine china cup. Morris Deverell, the Dagger Killer, was dead. The public could relax, at least until the next insane murderer hit the front pages. There would always be another madman armed with a gun or a knife or a garrote who would arise to terrify the good citizens of the towns and cities across the nation.
There was never a shortage of crazies, Treyherne thought.
His elderly housekeeper appeared in the doorway. “More coffee, Mr. Treyherne?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Geddes. That will be all this morning.” Jonathan set the paper aside and rose from the table. “I will be working in my study this morning. Please see to it that I am not disturbed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jonathan started to leave the dining room. He paused in the doorway.
“By the way, I will be lunching at my club today and dining out this evening. You and Mr. Geddes may leave whenever the usual housekeeping and gardening duties are completed.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Mrs. Geddes retreated into the kitchen.
Jonathan went into his study, then closed and locked the door. For a moment he stood quietly, thinking about the new commission. He would execute it with his customary skill and grace. Murder was an art, after all.
He always took a month to complete one of his great works, never more, never less. He did not take on commissions that left him feeling rushed. He was doing art, after all. Timing and precision were critical to a successful outcome. Each stage of the project—from research and preparation to the final result—was important but, more to the point, each stage was to be savored.
It amused him to take the client’s money, but the truth was he could not have cared less about the financial payoff of each commission. The extravagant fees he charged were merely a means of keeping score.
No, what he craved—what filled him with temporary ecstasy—was the thrill of the challenge and the hot satisfaction of carrying out the perfect crime, one in which murder was never suspected.
He always made it a point to attend the funeral. Knowing that he moved among the mourners without drawing so much as a second glance provided the final, exhilarating rush. He was not a wolf in sheep’s clothing, nor was he mad like the Dagger Killer. He was a modern example of the true Renaissance man, a scholar poet who was skilled in the violent arts.
The inevitable gray fog of acute ennui and the sensation of emptiness would settle on him eventually in the aftermath of completing the commission. But the prospect of a month of rising anticipation culminating in a deeply felt sense of satisfaction was irresistible.
Yes, there would be a letdown afterward but he took comfort in knowing that there would always be another project. He was the best at what he did.
He lit a cigarette and crossed the room to a painting that hung on the wall—a sensual scene of two reclining nudes by Tamara de Lempicka. It was one of the few works of art that he had brought with him when he left New York.
