The staid exterior of the Pension Building gave no clue that inside the Great Hall, with its massive Corinthian columns and double-tiered arcaded galleries lining the football-stadium-sized atrium, would be so spectacular. The galleries, columns, and an enormous terra-cotta fountain in the center of the hall were stage-lit a soft yellow. Pinpoint spotlights in jewel reds, yellows, or blues shone on hundreds of tables set for dinner with matching colored linens. The rest of the huge room was bathed in a burnished bronze light.
An enormous screen hung behind a raised stage that had been erected between two columns. Currently the screen was dark and the stage empty, though it looked like the band had set up for later. If they wanted to host the opening ceremony for the Olympics or maybe the coronation of the Holy Roman Emperor after we were finished, it would have been no problem.
“I must find Sir Thomas.” Olivia shrugged out of her evening coat. “Get yourself a drink and mingle. There are seating charts on easels next to each of the bars, and staff will help you find your table. You’re sitting at Rebecca’s table with some of the other analysts from the firm. I checked.”
“Thanks,” I said as an attendant in a tuxedo took my coat. “I guess I’ll see you later.”
But she had already disappeared into the crowd, which seemed to swallow her up. I looked around hoping to catch someone’s eye, maybe find a companion to talk to. In my business, I meet strangers all the time and it’s my job to put them at ease, show them a good time. But Washington is a different kettle of fish. Here people are more interested in who they’re seen with than whether they’re enjoying themselves. When I worked for an environmental nonprofit the summer before my accident, I’d finally realized that the reason no one ever looked you in the eye when talking to you at a Washington cocktail party was that they were really looking over your shoulder in case someone more interesting or important came into view.
Why had I come? Rebecca wasn’t here. Would Olivia notice if I left before dinner?
“Lucie?”
I turned around. Former senator Harlan Jennings, boyishly handsome in a tuxedo, stood there grinning at me, a roguish glint in his eyes that conveyed both gravitas and let’s raise hell.
“I thought it was you.” He leaned forward and took my arm, brushing my cheek with his lips so I caught the scent of his musky aftershave mingled with the trace of another woman’s perfume. “You look absolutely beautiful in that dress. Not that cute roly-poly little girl I remember from visiting your parents’ winery when it first opened. You’re gorgeous, darlin’.”
My heart gave a small leap. The days of the schoolgirl crush were over, but Harlan’s Irish charm and the promise of mischief in those bright blue eyes still seduced me. Vanity made me wish he’d forgotten my roly-poly era, but he was right that I’d changed. He, on the other hand, had not. The crow’s-feet and laugh lines had deepened, but otherwise he was magically unscathed by the years. Dark haired and handsome in a rugged, Kennedyesque way.
“Thank you,” I said. “Glad you recognized me without the puppy fat. And just when I thought I didn’t know a soul here.”
Harlan burst out laughing. “Stick with me. Let’s get a drink and I’ll introduce you to a few people. You shouldn’t be on your own tonight.”
He held out his arm and I took it. “I’d like that. And speaking of the vineyard, why don’t you stop by with Alison? Come over some evening to watch the sunset on the terrace over a bottle of wine.”
We walked toward one of the many bars that lined the room along the arcades.
“That sounds wonderful.” He sounded wistful. “Lately I’ve seen more sunrises than sunsets I’m so busy with work. How’s life treating you now that you’ve taken over the winery?”
“Pretty well,” I said. “We just won the Governor’s Cup for one of our brand-new wines. Viognier.”
He whistled. “The Governor’s Cup? I’m impressed. Top wine award in Virginia. Good for you. But what is VEE-ohn-YAY, anyway? Never heard of it.”
“You will. It’s French; been around for ages, though it’s new to the U.S. Wait and see. It’s going to be big in Virginia.”
“Guess that means I’ll have to try it.”
“Well, you could start with mine. Modesty should prevent me from telling you it’s an absolutely fabulous vintage, but it really is.”
He laughed. “I have an irresistible urge to tousle your hair like I used to when you were little.”
“Please don’t. The result will scare us both.”
He grinned some more. “I’ll think of something else, then. So tell me about your prize wine. Ali likes her Chard and we’re like old dogs when we find something we enjoy drinking. You think I’ll like it?”
