Ellie Stillwell came from a long line of landowners. They were conscious of maintaining the integrity of the county and its resources. They were also benefactors of the local libraries and animal-welfare organizations, but for the most part they didn’t flaunt their wealth or their generosity. They preferred to be low-key. Her father had once told her that if people think you have a lot of money to give away, they also think that you should give some of it to them. Not for any particular reason. Just because you have it.
“It’s none of anyone’s business how we spend our money,” he would say. When there were events that listed the names of the patrons, her family’s generous contribution was always listed as coming from Anonymous.
She had met her husband, Richard, when they were both attending Duke University. He was in the law school, and she was working on her PhD in art history. They had been married for forty-five years when he had died of a massive coronary. At least he didn’t suffer. At least not for very long. That was how she consoled herself. They had had no children, so now, a widow at age seventy, Ellie was going to put her own resources to work.
Richard had been one of the highest-paid real-estate lawyers in the country. They had lived a simple life, spending very modestly, and Richard had been a keen investor. When he died, Ellie was stunned, but not totally surprised, that her net worth, including what she had inherited from her family, was over fifty million dollars. Even after using half of it to fund the arts and support animal causes, she was still left with enough money to last the rest of her days, which had become boring without Richard. However, with the arts center project, she and her two German shepherd dogs, Ziggy and Marley, had something to do every morning. She and Richard had taken one of their vacations in the Caribbean, where Richard had developed a love for reggae music. Hence, she had named the dogs after the music icon, Bob Marley, one of the pioneers in the genre, and his son Ziggy, who has continued spreading the sound and following in his father’s philanthropic footsteps. Ellie liked both the music and the sentiment.
One of the must-haves for the art center was for part of the open area to be used for a dog park, where well-behaved pooches could mingle and play. A cleanup station was also available. During the construction, Marley and Ziggy had marked their territory, giving it their seal of approval.
Ellie thought it was amusing that the politicians who had originally fought her efforts were now clamoring for an invitation and photo ops. The social climbers were also green with envy. For decades, they had ignored Ellie. Plain Ellie, the art professor. Now, they were also kissing her you-know-what for that coveted, colorful, translucent, glassine piece of paper saying:
We request the pleasure of your company for the grand opening of the Stillwell Center for the Arts.
Of course, the governor would be there, as well as the state’s two senators, and the mayor of Asheville. It was shaping up to be a momentous occasion in the history of North Carolina. Ellie had to admit, she was enjoying every minute of every aspect of what she hoped would turn out to be a life-changing event for the area. But there was no way she could know exactly how life-changing it would be, both for her and so many others.
* * *
Cullen was pacing the floor, trying to decide what to wear to the opening. Should he look like someone from HGTV? The Property Brothers? Flannel shirt? Jeans? Blazer? Clearly, the enormity of their new venture was in his face, and face it he would. For the first time in his life, he understood why women get anxious about what to wear for events. He laughed at himself. Take it easy, buddy. It’s going to be great. He finally opted for a pair of nice jeans, an oxford shirt, and a blue cashmere blazer. Neat, casual, approachable.
* * *
Luna was about to incorporate several skills in her and her brother’s new endeavor. She promised her colleagues at the Children’s Center she would always make herself available if they needed her, and she made sure Marshal Gaines knew of her plans. At least some of them.
Luna had been reluctant to tell Ellie Stillwell of her extracurricular activities and decided to keep it to herself until it was absolutely necessary to bring it up for discussion. She did not advertise or promote her psychic gift. She would only take referrals from former or existing clients. As much as Cullen was her protector, she, too, wanted to protect Cullen from any ridicule or embarrassment due to her penchant for the paranormal. Not that it was a huge secret, but Luna felt it was in Cullen’s best interest if she didn’t shove it in every passerby’s face.
