The Tulip Virus Read online

  NINE

  They made their way through the deserted cemetery to the grave. In just a day, the late summer had flown. The trees were bare and leaves lay underfoot— a moist, colorful carpet. Toadstools had appeared in the most unexpected places. It was six o’clock in the evening, and the sky was almost dark. Despite the maze of footpaths, it was easy to find the place. The women mourners wearing high heels had sunk into the sandy ground with every step, and trails of little holes now showed the way.

  “How’re you holding up?” Damian glanced at his best friend’s ashen face and wondered whether Alec was really up to this.

  Alec met his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll be all right.”

  “What you said back there about going after the murderer, did you really mean it?” Emma asked, slipping her arm through Alec’s.

  “Yes. There’s a lot more to this than the police realize, but I can’t tell them everything, not just yet.”

  “What are you talking about?” Damian stopped abruptly in the middle of the path. “Hold on a second. What do you mean, you can’t tell them everything? Don’t you want them to catch the culprit as soon as they can?” He gripped Alec firmly by the shoulder. “If you’re withholding information, the police won’t be able to track down Frank’s killer. Can’t you see that?”

  Alec twisted angrily out of Damian’s grip.

  Emma said, “He’s right. For goodness’ sake, what ever you know, you should tell them. There’s no point in keeping things to yourself. I mean, why would you?”

  Alec rubbed his forehead. “I wish you two would have a little more faith in me. Can we just drop it for now, please?” His tone was brusque. “You don’t know enough about it to jump to conclusions like this. But I don’t want to go into it here. When we’re back at the house, I’ll tell you everything I know. All right? Then you’ll understand. Then you can tell me what you think I should and shouldn’t say to the police. That’s what you want, right, to second-guess every decision I make? Well, you’ll have your chance soon enough.”

  “Listen to me, Alec. The only thing Emma and I want to do is help you. You know as well as I what kind of trouble you could get yourself into. Don’t try to tell me you’ve got it all under control.”

  “Tell me, Damian, how long will I have to put up with this? How long are you going to to keep putting me down?”

  “Oh, come off it,” Emma said, exasperated. “Let’s not do this here. If you’re determined to have it out, at least wait until we get home. You’re acting like children, both of you. And Damian, don’t drag me into your arguments, all right? Come on, it’s this way.”

  They stood together in silence. The grave was ringed with flowers, and empty champagne glasses stood at odd angles on the uneven surfaces of the surrounding headstones, as if in some macabre wine bar.

  After Damian had adjusted the ribbons on some of the wreaths, Alec lowered his head and said, “Frank, I’m sorry for everything I put you through. For all the grief I caused you. I’m so very sorry.” Then he lifted his face and clenched his fists. “I’ll get you, you bastard. You just wait.”

  “Alec, please stop this, I’m begging you. What would Frank say if he could hear you now? He wouldn’t want you putting yourself in danger. Leave it to the police. Tell them everything you know, and let them do their job.”

  Alec spun around to face Damian. “Damn it, would you cut the condescending bullshit? Frank was murdered. I found him. He called me, asked for my help, but I got there too late. I was just . . . too late. If I’d made it there faster, maybe he’d still be alive, maybe they could have still helped him, but it took me too long to get there. If I’d still been living with him, this would never have happened. Never.”

  “All I’m trying to say is—”

  Emma lifted her hands. “Shut up, both of you. Alec, there’s no point in that kind of thinking, and anyway, it just isn’t true. It’s over and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. Frank would hate to see you like this and hear you talk this way. You did everything you possibly could.”

  “No, that’s just it, I didn’t. I could have done so much more.” Sorrow tinged his voice, and his eyes grew moist. “You should have seen him, it was terrible. The state he was in, lying there on the floor. I can’t just let it go. This is nowhere near over. Besides . . . I’m doing it because he asked me. He asked me to help him.”

  Damian’s mouth dropped open. “He asked you? You mean he spoke to you?”