“I think so. It’s a challenging grape to grow—one of the most expensive because it doesn’t produce a huge crop. They say the name translates to ‘road to hell,’ but my winemaker says that’s because of what he goes through to make it.”
Harlan’s smile was rueful. “Sounds like my last election campaign.”
“Your opponent was a moron. Cameron Vaughn? I still can’t figure out how he won.”
“He got more votes.”
My turn to smile. But it had been a stunning upset. Everyone had expected Harlan to win reelection, but Vaughn hammered away at Harlan’s absence during a critical vote affecting Virginia, claiming he’d been on a pleasure trip to Europe. The mud stuck and his campaign never regained momentum.
“I saw Vaughn on television the other day,” I said. “He’s still a moron and he’s in love with himself.”
“How novel for Washington. Let me buy you a drink, pretty lady. Can I interest you in a glass of champagne? That scrum around the bars is too deep to wade into.”
Harlan hailed a passing waiter holding a silver tray filled with champagne flutes. He handed one to me and took one for himself.
As we touched glasses he said, “Drink up. It’s Krug.”
I raised an eyebrow and sipped champagne. The price for a bottle of Krug began at around $150 and kept climbing.
“I hear Alison has been advising the Ashers on the collection they’re donating to the Library of Congress,” I said. “It sounds fabulous.”
He nodded. “She loved putting that together. Tommy and Mandy gave her a blank check and she went to town. Mind you, Tommy knew what he wanted. He’s always been a history nut, and the wars where the Americans and the Brits fought each other fascinate him. He jokes that the reason he became an American citizen was that he can’t stand to lose at anything. Now he can say he’s on the winning side of both the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812.”
I smiled. “You seem to know Sir Thomas quite well.”
Harlan gulped some champagne. “If only you know how ironic that was—Sir Thomas. When Tommy and I met we were a couple of hell-raising teenagers in London. His father was a driver at the embassy when Dad was Ambassador to the Court of Saint James’s. Tommy took me on my first pub crawl when I was fifteen. He was eighteen and had just bought his first news kiosk.” He swung out his arm with the champagne glass to encompass the Great Hall. “And now look where he is. Amazing the way life turns out sometimes, isn’t it?”
“I think it’s amazing you’re still together after all these years.”
“Yeah, business associates now. Blood brothers, still thick as thieves.”
Harlan reached for another flute as a waiter passed by and raised an eyebrow indicating my glass. I shook my head as he said, “So what brings you here?”
“I came as the guest of someone who works for Asher Investments.”
“Really? Who?”
I hesitated, wondering if he was aware that she was missing. “Rebecca Natale.”
Harlan looked startled. “You know Rebecca?”
“We were friends in college. She said she was coming to D.C. for the weekend and invited me to this gala.”
He nodded, but he still seemed taken aback. “She is one smart lady. Going places if she sticks with Tommy.” He looked around. “So how come you’re not with her?”
“She, ah, got delayed.”
“Harlan, a word please?” Tommy Asher stood at Harlan’s elbow, placing a hand on his shoulder. His eyes fell on me. “Sorry, my love. I need to borrow him.”
Sir Thomas dressed and looked like the man he’d become—British peer, world-class adventurer who enjoyed the good life, and brilliant financier with an unerring knack for making money—though after what Harlan had just revealed about him I could see traces of the scrappy street kid who got the ambassador’s son drunk and juggled odd jobs to save money to buy his own news kiosk. Though the rough edges had been polished smooth, they were still there if I looked hard enough, in his deeply tanned pockmarked face, the jagged scar above his lip, and his dark, intense eyes. For all his wealth, fame, and privilege, I’d bet money Tommy Asher’s past still rose up before him like a wraith, making sure he never forgot where he came from.
“Of course you can borrow Harlan,” I said now.
“Tommy,” Harlan said. “Let me introduce you. An old friend of the family, Lucie Montgomery. Lucie, Sir Thomas Asher.”
“How do you do, my dear? I hope you’re enjoying yourself. My apologies for stealing him. Harlan, something’s come up. A small problem.”
