Again, she thanked Caroline.
“Forget it. Just get your life straightened out, Ash. We miss you around here.”
* * *
Sarah Balaton fed the pigeons at Fanueil Hall Market Place with crumbs from her croissant. She was sitting on a bench in an open area between two of the three old market buildings that had been renovated into shops, boutiques, restaurants, vegetable stands. It had stimulated the revival of the entire Boston water-front. She had bought fresh-squeezed orange juice and a croissant in the middle building.
She’d seen Ashley Wakefield enter the offices of Touchstone Communications and would have followed her, but then she saw something as disturbing as anything she’d yet witnessed.
Lillian Parker had pulled up to the Touchstone Communications building in a cab. Famous news-woman, heiress, best friend of actress Judith Land. Countless times Lillian Parker had been offered a fortune to tell her version of the Judith Land story. Each time she had refused. Her friendship with Judith, she said, was not for sale, at any price.
Had Lillian Parker recognized the tiara and choker?
Shocked, Sarah had retreated. She was more convinced than ever that she should have never contacted Ashley Wakefield personally. She hadn’t weighed the facts, considered the consequences of what she was doing. She had simply acted. It wasn’t like her.
Except, she thought unhappily, where her father was concerned.
“Hello, Sarah.”
Giles Smith eased onto the bench beside her, and she looked at him in resignation, too worn out even to register surprise. He was such a hulk. He wore one of his T-shirts, dark raspberry. She had been to bed with Giles twice, six months ago, and had seen him little since. Motivated by simple sexual curiosity—would someone with his build be better than average in bed?—she had found the experience unexpectedly dull. The first time, Giles had hammered into her for three minutes—she’d had nothing better to do than time him. Then he’d collapsed and fallen asleep. Convinced that was a fluke, Sarah had gone to bed with him a second time. It was a repeat nonperformance. Meanwhile, she’d discovered Giles entertained romantic as well as sexual fantasies about her. He’d sent her awful poems, but she hadn’t had the heart—or the guts—to tell him she wasn’t interested. Instead, she’d simply been ignoring him.
All along, she’d known he was doggedly loyal to her father.
She squinted at him in the sun. “Hello, Giles.”
“You shouldn’t be here, Sarah. Your father’s worried about you.”
“Daddy?” She checked herself. Even when she’d been a baby, Andrew Balaton was never Daddy, but always Father or sir. “He sent you here?”
“He’s the boss, Sarah.”
She sank in the slat seat, defeated, and horribly, she felt like crying. “Just go away, Giles. Please.”
He studied her, edging close to her, and the thick skin around his narrowed beady eyes made them seem even smaller. “It’s not my decision.”
“What do you mean?”
“Daddy’s calling the shots. Always does, doesn’t he?”
She wanted to scream. She couldn't let him see her cry. “What do you want me to do, Giles?”
“It’s easy, Sar. Your father’s in New York. He wants to meet David Wakefield.”
“David Wakefield? Why?”
“You don’t think he told me, do you?”
It was a rhetorical question, but she said, “No, of course not.” She looked down at the pigeons pecking at the bread crumbs, always ready for more. Her eyes still lowered, she said, “What am I supposed to do?”
“Invite him to dinner.”
“Why not Ashley?”
“Too recognizable, I guess. I don’t ask questions.”
“Does David have access to the jewels?”
Giles didn’t respond immediately, and Sarah glanced up at him: so her question about the jewels hadn’t come as a complete surprise. He was weighing his response. “I wouldn’t know anything about that, Sarah.”
“If I refuse to cooperate?”
He shrugged. “Then I’ll have to bring him myself.”
“Don’t let the boss be denied?” she said with a bitter smile. “I guess you don’t leave me much choice. I know you, Giles. I know your tactics.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
“I’ll try. Is...is my father angry with me for skipping out on him?”
“Worried, Sarah, not angry.”
