The Frenchman replied in heavily accented English, “No, she was a French cabaret singer, regrettably without much talent, who perished in a traffic accident when her daughter was five. She and Vaughn were never wed, and Astrid was schooled at a convent near here. She did not live with her father until she fell ill last year.”
“But they seemed so close,” Darcy protested.
“He visited her from time to time,” Lucien added. “They were not strangers.”
“Perhaps not, but still—”
Griffin squeezed her hands. “Vaughn was a consummate performer, and we saw what he wished us to see.”
“Well, you can bury him in the garden if you like, but I want a real funeral for Astrid, and a grave in a nice cemetery with an angel on the headstone. Perhaps the convent could arrange it.”
Griffin looked up at their companion. “Will you contact the Mother Superior and make such a request? She should know which mortuary to call.”
“I will see to it personally. Gather up your belongings. We will take you to the Meurice and let you know when and where the funeral is to be held.”
“Wait a minute,” Darcy asked. “What about all the others—Antoine, the nurse, the butler and housekeeper, and the chef, who was supposed to let us out of the pantry? What’s happened to them?”
Lucien’s wide mouth crimped in a brief smile. “They left here little more than an hour ago. We intercepted their van. They have been detained and for just cause, I assure you. They have all been involved in Vaughn’s crimes.”
“I doubt the nurse was in on any arms deals,” Darcy argued.
Lucien shot Griffin a warning glance, and the pianist was the one to reply. “Don’t worry so, she’ll not be sent to Siberia, but it wouldn’t be to her advantage to admit that she’d been in Vaughn’s employ. Another job will be found for her, and a respectable one this time.”
Darcy had one last question. “What’s happened to the beautiful Adriana? Why wasn’t she here?”
Anxious to finish his work, Lucien shuffled his feet. “From what we have observed, Vaughn kept his daughter separate from his mistresses. But you need not worry that Adriana will seek you out to avenge his death. She was arrested last night in a sting operation in Zurich which led her to believe she would be collecting a payment for stolen weapons.”
Griffin rose and pulled Darcy to her feet. “There, tha
t’s enough. Come on, let’s pack up, go to the hotel and finally get some sleep.”
“We can’t leave Astrid here with strangers,” she responded sadly.
After the night they’d had, Griffin did not feel up to arguing. “Lucien, will you please contact the Mother Superior immediately? Apologize for waking her, but when you explain Astrid has died, she should forgive the lateness of the hour and provide the necessary information. The doctor’s name will be on Astrid’s medications. Contact him to sign the death certificate.”
Lucien nodded stiffly and left them to complete the calls.
“We’ll stay until the mortician arrives,” Griffin assured Darcy, “but I’ve got to clean up and get ready to go. I don’t want you sitting here within sight of Vaughn’s carcass. Come upstairs with me.”
“No, please, I’ll sit closer to the piano where I did earlier and wait with Astrid here.”
“I won’t be long,” he promised and hurried out of the room.
Darcy sat in the comfortable upholstered chair and rested her head against the back. She heard Lucien talking with his men and, after taking a few quick photographs, they zipped Vaughn into a body bag and carried him out of the house. A few minutes later, two of the men returned with sponges, a mop and pail and began cleaning up the mess.
Darcy covered a wide yawn and closed her eyes, but the hideous images that greeted her kept her wide awake. Griffin soon appeared wearing Levi’s and a black sweater. He paused to kiss the top of her head and then went to the piano and began a piece she instantly recognized as his.
She’d regarded his other composition as melancholy, but this one was even darker in mood, and far more intricate and intense. It sounded as though he’d written it while being ravaged by some horrendous loss. Spellbound, she listened with such rapt attention she failed to notice the men who had stormed the house had gathered in the foyer. When Griffin struck the final chord, they broke into respectful applause, but she had to hold back tears.
“You didn’t care for that piece?” he asked her.
“What’s it called, ‘The Garden of Doom’?”
“I’ve not titled it yet, but I like that. Would you mind if I used it?”
“Not at all, but I hate to think of your being that unhappy.”
“I’m all right now that you’re speaking to me again.”