by Jessica Bird
Lamont glared at Smith and then pulled away roughly.
"You're a really great OD consultant, you know that? I come in to give her a heads up that her board is dissatisfied with her performance and you crawl all over me." Lamont snapped his suit back in place and smoothed his tie. "Don't tell me you went to school for this?"
Grace started shaking her head. "Lou, maybe you should leave."
"You're right about that. I've got a meeting with my staff in ten minutes to tell them they all need to come to the Gala this year, even the damn secretaries. Just so you know, it's to fill empty seats at the tables."
"No, I mean, really leave. The Foundation."
His eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Are you firing me?"
Grace rose from the heavy chair. She'd been afraid to let Lamont go, even though he was trouble, because she was concerned that he might be right. There was a part of her that questioned whether she knew what she was doing and she'd hoped that Lou would eventually come around and be a help.
Looking into his face, she knew it was time to give up.
"Yes, Lou, I am firing you. I don't want to, but it's obvious that we can't work together."
"You're going to be sorry if you let me go," he said with soft menace. "I've been nothing but loyal to this place and your father."
"I know you've approached several people for jobs."
"I have not."
"Yes, you have. Because Suzanna van der Lyden and Mimi Lauer told me so after they turned you down."
Lamont's mouth tightened as he twisted in his own lie.
"Lou, we're at an impasse. You're not happy working under me and I will not step down. I suggest that you let us buy out your contract. As long as you leave civilly, we'll make sure you get to review the press release and I'll give you a satisfactory reference."
His eyes narrowed, but she couldn't tell whether he was adding up the zeros in his separation package or measuring the distance across the desk so he could hit her.
He jabbed a finger through the air. "I promise this will come back to haunt you."
As soon as he left, she buzzed Kat. "Get security to escort Lou out of the building. Make sure they get his badge and his keys, okay?"
The last thing she needed was to have Lamont stealing the donor lists, assuming he hadn't already.
As she sat down in her chair, she was trying to figure out who she could get to head the Development Department. She'd have to start searching now, because filling a job like that could take months.
* * *
Sitting at the conference table, Smith was impatiently tapping a pen against the pad of paper he'd been using.
Christ, why the hell hadn't Tiny gotten back to him, yet?
He picked up his phone and tried again. When he actually heard the man's voice, he said, "Where the hell have you been?"
The phone connection was fuzzing in and out and Tiny sounded like he was underwater. "I'm trying to get the hell out of South America. Flat Top has finally taken over for me down here and I tried to call you three times this morning. I couldn't get through."
"When are you going to be here?"
"I’m trying to get on a plane right now."
"Don't waste any time."
"Do I ever?"
Smith hung up and dialed Lieutenant Marks's private line. As soon as the guy got on the phone, he said, "What have you got?"
"She's still out cold. They think she's going to pull through, though, which means we might be able to get a positive ID. The crime scene's being combed over but I'm not holding out for anything too goddamn illuminating. Christ, I wish we knew more about this guy."
"Those women in the article were all attacked around the time of the social events they chaired and you know those big parties are exercises in exclusion. Who gets in and who doesn't is a big deal. We should be looking for someone who's getting shut out, someone who's either being denied entrance into the inner circle or someone who was in and is now getting turned away."
He glanced over at Grace. She'd picked up the phone and was speaking, a grave expression on her face. He wondered who she was talking to.
"That's sound reasoning," Marks said, "but at the level we're talking about, the social maneuvering is so aggressive, a boxer would think twice before going to one of those damn events. "Who isn't ascending or descending at any given moment?"
"Those six women in that article, that's who. They're at the top. They're the arbiters of taste in this city, which means they make the decisions as to who gets cut from the A-list. I tell you, this is someone who's been stepped on, either in fact or through his perception of the way they're treating him. And every single one of those women know him personally. That's how he's getting in."
"But we've got no loose ends. You've seen the logs of those buildings. No irregularities and everybody's checked out so far. They all had a reason to be in those places on those days and even more to the point, they all left before the time of death. In and out."
Smith thought about the rear entrance of Grace's building. "Maybe he's coming back in."
"What do you mean?"
"What if this guy signs in and while he's inside he props open the service door or a window. When he leaves, he signs out, makes sure the doorman notices him, but then comes in again the back way. These old buildings are labyrinths. He could wait around for hours if he knew where to hide. It would explain why there's been no forcible entry and why there are no discrepancies with the logs."
Marks was silent for a moment. "Christ, you may be right."
When Smith hung up, he saw Grace watching him. She looked like hell, he thought, her eyes a dull shade of green and her mouth slack. It was as if the light inside of her had been smothered.
"I’m going out to lunch," she said quietly.
"Fine. Where to?"
"Chelsea. I’m having lunch with my half-sister."
* * *
After muscling through a traffic jam caused by a water main break, Eddie dropped them off in front of a pretentious modern art gallery. As Grace was studying its steel and glass facade, Callie came out. With her hair pulled back, she looked less like their father and Grace had to admit she was relieved.
