Red Interlude (Moon Dance Book 2), page 9
He’s a talented actor as well as a dancer, I thought cynically.
I slid my key card over the lock and heard it click as the green light went on. “I need time to think,” I said.
Although disappointment showed in his face, he didn’t push it. “I understand. Good night, Rowan.” He picked up my hand and kissed it.
My smile faded as I double-locked the door. Frozen to the bone and exhausted, I filled the bathtub with scalding water, added some hotel shampoo to make bubbles, and stripped off my wet clothes. I hung my costume up on the back of the door, hoping it would magically repair itself overnight, and sank into the soothing water.
I closed my eyes. I must have fallen asleep because the water had cooled around my skin when I awoke. Shivering, I got out, dried off, put on my nightgown—the nightgown Axel had given me—then collapsed on the bed and sobbed.
By allowing Jacobin to kiss me, by not resisting, I cheated on Axel. Worse, I found Jacobin attractive. I also knew the truth about him.
Grande Dame
Jacobin was correct about one thing: beyond a few company members inquiring if I was okay, no one seemed to care that Mom had made a complete ass of herself (and me) at the theatre. I received the usual pathetic apology text from her with the vow to return to rehab, which I promptly deleted.
Maybe someday I’ll get up the nerve to block her number completely, I thought, grabbing some coffee before my morning class.
Being in New York allowed me to sample the techniques of the world’s best teachers, and I reveled in it. To avoid Jacobin, I kept myself busy all day.
After attending a fun jazz class at Broadway Dance, I did a little sightseeing, treating myself to lunch as well as going to the Wax museum in Times Square. When I found myself staring at the life-sized figure of Lon Chaney’s Wolfman, I realized I could not distract myself from what I had seen in the park the previous night.
Jacobin was part of the Volkov pack. I suppose I knew it from the start.
But what to do about it?
Of course, I considered telling Axel. More than anyone in the world, he would understand. But could I risk his health by laying that burden on him when he was just starting to get better?
I left the wax museum with a heavy heart. As I strolled down 42nd Street, I found it oddly comforting to blend in with the crowd. New York was like Philly on steroids, from the noise to the scale of the avenues and buildings. It was all too much, yet I loved getting lost in the city’s mayhem.
When I came to a corner newsstand, I couldn’t resist the temptation to pick up the Times, which had to have a review of Love Park.
I rode the A train uptown, strap-hanging like a regular New Yorker with the paper folded under my arm, still afraid to take a peek. Finally, when an old lady shuffled out of the one available seats, I sat down, took a deep breath, and opened the newspaper.
I scanned the arts section, and there was the headline: In Love with Love Park.
My heart leaped to my throat as I read on: Romanian choreographer Axel Volkov’s visionary production lights a spark in an otherwise bland ballet season.
As I perused the article, I was thrilled to see Axel was the focus. Of course, I was mentioned, favorably so. But so were Derrick and Jacobin, as well as the entire production. I was relieved to read that despite a minor disturbance in the audience toward the end of Act Two, the cast kept their focus and delivered a stunning climax to a dramatic new work.
As I folded the paper, I realized how much I had overreacted to Mom’s drunken interruption. Running into Central Park wearing my costume and missing the opening night reception was foolish and unprofessional. Had I imagined the wolves too?
No! I told myself as the train rolled into the station. That was real. And so were Jacobin’s kisses and declarations of love. Not that I believed he was sincere. It was all just part of the Volkovs’ scheme, but what was their endgame?
The following performance was equally successful. The positive reviews and Times articles brought out the ballet fans from far and wide. The ballet audience is an interesting mix of cultural elite who couldn’t care less about dance but want to be seen at the latest art happening and the hard-core and typically eccentric fans.
