Crown Jewel

by Fern Michaels

  “Since I can’t have the hard stuff Gracie is talking about, you better make the coffee extra strong,” Ricky said, his heartbeat accelerating.

  14

  Lorraine Farquar stared across the room at the French doors that had closed behind Ricky Lam. Her gaze was so intense, her eyes started to water. She looked down in horror when the triple strand of pearls around her neck broke, scattering across the floor. She needed to think. Really think. What a foolish old woman she was to believe this would never happen.

  The maid in the gray uniform and prim apron opened the French doors, and said, “Luncheon is served, madam. Mr. Farquar called a short while ago to say he wouldn’t be able to join you but suggested dinner at Estevan’s this evening.”

  “I’m not hungry, Thelma. I would like some coffee, though. You can take away this ice tea. The ice melted, and it’s too watery.”

  The maid entered the room, picked up the tray, and looked around. “I don’t see the glass, madam. Oh, what a shame, your pearls broke. I’ll pick them up.”

  Lorraine shook her head. “You can gather them up later.” She suddenly realized what had happened to the glass. Not trusting herself to speak, she shrugged and waved the maid away. She knew they hadn’t believed her. How sneaky and underhanded they were to steal a glass. For fingerprints, of course. How could she have been so stupid? Thank God Armand wasn’t joining her for lunch. He would have picked up instantly that something was wrong. At least she would have the afternoon to compose herself before dinner.

  Movie stars were such tacky people. They loved splashing their business in the media, thinking it made them more important. She hated the media because she knew they were capable of destroying her. She wished now that she had been more forthright with Ricky Lam. Perhaps if she’d thrown herself on his mercy, he would have left matters alone. Now he was going to dig and dig and dig. Eventually, he’d come up with all the right answers, and her life would come crashing down around her. No, no, that was wrong. He already had all the answers. Except one.

  Did she dare make the phone call she had promised never to make? Did she have any other choice?

  When the maid set the elegant silver service on the table and closed the French doors behind her, Lorraine poured the coffee she knew she wouldn’t drink. Instead, she curled herself into the corner of the sofa she was sitting on. She started to cry. Not out of anger, not out of frustration with her situation, but out of grief. Her only child, a son, was dead, and she’d never known of his passing until just a few minutes ago. Life was so cruel sometimes.

  She’d named her son Caleb in her mind because it was such a strong-sounding name. She knew he was going to need a strong name to survive in the world he was going to. The guilt and shame that she’d lived with all those years covered her like a shroud. Right then, right that second, she wanted to die so she could be with her son to tell him how sorry she was that she had listened to Vincent Nolan. She wanted to tell him how, during those first years, she’d driven around a fifty-mile radius, hoping for a glimpse of the son who was lost to her. She wanted to tell him how she’d gone back to the orphanage and pleaded with them to tell her where her son was. She’d been a runaway from Dubois, Pennsylvania, convinced she could make it in Hollywood. Convinced because at fourteen she looked like she was twenty. It was just a dream. If she’d had the money, she would have hired a lawyer to help her locate her son, but, unfortunately, she didn’t earn much waiting tables, hoping some movie producer would spot her. That never happened either.

  She cringed when she recalled the look of loathing she’d seen on the movie star’s face. She understood that look because she’d looked at herself the same way during the nearly fifty years since she’d taken Caleb to the orphanage.

  Her memory of that time in her life was crystal clear. So clear, she could see the memory shattering all about her. She’d read so many articles while she waited in doctors’ offices with Armand, articles that said that, as one aged, memory faded. It was such a blatant lie, she’d been tempted to write to the magazine refuting the articles. Unfortunately, she had never mustered the courage to do it.

  She hated Vincent Nolan with a passion that was unequaled. And, yet, back in her youth, when she wanted to fit in, to have fun and romance, she’d allowed him to seduce her. She knew better, and yet she had let it happen. Vincent was the rich college boy out looking for cheap thrills. That’s what she was, a cheap thrill. All Vincent and his friends wanted were virgins, so they could notch their belts. Vincent had staked out his claim to the greasy restaurant where she worked and had his way with six of the other waitresses. He’d boasted later that she was number seven in his notched belt.

  When she discovered she was pregnant, she’d contacted him. He’d said he would see her that evening after she got off work. She’d been so excited, dreaming about the handsome Vincent and living the academic life. She promised herself to take etiquette lessons, so she wouldn’t shame him. She’d buy expensive creams and lotions, so her hands wouldn’t be red and rough. She’d get manicures and pedicures and have her hair done once a week. She’d learn to play bridge and shop in the finest stores. The dreams of a young girl who thought she was in love. How incredibly stupid she had been.

  That dream had crashed around her feet that night in the alley behind the restaurant. Vincent had looked at her in the dim, yellow light, disgust on his face. “Don’t think you’re pinning this on me! I’m not your free ride out of this hellhole. If you even think of accusing me, I’ll have every single one of my friends say they had you for two bucks each. Who do you think the authorities are going to believe, me or you?”

  All her virginity had been worth was two dollars. She’d cried for weeks. Maybe it was months, not knowing what she was going to do. The owners of the restaurant had helped her every way they could. A minister counseled her and managed to convince her adoption was the best thing for the baby. She’d agreed until she set her eyes on the pink-cheeked Caleb. She knew she would scrub bathrooms in dirty gas stations if she had to, just so she could keep him.

