by Barbara Paul
But Dorrie knew her cues. “And you were right, dear, as always.” Husband and wife exchanged a pantomime kiss.
Lionel started to snort but turned it into a cough.
“I suppose you all want drinks,” Uncle Vincent said and rang for Mrs. Polk. Vincent Farwell didn’t believe in wet bars or even liquor cabinets, so everything alcoholic had to be brought in from the kitchen. Mrs. Polk thought she knew what everyone would want, and she turned out to be right. She brought in two bourbons, one scotch, gin and grapefruit juice for Miss Gretchen the way she liked it, and plain mineral water for Mr. Vincent. It took her two trips.
“Exactly two ice cubes,” Gretchen said, examining her drink. “You remembered, Polka Dot!”
“Of course I remembered, Miss Gretchen,” Mrs. Polk said affectionately. “Don’t I always?”
The warmth of Mrs. Polk’s welcome relaxed Gretchen a little. She’d lived in this house from the time she was fifteen, when both her parents had died, until her marriage to Lionel Knox a few years ago. She still thought of Uncle Vincent’s house as “home” and the house she shared with Lionel as “our place”—a distinction she wasn’t even aware she made. But “home” hadn’t always been a happy place; Mrs. Polk was the only truly sensitive person there and it was to her that Gretchen had always run whenever Uncle Vincent made her cry. Which was frequently.
When Mrs. Polk had left the study, Gretchen said, “Uncle Vincent, what is this big surprise you’ve got for us? Ever’body’s just dyin’ to know!”
“Not now, Gretchen. We’ll wait until the other two get here.”
“But cain’t you give us just one li’l hint?” Gretchen persisted winningly.
“I said wait,” Uncle Vincent growled.
“Oh, my—aren’t you a grouchy ole bear tonight!” Gretchen teased. “Is somethin’ the mattuh, Uncle?”
Simon was puzzled. “Gretchen—is that a southern accent you’ve picked up?”
“Lou Ann Poovey,” Lionel explained, which only puzzled Simon more.
Dorrie said, “I agree with Gretchen. Give us a hint, Uncle Vincent.”
“Damn it, woman, I said wait!” the old man barked. “Stop badgering me!”
Dorrie’s eyes grew saucer-sized, as Simon said soothingly, “Now, now, Uncle Vincent—nobody’s badgering you It’s just chitchat.”
“I’m in no mood for either chitting or chatting,” the old man rasped. “We’ll wait for the other two.”
At that moment Godfrey Daniel decided, for reasons known only to himself, to leave his spot by the fireplace and launch himself into Simon’s lap. Simon’s composure deserted him momentarily. “Oof—shoo, kitty.” He pushed at the cat. “Nice kitty—get down, nice kitty.” Godfrey thumped to the floor and then reclaimed his place on Uncle Vincent’s desk.
“Simon doesn’t like cats,” Dorrie explained to the room at large.
Uncle Vincent cackled. “Isn’t it funny the way cats invariably pick out the one person in the room who doesn’t like them—and then go shed all over him?”
“Hilarious,” said Simon, brushing cat hairs from his trousers.
The sound of the doorbell reached their ears. Bjarne showed in Nicole Lattimer and Malcolm Conner, stumbling a little as he did. Nicole led the way, her walk slightly suggestive of a dancer’s duck-waddle. Dorrie greeted her brother with a hug, embarrassing him a trifle; she’d never indulged in public displays of affection before she married Simon.
“You’re late,” Uncle Vincent rasped. The clock on the mantle-piece said five after eight. “Well, Malcolm—you and Nicole get married yet?” Malcolm pretended not to hear.
“Good evening, Nicole,” Simon greeted her. “How are things at the Ballet Russe?”
“Funny, Simon,” Nicole said. “Well, Gretchen—I see you’re all pearled up this evening.”
Gretchen stroked the pearls around her neck in what was meant to be a sensuous gesture. “I can’t understand why you don’t like pearls, Nicole. They’re said to be the most feminine of jewels.”
“That’s one reason,” Nicole said.
“Sit down, sit down,” Uncle Vincent commanded impatiently. “Over there.” Then he noticed his manservant weaving unsteadily in the doorway. “That’ll be all, Barney!” he snapped. “I’ll ring when I need you.” Bjarne made a visible effort to walk away without swaying.
