by Paul Levine
Here was Steve, spouting his dogma for the underdog, railing against the Establishment, materialism, and Republicans. And there was her mother, who once remarked: "Diamonds aren't a girl's best friend, darling. A diversified portfolio, including both growth and value stocks, is much friendlier."
Her mother's economic fortunes hadn't been as bright as the remark indicated. After the suicide of Victoria's father, Irene had been left to fend for herself. She fended fine for a while, attaching herself-like a remora to a shark-to a number of exceedingly wealthy men. There were rides on private jets, tips on stocks, and quite a few diamonds, too. But The Queen never attained the status she both desired and believed herself entitled to. These days, Victoria knew, her mother felt the sand was running out of the glass. Wealthy men cast their nets for younger, perkier fish. Maybe that was why Carl Drake seemed so important to her.
The platters of shelled claws had been removed from the table. The mountains of cole slaw topped with tomato slices had disappeared, the bowls of creamed spinach were empty, and the spears of sweet potato fries had been consumed. Waiting for dessert, The Queen daintily dabbed her lips with a napkin, then turned her crystalline blue eyes on Drake.
"Carl, darling, why don't you tell Victoria our little secret?"
"While you're at it, tell me, too," Steve instructed.
Victoria stiffened. She'd already had enough surprises for today.
The waiter delivered three slices of Key lime pie- mother and daughter would split theirs-and Drake straightened in his chair. "Well, Victoria, it seems your mother and I are related. Distant cousins, you might say."
"Not quite kissing cousins," Irene chirped. "See, dear, my grandmother's maiden name was Drake and if you go back far enough, our Drakes were related to Carl's family."
"Fascinating." Steve was using his fork to spread the whipped cream over the pie filling.
"I haven't gotten to the best part," Irene prattled. "If you go back four hundred years to England, both Carl and I are descended from Sir Francis Drake."
"The pirate?" Steve asked. "That explains a lot, Irene."
"Privateer," Carl Drake corrected. "Queen Elizabeth issued official papers that allowed Drake to plunder Spanish ships."
"Like the Bush administration and Halliburton," Steve said, agreeably.
"Isn't it exciting, Victoria?" Irene said. "We're descended from a famous sea captain."
"My old man thinks we're descended from King Solomon," Steve said. "Of course, he's off his rocker."
"Captain Drake enjoyed an especially close relationship with Her Majesty," Carl said. "So close that the name Virgin Queen might have been a misnomer."
Irene chuckled and Steve burped at the risque little joke.
"Drake amassed millions in gold and jewels. When he died in 1596, the Crown confiscated his fortune. Now, you might think all that loot went to the royal family. But it didn't. Elizabeth still carried the torch for that handsome rascal. She created the Drake Trust, later administered by the Royal Bank. Well, the money was never spent and never disbursed. It was invested and just kept growing and growing for four centuries. It's now worth north of thirty billion dollars."
"You're quite the expert on the subject," Victoria observed.
"It started as a hobby," Carl confessed. "Once I learned I was related to Captain Drake, I started constructing the family tree. It's quite a task, mind you. All those generations. I didn't even know about the money until the trustees contacted me and offered quite a tidy sum for my research."
"A tidy sum," Steve repeated. "I always wondered what an untidy sum might be."
"My work could save them years of going through musty documents in libraries and museums."
"Why do they want the family tree?" Victoria asked.
"To locate the heirs," Irene answered. "Isn't that right, Carl?"
"Precisely. By a secret ballot, the trustees recently voted to disburse the monies to all known blood relatives of Captain Drake. They want to close the estate."
"I know probate takes a long time, but four hundred years?" Steve questioned.
"It's quite unprecedented; but then, there's never been a case like this," Drake said. "I've located two thousand nine hundred and twelve descendants. The trustees estimate there are another six hundred or so. Thirty billion dollars going to thirty-five hundred heirs. As the kids say, do the math."
"I don't know, Drake. You tell me." Steve's eyes were closed as he savored a huge bite of the tart pie.
"About eight and a half million for each heir," Drake said.
Steve's eyes popped open. "You're saying Irene is going to get eight million bucks?"