"Hi. Where do you want to go?" Callie asked.
Grace suggested a small, out-of-the-way place where they could have some privacy.
As they walked, the fall wind kicked up a fuss around them, making brightly colored leaves tremble on the small trees planted into the sidewalk. John stayed close, only two steps behind.
The silence was awkward.
"I was surprised you called," Callie murmured. "I’m glad you did."
"Me, too." Grace wasn't sure she meant the words but she didn't know what else to say. The only thing they had in common was their father and he wasn't exactly the stuff of small talk.
When they were seated in the cafe, John took a table next to them, to give them some space.
After they ordered, there was more awkward silence.
Grace was trying not to stare at the woman and failing, while questions with no outlet flooded her brain. The things she wanted to know could only have come from her father and his death made her irate. Still, no matter how frustrated she was, Grace knew it wouldn't be fair to take it out on Callie. The woman hadn't asked to be born into such a mess.
While the waiter filled their water glasses, Grace wondered what they were going to talk about, but then, surprisingly, the conversation began to flow. It started with something trite, the decor in the restaurant. Callie commented on the floor, which was a massive decoupage of images of dancers. Grace pointed down to a 1920s flapper she'd always liked and Callie picked out a cancan girl. This led to a discussion about the reproduction French lithographs on the walls, and Grace's most recent visit to Paris. Slowly at first, then with increasing ease, they traded stories. By a kind of unspoken agreement, they stayed away from their childhoods and focused instead on more recent years, but the past was always between them.
Mos
t particularly in the pauses of their conversation.
"I went to NYU for undergrad and graduate school," Callie was saying as their plates were cleared. "I wanted to be with my mother as she got sicker."
"Did you nurse her for long?" Grace asked, trying to imagine the pressure Callie must have been under at the time.
"A few years, but the hardest was the last four months. She refused help from my ... our father." Callie's eyes flashed upward with uncertainty. When Grace nodded, she went on. "He wanted to put her in a private hospital, but she was adamant, more to spite him than anything else. She was a very independent woman. The loss of control that came with the multiple sclerosis was very hard for her to deal with. Those last few months were the longest in my life. And in hers. It was a sad relief for both of us when she died."
Grace watched as Callie picked up a teaspoon and started drawing on the linen tablecloth idly. An image of their father came to mind and she had to force herself not to look away. Tracking the smooth movement, hearing that soft sound, she felt an awful sense of loss. And an odd kind of relief.
Although the beginning of the meal had been awkward, she was glad she'd called. The woman was smart, honest, and seemed very up-front and there was little about her that suggested she was a gold digger. What did come across, however, was the impression of someone who had lived a, hard life. There were glimpses here and there of what Callie had to face, not only with her mother's illness, but also with the isolation of being unacknowledged as a daughter.
As coffee was brought to the table, Grace sensed Callie didn't want to talk about her mother anymore. "So do you like art conservation?”
"I'm passionate about it and I wish I were working in the field instead of answering the phone at a gallery. I had some great project experience in school but the real world is hard. Conservation jobs are very competitive and, because my, mother was ill, I didn't want to look outside of this city." She shrugged. "It's probably time for me to get my resume out there. Now that I'm alone, I can go anywhere in the country. Or the world, really."
"Where would you like to go?"
Callie laughed and sipped her coffee. "I have no idea. I've always wanted options, but now that I have them, I'm overwhelmed and find that I only want to stay where I am."
Grace thought of the Foundation's own conservation department. Part of her didn't want Callie anywhere near the Hall Building. What if someone picked up on the family resemblance? She stared into the woman's face. The likeness to her father was subtle. Probably only noticeable if someone were looking for it and who would? No one had known about Cornelius's other life.
She hesitated but decided there was something very unattractive about refusing to help someone just because she was afraid of a remote consequence.
"Callie," she said, "perhaps you'd like to come in and talk to Miles Forsythe. He's our conservationist at the museum. He might be able to steer you to some positions. At the very least, he could give you the names of some people to talk to."
Callie slowly put her coffee cup down. Her eyes were startled, as if she never would have expected help from Grace. Or anybody else.
Looking as she did, it was impossible to believe she could be after money, Grace thought.
"I'd be very grateful," Callie answered.
After they were finished, they strolled back to the gallery and said good-bye on the sidewalk.
"I'll talk to Miles and get a date from him."
"Thank you." Callie shifted her small purse up further on her shoulder. "And you didn't have to pay for lunch."
"I know."
As the woman turned her head and glanced at a taxi driver who was blaring his horn, sunlight fell on her face and picked out those lofty cheekbones Grace had always admired in her father.
Callie looked back. "I would have brought your suit in today but I didn't know you would call and it—"
"It's okay. There's no hurry."
Callie smiled. Standing in her modest clothes and a shapeless, floppy jacket, she seemed vulnerable and yet she clearly wasn't looking for handouts.
