The Lyon Legacy

by Peg Sutherland

  “André—you really didn’t take the film?” Her eyes begged him to say yes.

  He threw up his hands. “Why don’t you trust me?”

  “Because you were the last one here, I...think.” She floundered a minute, recalling the noise in the hall and the silhouette in the mirror.

  “You remembered something. What?”

  “I... Nothing.” She expelled a harsh breath and shook off her paranoia. “Maybe the canister got caught between the ledgers. I’ll run down to Accounting and check.”

  “I’m coming along. From there we’ll go out and have an office key cut for me. After that, you’re going to give me lists and times of all your meetings. Oh...and starting tomorrow, we’ll ride to and from the office together.”

  “No, we will not. The commute is my time to gather my thoughts or to unwind. You can dog my heels at work, but my free time is my own. That’s not negotiable.”

  He said nothing as they exited the office and he matched his steps to hers. He only offered her a crooked smile—like the one he’d used on LuAnn.

  Gaby was not pleased with what his smile did to her equilibrium. She picked up her pace, reminding herself that she wasn’t a woman easily impressed by smiles.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A THOROUGH SEARCH of the accountant’s office didn’t turn up the canister. “I can’t imagine where it went,” Gaby said.

  “Why didn’t WEZY make a copy before they lent it out?”

  “I’m not sure. Timing, perhaps. George said this particular footage of a twenty-car pileup on the Pontchartrain Causeway was one of a kind. A WEZY news car narrowly missed being involved in the accident. They had firsthand shots.”

  “I thought WEZY was our competitor.”

  “Friendly competitor,” she said. “Until now,” she added, closing her eyes and sighing. “They’ll probably never swap film with us again.”

  “They will,” André said confidently. “As soon as we break a big story they missed. Am I right? Is that how this system works?”

  Gaby nodded as she slid into his car. She wasn’t quite sure how he’d maneuvered her into leaving work to go and copy her office key. But here they were, driving up Chartres. “You catch on fast. You may survive in broadcasting, after all.”

  “Thanks. I sort of thought I didn’t have a choice in the matter.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that. Why didn’t you join the station after you graduated from college?” Her tone indicated he must have been out of his mind.

  André jockeyed his sports car into a miniscule parking space.

  Gabrielle held her breath, sure he was going to hit one of the cars on either side. Miraculously he didn’t. She’d given up expecting an answer when he surprised her.

  “By the time I graduated, I’d convinced myself that my politics were at complete odds with Papa’s. We argued about everything. Whatever stand he took, mine was the direct opposite.”

  “Even after I arrived at Lyoncrest,” Gabby said, “I heard him grumbling about your into-the-trenches involvement in civil rights. But I think he was just worried you’d be hurt or killed.”

  “In high school and college, I hung out with a crowd he didn’t understand. He wanted me to be a reporter. I was interested in making news, not reporting it. I had visions of saving the world. In the trenches of the civil-rights war, I saw atrocities you’d never believe.” Voice fading, André opened the passenger door and helped Gaby from the low-slung car.

  “But your parents are both humanitarians,” she persisted. “Paul’s editorial broadcasts move viewers to tears.”

  “They do that. You know...growing up, I felt everyone knew him better than me,” André said as if trying to work out answers in his mind. Gaby left him to his musing.

  Half a block down the street, he handed her key to an old man with scarred ebony skin seated in a rickety booth. “One copy,” André said in response to an offer to cut one key for three dollars or two for five. After accepting the finished product, André handed the man a ten-spot. “Good work. Keep the change.”

  “That was generous of you,” Gaby whispered. “You’re not as at odds with your folks’ philosophies as you seem to think. Margaret and Paul give unstintingly to the underprivileged, too. I’m sure they always did.”

  “And I’m sure you’re right. But I had very few opportunities to observe it personally, although I have vivid memories of Mama’s generosity up to when I was seven going on eight.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Papa returned from reporting the war. The two of them branched out from the radio station into what was then the risky medium of television.”

  “How exciting! What a wonderful opportunity to be in on the beginnings of something that changed the world so drastically.”

