They were sitting in her living room. Anson was at the window. Cabot, his left arm in a bandage and a sling, was sprawled on the sofa. Virginia thought he looked exhausted, but she knew he was in no mood to sleep—not yet, at any rate. She was feeding him a steady diet of hot soup and herbal tea, but she could feel the vibes generated by hand-to-hand combat coming off him in waves.
She was still in the process of reentry herself. She had arrived at the emergency room before they’d had a chance to dispose of Cabot’s bloodstained clothes. It was a sight she knew she would revisit in her dreams from time to time.
“Preston thought he was the smartest guy in the room, but he was rattled because he had recently killed a man and had been discovered in the act of trying to destroy the evidence,” Cabot said. “Under those circumstances, it wasn’t hard to make him believe that someone had hacked into his phone.”
Anson turned away from the window. “The trick to running a con is to tell a good story, one that plays to the hopes or fears of the person you’re targeting. It has to be a story with just enough truth in it to make it feel real.”
“Sounds like an art form,” Virginia said.
Anson looked at Cabot. “Never thought about it like that, but, yeah, just another kind of art.”
CHAPTER 65
The following morning, Reed Stephens cranked back in his desk chair, propped his elbows on the armrests and put his fingertips together. “Young Xavier is right,” he said. “Someone or maybe several people in the Kennington family are trying to screw you.”
Cabot stopped prowling the office and turned to examine the view out the window. Stephens specialized in business law. His firm was not affiliated with any of the big national outfits. Instead, he catered to small local companies and start-ups.
“Anson and Xavier both warned me there was probably a catch,” Cabot said.
“This document you’re being asked to sign is full of legal fog, but there was enough here to make me suspicious.” Reed continued. “I talked to some people I know in San Francisco. Evidently your grandfather was what folks like to call a colorful figure in the business world. The result is that there is a lot of squabbling going on among the ex-wives and various offspring. That means there are also a lot of rumors and leaks about the terms of the estate. From what I can determine, you are entitled to your mother’s share of the company. The document you brought to me is an attempt to get you to sign away your rights to your inheritance.”
Cabot swung around, blindsided. “I was told that my grandfather disowned his daughter after she married my father.”
“Evidently he changed his mind at the end.” Reed sat forward and tapped the document. “It’s complicated and, I will say, rather cleverly done. The bottom line, however, is that if you sign this document and take the twenty-five thousand, you’ll be giving up a major interest in the Kennington business empire, which is worth a hell of a lot more than twenty-five grand. Potentially you’ll be walking away from millions.”
“What happens to my mother’s share of the company if I sign that document?”
“It will go to Xavier’s father—your uncle, Emerson Kennington.”
“Who is about to move on to Wife Number Three.”
“Emerson Kennington has a son and a daughter by his first marriage; and another son, Xavier, and a daughter, Anna, by his second marriage. The next Mrs. Kennington has no doubt been working behind the scenes to ensure that she and her future offspring secure a chunk of the company just in case she, too, gets dumped.”
“What about Xavier’s mother?”
“My contacts in San Francisco say it’s no secret down there that by the terms of the prenup she gets a nice condo, which she can live in as long as she can afford to pay the taxes and homeowner’s fees. Under the circumstances, that seems unlikely. She’ll make some money when she sells the condo, of course, but that’s it.”
“What about Xavier and his sister?”
“Hard to say. I’m sure that Kennington will be on the hook for his offspring’s college expenses, but aside from that there are no guarantees. I suspect young Xavier’s inheritance depends on how much influence the next Mrs. Kennington exerts over her husband. The fact that she is rumored to have avoided signing a prenup would seem to indicate that she’s got a talent for strategy. Whatever happens, she will do very nicely.”
“What are my options?”
“You’ve got two. You can accept your mother’s stake in Kennington International or ditch your claim to a share of the company in exchange for twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Cabot considered that briefly. “Maybe there’s a third option.”
“I’m listening.”
CHAPTER 66
“I don’t understand,” John Burleigh said. He seemed deeply offended and a little bewildered. “Why did you insist that Xavier and his parents be present for this meeting? They are not involved in this matter. And there was no need for all of these strangers, either. This was supposed to be a private business meeting between you and me.”
Cabot looked around at the crowd that had gathered in the reception area of Cutler, Sutter & Salinas. Virginia lounged against the edge of Anson’s desk, her arms folded. Anson was in his chair behind the desk.
Xavier’s mother, Melissa, was perched tensely on one of the two client chairs. Everyone else, including Burleigh, Reed Stephens, Xavier, Emerson Kennington and Cabot, was standing.
“To be clear,” Cabot said, “Virginia, Anson and my lawyer, Mr. Stephens, are present because I wanted lots of witnesses. As for Xavier and his parents, they’re involved in this thing, so I figured they should be present.”
“I thought you agreed to sign the documents that I sent to you,” Burleigh said firmly.
“No, I agreed to take a look at them,” Cabot said. “And naturally I showed them to my lawyer.”