  Alec slowly shook his head.

  “Alec?”

  “Later, back at the house. I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  He had seen them heading toward the grave and started after them. The thick layer of leaves absorbed the sound of his footsteps. While they stood by the grave, he hid behind a nearby tombstone, following their conversation word for word.

  Now he crept back silently. As fast as he could, he headed for the assembly hall. He’d heard enough; it was time to act. Alec Schoeller knew something, but what? He hoped that it wasn’t too late, that it would still be there.

  TEN

  Dawn gripped the back of the passenger seat and pulled herself forward. “Alec Schoeller has nothing to do with the murder. Everything points away from him. It’s obvious the man is beside himself with grief. No, my intuition tells me that—”

  “Just a minute. That’s not what I call professional. I’m not used to seeing you like this.” Wainwright turned to face her. “Don’t give me one of those whatever-you-say looks. I’m on to you. Believe it or not, my instincts are every bit as keen as yours; it’s not as complicated as all that. I can see straight through the lot of you.”

  “The lot of you? What are you talking about?”

  “Listen, here’s how it works. You take a man, a nice tall one with broad shoulders. Then put some muscles on him, all in the right proportions, of course. Not too large, not too small— just right. Then add two big brown eyes and a full head of dark brown hair. Make sure there are no thin patches or, heaven forfend, bald spots.” He ran his hand over his own head. “No, what you need is a good crop of hair covering the whole head. A few tears running down his cheeks and voilà! You’re all eating out of his hand. Especially if he’s filthy rich, like Schoeller.”

  “Right,” Dawn replied, “because even though research has shown that women are more empathetic than men, everyone knows we’re blinded by appearances. I honestly hadn’t expected such simplistic reasoning from you.”

  “Simplistic? I’ll tell you what’s simplistic. You don’t even realize when you’ve been taken in by someone’s looks. How simplistic is that? You know how many born actors there are in this world who’ve never set foot on the stage? Simplistic. Come on, I’d expected more of you. How many years have you been on the job? Well?”

  She shrugged stoically and stared out the window. The low, flat fields of Holland were racing by. In the distance, a yellow train with blue stripes sped across the landscape. She narrowed her eyes to slits, and the yellow and blue faded into the green of the pastures.

  Wainwright rubbed his nose. The cardboard fir tree hanging from the taxi’s rearview mirror gave off a chemical odor that irritated his sensitive nostrils. If anyone stood to gain from Frank Schoeller’s death, it was Alec. Frank was leaving his nephew a fortune.

  Wainwright turned to face Dawn. “Got the tapes with you?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, still staring out the window as she held up a plastic bag.

  “Oh, hurt your feelings, have I? You do understand what I’m getting at, though, don’t you?”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Good. As soon as we get back, I want you to take a very good look at those tapes. Let’s put a name to every face and run every name through the computer.”

  “Do you really think the murderer was wandering around there? All the evidence suggests it was a professional, right? Every fingerprint found on the scene has been identified. And if you look at what he did to Schoeller, it seems perfectly clear that—
”

  “Just do what I say, okay? I want you to concentrate on the guests. Pay attention to what they do, how they react. The smallest details could be crucial.”

  Dawn turned back to the window. Wainwright had an excellent record, and in the four months that they’d been working together, she’d learned more than in all the years before, soaking it all up like a sponge. But for the past few weeks— in fact, ever since they’d caught the serial killer— she’d sensed he was off his game. He seemed distracted and quick to anger— quicker than usual, anyway.

  The week before, entering his room without knocking to pick up a file from his desk, she’d found him standing in front of his bulletin board. He didn’t notice her when she came in and stood running a finger over the photo of the first murdered girl.

  “Don’t you think it’s time to put them away?” she said carefully.

  Without turning around, he said, “That won’t be necessary.” His voice had a defeated tone. “They’re already gone.”

  Dawn had shut the door softly behind her.

