Widow - Anne Stuart [2]
He lit the cigarette and took a deep drag, blowing it at the old man’s still form. Yes, it was an accident, easy to explain.
So why did it feel like murder?
He rose abruptly, glancing down at his hands. It had been a simple enough plan to break into the elegant apartment. He wasn’t hampered by too many scruples, and he’d assumed Pompasse was back at his villa outside the tiny village of Geppi. He’d simply been planning to search the apartment for anything that might be useful, shocking, shameful in Pompasse’s life. In particular, the diaries that Pompasse had kept over his long career, detailing his paintings, his models and, Maguire devoutly hoped, his love affairs. There were volumes and volumes of the stuff—Pompasse had an exalted opinion of his life and work, and was known to document everything. Getting access to those diaries would make all the difference. He just hadn’t counted on finding a corpse.
He stared down at Pompasse, coolly calculating the impact this could have on his future. On the one hand, a dead artist was worth a hell of a lot more than a live one. And a scandal involving young girls and one very dirty old man, who happened to be world-famous, would pretty much guarantee a solid income for the next few years to anyone who knew enough to write the story.
On the other hand, he wasn’t sure he was pleased to find himself at the scene of a death, particularly as he had strong motives not to like the old bastard. Pompasse had gotten wind of Maguire’s interest, and he’d had his lawyer try a little intimidation with Gregory. It had backfired, of course, but the hostility between the two camps was now on record.
None of this mattered if Pompasse’s death had been an accident. But Maguire knew damned well why he had this itchy feeling at the back of his neck, why all his nerves were alert, why he wanted to get the hell out of that place before someone could prove he’d been there.
He’d been a journalist for fifteen years, straight out of college, and his instincts had been honed over those years, particularly in war zones. He not only knew a dead body when he saw one—he knew a murder when he saw one. He’d be willing to bet that’s what this was, even though there was no sign of a struggle or foul play. The sooner he got the hell out of this apartment, the better.
He moved through the rooms, his reporter’s eyes cataloging everything, storing it in the back of his brain for future reference. Only one bedroom was used, the sheets tangled, but there was no way to tell if it had held more than one person. The air smelled stale, dead.
The kitchen had dishes stacked in the sink, crumbs and cheese on the wooden chopping block. Either he’d given his maid some time off or no one knew Pompasse had been there. He glanced in the empty living room, then stopped, staring at the huge portrait.
It was the same woman whose picture hung in the bedroom. There was a sketch of her on the wall of the upper balcony, and a watercolor in the foyer, looking down at Pompasse’s body. For a moment he was paralyzed, transfixed. Staring at the portrait.
The woman in the painting was little more than a child. Curled up in a tight, protective ball, the girl stared out at the world with a mixture of hope and defiance, her odd golden eyes full of raw emotion, her tawny hair almost obscuring her delicate face. He recognized the painting of course, as well as the others. He’d done his research—they were from Pompasse’s Gold Period, his most famous stretch of artistic endeavor. He’d become more abstract since then, harsher, the various models no longer recognizable. But he knew this model. Knew the haunting expression, the delicacy of her long legs and narrow, bare feet. It was Pompasse’s child bride, his muse and his inspiration, though for the life of him he couldn’t remember her name.
At the moment it didn’t matter. He skirted Pompasse’s body in the foyer, stifling the regret that he hadn’t brought one of the high-tech cameras he usually carried with him.