Hidden Sanctuary, page 14
I huffed in frustration, which garnered a scathing glance from Griffin and a mouthed, Stop it.
I settled, trying not to fidget, and reminded myself that when they rose to leave, I’d corner her.
The sermon droned on, but I didn’t hear it and instead watched the crowd. Women sniffed into handkerchiefs. Men slumped. One woman, her silver-blond hair pulled back into a neat chignon, leaned her head on her partner’s shoulder. He put his arm around her, pulling her close.
The grief and sense of loss were almost tangible. Unbearable. I squeezed my eyes shut, wondering if I’d made a mistake in coming.
The church. The weeping. The vast sea of wealthy attendees. It reminded me of my grandmother’s funeral. I was seventeen when she died. We’d always had a special bond. A connection.
Suddenly, I recognized what the connection was—Marian blood.
Had she known? I wondered.
I blinked back unexpected tears, missing her all over again. More than my grandmother, she’d been my champion. My friend. And before I met Efra, she was the only person who accepted me as I was and believed in my dowser gift.
Losing her broke my heart.
A week to the day after I said goodbye to her, my parents sent me to the sanitarium to “cure” me.
I hadn’t been to a funeral since. Not even my mother’s.
“You okay?” Griffin whispered, taking my hand.
“Fine. Why?”
“You look like you’re either going to cry or beat the hell out of someone.”
“Maybe both,” I said, managing a smile, and focusing on anything besides the casket.
He looked at me, seeing the unease beneath the glib answer.
“I hate funerals,” I said.
“I know. Me, too.” He put his arm around me.
I sighed and leaned into him and endured.
Finally, the minister asked if anyone wanted to speak. There was some whispering, and the woman who’d had her head on her companion’s shoulder rose from the pew and made her way to the front of the group.
She was pregnant. Very pregnant. Tears had washed away her makeup, but she was beautiful and elegant in a simple navy-blue dress sans any of the bows or frills that tend to accompany maternity clothes. Despite her hiccups from crying, she glowed as she spoke about Scarlet, her clear voice resonating through the church.
It seemed the deceased was loved, respected and more important than she probably ever realized.
It made me think of Efra, and I wondered how she was. If something happened to her…I shook off the black mood that was gathering around me. Pete had said she was fine.
Still, I worried.
I sighed, wishing I could walk out and leave my dark thoughts behind. I hated death. Loathed funerals. Didn’t like reminders that our time on this earth was transitory.
Another woman stood, heading toward the back of the church, and the pregnant woman’s words faded in my ears as I realized who walked down the aisle.
Pauline.
“Griffin,” I whispered.
“I see her.”
She passed us, her black dress the epitome of class, her eyes downcast as she hurried out. She didn’t notice us. I whispered a silent thank-you to whatever entity brought good luck. “I’ll be back,” I whispered to Griffin, untangling myself from his arm.
“Tru—”
I was already edging out of the pew. I followed Pauline down the hall, hanging back and walking with silent feet. She went into the ladies’ room, and I hurried forward, catching the door before it closed.
I pushed hard and entered, slamming it shut.
“Excuse me—” She stopped midsentence as soon as she realized whom she was addressing.
“Hello, Pauline.” I locked the door behind me and leaned against it. “We need to talk.”
For a heartbeat, she stared at me, her eyes wide in shock. Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged.
“I think the words you’re searching for are ‘what a pleasant surprise’,” I said, wanting to shake her for betraying me. “Those are the appropriate things to say, aren’t they? Under the circumstances, of course.”
“Um, yes,” she replied. “I was going to use the ladies’ room, if we can talk later?” Her glance shifted to the doorknob.
I’d come too far and been through too much to let her escape now. “Cross your legs. I’m not leaving until I get some answers.”
“Concerning what?”
Now I stared, dumbfounded. “About what? How about you bashing Efra over the head and taking the tiles.”