I met a lady of the latter category at the closing night reception, where I finally got to wear the beautiful satin dress I had bought in Albany. The party was held in the theatre’s lobby with an open bar and buffet. Everyone was in high spirits except for Jacobin, who stood alone in his trim black suit, drinking Scotch and gazing at me with soulful questioning eyes. I was doing my best to ignore him when an elderly woman approached me. I knew right away she had to be a former dancer. Despite her advanced age, the lady’s posture was ramrod straight. Her hair was dyed a dramatic blue-black hue and swept back with spit curls flattened against her highly rouged cheeks.
“You were wonderful tonight, my dear,” she said, her false eyelashes fluttering like big black butterflies.
“Thank you,” I said graciously.
Her hand, large dinner rings glittering on every finger, gripped my arm tightly when she said in a quivering voice, “I danced in The Nutcracker Suite with your great-grandmother when I was just a little girl.”
“That’s incredible,” I said. “What is your—”
“Constance Vandegrift,” she announced grandly.
A few patrons turned toward her with deference at the mention of her name.
I thought for a moment and blurted out, “The Constance Vandegrift?”
She smiled and cocked her head flirtatiously. “The one and only.”
“I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you,” I sputtered.
Constance Vandegrift was a wealthy society lady. I knew her name because she was a great patron of the arts, particularly ballet.
“Why should you?” she said, pooh-poohing my apology. “I would greatly like to talk to you, my dear, but I’m afraid standing too long at my age is such a bother.
“Here,” I said, gently guiding her to one of the candlelit tables that had been set up in the lobby for the reception.
“Perfect,” she said, settling into a red velvet chair.
“Would you care for a drink, Mrs. Vandegrift?” asked an attendant waiter.
I suppressed a giggle when she raised a diamond-encrusted hand and said to the waiter, “Bring me a neat Scotch, the best you got.”
“That’s amazing that you knew my great-grandmother,” I said. “I know so little about her.”
Mrs. Vandegrift laid a hand on my wrist and said, “Apparently, you know so little about many things, my dear.”
My composure shaken suddenly, I said, “I don’t understand.”
“When are you leaving town?” she asked with a mysterious glint in her blue eyes.
“Not until tomorrow night.”
“Will you join me for tea tomorrow afternoon then? I should like to speak to you, in private, about certain matters.” Her voice rang with quiet mystery.
Of course I said yes.
Mrs. Vandegrift’s Warning
I managed to avoid Jacobin for the rest of the night and the following morning. Over coffee in my hotel room, I Facetimed with Axel. With the deep planes of his face filled out, and his coloring improved, Axel looked like his old self, sitting on our thrift store sofa with a shaft of bright sunlight streaming in from our one living room window.
From all reports, Wanda was taking good care of him, and his treatments were going so well, he hinted, that perhaps he would visit me when we were in Canada. That was the best news I had heard in weeks. So, with a spring in my step, I left the hotel for my appointment with Mrs. Vandegrift.
I knew the lady was wealthy, but still, my jaw positively dropped when I approached the four-story Madison Avenue mansion composed of smooth gray stones with a green copper roof. The glistening windowpanes reflected the traffic moving behind me. I nervously climbed the few wide steps to the door and pressed the doorbell. From inside the mansion, a muffled gong rang.
An elderly gentleman in a trim black suit opened the door with a smile. “Good afternoon, miss.” He held open the door for me and I wandered into the foyer trying not to gawk at the marble interior and the splashes of color from the enormous modern art canvases covering every inch of the walls. I’m not an art expert, but I recognized Warhol and Rothko in the mix.
The man, a butler I assumed, had just taken my coat when Mrs. Vandegrift floated down the curving staircase wearing a trailing hot pink muumuu shot with gold accents. She was beautifully made-up; her dark hair fluttered in waves to her shoulders. I tried not to cough at the heavy cloud of jasmine perfume preceding her.
“Lovely to see you, my dear,” she said, lifting herself in relevé to kiss both my cheeks. “Otis,” she said, referring to the butler, “we’ll have tea in the drawing-room. The afternoon sun is so nice in there.”
“Yes, madam,” replied Otis, his back a stiff plank as he turned and left the room.
“I hope you like a fire,” she said as she linked her arm in mine and led me across the marble floor. “This old house is so drafty.”