  ELEVEN

  It was hot in the car, and no one spoke. Dim light filtered in through the tinted windows. From the backseat, Emma stared at Damian’s profile. He turned around.

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  He reached back and she took his hand. “You two have no idea how happy you made Frank by getting married,” Alec said softly, gazing out the window. Then he smiled at Emma. “Took you long enough.”

  Emma’s face turned red. She lowered her eyes and withdrew her hand. A pang shot through her stomach. She’d never thought she had it in her to love two men— so much, but in such different ways. From the moment she’d seen Damian on the schoolyard fifteen years ago, she’d known he was the one for her. With his solemn, almost aristocratic bearing, he seemed to have stepped straight out of a nineteenth-century novel. She introduced herself. He brushed back his long blond hair and extended his hand. His light gray eyes regarded her with friendly curiosity. His face was calm and thoughtful, and he exuded a natural authority. When she looked into his eyes, all her worries about the first day of school melted away like spring snow. She felt as if she could take on the world.

  After shaking Damian’s hand, she’d turned to Alec, and her breath had caught. His eyes were so dark they seemed black. His gaze penetrated her soul, probing all her weaknesses and frustrations. In the blink of an eye, he understood her, knew everything about her. Her hand trembled as she put it in his, and the blood rushed to her cheeks.

  But she’d been only fifteen years old then, a starry-eyed teenage girl who devoured English novels and fell hopelessly in love with their heroes: Heathcliff, Mr. Darcy, Mr. Rochester. So after all these years, why couldn’t she get him out of her mind? Every time she knew she’d see him, her stomach tied itself in knots and wouldn’t come untangled until he had left. It drove her crazy. It stood between her and Damian, even now. There was no way she could keep this up for the rest of her life. The less she saw of him, the better. Every time they met, she hoped from the bottom of her heart that the old feelings wouldn’t flare up again.

  The car sped through the narrow streets along the canals, skimming past the rows of reddish-brown bollards that lined the sidewalks. Now and then, the chauffeur slowed down to pass a cyclist or pedestrian. As they made their way down the Herengracht, Emma looked across the canal and watched the three-hundred-year-old buildings glide past. The chauffeur hit the brakes again, coming to a stop in front of a whitewashed house. He tapped the remote control, and the garage door slowly slid open.

  A few moments later, in the live-in kitchen, Alec took a seat in one of the two chairs by the fireplace. Emma plopped down on the large cushion beside him and pulled off her shoes. On the dinner table were trays of hors d’oeuvres and a silver ice bucket that held a bottle of wine.

  “Right, now you can tell us exactly what happened that night,” Damian said, pouring three glasses of wine.

  Alec stared at the floor. Emma got up and perched on the arm of his chair.

  “If we can help, we will. You know that,” she said. She ran her hand over his back and felt his muscles quiver at her touch. Pulling her hand away, she said, “But we can’t do anything until you tell us what’s going on.”

  “Yes, you’re right, but I needed some time to think it over.” He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid the things I know could put you in danger. On the other hand, maybe that’s just my imagination. I know there’s something wrong, something strange going on. But . . . I don’t understand what. I can’t figure it out.”

  His elbows on his knees, Alec went on. “What I’m about to say is for your ears only. Will you promise not to say a word to anyone? Not just because of what Frank told me, but because I think someone was after him, someone who wanted something he had. Now, that same person is probably coming after me.”

  “Why do you think that?” Damian asked.

  “Because Frank gave me something.”

  TWELVE

  After Alec had told Damian and Emma about finding Frank and described the marks of torture on his uncle’s body, their eyes grew wide and a hush fell over the room.

  “He must have been in agony,” Emma said, breaking the silence. “How could he stand it?”

  Alec turned to face her. “We don’t know whether he could. Maybe he broke down and told them something. The question is, what?”

  He got up, threw a log on the fire, and prodded the embers with a poker. “Just a couple of weeks ago, I had dinner with Frank. I could tell he was worried about something. I even asked him what was wrong, but he said it was nothing.” He looked at Damian. “Did he say anything to you?”