Inside the Namaste Café, there were four small café tables and a wall of design and art books. A counter held baked goods supplied by the Flakey Tart, which also had a shop at the arts center. Among the pastries, scones, and muffins, there was a selection of three blends of coffee and an assortment of teas. Aside from being Luna’s part of the overall family operation, it would provide a small income stream, not just a place to hang out and eat great flaky delights with a robust cup of freshly roasted coffee. A large easel with a sketch pad sat in one corner. It was a divination device she would surreptitiously use when she was doing a reading. It was almost as if she were doing automatic writing, but in her case it was automatic drawing.
Her level of excitement was reaching enormous heights. It was a new day and a new beginning. The grand opening for the art center was that evening. Several weeks ago, she had sent Gaines an invitation, saying, “In case you’re in the neighborhood,” which had become a playful joke between them. Even though she hadn’t heard back, she was hoping for the best.
Luna dug through her chest of favorite kitschy outfits and decided to tame it down for the evening. Well, not too much. Sliding her long dresses across the closet pole, she discovered a long, pale yellow lace dress that flared at the hem. She could still twirl if she wanted, something she was known to do when leaving the room, or when she was spot-on with something she had predicted. It had long, lace-belled sleeves that matched the flow of the skirt perfectly.
She peered into the mirror, scrutinizing every inch of her face. First thing was to ditch the granny glasses and opt for the contact lenses she rarely wore. On a normal day, she wore a lightweight foundation to cover some of her freckles, a bit of blush, and a smear of lip gloss. That night, she wanted to be a bit more radiant, just in case. Just in case Marshal Gaines made an appearance, she was going full-on makeup makeover. Not too freakish, but a lot more glam. Luna drew on her creativity and applied each stroke as if she were creating a work of art. The amber eye shadow made her hazel eyes stand out, and the shimmery copper eyeliner framed them beautifully. A coral-bronze blush enhanced her cheekbones, and the neutral lipstick was a nice contrast to her dazzling eyes.
Now for the hair. Earlier, she had noticed that it didn’t look healthy. She hadn’t been paying much attention to it over the past few weeks as they were getting ready for the grand opening. It was time for drastic measures. Well, maybe not too drastic.
Luna darted into the other bedroom, which served as her yoga retreat, sewing room, and art studio. She dug out a pair of shears and chopped three inches off the bottom. “Much better.” Now it was only three inches below her shoulders but had movement and looked lush. She ran a brush through her waves and decided on a bohemian-style updo with a side braid. One side of her hair was swooped over the top into a side braid at the base of her neck with a small ribbon, then allowed to flow freely at the bottom. A few wisps on each side. Perfect. She still looked respectable yet a bit eccentric. She popped on metallic ballet-slipper-style shoes. She took a spin in front of the mirror. “Wow. Who knew I could look this good?” She chuckled out loud. Now she really, really hoped Marshal Christopher Gaines would be able to get a good look at her.
Chapter Four
Boston, Massachusetts
Millstone executive offices
Earlier that day
Arthur Millstone was pacing the floor. Rowena was smoking her third cigarette while nonchalantly spinning her stack of David Yurman Cable Spira bracelets. She hated it when Arthur was
in a mood. Normally, she would pour herself a single-malt scotch, but it was still too early in the day, even for her.
Rowena was Arthur Millstone’s trophy wife and she knew it. She was tall and slender, with platinum hair cut in a short, stylish, chin-length style, one side longer than the other. Rowena had had one mission in life. To marry a rich man. Mission accomplished. It had taken a few years for her to wangle her way into the top echelon of old-money families. She had done it the hard way. On her back. The problem was that men with the kind of fortune she was after were usually married, and divorce was too costly. She had been around that block more than once until she met Arthur Millstone.
Arthur was sixty when he began his affair with Rowena. She had been thirty-five. Like the other men with whom she had dallied, he was married at the time, but Rowena fixed that. His divorce was swift, and new nuptials were shared immediately thereafter. It was now three years since Rowena had become Mrs. Arthur Millstone.
Rowena jumped when the phone on Arthur’s desk rang. She just knew there was trouble ahead. If they could get past the reading of the will, everything would be fine.