Reed Stephens cleared his throat politely. “That would be me.”
“I see.” Burleigh’s jaw hardened. But he opened his briefcase and took out a folder. “We might as well get on with this meeting. I have four copies of the agreement for you to sign, Mr. Sutter. Two of the parties present can serve as witnesses. I have a cashier’s check for the agreed-upon amount already made out.”
He held up the check.
“That’s a very nice visual aid,” Cabot said. “But there was no agreed-upon amount. You made an offer. After due consideration I have decided not to accept it.”
Xavier grunted in approval. “I told you they were going to try to screw you.”
“Yes, you did mention that,” Cabot said. “And my lawyer confirmed it.”
Emerson Kennington gave Cabot a baleful glare. “What kind of game are you trying to play, Sutter? Whatever it is, I guarantee I’ll fight you every step of the way.”
Reed looked at him. “I have been assured that the terms of the late Mr. Kennington’s estate are quite clear. My client, Cabot Sutter, is to inherit his mother’s share of Kennington International.”
“We have made a serious offer to buy out Cabot Sutter’s shares of the business,” Burleigh said smoothly. “There is, of course, room for negotiation. What number did you have in mind, Mr. Sutter?”
“I’m not much into negotiation,” Cabot said. “But I am willing to do a deal.”
“Name your price,” Burleigh said evenly.
“I’ve asked Mr. Stephens to draw up a document that transfers half of my shares of the business to Xavier, his sister and my other cousins. Those shares will be divided equally among them. Naturally, Melissa Kennington will hold Xavier’s and his sister’s shares in trust and administer them until the kids turn twenty-one. I intend to sign the document in front of all of you today.” He smiled at Burleigh. “Plenty of witnesses that way.”
With the exceptions of Virginia, Anson and Reed, the news was met with stunned expressions.
Emerson Kenn
ington recovered first.
“You can’t do this,” he sputtered. “All of those shares should have come to me in the first place. My father never intended for Jacqueline to inherit. He cut her out of the will the day she ran off with your father.”
“And later, at some point, he put Cabot into the will,” Reed said. “What’s more, he did it in the form of a trust that is very well constructed. You can fight us if you want, but I’m sure Mr. Burleigh will tell you the simple truth—wills are broken all the time, but it’s virtually impossible to dismantle a solidly protected trust.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Melissa Kennington said to Cabot. She shook her head and locked her fingers together. “In fact, you shouldn’t do it. Your mother would have wanted you to inherit all of her shares of Kennington International.”
“Mom’s right,” Xavier said. He shot to his feet. “You shouldn’t give me and the others any of your shares. That’s not fair.”
“Turns out,” Cabot said, “that my mother was part of a small group of women who left me and the other surviving children of Zane’s operation a very handsome inheritance. Evidently, Mom got the Kennington family talent for handling money. If she were alive, she would probably be running Kennington International today. Trust me when I tell you that I won’t starve.”
They hadn’t found a huge fortune in the offshore account, not by Kennington family standards, and it was going to be divided eight ways among the adult children of the cult, but that still meant a nice round number with a lot of zeros after it for all of them.
“We need to discuss this in more detail,” Burleigh said quickly. “There are extenuating circumstances here. As I’m sure you’re aware, Emerson Kennington and Melissa Kennington are currently in the process of dissolving their marriage. The situation is complicated.”
“Yeah, I heard about the divorce,” Cabot said. “That kind of thing can get messy. But fortunately for all of us, there is nothing complicated about the document that my lawyer has ready for me to sign.”
“Let’s talk about this,” Emerson Kennington said.
“What’s to talk about? I have every right to make a financial gift to my cousins. This way if your next wife takes you to the cleaners, as everyone seems to think will be the case, you won’t have to worry about Xavier and your other kids. They’ll be protected. Consider this a win-win.”
“I have every intention of taking care of my own children, damn it.” Emerson shot a quick look at Xavier. “I’ve made that clear to Melissa and her lawyer.”
“I’m sure you have the best of intentions,” Cabot said. “But evidently you weren’t willing to put those intentions in writing.”
“That is a matter to be settled by Melissa and me.”
“There’s plenty of stuff for you and Melissa to work out,” Cabot said. “But this way there won’t be any question of Xavier and his siblings receiving a share of the company.”
Reed opened his own briefcase, took out a folder and handed it to Cabot. “You’re sure you want to do this?”
“Absolutely certain,” Cabot said. He looked at Xavier and winked. “Never let it be said that I can’t do family drama as well as the rest of the Kenningtons.”
Xavier grimaced. “Guess I’ve been a real pain in the ass for you.”
“It’s okay,” Cabot said. “You’re family.”
CHAPTER 67
Three days before the show, Virginia and Jessica stood in the back room, making final decisions about which objects and paintings to display.
“For the last time, I am not going to put the glass paperweights in the show,” Virginia said. “I agree they work wonders when it comes to drawing customers in off the street, but this is a very serious show for very serious collectors. If we treat the paperweights as serious art, the serious collectors will be deer in the headlights.”