"Give or take, once she's a certified descendant."
"Irene, have I told you how exceptionally lovely you look tonight?" Steve said.
The Queen rolled her eyes.
"And how much I've always admired you for your. ." He seemed stumped. "Poise and porpoise," he finished triumphantly.
"Stop being so silly, Stephen," Irene said. "What do you think of my good fortune?"
Steve turned back to Drake. "What's it gonna cost her?"
"Cost?" Drake seemed bewildered. "What do you mean?"
"All these heirs. They've gotta fill out forms, right? Affidavits. Birth certificates. Lots of clerical work before you get your slice of the pie."
"Of course there's paperwork."
"So what are you charging these lucky souls? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand apiece? That's the scam, isn't it? People will gladly pay that if they think they're getting millions. Because I gotta tell you, Carl, this is what my old man would call a bubbe meise, a grandmother's story. And it's what I would call a load of crap."
"Ste-phen!" The Queen hissed his name.
"Steve, that's very insulting," Victoria said. "Apologize this instant."
Drake smiled and waved off their protests. "No problem. A savvy attorney should be skeptical. There are no fees, Steve. No charges. I'll help Irene fill out the forms, and if it is her desire, I hope to be by her side the day the trustees disburse the money to all of us."
Three sets of eyes bored into Steve, who was licking the last of the graham cracker crust from his fork. "Perhaps I misspoke."
"That's not much of an apology, Stephen," Irene said.
He gave his lopsided grin, and Victoria tensed; Steve was preparing to misspeak again.
"So, if it's not a big con," he said, "there must be public records in England that'll back up your story."
Drake shook his head as he stirred his coffee. "It's a private trust and is quite confidential. You see, there is no lawful requirement that the trustees disburse these monies to the descendants. They could have just as easily escheated the money to the government or conveyed it to charity. And to prevent phony claimants from climbing out of the woodwork, there's to be no public announcement at all. It's to be all extremely hush-hush."
"If I were you, Irene," Steve advised, "I wouldn't spend that money yet."
"Oh, don't be such a spoilsport," The Queen snapped.
They were waiting for the check when a voice sounded: "What a surprise. Hello, Solomon!"
Steve didn't have to turn around. He recognized the resonant tones at once. Now, what the hell was he doing here?
Dr. Bill Kreeger sidled up to the table. He wore a dark, tailored suit with a yellow silk shirt, open at the neck. A handkerchief the same color as the shirt blossomed from his jacket pocket like a daffodil. Standing a half step behind him was a young woman wearing a stretchy pink top with holes cut out to reveal the contours of her breasts. The top stopped a foot above her hip-hugging slacks, giving a view of a nice set of washboard abs. Strawberry blond hair, wavy and shoulder length. She couldn't have been more than twenty.
"Solomon, this is my niece, Amanda."
Niece?
Steve refrained from laughing. Sure, the girl was Kreeger's niece. And Irene was the heir of Sir Francis Drake. And Steve was a direct descendant of King Solomon.
Hellos were ex
changed and Kreeger flashed his smile toward Victoria. "You must be the lovely Ms. Lord." He swept his gaze toward The Queen. "And I'll bet you're her sister."
Irene beamed. "People are always saying that."
"Where?" Steve asked. "At the Lighthouse for the Blind?"
More introductions, a shaking of hands, The Queen saying she listened to Dr. Bill every day and found herself agreeing with him, especially about Steve. The young woman-niece Amanda-stood shyly in place, her eyes darting across the restaurant.
Bored, maybe. Or ill at ease. Steve couldn't tell which. Just who was she, anyway?
"Whoops, that's mine," Steve said, reaching into a pocket for his cell phone.
"That's so rude," Irene said.
"I didn't hear anything," Victoria said.
"It's on vibrate." Steve flipped the phone open and punched a button. "Hey, Bobby. No, Maria may not spend the night. Why not? Because her mother owns automatic weapons."
Steve noticed Victoria staring at him. Was there just a hint of suspicion in those green eyes? Man, he couldn't get anything past her.
"See you later, kiddo." Steve flipped the phone closed.