“What?” Arthur barked at his assistant.
“Mr. Millstone, Mr. Dunbar is on the phone for you.”
He pressed the flashing button. “Clive? I hope you have good news for me.” He feigned lightheartedness.
“Hello, Arthur. I’m afraid we are going to have to postpone the reading of the will for at least another thirty days.”
Arthur kept his temper under control. “But why?”
“Your father was supposed to meet with me the day of his heart attack. He indicated he wanted to make some changes in his will. Unfortunately, we never had the opportunity. He said he had everything on paper and the document was signed and witnessed by the house manager, Colette Petrov.”
Arthur was seething. He knew that the Petrov woman was going to be a problem. His father, Randolph Millstone, had been too fond of her. Not in a salacious way. It bothered Arthur that Randolph had treated Colette warmly. Randolph had reminded Arthur time and again that the staff was there to accommodate the needs of the manor, and that Arthur or his gold-digging wife could handle whatever Arthur needed.
Arthur resented everything about Colette. She was efficient and kept the staff humming. Arthur knew that he could be demanding, but Rowena’s behavior made Arthur look like a saint in comparison. On many occasions, his father reminded the two of them that as long as the house was running smoothly, Arthur and Rowena had nothing to complain about.
But they did. Repeatedly. Constantly. Again and again. Arthur wished that he could have fired Colette months ago, but she was off-limits, at least until his father passed away. In point of fact, after Colette had arrived, the power to hire and fire was hers or his father’s. Arthur no longer had any say in the staffing of the manor.
“I don’t understand, Clive. You have his original will, correct?”
“Yes, but I’m bothered by the missing document. It was unfortunate that he never regained consciousness.”
“Yes, very.” Arthur’s mood was taking a turn for the better. “I don’t see why this needs to be delayed any further.”
“I’d like to have the opportunity to speak with Ms. Petrov, but I understand she is no longer in your family’s employ.”
“That is correct. Rowena caught her looking through her dresser. Probably trying to find something she could sell.”
He glanced at Rowena. She rolled her eyes, knowing it was all a lie.
“I can’t speak to that. Did she leave any forwarding information? Where she could be reached?” Clive pushed.
“Not that I know of, but perhaps Rowena might. I’ll check with her when I get home.”
Rowena lit her fourth Treasurer Aluminum Gold cigarette. At sixty bucks a pack, twelve dollars had gone up in smoke in less than a half hour. Arthur waved the smoke away from him, giving Rowena a disgruntled look. She took another long drag.
Clive continued on the other end of the line. “Arthur, as trustee and executor of his estate, I feel obligated to be certain his final wishes are met.”
Arthur sat up straight in his chair. “I know you are trustee and executor, Clive. Isn’t there a time limit for how long you can postpone the reading of the will?”
“It could take up to several months, Arthur. That’s why it’s important for me to locate Ms. Petrov to ask her if she did, in fact, witness his signature, and if she has any idea where the document is. If she did not witness any such document, then we can proceed.”
“Clive, you know it wasn’t in the safe, and we searched the entire house but came up empty-handed.” That much was true, but for a very different reason. He huffed. “Very well, Clive. I’ll see what I can find out.” He hung up without saying good-bye.
“We have to find that woman before Clive Dunbar does. Or before those documents show up somewhere. One or the other. Preferably both.”
“Darling, if you recall, we gave her a very generous severance package, including a one-way ticket to Buffalo for her and her son, with the understanding that she would go live with her sister.” Rowena lit her fifth cigarette. She was chain-smoking now.
“Yes, Rowena. It was I who gave her the money and the send-off. You were nothing but a bystander during the transaction. So, yes, my dear, I do recall.” He was losing his patience at record speed.