“Your home is beautiful,” I said, trying not to feel shabby in my black jeans, boots, and sweater.
She nodded. “Yes, I’m quite fortunate I was never forced to subdivide into—” her delicate shoulders shuddered with revulsion”—condos. Ah, here we are.”
We passed through opened pocket doors and entered the drawing-room. Floor-to-ceiling drapes framed two large bay windows in cascades of striped silk. The sparkling glass panes revealed a walled courtyard framing a winter garden. I don’t know Beidermier from Ikea, but the polished furnishings appeared old and expensive. A low fire added warmth to the wainscoted walls adorned with Hudson Valley landscapes.
“Your art collection is beautiful,” I gushed as Mrs. Vandegrift motioned for me to sit on a pink velvet armchair. As soon as she settled into the loveseat opposite me, two white poodles, one old and frail the other young and active, leaped into her lap.
“Thank you,” she said, drolly. “Are you interested in art? Well, of course, you are an artist,” she continued before I could respond. “Ah, here’s Otis at last with the tea.”
We settled down to hot tea served in beautiful porcelain cups, tiny finger sandwiches, and polite conversation about art and ballet.
“Now,” she said, petting the older poodle’s head. “I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here.”
“Well, I know you are a great supporter of the ballet,” I gushed. “I want you to know how much I appreciate—”
“Oh, bosh!” she said, her bracelets twinkling as she waved her hand. “I asked you here, my dear,” her heavily mascaraed eyes narrowed, “because I must, in good conscience, warn you.”
My empty tea cub clattered on the saucer. I set it down on the pie-crust coffee table. “Warn me about what?”
Her gaze intensified. “Don’t you know?”
“I don’t like guessing games, Mrs. Vandegrift,” I said, my spine stiffening.
The older woman smirked. “I see you inherited your fiery temper from your great-grandmother as well as your talent. Good,” she said, nodding admiringly. “You will need it.”
“Need it for what?”
“The Volkovs, of course.” A smile twitched the corner of her thin, lipsticked mouth.
“The Volkovs...”
“I’m not referring to your young husband. I heard he left the family and is now. . . ill.”
I felt my Philly grit rise. “Mrs. Vandegrift, what is your point exactly?”
Otis cleared his throat from the threshold.
“Ah, Otis. Please bring us two brandies.” Her gaze shifted back to me. “This conversation may require something with a bit more heft.”
I waited until Otis cleared the tea dishes and replaced them with two brandies in tiny crystal glasses and a plate of delicious-looking chocolates.
“What about the Volkovs?” I asked.
“Well,” she said, bringing the brandy snifter to her lips. “The Volkovs and their ilk have a long reach. I should know.” She paused for two dramatic beats. “I was once married to Viktor Volkov.”
I gaped at her, trying to process what she had just said.
“I know what you’re thinking. I am far too old, but you must remember, dear, that Viktor was a practiced black magician, more powerful than Mr. Crowley had ever hoped to be. By selling his soul, Viktor preserved his mortality. But the price, my dear Rowan, the price!” Her false eyelashes fluttered as she took another sip of brandy.
I let out a breath to siphon off some anger and said, “Mrs. Vandegrift, as I am sure you’re aware, Viktor Volkov is dead. So is his son, Mads. They died in a car accident in Romania.”
She gave me a sly look. “And you really believe that?”
“Do I believe it?” I said, my voice rising. “I saw the accident!”
“Yes,” she droned, her eyes locking on mine tightly. “And from what I heard, caused it.”
Defensiveness rose to my lips, along with a sense of guilt I had been suppressing for two years. “I did not cause the accident, nor did Axel. We were trying to escape.”
“And escape you did, temporarily.”
“Are you trying to tell me that Viktor and Mads Volkov are still alive?”
Her frail shoulders shrugged beneath her muumuu. “I don’t know for sure, but I do know there have been signs.”
“What kind of signs?”
“Do you know Daphne Farthingale?” She snapped off a tiny piece of chocolate and popped it into her mouth.