The apology was perfunctory and he’d taken no more notice of me than if I’d been one of the waitresses serving drinks. He excused himself again before I could say nice to meet you, too, leading Harlan to join two men in dark suits and a stunning, statuesque raven-haired woman I recognized from the society pages as Miranda Asher. The daughter of a Greek shipping tycoon, she came from a family of four beautiful and talented sisters, three of whom married into European aristocracy. The stories in the press were that Miranda’s father forbade his youngest daughter to marry a working-class commoner, disowning her when she eloped with Tommy. After he built his financial empire and received his knighthood, Sir Thomas brought his wife’s sisters’ husbands into the business—excluding his father-in-law, who still thought Tommy was trailer trash, even if he now had money.
I finished my champagne and watched the earnest conversation among the little group. They were talking about Rebecca, I was sure of it. I caught the shocked expression on Harlan’s face as one of the dark-suited men spoke, gesturing broadly with his hands. Then Harlan put his arm around Miranda and clapped Tommy on the back and the meeting broke up. I wondered where Alison Jennings was—unless she was involved in the search for Rebecca and, presumably, the missing Madison wine cooler.
“Ladies and gentlemen, good evening and welcome.”
A male voice over the public address system repeated the greeting until the crowd quieted down. The screen behind the stage now showed a beguiling larger-than-life-sized photograph of the Ashers, heads thrown back in delighted laughter as they knelt beside the wheelchair of a young girl who was also laughing. As I watched, the words “A Tribute to Tommy and Mandy: A Lifetime of Service” appeared, superimposed on the photo.
We were asked to take our seats for dinner, where we’d find our programs for the rest of the evening. The tribute—speeches followed by a short film—would begin as dessert was being served. Dancing to live music afterward.
I found my table near the stage and within viewing distance of the head table where Harlan sat with the Ashers. I spotted Alison Jennings, sultry in a mint green satin gown that looked perfect against her alabaster skin and flame-colored hair, as she slipped into a chair next to her husband and whispered in his ear. He replied, kissing her hand, and she shook her head. By the looks of things, Rebecca still hadn’t turned up.
“May I?” A short, solidly built man with thinning hair pointed to the chair to my right as he mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “That is, unless you were saving this seat for someone?”
“I … no. Please, help yourself.”
He tugged on the collar of his shirt. “Hate these monkey suits,” he said. “Feels like I’m wearing a straitjacket.”
He sat down as the rest of our table arrived together—five men and two women, all in their twenties or thirties. One of the men cradled an open bottle of Krug. Their glazed eyes, giddy laughter, and risqué barbs made it clear it wasn’t the first one they’d drunk this evening. They took their seats, leaving the chair on the other side of me empty. We introduced ourselves. Everyone but my dinner partner, a lawyer named Ben Goldberg, worked in the New York office of Thomas Asher Investments. I gave my name and decided not to mention that I owned a vineyard.
“Who’s missing?” one of the women asked.
“Rebecca.” The man who’d brought the Krug spoke up. “What do you bet she’s personally delivering the goods to some client?”
Everyone snickered. I picked up my water glass and drank, avoiding looking at any of them. Did he mean what I thought he did? Did Rebecca still have a predilection for off-the-radar trysts? In the background a band slid into a samba and the rest of their conversation was lost in a wash of music.
Maybe the list of people who didn’t like Rebecca was longer than I thought.
Ben Goldberg glanced at me. “You work with them?”
“No. I’m a friend of someone who does.”
“The missing Rebecca?” he asked.
I nodded. “How’d you guess? Do you know her?”
A waiter set down bowls of soup.
“I don’t. But you don’t seem like you belong with those guys, either. That was a crass comment.” He stirred his soup with a spoon. “What’s in this?”
“Didn’t you get a menu card? It’s potato, leek, and sorrel soup,” I said.
“Oh.” He set down his spoon and picked up the breadbasket. “Roll?”
“No, thanks. Oh, come on, try the soup. It’s delicious,” I said. “So tell me how you ended up here.”
“My firm represents Asher Investments here in D.C.”
“That must keep you busy.”
“Right now that would be an understatement.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m surprised your friend Rebecca didn’t clue you in. Some two-bit prick managed to light a fire under the junior senator from Virginia, who happens to chair the Senate Banking Subcommittee on Security, Insurance, and Investments.” He spread thick butter on his roll.
“Cameron Vaughn?”
“Yeah. Him. Vaughn took this jerk seriously enough that he’s planning to hold a hearing to look into the business practices of Thomas Asher Investments next week.”
