it at Jack. “Have you been in touch with your grandfather?”
“That old coot! He’s more dead than alive. Rotting in Bar Harbor.
In that mausoleum of a place. It ought-“
“But have you talked to him?” I cut in. “Does he know about Sebastian ‘s death?”
“I spoke to Madeleine. Yesterday. Told her everything. The old coot was sleeping.”
“Did you tell her to bring him here for the funeral?”
“Certainly not. He’s too old.”
“How old is he?” I asked, frowning. Cyrus’s age escaped me for the moment, but he had to be in his eighties.
“He was born in 1904. So he must be ninety. And he’s too old to travel.”
“I don’t know about that … look, he should come, Jack. After all, Sebastian was his only son.”
“His last surviving son,” Jack corrected me.
“So what did Madeleine say?”
“Not much. As usual. Gave me her condolences. Talked about Cyrus being frail. But not senile. I can’t stand her. She’s the voice of doom.
Even when she’s wishing you well.”
“I know, impending disaster does seem to echo in her voice. And I’m sure what she said about Cyrus is true, that he’s not senile.
Cyrus Locke has always been a remarkable man. Quite remarkable. Age nius, really.”
The phone rang, interrupting our conversation. I went to answer it.
Picking up the receiver, I said, “Hello?” and then glanced over at Jack. Covering the mouthpiece with my hand, I murmured, “Talk of the devil. It’s for you, Jack.”
”Who is it?”’
“The voice of doom with an Irish accent.”
“Hello, Madeleine,” Jack said into the phone a split-second later.
“We were just talking about you. And Cyrus. Vivienne wants to invite you to the funeral, Madeleine.”
I glared at him, silently mouthing, “It’s not my funeral.”
Ignoring me, he listened to Madeleine for a few minutes, said good bye, and hung up. He lolled against the door jamb with a thoughtful expression on his face. “I left this number at the farm. With Carrie.
Mrs. Crane’s niece. She came in to help. Until her aunt gets back.
Tonight.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said, and sighed, threw him a reproving glance.
—“Tell me, Jack, why is it you have the need to put the burdens of this family on me most of the time? This is not my funeral. It’s your responsibility . Yours and Luciana’s.”
“Forget Luce. All she wants to do is run. Back to London. and that tweip of a British husband of hers.”
“Isn’t he coming for the funeral?”
“Who?”
“The husband. Gerald Kamper.”
“Who knows. But he wants to come. The old coot. Grandfather.”
Jack made a face. “To the funeral of a son who bathed him. Can you beat that?”
“I knew he’d wish to be present.”
“Merde,” Jack muttered half to himself “It’ll be all right, we’ll manage well enough,” I reassured him. “And it it’s only natural he wants to attend his son’s burial.”
“Only natural! Don’t be so stupid! There’s nothing natural abGut Cyrus Locke. Just as there wasn’t anything natural about Sebastian.
He had no feelings. Neither does Cyrus. Faulty genes, I suspect. And the old coot’s a monster like his son was. Better he remain in Bar Harbor.
With his secretary-housekeeper-mistress-jailer. Or whatever the hell she is. I-” Jack stopped and grinned in that awful, ghoulish way of his, and added, “We won’t be able to keep him away. Cyrus wants to be sure.”
“Sure of what?”
“That Sebastian’s really dead. That he’s three feet under.
Kicking up daisies.”
“Oh, Jack.”
“Don’t oh Jack me in that pathetic way. Not this morning. You did it yesterday. All day. No tears either. I’ve had enough. You’re just a sentimentalist, kid.”
“And you’re the most unpleasant person it’s ever been my great misfortune to know. You disgust me, Jack Locke. Sebastian’s dead and you act as if it’s of no consequence, as if you don’t care.”
“I don’t.”
“Talk about Cyrus being
“That old coot! He’s more dead than alive. Rotting in Bar Harbor.
In that mausoleum of a place. It ought-“
“But have you talked to him?” I cut in. “Does he know about Sebastian ‘s death?”
“I spoke to Madeleine. Yesterday. Told her everything. The old coot was sleeping.”
“Did you tell her to bring him here for the funeral?”
“Certainly not. He’s too old.”
“How old is he?” I asked, frowning. Cyrus’s age escaped me for the moment, but he had to be in his eighties.
“He was born in 1904. So he must be ninety. And he’s too old to travel.”
“I don’t know about that … look, he should come, Jack. After all, Sebastian was his only son.”
“His last surviving son,” Jack corrected me.
“So what did Madeleine say?”
“Not much. As usual. Gave me her condolences. Talked about Cyrus being frail. But not senile. I can’t stand her. She’s the voice of doom.
Even when she’s wishing you well.”
“I know, impending disaster does seem to echo in her voice. And I’m sure what she said about Cyrus is true, that he’s not senile.
Cyrus Locke has always been a remarkable man. Quite remarkable. Age nius, really.”
The phone rang, interrupting our conversation. I went to answer it.
Picking up the receiver, I said, “Hello?” and then glanced over at Jack. Covering the mouthpiece with my hand, I murmured, “Talk of the devil. It’s for you, Jack.”
”Who is it?”’
“The voice of doom with an Irish accent.”
“Hello, Madeleine,” Jack said into the phone a split-second later.
“We were just talking about you. And Cyrus. Vivienne wants to invite you to the funeral, Madeleine.”
I glared at him, silently mouthing, “It’s not my funeral.”
Ignoring me, he listened to Madeleine for a few minutes, said good bye, and hung up. He lolled against the door jamb with a thoughtful expression on his face. “I left this number at the farm. With Carrie.
Mrs. Crane’s niece. She came in to help. Until her aunt gets back.
Tonight.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said, and sighed, threw him a reproving glance.
—“Tell me, Jack, why is it you have the need to put the burdens of this family on me most of the time? This is not my funeral. It’s your responsibility . Yours and Luciana’s.”
“Forget Luce. All she wants to do is run. Back to London. and that tweip of a British husband of hers.”
“Isn’t he coming for the funeral?”
“Who?”
“The husband. Gerald Kamper.”
“Who knows. But he wants to come. The old coot. Grandfather.”
Jack made a face. “To the funeral of a son who bathed him. Can you beat that?”
“I knew he’d wish to be present.”
“Merde,” Jack muttered half to himself “It’ll be all right, we’ll manage well enough,” I reassured him. “And it it’s only natural he wants to attend his son’s burial.”
“Only natural! Don’t be so stupid! There’s nothing natural abGut Cyrus Locke. Just as there wasn’t anything natural about Sebastian.
He had no feelings. Neither does Cyrus. Faulty genes, I suspect. And the old coot’s a monster like his son was. Better he remain in Bar Harbor.
With his secretary-housekeeper-mistress-jailer. Or whatever the hell she is. I-” Jack stopped and grinned in that awful, ghoulish way of his, and added, “We won’t be able to keep him away. Cyrus wants to be sure.”
“Sure of what?”
“That Sebastian’s really dead. That he’s three feet under.
Kicking up daisies.”
“Oh, Jack.”
“Don’t oh Jack me in that pathetic way. Not this morning. You did it yesterday. All day. No tears either. I’ve had enough. You’re just a sentimentalist, kid.”
“And you’re the most unpleasant person it’s ever been my great misfortune to know. You disgust me, Jack Locke. Sebastian’s dead and you act as if it’s of no consequence, as if you don’t care.”
“I don’t.”
“Talk about Cyrus being
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