She blushed, the wave of color starting with her cheeks and continuing across her face and down her neck. “I did not have a choice. I did not want to. I am sorry.”
“I’m not the one who deserves an apology,” I said.
“You are right.”
I wanted to like Pauline. Wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, but the easy agreement wasn’t enough. I realized nothing she said or did was enough compensation for hurting someone I admired and cared for. I quelled the niggling of anger that threatened to grow as I remembered Efra lying on the floor with blood pooling around her. “Tell me why.”
She looked away as if considering my demand, then nodded in agreement. Taking a handkerchief from her pocketbook, she ran water over it, then wiped at her face.
Makeup came off, revealing a bruised cheek and eyebrow.
My anger faded. “No,” I whispered.
She pushed up her sleeves. Bruises circled her wrist like a bracelet. “There are more on my ribs and along my back,” she said, her voice choked. “Would you like me to strip so you can see?”
“No. That’s not necessary.” I swallowed my shame and tried to remain focused on my mission. Get the truth. Get the tiles. Get back to Egypt. “Showing me you’ve been beaten doesn’t explain why you hit Efra and took the tiles. You almost killed her.”
“I have never hit anyone before. I swung the vase, but did not mean to hit her so hard,” Pauline confessed, pulling her sleeves down and hiding the evidence of her abuse.
“Why?”
She looked up. Her eyes glittered with tears. “Because he would have killed me if I did not do as he asked.”
“Who?”
“My husband.”
“Joshua?” The elegant, charismatic man whom I’d had coffee with yesterday?
She nodded.
My hand clamped over my mouth in horror. I didn’t want to believe it, but it would not be the first time an Italian suit was a pretty facade for a wife beater, or a wealthy man who hit his wife, and I doubted it would be the last. “Do you know what he wants with them?” I asked, angry that I’d thought him innocent and Pauline guilty. If I’d known yesterday what I knew now, I’d have demanded the tiles and screw good manners.
“No, but he does not have them, I can promise you that.” Her voice peaked with desperation, and she grabbed my hand, begging me to believe her. “He hit me this morning because I refused to tell him where I hid them. I did not realize what they were before I took them. Not really. Once I did, I could not give them to him.”
Relief washed over me. I clenched her hand. “Where are they?”
A knock on the door startled us. We both jumped. “In a minute,” I called. “Where are they?”
Her eyes widened. “You are hurting me.”
I realized I was squeezing her fingers, and loosened my grip. “Sorry. Please,” I said, feeling like a bully for hurting her.
Bully or no, I had to get the tiles. “Where are the tiles, Pauline?”
Another knock and a disembodied voice spoke. “I hate to be a pain in the ass, but I’m pregnant, and this is the only bathroom in the church.”
Hell. The blonde.
“Meet me after the funeral. I am staying at Hotel Meurice,” Pauline said. Grabbing a compact from her purse, she swiped the puff over her face, barely masking the bruise on her cheek.
The blonde pounded on the door, and I nodded in agreement, then swung it wide. She was shifting from one foot to the other. “Sorry,” I said. “Girl talk.”
She flashed us an impatient smile, then pushed past us as we left.
The door slammed shut.
If my goal was to piss people off, I was batting a thousand. Pauline touched my arm. “Tonight.”
Grabbing a long, black wool coat from a hook, she left. As the church door closed, I saw her hail a cab, looking waiflike and frail as the snow fell around her.
Behind me, the service had ended and people milled about talking in quiet murmurs. Griffin leaned against a wall, waiting for me, his gaze following Pauline’s exit.
“Well?” he asked when I reached him.
“We’re meeting her at Hotel Meurice tonight, and she’ll hand the tiles over.”
“She admitted taking them?” His brows arched in surprise.
“It wasn’t as if she could hide the fact.”
He nodded.
I continued. “Joshua made her do it, and after seeing the bruises on her face, I believe it. I don’t know why he wants them, and right now, I don’t care. I want them back, and Pauline taken care of.”