“Maybe I can make amends. All right. I’ll try to see David Wakefield, but I don’t know him. I’m not sure he’ll come to dinner just because I ask him to. When is the dinner?”
“Tomorrow night.” He laughed and patted her on the cheek. “Dress pretty and don’t be late.”
20
Ashley was stunned to find Lillian Parker waiting in the outer office, and immediately invited the famous newswoman in. She seemed much smaller off camera—unconventionally attractive, eyes a clear, alert turquoise, neatly dressed in a gray Dior suit, deep auburn hair in place. On air, Lillian Parker was renowned for her direct gaze and always was collected, controlled, calm. With uncanny and merciless accuracy, she could pinpoint what motivated a person and zero in on the central issues of that person’s life.
Always, Lillian Parker knew what questions to ask.
“Please, Ms. Parker,” Ashley said formally, “sit down.”
“Thank you, no. The shuttle was delayed this morning. I hate sitting on planes, don’t you? Right now it just feels good to stand.”
She’s fidgety, Ashley thought, and sat down herself at her immaculate desk. “What can I do for you, Ms. Parker?”
Not answering at once, Lillian Parker walked over to the wall of aquatic photographs and took note of a black-and-white shot of the surf at Schoodic Point in Maine. “I read your profile in You,” she said, not turning. “I think Sybil tried to do a decent job on you. You’re lucky.”
“I don’t feel very lucky,” Ashley remarked dryly.
“Oh, the publicity will die down.” She turned from the photograph and smiled. “It always does. The entertainment media have incredibly short attention spans. Sybil got hold of me a few years ago; I survived.”
Ashley thought: I didn’t. I learned I don’t exist.
Lillian Parker’s incisive gaze seemed to be reaching inside Ashley, and she found herself wanting to duck, or put up a shield or something. Suddenly she was grateful she’d been dealt Sybil Morgenstern instead of this hard-edged woman. She seemed totally objective, totally committed to digging down deep to get at the truth, no matter what it was, no matter whom it hurt. It was simply who the woman was, what she did.
Then her expression softened, and she said, “You don’t think you will survive, do you? Well, if it helps, I know the feeling. I can just imagine all the people who’ve been hassling you.”
Ashley wondered if indeed she could. “Not just reporters,” she said. “Photographers, magazine people, advertisers, eligible men, charities, nut cases.” Spies, thugs, lunatic lawyers from San Diego, Houston heiresses, New York newswomen. “It’s really been a zoo around here.”
“And you’re not interested in any of their offers?” Lillian Parker spoke as if she’d known Ashley for years.
“That’s right, I’m not.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not.”
She smiled. “Don’t get that hunted look, Ashley—may I call you Ashley?”
“Of course.”
“And I’m Lillian. I’m not here to try to extract an interview from you. My visit is strictly personal.”
Ashley picked up a pencil and held it between her forefingers, one on the tip, the other on the eraser. Now I’m fidgety.
“I’m here on behalf of J. Land Crockett.”
“Good God.” Ashley dropped the pencil.
“I beg your pardon.” Lillian took a few steps toward her. “Is something wrong?”
No, not at all, Ashley thought cynically. J. Land Crockett was only the chairman of the board o
f Crockett Industries and the father of Judith Land, who was the dead wife of Andrew Balaton, who was the father of Sarah Balaton, who was vice president of finance for Crockett Industries and, not at all incidentally, after the tiara and the choker. Which Barky had.
Why the hell should there be something wrong?
But she cleared her throat and shook her head, becoming disturbingly adept, she thought, at deceit. “I’m sorry—that’s just the last thing I expected you to say. We’re talking about J. Land Crockett, the billionaire?”
Again the direct gaze was in place. “Yes. I’ve been a personal friend of his for years—something very few people realize.”
“Not even Sybil Morgenstern?”