  Andre’s attention focused inward. “It certainly changed my world,” he murmured. “Hey.” He flashed another smile. “That stuff is old hat. I told Uncle Charles yesterday that there’s nothing to be gained by digging up the past. You can’t change a thing.”

  “I doubt he heard you. Your uncle is a bitter man. He’s passed his feelings on to his wife and kids. They all circle Paul and Margaret like a flock of vultures.”

  André looked at her. If he wanted to add fuel to the fire of her indignation, he could tell her that his uncle and cousins thought she was the vulture. He sighed warily. He happened to believe the whole damn family should just let bygones be bygones. When Paul Lyon finally acknowledged André as his son, he’d promised they’d be a family. It was years before André accepted that it wasn’t his parents’ fault that the new venture demanded virtually all their time.

  Lost in his thoughts, he clipped the new key to his ring, took Gaby’s elbow and steered her toward the car. In the center of the sidewalk, he stopped and sniffed the air. “Do you smell that?”

  “What?” Gabrielle tripped on a raised cobblestone.

  Sliding his arm around her waist, André steadied her. Then he deftly turned her up the street. “Muffulettas. It’s almost lunchtime. Care to share one?”

  “And smell like garlic all afternoon? No way. Besides, the bread they hollow out to stuff with that gastric time bomb is so heavy, I’d fall asleep at my desk.”

  Gaby might as well have saved her breath. He’d already sniffed out the hole-in-the-wall family diner and pulled her in after him. Almost before her eyes had time to adjust to the dim interior, she was holding a glass of red wine in one hand and an enormous half sandwich, dripping gooey cheese, in the other.

  A satisfied smile softened André’s features. That was enough to make Gaby relax against the vinyl booth cushions. Capitulating gracefully, she tackled the massive sandwich.

  André wiped cheese off both their chins after tasting his portion. “Uh, don’t mention our lunch to LuAnn. This morning she was complaining about the diet you left for Leslie. I said we could all stand to eat healthier.” He set down his bread roll and caught Gabrielle’s hand. “LuAnn has a harebrained notion. She thinks the whole family should sit down to an evening meal together.” He wasn’t about to confess it’d been his grand scheme. “I cross-my-heart-hope-to-die promised to deliver you at six sharp.”

  “That’s impossible. Why, we’d have to leave work early every night.”

  André traced figure eights over the fine bones in Gaby’s hand. As he prepared to launch an assault on her soft heart, he prayed she’d never compare notes with anyone at the house. “It’d help Mama’s cause, too. A family meal every night would take Papa’s mind off not being able to do the evening broadcast.”

  Gaby stared at the strong, tanned fingers curved around her smaller, pale hand. She felt a steady warmth and the ever-so-slight rasp of André’s calloused palm. “You must think I’m terribly insensitive.” She leaned forward and curled her other hand over his. “Paul thrived in the fast pace of the newsroom. And now the doctor wants him to give up everything except a weekly editorial.” She sighed. “I guess there’s no reason I can’t go back to the statio
n after dinner to tie up any loose ends.”

  “Exactly.” André counted on the likelihood that she’d find it too hard to go back once they made it home. He watched her pick Italian sausage off her sandwich and tried to imagine a Gabrielle without dark circles under her eyes and with, say, an extra ten pounds. Sleep was essential. The weight, a give or take. Though she did skip too many meals. Someone ought to make sure she didn’t. Him? The idea hit him like a brick to the head.

  “Uh...chow down on that muffuletta before it gets cold, Gabrielle.”

  Moved by a combination of his gravelly voice and killer smile, she tackled it with gusto, fitting coral-tinted lips around the oozing tip of the roll. She wiggled her tongue free to lick a glob of dressing that threatened to run down her wrist.

  André felt about a pint of blood rush to an area below his belt and wished he’d let her have it her way this time. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath.

  “You’re a fine one to talk,” she mumbled a moment later around a contented sigh. “Why aren’t you stuffing your face?”

  “I, uh, get a kick out of watching you.”

