Naked Came the Phoenix Read online

  “Have you been to this spa before, Miss Sullivan?”

  “Yes, sir. Several times.”

  “So you knew Mrs. de Vries?”

  “Yes. I knew Claudia quite well.” She had already decided that she might as well tell him. He would find out anyway. “Claudia is, ah, was, my aunt. She was my mother’s sister.”

  The detective swiveled around to look at the pictures of the dead woman. In the lifeless face it was hard to see any resemblance at all to the beauty who sat before him.

  ″If you are looking for a family likeness, Detective, I’m afraid you won’t find it. You see, my birth parents gave me up.”

  “Well, I’m sorry for your loss,” said Toscana solicitously. “Have you told your mother about her sister’s death?”

  “No. That isn’t necessary. My mother and father were killed in an automobile accident last year.”

  Toscana was a bit flustered and struck by sympathy for her.

  “Would you like a cigarette, Miss Sullivan?” he offered clumsily.

  Lauren smiled weakly. “As a matter of fact, I would. I try not to smoke. It ages the skin, you know. But I think a cigarette would be nice right now.”

  Toscana pulled a cigarette halfway out, held the pack across the table toward the actress, and flicked his lighter for her.

  She held the cigarette between her beautiful, tapering fingers and inhaled.

  The fingers. Toscana stared at her fingers. They were long and delicate and somehow expressive. And familiar.

  He had seen other hands that looked like Lauren Sullivan’s. He just couldn’t quite remember whose.

  But it would come to him.

  Just feet from where Claudia de Vries’s body had been found, Christopher Lund lay beside the crystal clear water in the pool house. He prayed that Claudia’s death would be the end to his financial problems.

  Christopher took his job as Ondine’s manager very seriously. Ondine’s income dictated his income. Booking the lucrative modeling assignments was only part of it. Christopher had to make sure Ondine was well rested, showed up on time, looked her best, and had the energy necessary to project whatever the client wanted her to project.

  The magazine spreads and runway work at the fashion shows of the top designers paid very well indeed. So well that Christopher’s fee, fifteen percent of Ondine’s gross earnings, paid for his spacious loft in SoHo, a beach place in Amagansett, a trip or three to St. Maarten each winter to get away from the gray coldness of Manhattan, and a Range Rover and the four hundred dollars a month it cost to garage it in New York City. His recreational cocaine use had grown to an everyday thing, and that ate up his money as well.

  He thoroughly enjoyed his lifestyle and all the trappings of success. He was young and ambitious. He wasn’t about to be giving up a thing—in fact, he wanted more. He wasn’t getting any younger, and it was time to be thinking about acquiring wealth, like some well-chosen art and stocks, not just spending conspicuously.

  All of this took money. And Ondine was his cash cow.

  He didn’t fear her overexposure. The more magazine covers Ondine appeared on, the more billboards she smiled from, the more restaurant openings, movie premieres, or parties she attended with the paparazzi snapping blindingly, the better he liked it. She was a star, and the more the public was aware of her the more powerful she became. Christopher drove her relentlessly.

  At twenty-two, Ondine was still young, but the window of opportunity for the big bucks was relatively short. She was at the top of the profession now, but that could change anytime. There were always new, younger women coming along, eager to join the ranks of the supermodel. The public was fickle and, Christopher believed, had a short attention span. The new sensation was always just around the corner. There was no telling how long Ondine’s time would last.

  As Ondine’s business manager, all the money flowed through Christopher. The companies that hired Ondine to tout their products made the checks out to The Lund Agency. Christopher, after taking out his fifteen percent, cut the checks to Ondine.

  But Ondine paid little attention to bookkeeping. She trusted her business manager and was not inclined to concern herself with the mundane details of banking. When Ondine had started making real money, Christopher had suggested that he make the deposits into her back account and keep track of her funds, neglecting to mention that he would have the power to withdraw money as well. He suggested that he take over having her tax returns prepared as well. Ondine had been only too happy to agree. Accounting bored her.

