LITMIR.BIZ

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on our wedding day flashed before me, and once again my throat closed with a sudden rush of emotion. Tears were incipient, pricked behind my lids; I blinked them away. On and off, for the last few hours, I had been shedding tears…tears for Sebastian, dead at fifty-six, and with so much more of life to live…tears for myself…tears for Jack and Luciana…tears for the world.

      Difficult, haunted, and troubled man though he had been, he had nevertheless been a great man. A good man. No matter what he was in his personal life, his shoulders had been strong enough to carry so many of the world’s burdens, and his heart had been filled with compassion for those who were suffering and in need.

      A French journalist had once written about him that he was a beacon light in these darkly turbulent and troubled times we lived in. Certainly I deemed this to be the truth. The world would be a lesser place now that he was no longer in it.

      Oh Sebastian, you were too young to die, I thought, and I put my head down and closed my eyes, reliving Jack’s phone call of this morning. I had been checking the facts in my story when Belinda had told me that Jack Locke was on the line…

      “Jack! Hello!” I exclaimed. “How are you? And more importantly, where are you?”

      “Here. In Connecticut. At the farm, Vivienne.”

      “That’s great. When did you get in from France?”

      “Two days ago, but Vivienne, I—”

      “Come on over for supper tonight! I’ve just finished this long piece for the London Sunday Times Magazine, and it’ll do me good to cook, to relax with y—”

      Cutting me off in a peremptory way, he said swiftly, “Vivienne, there’s something I must tell you.”

      I detected an odd note in his voice, and it made the hackles rise on the back of my neck. Stiffening, I clutched the phone tighter in my hand. “What is it? What’s wrong, Jack?”

      “It’s Sebastian…Vivienne…I’m not sure how to tell you this, how to break it gently, so I’m gonna come right out with it. He’s dead. Sebastian’s dead.”

      “Oh my God! No! It can’t be! What happened? When did he die?” I demanded shrilly, and then I heard myself wailing, “It can’t be true. He can’t be dead. No, not Sebastian.” My stomach lurched, and then as agitation fully took hold of me, my heart began to pound against my rib cage.

      “It is true,” Jack insisted. “I got a call this morning. Around nine-thirty. From Harry Blakely. The tree man. The aborist who looks after the trees at the farm. You know him, don’t you?”

      “Yes.”

      “Harry called me to tell me he’d found Sebastian’s body out back. Near the lake. Harry had gone to the farm as he usually does Mondays. He was heading down to cut off the tops of some dead willows. He stumbled over the body. Sebastian was sprawled face down, near those rocks at the far end of the lake. He had a gash on his forehead. Harry said he looked as if he’d been outside all night. Maybe longer. Once he’d established that Sebastian was dead, Harry went up to the house to call the State Police in North Canaan. He told them about finding the body. They instructed him not to move it. Not to touch a single thing. Then he called me at the house in Manhattan. I grabbed Luciana, who’s in from London. We took Sebastian’s helicopter out here. Harry was also disturbed about the mess in Sebastian’s library. The room was in total disarray. A lamp was overturned. A chair was on its side. Papers were strewn everywhere. And the French doors were ajar. The glass was broken in one of the panes. Harry thought it looked as if it could have been smashed on purpose. By an intruder.”

      “Are you saying that Sebastian may have been killed?”

      “It’s possible. Very possible,” Jack said. “The circumstances are somewhat suspicious, wouldn’t you say?”

      “From what you’re telling me, it does look strange, yes. On the other hand, Sebastian might have had some sort of attack, a stroke perhaps. He could have staggered around the room, then gone outside to get air…” My voice petered out. It was foolish to speculate. But a second later I did just that again.

      “Do you think he fell and hit his head, Jack? Or are you suggesting he was chased out of the house, and then struck by someone? The intruder? If there was one.”

      “I don’t know, Vivienne. I wonder if we’ll ever know.”

      “Oh, Jack, this is just horrendous! I can’t believe he’s dead. I just can’t.” I found myself weeping once more.

      “Don’t cry. Please don’t. It won’t bring him back.”

      “I know it won’t but I can’t help it. I’ve loved him for as long as I can remember, since I was a child. And I still cared deeply for him, despite the divorce.”

      “I know,” he muttered.

      There was a silence between us.

      “How’s Luciana?” I asked at last, endeavoring to ignore Jack’s coldness, this seeming lack of feeling I was detecting.

      “She’s fine. Holding up. She’ll be okay.”

      “Would you like me to drive over to Cornwall? I can be there in half an hour, in three-quarters of an hour at the most.”

      “No, you don’t have to come. But thanks for offering. Anyway, this place is crawling with police. That’s another reason I called. To alert you. They’ll be over to see you. Some time today. You’re in Sebastian’s appointment book. They asked me who you were. I told them you were his ex-wife. One of his ex-wives. You were with him very recently. I guess that’s why they want to talk to you.”

      “I understand, Jack, but I really can’t tell them anything. Sebastian was in the best of spirits. And health, as far as I could tell last Monday. Oh God, it’s a week ago exactly that we lunched. I can’t believe this, I just can’t,” I sobbed.

      Fumbling for my handkerchief, I blew my nose and tried to get a grip on myself and my emotions.

      “It’s the shock,” I mumbled into the phone after a second or two, “the unexpectedness of it. How can Sebastian be dead? He was larger than life, and he seemed so invulnerable. Invincible. To me, anyway. I thought nothing would ever happen to him, that he would live forever. Well, at least that he’d live to be an old man. Actually, I always thought of him as being immortal, if the truth be known.”

      “He was only too mortal,” Jack said in a low, tense voice. “Listen, I gotta go. I can see two detectives heading this way. Walking up the back lawn. Looking as grim as hell,” he snapped.

      “Jack, please call me later!”

      “Sure.”

      “Please.”

      “Okay! Okay!”

      He sounded more impatient than usual.

      “And please tell Luciana how sorry I am. Perhaps I ought to speak with her now.”

      “She’s out. Taking a walk. We’ll all meet up later.”

      He was gone without another word, without even saying good-bye. I sat there holding the phone in my hand, as if turned to stone, listening to the interminable dial tone. Finally, I replaced the receiver.

      Ever since that call this morning, I have been numb from shock, full of grief, disbelieving. Now, suddenly, I felt drained. A vast emptiness settled within me. It was as if I were quite hollow, just a fragile shell.

      I have never experienced such feelings before. No, that’s not true. I have. When my mother died with this same kind of suddenness, this awful abruptness that always leaves others reeling and lost. And when my second husband Michael Trent suffered an unexpected heart attack, a fatal heart attack, I was devastated, floundering, cast adrift then just as I am today.

      Life is hell; no, death is hell, I

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