Lionel noticed too. Quietly he stood up and looked through the library door, just in time to see Bjarne disappear into the hall closet.
“Where’d he go?” Uncle Vincent rasped.
“To his room, I suppose,” Lionel said, and took his seat again.
Mrs. Polk brought two more scotches for the newcomers and did not ask the others if they wanted refills. When the door had closed behind her, Vincent Farwell got down to business. “I called you here tonight because I have an announcement to make that affects all of you. I’m not renewing Ellandy’s loan.”
Six expectant faces watched him, waiting for the words I’m going to cancel it instead.
“I expect payment in full on the due date,” Uncle Vincent rasped. “That’s two weeks from tomorrow.”
A stunned silence greeted his announcement. Lionel Knox and Dorrie Murdoch exchanged a look that was at first disbelieving and then horrified. “But why?” Lionel demanded of Uncle Vincent. “I’ve sent you monthly reports—you know we’re showing a steady profit. Small, but growing every month. If we have to pay you back now, we’ll be right back where we were before we expanded!”
“Two weeks,” Uncle Vincent repeated, “from tomorrow.”
“Oh no!” Dorrie wailed. “We’ll have to cut back on our orders and—Uncle Vincent, think of the people you’ll be putting out of work. Some of the craftsmen, the sales personnel—”
“Me,” Nicole said bitterly.
“And Nicole,” Lionel agreed. “The reason we borrowed that money was to hire the people we needed to handle the increase in orders we were getting. An additional designer, extra craftsmen, more space, more equipment like the new Piermatic polisher—and now when the expansion is just beginning to pay off, you want to pull the rug out from under us? For god’s sake why, man?”
“Yes, Uncle Vincent, you do owe them an explanation,” Simon murmured, smoothly differentiating between himself and the Ellandy crowd.
“I can’t believe you’d do this—not now,” Nicole muttered.
Malcolm cleared his throat. “Uncle Vincent, are you sure you’re not acting precipitously? Have you fully considered all the ramifications of calling in the loan? Gretchen is bound to suffer, not to mention all the people who’ve worked so hard to make Ellandy’s a success. And why would you want to sabotage a business right on the verge of—”
“Because he’s a mean-spirited old man, that’s why!” Nicole cried. “He likes to smash things!” No one contradicted her.
Gretchen listened carefully and said nothing. The others were all talking at once.
Uncle Vincent waited until they’d sputtered themselves out. “Are you finished?” he asked. When no one answered, he looked at his niece. “Gretchen, you’re my brother’s only child and my heir, and I’ve done the best by you I could. I knew I couldn’t keep you from marrying the wrong man forever—and since Lionel was the first respectable-looking one you ever brought home, I decided better him than the others. I co-signed a bank loan for him to start Ellandy’s. I gave you a house to live in. I helped out in other ways.”
Gretchen finally spoke. “And we love you for it, Uncle Vincent.”
The old man snorted. “But that’s all over now. When Lionel came to me with his grandiose plans for expansion, I decided that would be it. I’d lend him a million and a half of my own money—but that was to be the final test. No extensions, no partial payments. If he defaulted on the loan, that would be the end of Ellandy’s. Two weeks from tomorrow, every diamond and pearl and emerald in Ellandy’s vault will belong to me. Gretchen, I’m just not willing to underwrite Lionel Knox for your benefit any longer.”
&
nbsp; “It was a business deal,” Lionel said hotly. “And it’s not smart business to call in the loan just because you don’t like me!”
“There’s something to what he says, Uncle Vincent,” Malcolm remarked calmly. “Have you figured out how much you’ll be losing in interest if you refuse to renew the loan? It’s a considerable sum, you know, and—”
“I don’t need the money!” Uncle Vincent snapped. “What I need is to get the leeches out of my life!”
“Leeches!” Lionel echoed unbelievingly.
“Lionel’s not a leech,” Gretchen objected. “You shouldn’t say things like that, Uncle Vincent.”
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Nicole said sharply, nervously twisting the ends of the scarf wrapped around her waist. “We are all going out of business because you didn’t want Gretchen to marry Lionel? I don’t believe it—I don’t believe it for one minute. You want Ellandy’s for yourself. You’re just using Lionel as an excuse.”
“I need Ellandy’s the way I need a hole in the head,” Uncle Vincent rasped. “But think what you like—I couldn’t care less.”