  Almost imperceptibly, Christopher had increased his take on each modeling assignment. There were all sorts of ways to defraud her, and he rationalized his actions to himself with the knowledge that Ondine was still making an obscene amount of money for merely standing in front of a camera while he was busting his hump managing every aspect of her career.

  The deal he had made with Claudia de Vries was especially lucrative. At least it had started out that way. Claudia had wanted to bring Phoenix Spa to another level. Not content with the spa’s solid reputation, she wanted it to join the list of America’s most exclusive spas. She thought Ondine could help her reach her goal, and Claudia had been willing to pay handsomely to realize her dream.

  When she had first contacted Christopher about Ondine doing a spread for a glossy Phoenix Spa brochure, Christopher had convinced Claudia that her plan was too limited. Ondine was too huge a star to lend her famous name, face, and body to a mere brochure for a small spa in the Virginia hills. If Claudia wanted Ondine, she was going to have to think big and pay big.

  The Lund Agency drew up a sophisticated advertising campaign and Christopher presented it to Claudia. She loved the ideas but not the price tag. So they scaled back the plan, finally agreeing that Ondine would come to Phoenix and be photographed amid the natural and man-made beauty. The photographs would be used exclusively in advertisements running in the fashion magazine that reached more readers around the world than any other and whose subscription base was the sophisticated, discerning readers Claudia wanted to attract.

  Christopher would be able to take care of it all, he promised Claudia. He would choose Ondine’s wardrobe, book the best photographer, and deal with the businesspeople at Elle, making sure that the artistic ads were well placed. Elle’s base rate for a single full-page in black and white was sixty-five thousand dollars. Color cost seventy-five thousand. But Christopher impressed Claudia, saying he knew that if Phoenix Spa committed to running an ad in every issue for a year, Elle would negotiate a better price. Christopher tried to get Claudia to spring for the prized “second cover,” which actually consisted of the back of the front cover and spread over to the next page. But at over eighty thousand dollars a pop, Claudia wouldn’t swallow the idea. She said she had to draw the line somewhere, and budgeting almost a million dollars for the Elle ad placements was already keeping her up at night.

  Christopher made two big demands. Ondine’s modeling fee had to be paid up front and in cash if Claudia wanted to cut Ondine’s two-million-dollar price almost in half. And Claudia was not allowed to discuss anything with Ondine. Christopher claimed he didn’t want his prize model to be bothered with any of the details of their business plan. He protected Ondine from the business aspects of her career, he explained.

  Claudia, eager to get on with her journey to international success and save a million dollars, agreed. The spa owner invited Ondine and her manager down for a complimentary visit and, starting on Halloween Day of last year, began paying Ondine a total of $1,025,000. She paid the money directly to Christopher Lund and then marked the amount carefully beside Ondine’s name in her spa records.

  It had all been working well until Claudia had demanded to see some results. Christopher had been able to stall since last fall with a series of excuses. Ondine’s schedule was packed. Ondine had some sort of flu, the result of a bug she had picked up during a photo shoot in Peru. Ondine needed to rest.

  Christopher absentmindedly swept his fi
ngers through the pool water as he anxiously remembered Claudia’s anger at all the delays.

  “Well, bring her down here to rest, for God’s sake!” Claudia had finally cried in exasperation.

  “I will, I will, Claudia. I’ll get her down there as soon as her schedule permits,” Christopher tried to assure the spa owner.

  “Well, her damned schedule had better permit it soon, or I’m going to hire myself the best lawyer money can buy and sue your ass off, Christopher! Sue your ass off and make sure that everyone knows what a swindler you are!”

  He had tried not to panic. With Ondine none the wiser that her earnings had gone in Christopher’s bank account, he had already spent most of the money Claudia had paid. Now it was time to pay the piper.

  He laid the groundwork, suggesting to the already painfully thin Ondine that it looked like she was putting on some weight. As Ondine cried and fretted, Christopher came to her rescue, soothing her and telling her that he would take her away to Phoenix Spa. There she could work on losing a few pounds without the eyes of the unforgiving New York fashion world watching. So they had come here, ostensibly to get the fat off Ondine, but, in reality, to buy some time with Claudia.