  “Into sideshows, huh?” She sucked in her cheeks and crossed her eyes. They both laughed. It relaxed the mood for André. While Gaby sipped her wine, he polished off his sandwich.

  “That was sinfully good,” he said, scrubbing his hands and face with his napkin. Lifting his wineglass, he clinked it lightly against hers.

  “I rarely drink alcohol during a workday. But maybe one glass won’t loosen my tongue and make me say something to a client I’ll regret.”

  “Do you always work directly with clients? From the job descriptions, I assumed we served more as administrators to the various departments. You know, establish goals and evaluate staff effectiveness and such.”

  “At one time or another I’ve performed just about every job at the station. Well, except for being in front of the cameras. So has Margaret. And advertisers are funny, you know. They get comfortable with a contact and hate to switch. That’s something your cousin Jason doesn’t understand. When he came on board, he thought I should turn over all my clients to him. Even after Margaret began sharing management duties with me, I kept the ones I thought needed a personal touch.” She gave a quick shrug. “Jason dislikes pounding the pavement.”

  “Don’t think I’m taking his side, but Alain and Jason claim you’re still bringing in new clients.”

  “Yes. So? What’s wrong with that? You saw the drastic drop in revenue.”

  “Instead of getting huffy, help me understand what’s going on. My cousins more or less accused you of skimming off the better prospects, while leaving Jason to follow up on the dregs.”

  “That’s not true!” Gaby put down her empty wineglass and pushed out of the booth. “Ask him about the leads I’ve given him where he’s dropped the ball and I’ve discovered later the accounts were picked up by competitors.”

  André stood and peeled off cash for the bill plus tip. “No need to bite my head off. I barely know my cousins. I told you, I’m only trying to sort things out for myself.”

  Outside the restaurant Gaby donned an oversize pair of dark glasses.

  André determined from the stiff set of her shoulders and her silence that she didn’t believe him.

  He should never have brought up the subject. He hadn’t fully believed his cousins’ complaint. Although, in his conversations with other staff, several had hinted that Gabrielle was both ambitious and demanding. He’d already learned that one of the accusers was the catty type. Hell, for all he knew, everyone working for Lyon Broadcasting might have his or her own ax to grind.

  “Gabrielle, what if you pulled back and left all sales to Jason and the others on the sales force? If within, say, two months he hasn’t signed a prescribed number of new advertisers, fire him.”

  She stopped with her hand on the car door. “Fire him? Your uncle would make life hell for Margaret and Paul. I don’t think they need that aggravation right now.”

  “Aren’t you exaggerating a bit?” André asked after closing the door and climbing in himself. “I can’t recall Uncle Charles so much as raising his voice.” Sentimentality crept into his tone. “He taught me to play the piano and showed me how to ride a bike.”

  Gaby lifted her dark glasses and stared at him almost sadly. “A lot of years have passed since then. A lot of water under the bridge. I’ve actually heard him scream at Paul.”

  André thrust the key into the ignition. “People do change,” he lamented as the engine roared to life.

  “Yes, they do.” Gabrielle got sidetracked in memories of a happy-go-lucky Marc Villieux—the man she fell in love with, not the abusive, hateful person he later became.

  “WELL, WHERE HAVE YOU TWO BEEN for the last two hours?” Raylene demanded the instant they entered the foyer of WDIX.

  “Out,” replied André benignly at the same time Gaby stuttered, reddened and finally managed to ask, “What’s happened? I knew if we went out without telling anyone there’d be a crisis.”

  “You got that right,” Raylene said testily. “First, a man by the name of Rodney Former has called four times in the past hour. He wouldn’t tell me in regard to what. Reading between the lines, I’d say the guy sounds fit to be tied.”

  Gabrielle frowned at the pink slips Raylene thrust across the counter. “Mr. Fortner is a prospective advertiser. We met this morning. I didn’t think he intended to call me back until tomorrow.” She stacked the slips in order of the calling times. “There’s more?”

