The rays of the sun glinted in the early morning as I reached Steven Rutherford's plantation style estate. Modelled after the original antebellum bayou sugar cane houses of the 1900's, Rutherford's estate boasted an old world feel coupled with state of the art amenities.
Security was tight; the estate was gated of course. The last time I visited the estate, I was a welcome guest. I wasn't quite so welcome this time. I strolled along the ivy-ridden walls of the Rutherford estate. Knocking on the front door wasn't going to be a good option. Or was it?
Once we had gotten dressed, Gregor had graciously allowed me to leave. I didn't for a moment believe that a truce was what the vampire wanted. There was so much more to that initial introduction than met the eye. Still, I was grateful for having received that valuable piece of information from him, and more than a little surprised that he had let me go so easily. It was almost as if the vampire's objective all along had been to tell me about Helen Rutherford. Still, I wasn't one to dwell too much on things, and that particular line of thinking tended to lend itself to conspiracy theories.
I didn't tell Death about any of it, of course. Not of the Old Absinthe House, the Class-D's or Gregor Vincent. There really wasn't anything to be worried about, and telling him about my involvement in the Brood might jeopardize the game plan I had already put into play.
Upon further thought, I decided that walking right up to the estate and asking was the more prudent of two options. I walked up to the large iron gate and rang the bell.
"May I help you?" A voice came through the intercom.
"Please tell Steven Rutherford that Haley Wellington has come to see him."
"Our apologies, Ms. Wellington, but Mr. Rutherford is away on a business trip."
Perfect.
"That's a shame," I said, pretending to sound disappointed. "May I speak to Helen Rutherford instead?"
"Please give me a few moments, ma'am." The voice on the intercom said.
I waited for a good ten minutes before the person on the other side spoke again.
"Apologies for the wait, Miss Wellington. Mrs. Rutherford is in the gym at the moment, but she has extended you an invitation to join her for breakfast. Please, allow us to welcome you to the Rutherford Estate."
The large iron gates opened, and I was greeted by a black Lexus LS in the driveway. I got in and the driver tipped his hat at me.
It took a few moments for the Lexus to make it's way around the estate's well manicured grounds. Vast, well-tended gardens greeted me all around. The marble statues I had spied when I was last here were all over the place, too. There was just the slightest hint of gothic inspiration in the way they were laid out. The mansion's beautiful facade loomed before me, as we approached; a vision of perfection against the morning light.
The driver of the Lexus slowly came to a stop as he got out of the car. The soft sound of the car's sensor beeped, announcing an open door. The driver came over to my side and slowly and graciously opened the door. I got off and approached the mansion's main entrance.
The massive double doors opened as I approached, and I walked into the now-familiar foyer; this time devoid of the energetic band that played there the first time I had set foot into the estate. As a matter of fact, the main hall was oddly quiet. It was morning of course, but I half expected a lively band to be playing, even during this time. I guess Steven Rutherford's life wasn't one big party after all.
The home was opulent, which was to be expected. The beautiful macassar ebony hardwood floors greeted me upon entering, the wood was reclaimed, that much I could tell, which made it even more impressive. Their antique and well-oiled finish complemented by the decidedly old-fashioned persian carpets that seemed to span every facet of the home.
A sharp-looking maid met me as I walked in, bowing gracefully. "Miss Wellington," she began carefully. "Mrs. Rutherford says she will be joining you in the main dining hall. Do you have any dietary restrictions?"
I shook my head. "I'll take anything, but I do like my coffee black," I said.
I seated myself at the rather long european walnut table that was as welcoming as it was handsome. The maid smiled.
"You have fine taste, madam," she said, noticing my fascination with the Walnut table.
"And that she does," said a voice unexpectedly.
I whirled around suddenly, surprised.
The woman that greeted me wasn't quite what I was expecting. She was beautiful from head to toe, a timeless vision of beauty and poise.
She was dressed casually, wearing only the pink outfit she'd used for her gym workout. She had a towel around her shoulders that she moved from side to side playfully.
Helen Rutherford was impressive even dressed in something so basic. Her blonde hair was cut short, bobbed, but it suited her frame well. She wasn't particularly skinny. She was probably in her fifties, maybe sixties from my guess, although I could clearly see from the cut of her top that she was in fine form. Her muscular and well-sculpted arms told me she worked out pretty often. She was pretty tall as well, standing at five foot eleven inches. She would have been stunning in a black evening dress. I was a little disappointed that my preoccupation with Daniel that evening caused me to miss meeting Helen at that party.
"So tell me," Helen began, "what does a client of Richard Grim's possibly want with the wife of Steven Rutherford?" she asked me with just the faintest hint of a crooked smile on her lips.
I kept my guard up the entire time. Something told me this was no ordinary woman that stood before me. No amount of small talk was going to get me out of this one. It was time to play my hand. I decided to go big or go home.
"I'm here to ask you about the murder of Vanessa Hunter."
Helen took one hard look at me. "You must have me and my husband confused with someone else, my dear," Helen said, her eyes boring into mine. "You are being comically tragic with your flawed questions."
"Perhaps," I said, refusing to take my eyes off her. "But are my questions really flawed?"