“Maybe they’ll think it’s a charmingly original concept,” Jessica said. “You know—a way to soften the elitism of the art world.”
“Don’t kid yourself. Serious collectors love the elitism of the art world. They thrive on it.”
Jessica gave a little snort. “Maybe we should print up name tags with the words ‘You’re Special’ on them for each guest.”
Virginia smiled. “It’s a thought.” She crossed her arms and walked around the room, taking one last look at the objects and paintings she had selected. She stopped in front of a glass bowl.
“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “No paperweights, but I’ll add the Billings glass. Will that make you happy?”
Jessica brightened. “I love that piece. In the right light it looks like molten gold.”
“Light makes art glass come alive,” Virginia said. She glanced at her new phone. “It’s after five. Time for you to go home.”
Jessica collected her jacket and handbag and headed for the front door. “We’ve got some wonderful pieces. Can’t wait for our clients to see them. They will be absolutely wowed.”
“I hope so. See you in the morning.”
Jessica paused at the door. “How is Cabot doing?”
“He’s fine, thanks,” Virginia said. “His wound is healing nicely. Right now he and Anson are tidying up some loose ends in the case.”
She didn’t see any reason to mention that Cabot and Anson were starting work on Abigail Watkins’s journal. Jessica knew a lot about recent events, but she wasn’t a member of what Anson referred to as the Zane Conspiracy Club. Family secrets, Virginia thought.
Jessica let herself outside and disappeared into the rainy afternoon. Virginia waited until the door closed. Then she began another walk-through, trying to see the objects and paintings she had selected through the eyes of serious collectors and art critics.
When she was satisfied that she had made the right choices, she went to where her jacket hung on a wall hook. It was time to go home. She and Cabot were planning to meet Anson for dinner. She was eager to hear what the two men had learned from Abigail Watkins’s diary.
She looked at the door of the large storage room that contained Hannah’s paintings. She toyed with the notion of putting a picture from the Visions series on display with an NFS—Not for Sale—tag on it.
You did all you could to protect me, Hannah. It’s not your fault that the past would not stay buried. You gave me a warning that probably saved my life.
If not for the photograph of Hannah’s last painting, she would never have understood that she was in danger, Virginia thought. She would not have gone looking for Anson Salinas. She would not have found Cabot.
I might never have known the joy of falling in love.
Yes, she decided. She would hang one picture from the Visions series in a tribute to a brave, emotionally wounded artist who had jumped to her death in a desperate effort to keep a promise to a friend who had died twenty-two years ago.
She put down her jacket and handbag, got the key from the desk and opened the door of the storage closet. Mentally she braced herself as she always did when she entered the small antechamber of her own private hell and flipped the wall switch.
She walked down the aisle formed by the paintings and pulled off the tarps that covered each of them one by one.
The fiery paintings of the Visions series flared to life around her. The only one that was missing was Hannah’s final picture, the one that had been destroyed when she had burned down her cabin. Virginia made a note to have the photograph printed, mounted and framed. It would finish the series.
She stopped at the far end of the closet, where the two covered paintings of Abigail Watkins rested against the wall. Each was clearly marked: Not for Sale. Client may call.
So many questions about the past had been answered in the last few days, she thought, but one remained. Why two paintings of Abigail Watkins, Hannah? You said Abigail asked you to paint them, and then you told me to keep them in case someone came looki
ng for them.
But no one had come looking.
A shiver of knowing swept through Virginia. Had Abigail, at the end of her life, entertained a fantasy that Quinton Zane might someday come looking for her? But that explanation didn’t feel right. Like Hannah, Abigail had been terrified of Zane.
What did feel right was another kind of fantasy—the dream of a mother who had been forced to give up her baby at birth.
“You hoped that Tucker might someday come looking for you, didn’t you, Abigail?”
But that had not happened, either. Instead, Tucker had become obsessed with the father he had never known. It was just as well that Abigail had died with her fantasy. It would have broken her heart if she had learned the truth—that her son had been a deranged killer.
Except . . .
Why two paintings?
An ice-cold flicker of anxiety whispered through her. For a few frantic seconds she tried to reason with herself. Don’t let your imagination take control.
But the conclusion was inescapable. If the two paintings had not been done for an old lover who had betrayed her, or a long-lost son, there was another possible explanation.
There was only one way to be certain. She started back out of the storage closet, intending to get to the phone in her handbag.
But the alley door opened abruptly, bringing with it a draft of cold, damp air and Jessica, who stared at Virginia with stricken eyes.
Startled, Virginia stopped in the middle of the back room.
“Jessica? What’s wrong?”
“I’m s-sorry,” Jessica whispered.
She stumbled forward a few steps. Not under her own free will, Virginia realized. Jessica had been pushed into the room.
Kate Delbridge came through the doorway. She was using both hands to grip a gun.
Promise Not to Tell Page 27