“I think you’re mean,” Gretchen pouted. “You’re not being very sensitive.”
Uncle Vincent looked at her in exasperation. “That’s right, I forgot—‘sensitive’ is your word this year, isn’t it?”
Simon spoke up. “Aren’t you being unnecessarily petty, Uncle Vincent? You’re using that loan as a weapon. I think you’re enjoying this ugly little scene. You like hurting them.”
“‘Them’? Don’t pretend to be so detached, Simon Murdoch. You’re affected by this too—now that’s enough,” he ordered as Simon started to object. “Lionel, I’ve known all along you married Gretchen for her money. And I can prove it.” He pulled a manila folder from under the blotter on his desk. “I hired a private investigator.”
“Uncle Vincent!” Gretchen exclaimed, while her husband was too shocked to say anything.
“This is his report,” the old man went on. “He—”
“Excuse me, Uncle Vincent,” Malcolm interrupted, “but which private investigator?”
“Fellow named Bernstein, Paul Bernstein.”
“Good man,” Malcolm nodded judiciously. “I’ve used him myself on occasion.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Malcolm!” Nicole snapped.
“Now that Mr. Bernstein’s credentials have been established,” Uncle Vincent smiled wryly, “let’s hear what he has to say. The first thing he turned up was the fact that one Lionel Knox is something of a magician. He makes money disappear. Ellandy’s isn’t the first enterprise he’s jinxed.” He looked at Dorrie. “Did you know that once before Lionel went into business with a woman and bankrupted her?”
“You mean the chain of flower shops?” Dorrie said. “Yes, I knew about that—but that wasn’t Lionel’s fault.”
“It was a seasonal thing, for Christ’s sake,” Lionel growled. “A lot of flower distributors went out of business that year.”
“And a lot of others didn’t,” Uncle Vincent said pointedly. “Do you ever wonder what happened to your former partner, Lionel? Bernstein tracked her down. She’s working as a cashier in a discount house.”
Lionel looked stricken. “Oh jeez.”
Uncle Vincent grinned at Dorrie. “Do you think you would like working as a cashier, my dear?”
Dorrie shuddered. “I should hate it!”
“That will never happen, darling,” Simon reassured her. “He’s just trying to rattle you.”
“Maybe she needs a little rattling,” Uncle Vincent persevered. “Do you really know the kind of man you’re in partnership with, Dorrie?”
Lionel stood up abruptly. “I don’t have to sit here and listen to this!”
“That’s right,” Uncle Vincent said blandly. “You can leave any time. If you hurry, you might be able to find a third wife before you’re too old to play the game.”
“Third wife?” Malcolm asked.
“Oh yes—Gretchen is number two. Didn’t you know?”
Gretchen said, “Uncle Vincent, what is all this? You and I both knew Lionel had been married before.”
“Ah, but did you know his first wife put up the cash for his half of the ill-fated venture into the floral business? And then as soon as he ran through her savings, he divorced her.” The old man snorted. “Flowers! What kind of business is that for a man to be in?”
“It wasn’t her savings, it was our savings,” Lionel said bitterly. “And she divorced me.”
Uncle Vincent cackled. “A fine recommendation to a second wife! Gretchen, don’t you see the pattern?” He picked up the alabaster Hermes and pointed it at Lionel. “He marries one woman for her money and talks another woman into putting her money into whatever scheme he wants to try next. He did it before and he’s doing it again. Right now he’s got you and Dorrie financing him, you through me.”
“Oh, shit!” Lionel yelled. “Bullshit!”
Dorrie looked confused. “But … but I put very little money into Ellandy’s. Lionel came up with the cash we needed.”
“That’s true,” Malcolm nodded. “Dorrie made a token investment, but her real contribution to the partnership was to be her creative talent. Lionel supplied the working capital.”
“So there!” Gretchen cried, as if she’d just won some debating point.
Uncle Vincent sighed. “Gretchen, my dear, hasn’t it dawned on you yet where that working capital came from? Lionel could never have gotten a bank loan to start the business without my co-signature. And the million and a half I let him have—that was your money, Gretchen. It would have come to you after my death, instead of going down the Ellandy drain.”
Gretchen turned her head and looked at her husband strangely.
“Nothing has gone down the drain,” Lionel said tiredly. “You’re exaggerating, Uncle Vincent. You’re making things out to be worse than they are.”