Helen's smiled disappeared from her lips and there was just the strangest gleam in her eyes. "Who gave you that story, I wonder? Has Richard Grim been feeding you his conspiracy theories again?"
I shook my head. "Richard Grim has nothing to do with it I'm afraid. A man by the name of Gregor Vincent told me to seek you out," I said.
Bingo. That got her attention.
Helen tensed up as she heard the name. She put the towel that had been hanging around her neck and shoulders onto the table and moved to pour herself a coffee from one of the glass carafes that had been laid at the table.
"Please," she gestured. "The food will grow cold, and I would very much like to extend my hospitality."
The breakfast table had been laid out beautifully. Rows of fresh fruit and pastries were laid out, perfectly poached eggs, ham, toast, and even grits. Orange juice stood beside the coffee in crystal carafes.
I sat down and continued to look at her intently.
Helen laughed at that. "Do you always take things so seriously?" she asked.
"Only when it comes to matters of life and death," I said simply.
"And how, pray tell, is the murder of an heiress, a matter of life and death for you?"
"Let's just say the matter is a lot closer to my heart than you might believe," I said.
Helen chuckled at that. "It appears Richard Grim has been telling you more than a fair share of fairy tales." She took a large strawberry from the fruit tray that had been laid out before us and took a bite. "Richard has always had," she paused for effect, "a flair for the dramatic," she said finally with a smile. "There's not much here for you to go off of, Miss Wellington. The Police have investigated the matter rather thoroughly. You might want to speak to Detective Lyons regarding the matter."
"Detective Lyons?"
"Yes haven't they told you? Raymond Lyons is assigned to the Vanessa Hunter case. He's one the best you know? New Orleans finest, as they say?"
"You still haven't told me what the name Gregor Vincent means to you." I pushed Helen further.
"Mr. Vincent is a businessman. He owns a number of establishment all around New Orleans. The Old Absinthe House is one of his businesses."
"Is he a legitimate businessman?"
"Listen, Miss Wellington, I'm not entirely sure what you're insinuating this early in the morning, but my husband and I only associate with legitimate businesses."
"Businesses like Ashcroft Pharmaceutical?"
Helen's face darkened. "Young lady, I have been nothing but welcoming of you so far. But your rather brusque manner of questioning is beginning to get old."
I shook my head. "My apologies madame. It is a failing of the Wellingtons. We are a rather forward bunch."
Helen smiled and shook her head. "Perhaps it is I who must apologize. I am quite impatient after a workout."
"Did you know her?" I asked.
"Know who?"
"Vanessa Hunter."
Helen appeared to be lost in thought. She took the handles of her coffee cup in her slender hands, her fingers wrapping themselves around the curved bone china handle, her other hand holding the saucer delicately.
"I knew her by association," she said finally.
"I'm not quite sure, I'm satisfied with that," I answered.
"And what answer would satisfy you?" Helen snapped back.
It was time to get serious and drop the pretenses.
"Gregor Vincent heads up the Vampire Nation. He did not send me to you to exchange silly banter," I said. "Now you either continue on with the silly facade you are putting up, or you and I finally come to an agreement and start talking about serious things."
Helen was silent for a few moments. She took several sips of her coffee before she answered.
"Do you know who Astrid Hunter was?" she finally said to me.
"Yes," I said. "Astrid was Vanessa's mother."
"Indeed," Helen replied.
"She was very beautiful, you know," her voice trailed, unsure of what to say. "Even back then. She stood out like no other woman, Astrid did."
My father did not always talk about my mother. But when he did, it was always with the same reverence that Helen used now. I never got to meet my mother. She passed away giving birth to me and that was that. It was only through stories that my father and grandmother would tell me that I would gradually come to know about my birthmother. In a way, because I had grown up without a mother, I was already different from many kids.
"Astrid Hunter passed away nineteen years ago." I said. "I know of the sad circumstances." I responded.
"Yes, such a tragic turn of events. What did they tell you of her passing?"
The question caught me off-guard. Why would Helen ask me about the circumstances if she was already aware of Astrid?
"She died in childbirth." I said simply.
"That wasn't necessarily true," said Helen. "Astrid died shortly after giving birth to a beautiful young girl, but she was around for a little while, even around long enough to name the child. She held Vanessa in her arms, you know? She'd take the child and coddle her. Astrid had never had a child to call her own before that time. She loved Vanessa dearly."
"What happened to Astrid?" I pressed Helen.
"Complications in childbirth." Helen responded, but she cut herself off. She did not speak for a long time after that.
"It is far more complicated than that," she said finally. She took a piece of paper and wrote something on it before handing it to me. "If you want to learn the truth, start here," she said finally.
"Sylvia Van Dyke." I read. "4371 Ashford Lane. This is a Georgia address," I said finally.
"If you wish to learn the truth behind Vanessa Hunter, then that is where you must begin," said Helen.
"How is it that you happen to know so much about Vanessa Hunter?" I asked.
"Speak to Sylvia first," Helen said. "Then come back to see me, Haley Wellington. There is so much more to this story than meets the eye," she said.
"As is the case with you," I responded.
Helen smiled at me. "I would very much like to continue our conversation. "After all, it is not everyday that a Death Angel comes calling on me."