"Will I see you when I meet with Mr. Forsythe?" she asked. "Yes," Grace said. "You will."
chapter
23
The next day, Grace came into work feeling overwhelmed. The Gala was twenty-four hours away and the big night was looming over her like an avalanche.
But it was Smith's imminent departure that was really on her mind.
"Good morning," Kat said as she handed over some papers. "Miles Forsythe stopped by. He's free to meet that woman later this afternoon. Oh, and Jack Walker called. He wondered if he could see the Copley tonight and I told him he could. I figured you wouldn't mind."
"Fine."
"And Fredrique is back."
Grace looked up in surprise. "He is?"
"He went after the caterers again. They said if you don't get him off their back, they're going to quit."
" I better take care of it."
Grace went into her office and phoned the caterers. After thirty minutes of soothing feathers, they were back on the job.
Still, she cursed when she hung up, feeling as if Fredrique's tenacity was one more problem she could have done without.
From across the room, John's eyes nipped up from something he was writing.
"Sorry," she muttered.
He shrugged and stood up. When he started to stretch, she looked down at her desk. Even though her mind had begun to accept the loss of him, her body had no such pragmatism. She wanted him, even now.
Even after he'd broken her heart. After he was leaving; and never to be seen again.
She imagined that in some part of her, she would always want him. Always love him.
"I have something for you," he said briskly. He walked over and handed her an envelope.
Frowning, she opened it and took out a thick, folded wad of paper. She spread the documents out and began leafing through them. They were printouts of bills, from a casino in Las Vegas, a hotel in Monte Carlo, another on the French Riviera.
"What's all this?" She looked up.
"I took the liberty of doing a little research on your husband. Those are unpaid hotel charges and gambling debts, He's been on quite a bender since you kicked him out and he's been using his family's name and yours to secure credit. In addition to being lousy at the tables, he's evidently got a hearty appetite and an affinity for top-drawer liquor. Doesn't seem to care much for paying up, however."
She looked at the totals. "This is a lot, but not to a von Sharone."
"Well, that's the thing. Apparently, the family's not as wealthy as it once was. Were you aware they're selling their winery in France? "
"No." She frowned again. "But why? Those vineyards have been owned by them for generations."
"They've put several other properties on the market, as well as some paintings and sculpture. It's all been done very discreetly, of course, but when you add it up, they're offloading a boatload of assets."
"Good Lord. What's happened to them?"
He shrugged. "Too many descendants with too much interest in the high life. The bottom line is, the family's out of money and that international existence your husband's been enjoying is going to get pretty provincial, pretty goddamn fast."
"Which is why he's trying to milk me in the divorce settlement," she murmured. It was all so much clearer. She'd assumed he was going after her because he was being vindictive. Instead, it was a matter of survival. God knew, he was wholly incapable of making the kind of money he needed.
John pointed to the bills. "Sent to the right journalist, these will set off an investigation into the von Sharone finances and they would do anything to avoid that."
"Because appearances are everything," she said softly. Grace glanced back at him, knowing he'd just handed her the ticket to her divorce. "Thank you."
"I had a feeling when his lawyer showed up in your office looking so damn pleased with himself that they were trying to hold you over a barrel. Probably le
veraging that picture of us, am I right?"
She nodded.
"So let me tell you, finding all this has been my pleasure."
Grace looked down at the bills. Ranulf relished his international image of wealth and status and this kind of news would ruin him. She could just see the article in Vanity Fair.
She didn't want to hurt him. All she wanted was her freedom without having to pay exorbitantly for it.
"Kat, get my lawyer on the phone, will you?" she said into the intercom.
Toward the end of the workday, Grace and John went down to meet Callie in the atrium. As they cut through the throngs of people milling about, Grace saw the woman standing by the museum's marble entrance. She was dressed in black slacks and a thick black sweater, looking calm and composed.
Callie offered a tentative wave when she caught sight of them approaching.
"Welcome," Grace said. "Miles is looking forward to meeting you."
They left the noisy mosaic of movement and sound behind as they entered the quiet interior of the museum. Grace waved at the guards and the docents and began walking quickly toward the back when she realized Callie had fallen behind, having paused in front of an exhibit.
It was the one noting the Woodward Hall family's contributions to the study of American history. There were photographs and paintings of various generations, as well as of Willings. Grace's picture had been added, next to her father's.
Their father's, she corrected herself. She tried to imagine what it would be like to stare at a history that was hers by right, but not practice.
"Sorry," Callie murmured, coming forward.
"Do you want to—"
"We should go, shouldn't we?" Her voice was strained and Grace nodded.
Callie was silent as they went past exhibits on archaeological digs that the Foundation had sponsored and through a gallery featuring Early American portraiture.
When they got to a large freight elevator, Grace slid her pass card through a reader. As the doors opened and they stepped inside, Callie said, "Thank you for doing this."
"I'm glad to," she replied, meaning it.