  Claudia wasn’t going to be bothering him anymore.

  After breakfast the next morning, Caroline took her beloved cello from its case and seated herself in the straight-backed chair that stood in the corner of her bedroom. She listened to the tones as she tuned the instrument. Caroline positioned herself carefully, as she had so many times before, and slowly pulled the bow across the cello’s strings.

  The two began to make their mournful music together. Caroline’s long, thin fingers held the bow gracefully and moved it expertly back and forth across the strings. The prized cello faithfully emitted the haunting sounds the musician requested of it.

  Caroline tasted salty tears as they slid down her cheeks and reached her lips. It was a relief to cry again. It was comforting to have the sad music as her companion.

  This was not what she had planned. She had so wanted things to be different. Caroline had gone into the marriage with such high hopes and such wonderful dreams. But if Douglas had betrayed her with another woman, those dreams were shattered. How could she share her life with a man she didn’t trust?

  Caroline dried her eyes with the back of her hand. Why should she worry about protecting Douglas anymore? Douglas Blessing, the freshman congressman from Tennessee, the handsome young man with the high political aspirations, was no longer her husband in the finest sense of the word. He hadn’t cared about her feelings or about his sacred vows to her. Why should she fight to guard him now?

  Caroline had a good mind to march down to the gates right now and tell the media camped outside all that was going on inside Phoenix Spa. In fact, the more she thought about it, the better the idea seemed.

  Let the chips fall where they may.

  9

  CAROLINE HAD STORMED OUT OF the cottage at full throttle, but halfway down the tree-lined drive that led to the gates of Phoenix Spa, she eased her foot off the gas. Behind the pillars and the elaborate wrought-iron barrier, a writhing mass of reporters stood before a backdrop of cars and television vans, their satellite dishes pointed toward the sky on long, slender stalks. As she approached, Caroline thought she could make out some familiar faces—a bespectacled, frizzyheaded reporter from CNN and, Lord help us, that guy with the mustache, Geraldo Rivera. Next to Geraldo stood a wellcoifed reporter who reminded her of an anchor back home on Channel 5.

  Home. That word again. It stabbed at her heart with a pain so intense that she sobbed and paused in her purposeful march toward the world and the truth to catch her breath. Where was home? The house where she grew up had long ago fallen to the wrecking ball. Her bachelorette bungalow on Forest View in Nashville had been sold. And she couldn’t imagine returning to the Georgian-style row house on Thirty-first Street in Georgetown where Congressman Blessing had brought his new bride less than a year ago. The furniture, carpets, wallpaper, and fabrics that she had chosen with such care and joy held no more warmth for her now than the cold fist of anger and fear that seemed to be squeezing the heart right out of her chest.

  Panic seized her, she recognized the signs. First a tingling in her fingers and toes, then a wave of heat that rushed up her neck, suffusing her face and scalp and overwhelming her with dizziness. Fool! Whatever made her think she was even capable of meeting the press? Caroline glanced about for a quiet spot to withdraw, but a serpentine wall of solid brick lined the drive on both sides. She could continue toward the braying pack of media hounds or retreat up the drive to the cabin she shared with her mother, to her loft bedroom, now the only home she had.

  Caroline scurried to the wall, seeking refuge in one of its sheltering curves. Panting with relief, she sat on her heels and leaned against the brick, which felt deliciously warm through the sheer cotton of her blouse. Insanely, she wished for Douglas. Douglas had experience with the press; he would tell her what to do. To her right, the manic shouting of the reporters assaulted her ears. To her left, there was nothing but tranquillity—a twittering bird, the drone of a honeybee—and a young man, striding purposefully in her direction.

  “Mrs. Blessing?” he called.

  Caroline swiped at the tears that streaked her cheeks and turned her face in his direction. She could tell he was a staff member by his green Phoenix Spa polo shirt, but he was neither tall enough nor lean enough to be Emilio Constanza. “Yes. Who are you?” she asked unnecessarily as the fellow got closer and she saw the name tag clipped to his uniform. It said “Dante.”