  Raylene tossed back her blond curls. “You missed a meeting with our host-affiliate officials. Eleven o’clock at the Hilton. Mr. Brock’s secretary called to find out how late you were going to be. When paging didn’t turn you up, I told her you were obviously on your way. She called back twenty minutes later. Plenty ticked off, I’d say. They’d delayed the meeting, and you didn’t show or call.”

  “What? I have that meeting on my calendar for tomorrow!”

  “Well, it was today,” Raylene said without compassion.

  Gaby turned to André. Her lips trembled. “I wouldn’t have put it on the wrong day. I just wouldn’t. I’m very careful about checking dates, times, everything!”

  “Look.” He lowered his voice and urged her down the hall, away from the receptionist. “You’re not infallible. No human being can be right all the time.”

  “Magnanimous of you to make allowances for my foibles. I wasn’t trying to say I was perfect. I do make mistakes. I just don’t happen to believe I made one in this instance. I am very, very careful with my calendar.”

  “You also come early and stay late,” he said as they ran up the stairs. “You skip meals and get by on very little sleep. To say nothing of the added load you’ve taken on since Papa’s heart attack. How long ago did you set that meeting?” At her impatient frown he said, “I’m trying to keep you from flogging yourself, dammit.”

  She turned after unlocking the office door. “I appreciate that, André, I really do. And maybe I wouldn’t have reacted so strongly if I hadn’t just lost that film of McKillop’s. Or if—” Breaking off midsentence, she headed for her desk.

  “Or if you hadn’t played hooky with me today? Isn’t that what you started to say?”

  “Yes. All right. That’s exactly it.” Unlocking her center drawer, she dragged out a burgundy engagement calendar. “If I’d been here where I belonged, I’d have been late, but I would have made the meeting. Those network people are all prima donnas. Not a good idea to stand them up,” she said, opening the book.

  “You didn’t stand them up, Gabrielle. We’re talking about an honest mistake. Call and explain. They may be prima donnas, but they aren’t God.”

  “You tell them that,” she muttered. “Come here.” She bent closer to the calendar. “Does it look like something’s been erased in the eleven-o’clock slot?”

  He crossed the room and put his head next to hers. “Boy, I don’t know. It’s possible, I suppose.”
>
  She flipped back and forth between the two days. “That appears to be my writing where it’s listed tomorrow. Darker than I normally write, though. See, compare it with a few other appointments. What do you think?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t tell. Who else has access to your calendar?”

  “No one. I do all my own scheduling to avoid this very problem. Unless... Did you borrow it yesterday?”

  “Me? Why would I nose into your stuff?”

  “Right before I left with the ledgers, you said you wanted to coordinate our calendars as soon as I got back.”

  “I don’t think I like what you’re implying,” André said, wary of the suspicion that muddied her eyes. “I waited for you until after six, and then I figured you’d taken off. Give me one good reason why I’d disguise my handwriting and mess up your calendar.”

  She slung an arm carelessly over the chair back. “Hm. I can’t imagine. To make me look like a fool, perhaps?”

  “You are flat-ass paranoid, woman. And crazy to boos.”

  She rose from her chair and would have responded hotly, but the telephone shrilled. Snatching it from the cradle, she snapped, “Hello!” Suddenly her whole demeanor changed. “Certainly, Raylene. Put Mr. Fortner through.”

  André watched her fool with a lock of hair that had worked its way from beneath the ever-present clasp. The one today was gold filigree. He wanted to strip it off and watch her thick, midnight hair plummet to her hips. The urge was so strong he moved to his desk and put his hands to work unloading the supplies he’d gathered yesterday. Still, he couldn’t help hearing Gaby’s side of the conversation.

  “Mr. Fortner. I didn’t expect a call so soon. Do you need additional information?”

  André heard her draw a shaky breath. He glanced around and saw she’d gone pale. The finger twisting and untwisting the strand of hair was noticeably trembling.

  “Who told you such a thing?” she gasped. “No. I did not bad-mouth your product to the WDIX family. I...well, I’m sorry you feel that way. I see. Goodbye.”

  “What was that all about?” André crossed to where she sat as if in a trance, still clutching the receiver.