“What about their business practices?”
Ben snorted. “He seems to think Sir Thomas might be inflating his numbers on how well his portfolios are doing. Claims there’s no way Asher can produce the consistent profits he does without some kind of hanky-panky going on inside the mother ship.”
I said, shocked, “Is that true?”
“It’s my job to prove it isn’t.” He’d answered the question like a lawyer.
“Who’s the guy making the accusations?”
“Ian Philips. A pissed-off ex–investment analyst,” Ben said. “He got fired from the last place he worked and now he’s got an axe to grind with Asher for some reason. Personally, I think he’s jealous of Sir Thomas’s success and mad the firm is so tight-lipped about its clients and where it invests. I still can’t believe Vaughn took him seriously. It’s been in all the newspapers and on the Internet, but so far it’s just a back-burner story.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked, as he refilled my champagne glass. I was starting to feel light-headed.
“Swat a fly.” Ben finished his glass and stood up. He seemed a little tipsy himself. “I think I’ll go look for another bottle. Let’s live it up.”
Ben drank more of the rest of his meal than he ate and what littler conversation passed between us as we were served course after course was mostly small talk. Just as waiters placed our dessert plated in front of us, someone took the stage and announced that it was time for the tribute to Tommy and Mandy Asher to begin.
The film homage had been put together by a Hollywood friend who had won an Emmy. Slick, with soaring music and heartrending montages, it seemed packaged to bring a tear to the eye of everyone in the room. Dozens of photos of the Ashers over the years, separately and together, handing a check to a hospital administrator surrounded by young cancer patients, working in a soup kitchen, hugging kids in a Malawi orphanage, and holding shovels at the groundbreaking ceremony of a school in Haiti flashed on the screen. Then came the images of Sir Thomas at the tiller of his yacht, on safari in Africa, at the summit of Everest. Others showed Lady Asher with her glamorous sisters at what looked like an enviably happy family reunion. The finale was a scrolling list of more hospital wings, university buildings, endowed scholarships, and numerous other charities bearing their name—ending with a preview of the exhibit at the Library of Congress. By then, all the guests were on their feet, yelling and applauding, as Sir Thomas and Lady Asher made their way to the stage. His speech was brief, acknowledging the outpouring of adulation in the room and clearly reveling in it. On the jumbo screen, the two of them bowed to more thunderous applause, their smiles radiant as their hands fluttered over their hearts and Miranda Asher blew kisses.
“I’m out of here,” Ben said, as the band appeared on the stage. “I need my beauty sleep.”
“Me, too,” I said. “I think I’ll go back to the Willard and wait for Rebecca.”
“Too bad she never made it tonight. Share a cab?” he asked. “The Willard’s on my way.”
“Thanks. That would be great.”
But when the taxi pulled up in front of the hotel, Ben draped an arm around my shoulder. “I could come up to your room,” he said, nuzzling my neck. “Maybe we could order another bottle of champagne, get to know each other better?”
“I think we’ve both had enough to drink tonight.” I moved his hand away from where it dangled near the neckline of my dress. “Besides, I’m sure Rebecca will show up in our suite at any moment. Good night, Ben. Thanks for the cab ride.”
He withdrew his arm and fumbled in his pocket, pulling a card out of his wallet. “Call me and we’ll have dinner. Maybe I’ll come out and visit your vineyard.”
I moved away so his kiss landed near my ear instead of on my lips. A hotel doorman opened the cab door and helped me out.
“Everything all right, miss?” he asked.
“Just fine. Thank you.”
The clock above the front desk read eleven thirty as I walked into the quiet lobby and headed for the bank of elevators.
“Natale. N-A-T-A-L-E. Rebecca Natale. I know she’s staying here. I’ve been trying to reach her all afternoon. If you’d just give me her room number—”
He was tall and lanky and had his back to me, addressing the male clerk on duty in the too-loud voice of the slightly inebriated. I didn’t recognize him, but maybe he, too, had just returned from the Ashers’ gala and was loaded on Krug—though he wasn’t wearing a tuxedo.
I changed my route to the elevators so I passed by the front desk as I heard the clerk say, “I’m sorry, but that information is confidential. Unless Ms. Natale gave you her room number or asked us to share it with you, I can’t help you.”