“Am I? I don’t think so. I do know you’re using Gretchen’s money to pay for your little indulgences.”
“Indulgences? What indulgences?”
“Well, here’s one,” Uncle Vincent said smugly, and took an eight-by-ten glossy photo out of the folder. He handed it silently to his niece.
Gretchen let out a cry; as one, the others left their seats and crowded around her to look at the photograph. What they saw was a picture of Lionel Knox and Nicole Lattimer coming out of a motel, obviously on friendly terms. Very friendly terms.
“Whoops,” said Nicole.
“Here’s more,” Uncle Vincent smiled, handing over five or six other compromising photographs, fully aware of his niece’s discomfort. “Your husband, Gretchen dear, is a cheat. He’s cheating you out of your money, and he’s cheating on your marriage.”
There was no denying the evidence of the photographs. “Gretchen, what can I say?” Lionel said worriedly. “I made a mistake. It was over almost before it started.” Gretchen just stared at him, open-mouthed. “It happened well over a year ago,” Lionel went on—and suddenly realized what that meant. “Uncle Vincent, just exactly how long have you been having me watched?”
Uncle Vincent smiled enigmatically.
Dorrie held one of the photographs, a concerned look on her face. “Did you know about this?” she asked her brother. Tight-lipped, Malcolm nodded.
Uncle Vincent wheeled his chair back from the desk a little, feeling well satisfied with the evening’s work. “Now do you see why I refuse to pour any more money into Lionel’s little jewelry business?”
Gretchen erupted from her chair and whirled on her husband. “You son of a bitch! That’s why you wanted me to be nice to Nicole tonight!”
“Oh, Gretchen,” Lionel sighed. “It was over long ago. It meant nothing to either of us.”
Nicole was appalled. “You told her to be nice to me?”
“‘It meant nothing’,” Gretchen mimicked. “Isn’t that what philandering husbands always say when they’re found out?”
“You told her
… to be nice to me?” Nicole repeated incredulously.
“Easy,” Malcolm cautioned.
“I always thought it was Dorrie!” Gretchen shouted. “I thought you were having a thing with Dorrie!”
Dorrie’s eyes grew wide. “With me! Oh, no! Gretchen, how could you?” She drew closer to Simon, who wrapped a protective arm about her shoulders.
“I’m not having a thing with anybody!” Lionel shouted back at his wife. “With Nicole—that wasn’t even a real affair. It was just something we both quickly agreed was a mistake.”
“That’s the truth, Gretchen,” Nicole said earnestly. “In fact, we were both a little embarrassed by what had happened. We put an end to it pretty fast.”
Gretchen ignored her, still intent on Lionel. “So you got tired of Nicole and turned to Dorrie!”
“No, I didn’t turn to Dorrie! Dorrie, tell her!”
But it was Simon who answered. “Gretchen, don’t you think I’d know if Dorrie were having an affair? A man would have to be pretty obtuse not to know when something like that was going on.”
“Meaning I was obtuse because I didn’t guess about Lionel and Nicole? Thank you very much! Simon, hasn’t it ever occurred to you that all that fawning she does over you would make a pretty good cover?”
“I don’t fawn!” Dorrie exclaimed indignantly. “You’re only saying that because you want Simon for yourself!”
At that point everyone started shouting at everyone else. Uncle Vincent wheeled his chair out from behind the desk, cackling in delight. “Aren’t friends wonderful!” The shouting increased.
“Stop it!” Malcolm suddenly roared. “Stop it this instant!” Startled, the others responded to the authority in his voice. “Don’t you see,” he said more quietly, “we’re doing exactly what he wants us to do. He’s got us all at each other’s throats.” He walked over and stood before the man in the wheelchair. “Uncle Vincent, you’re a malicious old man whose sole remaining pleasure in life is stirring up trouble. You don’t care how much you hurt Gretchen or anybody else.”
“Leeches!” Uncle Vincent spat out. “You’re all after my blood—Lionel isn’t the only one who wants something from me. Malcolm, you’ve wanted to handle my legal affairs for years—don’t deny it! The rest of you are dependent upon my loan to keep yourselves going. Dorrie’s found herself a warm spot and doesn’t want anything to change. Nicole’s an ambitious woman who wants a piece of the Ellandy pie. And Simon, Ellandy’s is one of your best customers. If they go out of business, how will you raise the cash to pay for the new condo?”