  “I’m a masseur,” he offered.

  “What do you want?”

  “Dr. de Vries sent me to find you. You had an appointment with him at two-thirty yesterday.”

  Caroline wrinkled her brow. “What appointment?”

  “Everyone has them. Part of the package. You discuss your needs, he evaluates your general condition, then he plans out the best therapeutic course for you during your stay.”

  In the blinding sunlight Caroline squinted up at Dante. She couldn’t believe it would be business as usual for the freshly widowed Raoul. “Of course, I remember now.” She stood, dusted off her slacks, and walked toward him. “But how did you find me?”

  Dante pointed.

  She followed the long line of his arm from rounded biceps to tapered index finger. “That birdhouse?”

  He chuckled and shook his head, sending his ponytail flipping from one shoulder to another. “Surveillance cameras. They’re all over the place.”

  Caroline gasped. “Raoul’s been spying on me?”

  “Not spying, exactly. The security officer sits in a basement room in the main lodge while this software just flips from one camera to another, capturing it all on videotape.”

  “I’m on tape?” Caroline was incredulous.

  As if sensing her next question, Dante laid a hand on her arm. “They’re only for the spa entrances and the grounds. We don’t have any cameras indoors.”

  Caroline said, “Well, that’s a relief.” She wondered if Detective Toscana knew about the security system and, remembering her midnight raid on the spa kitchen, was glad she had come clean to him about it. “Do the police … ?”

  “Oh, yeah. That Toscana fellow and his goons have been all over security this morning.”

  Grateful for the interruption and glad of the company, Caroline turned her back on the reporters and accompanied Dante up the drive toward the main lodge. Exhausted and drained, she walked in silence. As they passed the kitchen wing, the smell of food teased her nostrils.

  “Mrs. Blessing, do you mind if I make a suggestion?”

  Caroline had been thinking about her meager breakfast and how much she now regretted passing up the whole-grain Belgian waffles with fresh fruit in favor of some dry toast. Her stomach rumbled noisily. “What?”

  “After you finish with Dr. de Vries, come see me.” Waking slightly behind, he laid his hands on her shoulders
. “You’re tied in knots. Stiff. Your spine’s coiled as tightly as a bedspring.”

  Caroline rotated her shoulders. “I know.”

  “I have an opening at three.” He removed his hands. “Have you ever been Rolfed?”

  Caroline laughed. “Rolfed? You’re making that up, surely?” But when he didn’t smile she said, “Is it anything like shiatzu?”

  Dante shook his head. “Not at all. Rolfing’s a deep-massage technique that works on the connective tissues. Quite frankly, it’s not for everybody, but I’ve never seen anyone who needed Rolfing more than you.”

  Caroline smiled up at the masseur, thinking, What could it hurt? “I’ll mention it to Raoul,” she promised.

  “Ordinarily, we suggest an eight- to ten-week course of treatment,” the young man continued. “But let’s do an introductory session and if it seems to work for you, I’ll recommend a practitioner for when you get home.”

  Wherever home might be, she thought ruefully. Forcing her lips into a smile, she looked up at Dante. “Okay, then,” she said. “Pencil me in.”

  Through the half-open door, Caroline could see that Raoul’s office was the June cover of Architectural Digest, from the brocade draperies to the foil-backed wall covering right down to the oversized art books carelessly but expensively arranged on the Louis XV coffee table. To the right, built-in bookshelves held matched sets of leather-bound classics. To the left, a globe the size of a basketball, each country delineated by encrustations of semiprecious stones, was centered on a narrow credenza.

  If Raoul had a medical degree, Caroline could see no evidence of it. On the other hand, a boasting, black-framed diploma would hardly have been in keeping with the decor. As proud as Caroline was of the diploma from Juilliard that hung in her own study, it wouldn’t have taken much arm-twisting to persuade her to replace it with one of the Mirós or Klees that hung in carved, gilded frames over Raoul’s credenza.