Bobby had not called. No one had. But Steve had clicked three photos of Amanda, from her strawberry blond hair to her six-pack abs.
SOLOMON'S LAWS
5. When a woman is quiet and reflective, rather than combative and quarrelsome, watch out. She's likely picturing the bathroom without your boxers hanging on the showerhead.
Fourteen
THE SERPENTINE PATH
One week after the birthday bash, a cold front was pushing down from Canada. The orange groves upstate braced for freezing temperatures. The TV reporters wore their colorful parkas and warned people to bring their dogs and cats and ferrets indoors. And an even deeper chill settled over the offices of Solomon amp; Lord.
Driving to the office, Steve reviewed the events of the past week. The deep freeze started on the way home from dinner with The Queen. They had just passed the port where the cruise ships were lined up in a neat row like the fleet at Pearl Harbor. Then, out of the blue, a sneak attack. "You were absolutely horrid to my mother," Victoria said.
"Not once I learned she's gonna be rich."
"You promised to be nice. Then you went out of your way to be horrid."
"Horrid" being the word of the day, Steve figured. A word doubtless passed down from The Queen to The Princess like an heirloom necklace.
"And you were monstrous to Carl Drake," she continued.
" 'Monstrous' is a little strong, Vic."
"All right. Ill-mannered and boorish."
"Often boorish. Seldom a bore. That's me. As for Drake, I don't trust a guy with polished nails and a phony accent."
She glared at Steve long enough for him to stage a strategic retreat.
"Okay. Okay. If I offended anyone, I'm sorry."
Even a semi-apology didn't placate Victoria, so now, a week later, he waited for both cold fronts-the Canadian and the Episcopalian-to pass.
Driving the old Mustang solo across the causeway with the top down despite the chill, listening to Jimmy Buffet ask "Jamaica Mistaica," Steve took further inventory of the past seven days. He and Victoria had spent the time running back and forth to court, going through the motions of looking for a new abode. . and not making love. Victoria hadn't slept over once, a world record schnide. Steve had dropped a few casual mentions about having a quiet dinner, and got shot down three nights in a row. Victoria had other things to do-dinner with Jackie Tuttle, shopping with her mother, even legal research, of all the lousy excuses.
He had called his father for company, but the old man was in the Keys on his fruitless search for the missing boat captain, Oscar De la Fuente. Steve just hoped Herbert was making a fuss everywhere he went so word would get back to Kreeger.
Feeling lonely, Steve wanted to spend time with Bobby. Maybe they'd rent a pitching machine at the park, hit some balls. But the kid was hanging out with Maria. Girls will do that, split up guys and keep them from taking their practice swings. At least Bobby had helped download the photos of Amanda-the-Niece from Steve's cell phone.
"A hottie," Bobby had proclaimed as he printed out the pictures.
"How old, you think?"
"Old. Twenty, maybe."
Just yesterday, Steve had tried to engage Victoria in a discussion about Kreeger and Amanda. "So what do you think? Niece or girlfriend or something else?"
"What difference does it make?"
"I need to gather everything I can on Kreeger. Knowledge is power."
"Uh-huh."
"C'mon, Vic. I'm asking for help here. You're really good at sizing up people. The way you pick juries, it's amazing."
"Oh, please. You're so transparent."
"See what I mean? You knew I was gaming you. But it's still true. You're better in voir dire than I am. So tell me, when you looked at Amanda, what did you see?"
She sighed and seemed to give it some thought. "The top she was wearing. It's right off the rack at The Gap or Victoria's Secret. But the jeans were True Religion. Expensive. And did you notice her shoulder bag?"
"Should I have?"
"I don't know how you could miss it. Kiwi green. Alligator skin. Probably a Nancy Gonzalez. At least fifteen hundred dollars."
"I know a poacher who'll get you the whole gator for a hundred bucks."
"And those sandals with the hundred-millimeter heels …?"
"You measured them?"
"I can tell. They're Blahniks. You don't want to know the price."
"This is good, Vic. Very good."
"Why?"
"Because all those dollars add up to a girlfriend of a guy with money."