Lillian smiled. “Especially not Sybil. It’s common knowledge his daughter and I were friends, but Judith’s been dead for almost thirty years. It’s assumed I lost touch with Crockett. But he’s an elderly, sad and troubled man; I can’t abandon him. And when he asked me to talk with you, there was no way I could refuse.”
“What could he possibly want with me?” Ashley asked, but already she was guessing: the jewels, Barky, information.
“He’d like to learn more about the New England Oceanographic Institute.”
Har-di-har, Ashley thought. “I don’t understand.”
Lillian moved back to the wall of photographs and eyed one, in color, of dawn on the tidal flats. “The general public knows J. Land Crockett as a Texas oilman and a recluse. Indeed, he does have a ranch northwest of Houston and there’s no question he keeps largely to himself. But what most people don’t realize—and he’d like to keep it that way—is that he spends half the year on an island off the coast of Maine. He loves the ocean.”
Making no comment, Ashley listened with interest. What an incredible crock of bullshit Lillian Parker could come up with when she wanted to.
“It’s my understanding,” the savvy newswoman went on, “that he’s considering making a contribution to the institute’s work.”
“Terrific.” What else could she say?
Lillian stepped forward and handed a business card across the expanse of desk. On the back was a hand printed telephone number. “He wants you to call him.”
“Now?”
“As soon as you possibly can.”
“Ms. Parker—”
“That’s all I know, Ashley. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to run. I need to be back in New York this afternoon for a staff meeting. Thanks for taking the time to see me.”
Ashley jumped up. “Lillian, have you ever heard of the Balaton jewels?”
She tucked her handbag under one arm. “I must be going.”
Ashley madly tried to think. “Have you ever met Sarah Balaton?”
“No.”
“Her father?”
“I see Andrew on occasion. Goodbye, Ashley. And good luck with Crockett.”
As soon as Lillian Parker was on the elevator, Ashley dialed the number printed on the back of her card. A light-voiced man answered. Ashley said, “I’d like to speak to J. Land Crockett. My name’s Ashley Wakefield. I believe he’s expecting my call.”
“One moment, please.”
In a few minutes, a deep rugged voice with an unmistakable Texas accent said, “Crockett here.”
“Mr. Crockett, this is Ashley—”
“I know who you are.”
She stiffened in annoyance: she hadn’t expected a man who wanted her to call him to be so rude. “You wanted to speak with me?”
Crockett didn’t hesitate. “I want to meet you.”
“That would be—”
He broke in. “When can you get up here?”
“Mr. Crockett,” she said, politely cautious, “I need to know exactly why you want to meet with me.”
He grunted, annoyed himself. “We can discuss that when you get up here.”
“This is about the institute?”
“Sure.”
She had a feeling she could have suggested they were to discuss African gorillas and he would have said sure.
“When can you get here?”
“Mr. Crockett.” Ashley weighed her next words: she didn’t want to put him off, but even if she believed his interest in the institute were legitimate—and she didn’t—she wouldn’t just fly up to Maine at an old man’s whim, regardless of who he was. There were procedures. And she figured she ought to be convincingly unsuspicious of his ulterior motives—whatever they might be. “If this is about the institute, I want you to know that anything we discuss will have to be presented to the executive director and the board. I can initiate a dialogue with you, but I want to be very clear—”
“You’re not answering my question.”
This time she let him hear her irritated sigh. “You’re in Maine, is that correct?”
Crockett made a noise that sounded something like a hoarse chuckle, but Ashley couldn’t be sure. It could just as easily have been a snort. “Correct.”
“Where in Maine, Mr. Crockett? It’s a big state.”
There was derision in his laugh. “To you damn Yankees, I guess it is. You coming?”
He wasn’t doing much to endear himself to her. She said coolly, “Perhaps you could tell me a little more about your sudden interest in the New England Oceanographic Institute and—”
“I don’t do business over the phone.”
“All right, Mr. Crockett.” She decided she’d pushed him as far as she dared: she didn’t want to alienate him. “When do you want me to come see you?”