Randolph Millstone had been the CEO and majority stockholder in Millstone Enterprises, a global business started three generations before. Arthur’s mother had died when he was twelve, and his father had indulged him ever since. Arthur had dropped out of college a few times, wrecked expensive sports cars, and spent two years as a world traveler. He had played the role of playboy rather well. But pressure had been put on him to settle down. When Arthur met his first wife, Sylvia, Randolph thought he would settle down, so he gave him a job at the family business, hoping it would inspire and motivate him.
At present, Arthur was sixty-three, almost sixty-four, overweight, and out of shape. His once full head of wavy hair had receded to parts unknown. He wasn’t aging well. Arthur was standing on the precipice of total failure or serious bodily harm.
He furrowed his brow at the sound of his cell phone, which had landed on the sofa. He lumbered over to pick it up. “What now?” he growled.
Chapter Five
Boston, Massachusetts
Millstone Manor
Rowena didn’t think it possible, but Arthur was in a worse mood than he had been earlier in the day. He had received a phone call from Jerry Thompson, a private detective on the Millstone payroll, that was disturbing. Arthur gave him the assignment to find out where the estate furniture had landed. Arthur was convinced his father had left a copy of his latest will somewhere in the house. But his father had suffered the heart attack in the garage. He should have had the will on his person. But no document was found, and the Petrov woman claimed she had never seen the document again after she had witnessed his father’s signature. She insisted she hadn’t read it. Simply witnessed his signature and signed on the dotted line.
Arthur was pacing the floor with a glass of single-malt scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other. Ordinarily, he would be sitting in his Eichholtz Highbury Estate tobacco-colored leather chair, puffing away on the hand-rolled Cuban. Rowena thought Arthur was so cliché. God, how she hated his old-fogey tastes. He should have kept all of his father’s furniture. But his father, Randolph Millstone, had not been an old fogey. He was one of the last members of the Greatest Generation. His style was fashioned after Winston Churchill and Ernest Hemingway. It was a man thing. Back then, it was fine. Now? Why couldn’t he get over it? What was the point in selling his father’s furniture if he was only going to replace it with some of the same or similar things? If anyone was to blame for the will’s going missing, it was Arthur. Had he not been in such a hurry to scrape up some cash, maybe they would have found the missing document already.
It hadn’t taken long—a little over tw
o years of married whatever—before Arthur was constantly getting on Rowena’s nerves with his pompous attitude and constant reprimands about her spending habits. She put up with his gambling and cavorting, which she figured was a fair trade-off for being a rich man’s wife. Yes, she knew about his extracurricular activities. Hadn’t she been one of them when he was married to Sylvia? In truth, Rowena was grateful for his dalliances. Though she had no plans to have sex with him again, she still hoped he had the good sense to use a condom, if only to protect his partners and avoid lawsuits.
Thanks to his many affairs, Rowena no longer had to sleep with the boor. Arthur was a lot of things, but a passionate lover was not one of them. Another cliché, she thought. Fat, rich, and bad in bed. At least that was her experience with the many wealthy men she had had affairs with before she married Arthur. And now she settled for being a trophy wife. She was in her midthirties when she had met Arthur and was seeing a new generation of gold diggers snapping at her heels. Younger, more nubile, a lot dumber, but smart enough to know what an older man wants. Damn that little blue pill.
She had been acutely aware that if she didn’t land some old bag of wind with money soon, she could be looking for a real job in the not-too-distant future. She had to admit, she was just as much a cliché. Rowena calculated how long she would have to live the stereotypical life of a trophy wife before she could depart with a nice sum of money, assuming that Arthur did not blow it all first. The estate sale was supposed to help pay off some of his debts, but then he had gone and spent the money on things. Lots of things. And he had the audacity to chastise her for her extravagance? Some nerve.
Rowena thought about Arthur’s ex. She wondered who had gotten the better end of the deal. Sylvia Millstone had received a very hefty settlement upon becoming the ditched wife—the equivalent of a golden parachute. She appeared to be extremely content to leave with a settlement of ten million dollars. It was half of Arthur’s net worth at the time, most of which consisted of his stake in the family business, which itself depended upon the provisions of his father’s last will and testament.
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