  Damian shook his head. “What kind of filthy coward could do a thing like that to an old man? Why didn’t you call us right away? Then we could’ve—”

  “No, I wanted to think about it first, get everything clear in my mind.” He sat down again. “A few minutes after I called, the police and the ambulance arrived. They tried their best, but it was too late.” He heaved a deep sigh. “That’s when the whole circus began. A couple of hours later they took him away. Wainwright, the one from Scotland Yard, showed up at some point and started giving me the third degree, asking whether I had seen or heard anything, whether I had any idea who had done it or why. There was no stopping him. It nearly drove me insane. Around eight A.M., Tibbens got there, and they started interrogating him too.

  “What did you tell them?” Damian asked.

  “Everything I knew, which wasn’t much.”

  “You said Frank had given you something.”

  Alec rose to his feet. He picked up his weekend bag, which was next to the chair, and set it on the kitchen table.

  “Yes, he was holding on to it. I’d like you to take a look.” He opened the bag. “Frank wanted me to hide it from the police, so I put it in my car. I don’t know what he was trying to say by giving it to me. I can’t make head or tail of it.”

  Damian unfolded the newspaper.

  The bookbinder had let his imagination run wild. In each corner, two leaves were impressed into the red morocco and filled in with gold. Their stems met in the middle. Along each side there was a subtle inward curve, interrupted by a whorl of gold. At the center, the leather was tooled with a gilt wreath of flowers. The curves, flowers, and garlands formed a magnificent golden frame on the supple kid leather.

  “Oh, my God,” Emma said when she saw the streaks of blood. She clapped her hand over her mouth.

  “He was holding it so tightly I had to wrest it out of his hands,” Alec said in a choked voice.

  Damian stared at the binding. When Emma reached for it, he seized her wrist. “No, wait. Don’t touch it. I’ll be right back.”

  As he hurried to his study, Damian’s heart was racing, and he knew it was not only because of Frank’s blood on the cover. The sight of the book had excited him. He could tell it must be an exceptional find. Frank’s taste had been impeccable, and he�
�d passed on his love of antiques to Damian during the boys’ many visits to Cadogan Place, when the three of them would comb London’s antiques markets in the hours before dawn. Frank would arm his protégés with a flashlight, and the game was afoot. He’d noticed right away that Damian had a knack for finding the rare treasures hidden among the trash. The boy drove a hard bargain too. Meanwhile, Alec would trail behind them, bored and peevish, listening to his Walkman.

  If Damian had not met Frank, he would never have become an antiques dealer with two thriving shops of his own. Books weren’t his specialty, but he knew a thing or two about them. Enough, at any rate, to see that this one was a few hundred years old.

  He opened his desk drawer. When he returned to the kitchen, he had a pair of white cotton gloves and a V-shaped book cradle. He found Alec and Emma bent over the book.

  “The oils on our fingers could damage it,” Damian said, slipping on the gloves. He carefully picked up the book.

  “I’d say it’s damaged already.” Alec pointed at the blood on the cover.

  Damian didn’t respond but held the book loosely in his hands to determine the angle of opening. The pages fell open, and as soon as he saw the illustration he realized what he was holding. He lowered the book gently into the cradle, which he had adjusted earlier, and closed it again. Then he lifted the cover, holding the upper right corner between his index finger and thumb. The leather creaked softly, and the first page clung to it. Carefully, he took a corner of the page and very slowly started pulling it free. Alec muttered a curse and shot forward. He snatched the book out of the cradle and pulled the page loose in one swift tug, almost tearing it in two.

  “Christ, what are you doing?” Damian said. “Get a grip on yourself.”

  “What do you mean, take it easy? I don’t give a damn about that book. Do you really think I care how much it’s worth? Here,” he said, tapping his finger on the page. “Here it is. This is what Frank was pointing at. I think this is the key to the whole thing.”