“Tomorrow. Come for the day, spend the night. We’ll talk. You fly, right? We’ve got an airstrip on the island. No lights, but it should do, especially for a daredevil like you. Roger’ll give you directions.”
“Tomorrow’s impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible.”
The light-voiced man came on the line and gave Ashley directions to an island in Blue Hill Bay. It was named—appropriately, she thought—Badger Rock.
Dinner was promptly at seven, but she could be expected anytime before then.
* * *
David hobbled around the farmhouse kitchen, trying to get used to his crutches and the awkward weight of his cast. He’d just been released from the hospital. In all his years of hard work and rough play, he’d never broken any bones, but one swipe from a crazy old man and he was down. It pissed him off.
He flopped down at the kitchen table, sweating and frustrated. He’d had to call his buddy Iggy to help out with the animals. Fruit was rotting on the trees, some of the fall crops needed harvesting. There was work to be done, dammit. Where the hell was Barky?
A knock on the door roused him from his private bitch session. He swore, not feeling like any company. The screen door opened up anyway, and a beautiful golden-eyed woman stuck her head in and smiled. “May I come in?”
“Yeah—sure.” He reached for the crutches.
Shutting the screen door softly behind her, she stepped into the kitchen. She was of average height and wore an ivory linen dress that accentuated the creaminess of her skin. She had round, heavy breasts and a small waist and golden hair. Everything about her exuded money. Her smile was elegant, but tentative, as if she weren’t quite sure she ought to be smiling. “My name’s Sarah Balaton. I—” Her eyes widened as he rose up on his crutches. “Oh, my God. What happened?”
“Dumb accident. You’re the lady who called Ash about the tiara and the choker?”
Still staring at his broken leg, she nodded. “And you’re David Wakefield.”
“In several pieces, but, yeah, that’s me.”
“I...don’t know what to say.”
“No need to say anything—except why you’re here.”
She looked at him, and he was surprised to see how pale she was. Did he look that bad? She said uneasily, “It’s a long story.”
He grinned. “I’ve got nothing but time.”
Reluctantly, she sat across from him at the table and, plucking a dried-up marigold out of a cheap vase, told him abou
t seeing the cover piece on his sister, her reaction, and, finally, her decision to telephone Ashley. “It was an outrageous thing to do,” she admitted. “I’m sure neither you nor your sister is responsible for whatever happened to the tiara and the choker after Judith Land wore them at the Christmas ball in Vienna.”
No, David thought, but their uncle could have been. “That’s the last time they were seen in public?”
She nodded. “As far as I know.”
The marigold had been reduced to a little pile of bright yellow, which Sarah scooped into her palm. David noticed her nails were relatively short, but neat, a pale coral. She looked around the kitchen. He pointed out the wastebasket in the corner by the closet, and watched her as she walked over and dumped the mutilated marigold into the overflowing basket and brushed her palms together. She had yellow stains on her hands.
“Judith Land never reported the jewels stolen?” he asked.
Sarah shook her head. “Except for that rare photograph in the French magazine, there’s never been any indication that Judith Land ever owned the pieces. Maybe she borrowed them—or maybe they were given to her. I don’t know.”
“They weren’t listed in her will?”
“No.”
She fixed them both glasses of instant iced tea and smiled at the ancient ice trays and the tall cheap glasses. “It’s hard to believe you’re a millionaire, David,” she said bluntly.
He laughed. Even at his house up in the hills, he had glasses from K-Mart. As far as he was concerned, a glass was a glass: he went by size. But that was all beside the point. “So what’s this stuff about Balaton jewels?”
She handed him a glass of iced tea and sat back down, across from him. She left the marigolds alone. “My father insists there’s no such thing as the Balaton jewels. I suppose he should know, but the coincidences... I just have to believe he’s mistaken.”
“He hasn’t seen your picture of Judith Land in Vienna?”
Claim the Crown Page 17