Griffin gave me a quizzical look. “You’re saying Joshua hit Pauline?”
“Yes.”
“To get the tiles?”
“Yes,” I replied through gritted teeth, impatient with having to repeat myself. “Is that so hard to believe?”
He looked at me as if I was simple. “You realize that neither Joshua nor Pauline knew about the tiles until she arrived at the village? I’m not saying he didn’t hurt her, but if he did, it wasn’t to coerce her into taking the tiles.”
I stared at Griffin in angry shock. I’d been so eager to believe her that I’d ignored the obvious. So in need of friendship that I’d believed her. So overwhelmed with her appearance that all else had faded.
Including my logic.
The realization that I’d been duped washed over me.
For a few minutes, we watched the crowd, and I tried to come to grips with my own stupidity.
“It was an easy mistake to make,” Griffin said, his voice low. “I’m sure seeing her beaten up threw you off. I’d have done the same.”
“No. You wouldn’t have.” I didn’t want his pity.
“Probably not,” he admitted. “But you can’t beat yourself up over it.”
I stiffened. “Trying to be funny?”
He thought about his word choice, and his ears turned red at the tips. “Sorry.”
I looked away, furious with myself. “No. Don’t be. I’m not mad at you. I just don’t like feeling like a fool.”
He pulled me close. “We all make mistakes,” he whispered. “The trick is to learn from them and not make them again.”
I did not plan on a repeat of Pauline duping me. Now that I knew she was a world-class liar, I was going to find her, and there was no way she’d get away again.
The best place to start would be with her friends—these other Marians. I put my arm around Griffin’s waist and squeezed. “Let’s see if anyone here can help,” I said.
“It’s worth a shot,” he replied.
I surveyed the crowd. It was an eclectic mix of businesspeople in dark suits and artsy types who wore anything from hot pink to lime-green.
With the exception of Preggers, the Marian women all wore black and were bunched together with what I assumed were their husbands or boyfriends.
“We should mix a bit,” Griffin suggested.
“I’ll be over there,” I said, pointing to the women who resonated Marian energy.
Griffin didn’t argue, but pushed away from the wall and went in the opposite direction.
Forcing a smile to my lips and repressing my anger, I walked over. “Hello,” I said.
They turned, and a wave of energy washed over me. Familiar and welcome despite my anger. Could they feel it?
Preggers’s eyes widened for a split second. Maybe.
That, or she was surprised at a stranger interrupting their obviously private conversation.
“I’m so sorry about your loss.” I focused on Preggers. “You gave a beautiful talk.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes watered, and she wiped at them with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I seem to be nothing but a bundle of emotions these days.”
“It’s okay,” I sympathized. Next to her, a dark man I recognized as the one she’d leaned against earlier pulled her close and murmured something in her ear.
They had matching wedding bands. A flash of unexpected envy shot through me.
She smiled and nodded. “Thanks. I hate funerals. Hate saying goodbye.”
Envy disappeared, replaced with matching emotion. “Letting someone go when you’re not ready…” I trailed off. There were no words for that kind of anguish.
She nodded in agreement.
“And you are?” a French accented voice interrupted.
I faced another blonde with what I assumed was her husband or escort of some sort. She looked as unmoving as stone and about as soft despite her slim figure. I smiled, but her ice queen facade didn’t melt one iota. “Tru Palmer.”
“Catrina Dauvergne.” She didn’t offer her hand, and neither did I.
“And Rhys Pritchard,” the man next to her said. I’m not short, but I had to tilt my head to look up at him. He held out his hand, and I noticed there wasn’t a ring as I clasped it.
“I’m Ana, and this is my husband, Robert,” Preggers said. “That’s Eve and Nick.”
The other couple—she in a black knit dress and he in a black suit with black shirt—nodded hello and looked at me with a hint of suspicion in their eyes.
For a minute, the energy around Eve fluctuated so heavily that I felt it, making me stumble.