“Ha, so she is staying here,” he said. “I knew it.”
The clerk looked irritated as he realized he’d just fallen for the oldest con in the book. “May I call you a cab, sir?”
“You can call me whatever you want,” he said. “In the meantime, I think I’ll have a drink in your nice bar and wait for my good friend Rebecca. She’s probably still at her fancy party.”
He swung around and saw me. Tousled reddish-blond hair, fair skin, freckles that made him look prep school boyish, and a charming smile. He wore his oxford shirt untucked, and his pin-striped suit was rumpled. A tie hung out of the suit jacket pocket and a Burberry scarf was knotted carelessly around his neck. Midthirties, maybe a little older.
“Hello, beautiful.” He smiled, swaying slightly as he indicated the clerk. “Look, I’m done here with Mr. Helpful. He’s all yours. Maybe he won’t tell you anything, either.”
“You’re looking for Rebecca?” I asked.
He straightened up and seemed to sober up as well. “You know where she is?”
“May I ask why you’re trying to find her?”
“You may ask.” He seemed to mock me. “As I just told this good man, we’re friends. Used to work together. She told me she’d be in town for that over-the-top tribute to her narcissist boss. I’ve been leaving messages on her phone for the past week, but she never returned my calls. I thought we were going to get together.” He looked me over. “Wait. Don’t tell me you work for Asher, too?”
“No.”
“My turn to ask,” he said. “How do you know Rebecca?”
“We’re old college friends.”
“You staying in this hotel, too, old college friend?”
“Yes.”
“So where is she?”
“I don’t know, but she’s not here. And I didn’t catch your name.”
“I didn’t throw it. Ian Philips. What about yours?”
The “two-bit prick” who had it in for Thomas Asher Investments. And he used to work with Rebecca, who had contacted him. How interesting.
“Lucie Montgomery. If you’ll excuse me, I’m awfully tired.”
“I really think you ought to have a drink with me, Lucie Montgomery, while we wait for our pal Rebecca. She ought to turn up before too long. They have a great Scotch bar here. The Round Robin.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
I started to walk toward the elevators, but he reached out and grabbed my arm. “Please.”
His grip hurt and I pulled my arm away. “I said, no thanks.”
A hotel concierge appeared at my side. “Everything all right, miss?”
“Absolutely. I just told Mr. Philips good night and that I’m going to my room.”
“Of course, miss. And, Mr. Philips, may I get a cab for you?”
“No, you may not. I’d like to have a drink in your bar, my good man. I just thought Ms. Montgomery would like to join me.”
“Excuse me,” I said. “My elevator’s here.”
I left them in the lobby and, on purpose, pushed the button for the ninth floor in case Ian Philips got clever and watched where I got off. I took the stairs to the seventh floor, looking over my shoulder at the deserted hall until I reached our rooms.
The suite looked as it had when I left, except that the maid had been in to turn down the beds and leave chocolates on the pillows. I sat down on the sofa, kicked off my evening shoes, and rubbed my temples.
Rebecca, Rebecca. Where are you? What in the hell are you doing? I lay back against the pillows, closed my eyes, and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.
The telephone woke me and I sat up, wondering where I was and why I’d slept in my now badly creased evening dress. Thin streamers of sunlight from the gaps in the curtain panels striped the carpet. The phone, across the room on the desk, went to voice mail as I remembered Rebecca and that this was the Willard. I flopped back against the cushions as it rang again. This time I answered before the voice mail kicked in. A deep male voice asked if I was Lucie Montgomery.
“Yes.” I walked over to the bedroom. Neither bed had been slept in. “Who’s this?”
“Detective Ismail Horne with the Metropolitan Police Department. You were with Rebecca Natale yesterday afternoon.”
He knew; he wasn’t asking. I wondered who had told him.
“You found her?” I pushed back the heavy gold-and-scarlet curtains and blinked in the sudden brightness. Stupid question. Why else would he call at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning? “Is she all right?”
“We haven’t found her yet,” he said. “But we have some items of clothing that we’d like you to identify.”
I felt my throat close. “Rebecca’s clothing?”
“That’s what we’d like you to tell us.”
“Where do I meet you?”
“Fletcher’s Boat House,” he said. “On the river.”