“No,” I replied impatiently. “Should I?”
“Certainly! Daphne Farthingale is the most famous spiritualist in New York,” she huffed at my ignorance. “At the reading she did for me last week, she told me the Volkovs are back. Or at least their organization, if you want to call it that, is. And you, my dear, are in their crosshairs.”
“What does that mean? What do they want?”
“Vengeance,” she said.
Despite the warm fire and numbing brandy, my fleshed chilled.
“They’ve suffered from losing their leader—if he is indeed dead—but according to my sources—” She smiled slyly. “There’s a new alpha in the pack, as it were.”
From somewhere in the mansion, a gong sounded.
Mrs. Vandegrift perked up. “Ah, my masseuse has arrived. I’m afraid we will have to continue this conversation at a later date. Otis!”
It was clear she was dismissing me, but I wanted to know more. Mrs. Vandegrift shooed the poodles off her lap and pushed herself up from the loveseat with a slight groan.
“Come, my dear,” she said, beckoning with her sharpened nails like I was one of her pets. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
Stunned, trying to process what I had just heard, I submitted to her firm grip on my elbow.
When we reached the door, I turned to her and said, “What is your opinion of Jacobin Dupré?”
She blinked rapidly. “You mean the young principal dancer in your ballet company? Why, I think he’s charming and—”
It’s rude to cut someone off in mid-sentence, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Did your spiritualist mention Jacobin Dupré, as being, uh, one of the Volkovs? Part of their organization?”
Mrs. Vandegrift looked perplexed and suddenly much older. “I received no information about him. But,” her claw-like grip tightened on my arm. “If you are afraid of him, trust your instincts. If I know one thing about the Volkovs, they are masters at deception. They enjoy toying with their victims, but when they are ready to kill, they strike fast.” Then softly, she added, “And you will never see it coming.”
Otis was suddenly standing next to me, holding my coat at arm’s length as if it smelled. I shuffled into it awkwardly. The interview adjourned, Otis opened the front door, and brisk air rushed in.
Before I turned to say goodbye, Mrs. Vandegrift pressed a cream-colored business card into my hand. “This is my private number. Only use it if you desperately need to.”
Suddenly I was shivering on the gray marble steps. “Mrs. Vandegrift,” I said as Otis was closing the door.
“Yes, dear?” Her pale face, garishly made-up in the afternoon light, filled the crack in the door.
“Were you in love with Viktor Volkov?”
Her face fell as she said quietly, “I loved him so much I almost lost everything to him—including my soul.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered because I had no other words.
She regained her composure and said, “It was a long time ago, and I would just hate to see...”
“See what?” I asked.
She shook her head, and a girlish expression replaced her mask of tragedy. “Nothing. Just be careful,” she said, tossing me a little wave. The light caught the sparkle of her eyes and jewels. “Goodbye, my dear, and good luck.”
The door closed in my face before I could respond.
I moved numbly down Madison Avenue, pausing to gaze at the antiques and haute-couture fashions I would never be able to afford.
Constance Vandegrift is just a wacky old lady, I told myself. That’s what happens to people when they have too much money and time on their hands. Of course, Viktor and Mads Volkov are dead, and if she and her spiritualist knew anything, they’d know Jacobin is the one I should be warned about.
I pulled the card with her private phone number from my coat pocket and tore it up. I let the pieces drop to the sidewalk as I raised my hand to hail a cab and return to the hotel.
Setting a Trap
“Only Benjamin would book a Canadian tour in February,” grumbled Michelle, her head bobbing miserably in the front seat of the tour bus.
I had to agree. Sheets of thick snow assaulted the bus’ windshield as we left New York. The further north we drove, the worse the weather became. The eight-hour drive to Toronto took nearly twelve, and by the time we pulled into our hotel, everyone in the company was dead tired and cranky, myself included. Once we disembarked from the bus, I pulled my luggage from the storage, went directly to my room, and ordered take-out Chinese food from the restaurant across the street from our hotel.