Rhys caught my arm, steadying me. “Thanks,” I murmured, wondering if Eve knew what she was doing. I’d have to find out, when I had more time.
And once I knew whether I could trust these women.
“You’re welcome,” he said. Stepping away from me, Catrina took his arm, pressing against him. It seemed the ice queen had a weak spot. It was good to see she wasn’t stone.
One thing I noticed, which hadn’t occurred to me before, was that only the women emanated the Marian energy. I wondered if our gift or abilities were limited to our gender.
Another question that would have to wait.
“You know Pauline?” Ana asked, referring to the episode in the bathroom.
“Yes. You could say that,” I replied. “I work for an oil conglomerate, and she’s one of the board members.”
“You work for the Adrianos?” Catrina asked.
She didn’t attempt to hide the fact that she didn’t like the Adriano family, and from the chill that settled over the group, neither did anyone else.
Interesting. Possibly useful.
“I work for myself,” I corrected her. “My company was hired by Dynocorp. The Adrianos are on the board, but so are a number of people from other companies.”
The women looked at me curiously.
“How do you all know Pauline?” I asked, breaking the icy silence.
They glanced at each other as if silently working out a story. Amateurs.
“We work together sometimes,” Ana offered.
Work? Ha! They were Marians, and though they didn’t acknowledge the connection, I was sure they were aware of it. Coincidence went only so far.
But they didn’t know I knew. That was my one advantage, and I wasn’t above using it.
I had to get the tiles back, and right now these women were my only connection to Pauline. “I’d hoped you could help me. Pauline left so fast that I didn’t have time to get her phone number, and we’re supposed to get together for a meeting. Do any of you know how to contact her?”
It was a plausible lie. A good one, and I delivered it with my usual skill.
Despite that, I saw the suspicion in their gazes.
“No. We do not,” Catrina replied.
“Then maybe you could give her a message,” I said.
Before Catrina could say either yea or nay, the front door opened, letting a cloud of snow in with the cold air.
We all turned. Joshua and two men entered.
When I turned back, Robert was hustling Ana past me toward the side door. The rest were following.
This left my question unanswered. I wanted to scream in frustration.
A light touch on my shoulders caught my attention, and Griffin took my arm, looping it through his. “Find out anything useful?”
“A little. They know her, but I’m not sure how well. I think they might have told me more but when those three entered—” I nodded toward Joshua and the two other men “—they took off.”
“Want to go found out why?” he asked.
I grinned. “Let’s.”
Griffin escorted me across the room to the three newcomers. Joshua smiled when he saw me. “Ms. Palmer.” He took off his gloves and shook my hand. His knuckles were smooth. Unmarred.
Not the hands of a wife beater.
He shook Griffin’s hand. “I’d like you both to meet my brother, Caleb.” A handsome man, his dark eyes glittered with unshed tears. He nodded before pushing past us toward the front of the church and Scarlet’s casket.
The older man frowned at him, then turned back to us. He radiated an old-world graciousness.
“Duke Simon Adriano,” he said. He took my hand in his. His skin was warm. The hands of an executive. Smooth, uncallused and unmarred.
Except for his knuckles. Which were bruised.
Chapter 13
“What do you suggest we do?” I asked. We’d made idle chitchat with Joshua and Simon for as long as politeness required, leaving as soon as we could without appearing either rude or suspicious.
Griffin didn’t take his eyes off the road. Driving in Paris was always a little risky, but when snow was added to the mix, getting behind the wheel took professional driving skills—or insanity.
I couldn’t say for sure which category we fell under.
“To find Pauline?”
“Yes,” I replied, frustrated at letting her slip away.
“I’ll make a few inquiries. What about the women you spoke with. Do you think they might help?”
“Possibly,” I said. They were like me, but were they helping Pauline or were they oblivious to her duplicity? I thought the latter but couldn’t take a chance. Not with time running out.