"What an unbelievably sexist statement. Maybe Amanda earned the money. She could be a model. Or a personal shopper at Saks, where she gets a discount. Or she could work for her uncle Bill."
"Bill Kreeger has one sister with two sons. And he's never been married. He doesn't have a niece."
"So if you already knew. ."
"I needed to know what you picked up. I've been looking for a way to get inside Kreeger's head."
"And you think his girlfriend will help you?" Sounding skeptical.
"What if I proved to her that he was a killer?"
"She'll never believe you."
"Maybe I can get close to her, establish my credibility."
"How?
He gave her his best lounge lizard smile. "Using all my charm."
"That and a baseball bat ought to do it."
"Have a better idea?"
"All I'm saying, Steve, even assuming you can find Amanda, and you start trying to hang out with her, the first thing she'd do would be tell Kreeger."
"Maybe that's not such a bad thing. Especially if it puts more heat on him."
Victoria gave Steve one of those looks that would wilt petunias. "So, now you're going to hit on Kreeger's girlfriend, hoping he finds out. At the same time you want him to believe you're building a murder case against him. Why not burn down his house while you're at it?"
"I've got to do something. From the day he stuck that fish on my door, I've been on the defensive. All that trash talk on the radio. Those veiled threats about you and Bobby and my father. Even his showing up at Joe's. He's worming his way into our lives and I want him out. I need to knock him off his stride, force him to make a move he hasn't planned."
"When Kreeger makes a move," Victoria reminded him, with an air of exasperation, "people tend to die."
Tourists clogged the causeway as Steve neared the Fisher Island Ferry terminal. He wove in and out of lanes, trying to find the quickest route across the bay. His mind drifted back to the dinner at Joe's, the source of the skirmish with Victoria. Okay, he hadn't been on his best behavior, but The Queen was partly to blame. Her very presence brought out his sarcastic side.
The Queen and The Princess.
Guys always say to study a girl's mother to see just what your girlfriend will look like in th
irty years or so. Well, no problem there. Even without her artificial enhancements, The Queen was still a dish, to use another one of her expressions.
But what about personality traits? Does a daughter pick up those, too? Victoria seemed to have rejected her mother's values. She had ditched filthy rich Bruce Bigby and she had rejected the advances of lethally handsome and equally rich Junior Griffin. Her devotion and selflessness toward Bobby nearly matched Steve's.
But something troubling had come up in the search for a place to live. Why was Victoria steering him toward seven-figure penthouse condos and mini mansions? If they bought something beyond their means, Solomon amp; Lord would have to start wooing banks and insurance companies and other well-heeled clients.
Is this her secret plan? Maybe in cahoots with The Queen?
Was there some mysterious genetic factor at work here? An invisible time bomb, a materialism gene embedded in her family's DNA. Maybe it went all the way back to Sir Francis Drake, plundering Spanish ships for their gold doubloons.
A minivan with Michigan plates swerved into his lane, cutting him off. Steve banged his horn, then sped around the doofus. In five minutes, he'd be at the office, sidestepping anorexic models and dashing for the stairs. He wondered if Victoria was already there. Usually, she arrived before him, and there'd be coffee brewing and fresh lilies in a vase by the time he arrived.
But the past week, she'd been the tardy one. Not only that, she'd been unusually quiet. She hadn't been giving him grief, another bad sign. The other day, he'd worn an old T-shirt, with the logo "Please Forgive Me; I Was Raised by Wolves." No reaction from The Princess. The next day, he wore one reading, "Oh, No! Not Another Learning Experience." Still nothing. This morning, he'd actually put on a suit and tie. The suit was friendly brown, not powerhouse navy or gray. The duds were not for Victoria; he was due in Criminal Court later. The arraignment in the case of State v. Solomon.
But now, all his thoughts were stuck on Victoria. Should he be alarmed at her silence? Where were the sparks? Where was the heat? Sound and fury, he could deal with. Stillness and indifference, he could not. In Steve's experience, when a woman was enmeshed in quiet reflection, best be prepared for oceanic change, a reversal of tidal flows. What was going on? Just what the hell was she thinking?
