Hepplewhite mirrors reflected bowls of flowers on the matching hall tables, and instinctively Venetia bent her head to the peach-colored roses, breathing in their familiar fragrance.
“How lovely,” she murmured, wondering whether Fitz McBain chose scented English roses for all his homes, or whether this was the severely suited young Mr. Ronson’s taste.
India’s eyes gleamed with a professional curiosity as she gazed around the drawing room that spread across the full width of the house, noting a Dufy depicting the Baie des Anges at Nice, an early Pissarro, and two lilied Monets on the walls. In her opinion, without them this room would have fallen into the category of “luxury interior decorator style,” though she did admire the color scheme of cream and butter-yellow with touches of a dark teal blue. “I should introduce Mr. McBain to Fabrizio Paroli,” she remarked, sauntering through arched glass doors onto the terrace. A swath of green lawn ended at an azure pool, where a silent youth in white T-shirt and shorts wielded a pole, vacuuming thealways flawless depths. It was a Hockney painting come to life.
Ronson led them across to a white-porticoed summerhouse that contained changing rooms and a small but well-equipped gymnasium as well as what he told them was Fitz McBain’s favorite room. Venetia knew why instantly. It was a room to relax in; you could curl up on the huge black sofas with a book from one of the shelves that lined the room. Or you could just lie back and listen to music on that wonderful hi-fi, blasting it as loud as you wished over the powerful speakers. “What is Mr. McBain’s favorite?” she asked Ronson, running her finger across titles that ranged from Bach to George Benson, Vivaldi to Roxy Music, and Mozart to Motown.
Bob Ronson looked surprised. “Mr. McBain usually plays the music he thinks his guests would like to hear. I don’t know what he plays when he is alone.”
Venetia wondered about that. Morgan had said that there were many women eager for a place in his father’s life. Could Fitz McBain often be alone? It was odd being in the home of a man you merely knew about but didn’t even know the appearance of. She couldn’t recall having seen pictures of him in the newspapers, but then Morgan had said he was a very private man. He must look a bit like the older men on
Dallas
, she decided, sort of burly and middle aged, a ranch hand in a business suit.
India picked up a cue and potted a red on the snooker table, admiring the Victorian fringed lampshades. “This is a terrific room,” she announced. “Let’s make it our headquarters while we’re here.”
“I agree.” Paris flopped onto a sofa. “It feels more like home.”
“Please treat it as if it were your home,” said Ronson. “No one will disturb you here. Now, if you’re ready, I’ll show you your rooms. I’m sure you’d like to rest.”
A burly man from the Bel-Air Patrol was waiting forthem in the hall. But for the gun at his hip, he could have been the twin of the guards who had accompanied them earlier. Did they breed them specially for the job? wondered Paris, as the man, serious-faced and respectful, informed them that the patrol was on alert and the house would be completely protected at all times. They would have no need to worry about photographers with telephoto lenses climbing trees to snatch a photograph, nor of TV cameras and gossip writers lurking at the gates. His men would see to that.
“Well, that’s a relief,” commented India. She understood the ways of paparazzi well enough to know that a brief dip in the swimming pool on a hot day could be snapped and captioned “Haven daughter swims in Hollywood sunshine while inquest decides cause of mother’s death.” It was not a nice world. And the inquest was to take place the day after tomorrow. Thankfully she followed her sisters to the refuge of her room.
3
NEW YORK
Raymunda Ortiz lounged in the center of the king-size bed,
“How lovely,” she murmured, wondering whether Fitz McBain chose scented English roses for all his homes, or whether this was the severely suited young Mr. Ronson’s taste.
India’s eyes gleamed with a professional curiosity as she gazed around the drawing room that spread across the full width of the house, noting a Dufy depicting the Baie des Anges at Nice, an early Pissarro, and two lilied Monets on the walls. In her opinion, without them this room would have fallen into the category of “luxury interior decorator style,” though she did admire the color scheme of cream and butter-yellow with touches of a dark teal blue. “I should introduce Mr. McBain to Fabrizio Paroli,” she remarked, sauntering through arched glass doors onto the terrace. A swath of green lawn ended at an azure pool, where a silent youth in white T-shirt and shorts wielded a pole, vacuuming thealways flawless depths. It was a Hockney painting come to life.
Ronson led them across to a white-porticoed summerhouse that contained changing rooms and a small but well-equipped gymnasium as well as what he told them was Fitz McBain’s favorite room. Venetia knew why instantly. It was a room to relax in; you could curl up on the huge black sofas with a book from one of the shelves that lined the room. Or you could just lie back and listen to music on that wonderful hi-fi, blasting it as loud as you wished over the powerful speakers. “What is Mr. McBain’s favorite?” she asked Ronson, running her finger across titles that ranged from Bach to George Benson, Vivaldi to Roxy Music, and Mozart to Motown.
Bob Ronson looked surprised. “Mr. McBain usually plays the music he thinks his guests would like to hear. I don’t know what he plays when he is alone.”
Venetia wondered about that. Morgan had said that there were many women eager for a place in his father’s life. Could Fitz McBain often be alone? It was odd being in the home of a man you merely knew about but didn’t even know the appearance of. She couldn’t recall having seen pictures of him in the newspapers, but then Morgan had said he was a very private man. He must look a bit like the older men on
Dallas
, she decided, sort of burly and middle aged, a ranch hand in a business suit.
India picked up a cue and potted a red on the snooker table, admiring the Victorian fringed lampshades. “This is a terrific room,” she announced. “Let’s make it our headquarters while we’re here.”
“I agree.” Paris flopped onto a sofa. “It feels more like home.”
“Please treat it as if it were your home,” said Ronson. “No one will disturb you here. Now, if you’re ready, I’ll show you your rooms. I’m sure you’d like to rest.”
A burly man from the Bel-Air Patrol was waiting forthem in the hall. But for the gun at his hip, he could have been the twin of the guards who had accompanied them earlier. Did they breed them specially for the job? wondered Paris, as the man, serious-faced and respectful, informed them that the patrol was on alert and the house would be completely protected at all times. They would have no need to worry about photographers with telephoto lenses climbing trees to snatch a photograph, nor of TV cameras and gossip writers lurking at the gates. His men would see to that.
“Well, that’s a relief,” commented India. She understood the ways of paparazzi well enough to know that a brief dip in the swimming pool on a hot day could be snapped and captioned “Haven daughter swims in Hollywood sunshine while inquest decides cause of mother’s death.” It was not a nice world. And the inquest was to take place the day after tomorrow. Thankfully she followed her sisters to the refuge of her room.
3
NEW YORK
Raymunda Ortiz lounged in the center of the king-size bed,
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