  It hadn’t worked out. She’d gotten sick, Caleb was sick, she had no money to care for him. She called Vincent again and threatened to go to the police if he didn’t help her. Something in her voice must have convinced him she was serious. He’d showed up at the rooming house where she lived and snatched the sleeping child, who was rosy red with a fever. She followed him, sick and frightened out of her wits. She wanted to die when she saw him raise the lid of a Dumpster and drop the baby inside. What was more horrifying was that he closed the cover. She watched him look over his shoulder before he ran from the alley. Quicker than lightning, she opened the cover, climbed in, and rescued her baby. Somehow, she found her way to the minister who had counseled her and she told him her story. They stayed with him at the parish house until both of them were well enough to go to the orphanage to place Caleb for adoption.

  And that was the end of her tawdry little tale as far as Vincent Nolan was concerned. These days, Vincent Nolan went by the name of Adam V. Nolan, vice president of the United States.

  Lorraine looked down at the coffee in the bone china cup. She knew it was cold, but she drank it anyway. She probably had more in the way of luxurious surroundings and material things than Adam V. Nolan could ever hope to have. Her husband Armand, twenty-five years her senior, was a billionaire. He was a good man, a kind man, who lavished his wealth on her. The only thing he hadn’t been able to give her were the children she coveted. Armand was old and frail and spent his days in a wheelchair. But he still managed, with the aid of a male nurse, to go to his offices three days a week.

  Such a terrible secret.

  Armand had an impressive Rolodex. He was also a heavy contributor to political campaigns. Wealthy philanthropist that he was, he knew everyone, and everyone knew Armand Farquar.

  Lorraine left the sunroom and headed to her husband’s in-house office, where she flipped through his Rolodex until she found the number she wanted. Armand was
proud of the fact that the White House always returned his phone calls. Always. She wondered if they would return hers. Well, there was only one way to find out. She dialed the number from the little card in the Rolodex. She identified herself, clarifying that she was Armand Farquar’s wife. “Please tell the vice president this is an urgent call and one that needs to be returned as soon as possible.” She rattled off her phone number and spelled her last name slowly and distinctly.

  The return phone call could come within minutes, hours, or possibly days. It would be returned, she just didn’t know when.

  Tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks, Lorraine paced the confines of her husband’s study. Now what am I supposed to do, she wondered. How do I get through the minutes and the hours until he calls me back. God in heaven, what am I going to say to him? She played different scenarios over and over in her mind. Nothing seemed right or even appropriate. The tears continued to cascade down her cheeks.

  She tried to remember what she’d read about Adam V. Nolan over the years. When she was safely married to Armand and knew her future was secure, she’d allowed her obsession with Adam V. Nolan to come to the fore. She’d haunted the library and even kept a diary of sorts. Armand thought she was the best-read wife he’d ever had, and he’d had three before her. She didn’t even know where that diary was now. That was all right; there was always the internet.

  Lorraine was far from computer literate, but she did know how to check email for Armand, and she knew how to go to various websites that interested her. She looked for Keyword and typed in the vice president’s name. She reared back when the man’s whole life flashed in front of her. Well, almost his whole life. Her shoulders set grimly as she pressed PRINT again and again. When the printer grew silent, she got up, walked around to the machine, and withdrew a thick stack of paper.

  Lorraine carried the papers with her to the sunroom, stopping only long enough to pick up her reading glasses from her bedroom.

  The coffee service was gone, and her pearls had been gathered up and placed in a crystal candy dish. She knew she’d never have them restrung. In the scheme of things, a pearl necklace, triple strand or not, simply wasn’t important. Her son could have attended college for two years for what the pearls cost.

  Lorraine settled herself in the same corner of the sofa she’d sat in earlier. She perched her reading glasses on the tip of her nose and read through every single piece of paper she’d printed out. When she was finished, she looked at the telephone. For some reason, it looked ominous. She was surprised at how calm she felt.

  Such an illustrious career. No hint of scandal anywhere in his life. One couldn’t have scandals or skeletons when one had presidential aspirations. Lorraine flipped through the pages until she found the ones she wanted. She’d even taken the time to download the pictures of the vice president and his family. The caption underneath the family picture called the Nolans the All-American Family.

  The all-American family consisted of a son who was a second-term congressman from Virginia. A second son was a cardiovascular surgeon who lived in San Francisco. A daughter, married to a senator from Illinois, was a psychiatrist with her own flourishing practice. There were nine grandchildren ranging in age from five years of age to seventeen. The oldest, a boy named Patrick, had an appointment to Annapolis.

  Mrs. Nolan Senior worked diligently for the Red Cross, the United Way, and sat on five different charitable boards. She had silver-colored hair worn short with full bangs. Lorraine thought she looked like a female Buster Brown. Mrs. Meredith Nolan had graduated from Sarah Lawrence and never worked a day in her life for monetary remuneration.

  Adam V. Nolan had been a two-term governor and a two-term senator before the president had tapped him to be his running mate.

  All the Nolan money was tied up in blind trusts, according to their financial disclosure statements.

  There was even a shaggy, lovable dog and a fat, white cat in the photograph.

  The charming all-American Nolan family. She wanted to puke.

  The phone rang. Lorraine snatched it the moment it rang. Her greeting was cautious. It was Armand’s nurse. “Is something wrong, Thomas?”

  “I’m at the hospital. Mr. Farquar started to experience chest pains on the way home. I thought it best to bring him in and admit him. Your husband wanted me to tell you he’s sorry, but dinner at Estevan’s is out of the question. I think you should come to the hospital now, Mrs. Farquar.”

  “Of course I’ll come. Thomas, tell me the truth, is it bad, or is this just a setback?”

  “I’m afraid it’s very serious, ma’am. I’ll tell your husband you’re on the way.”

  Lorraine ran through the house, out to the kitchen, then outside, where the chauffeur was vacuuming the interior of the Bentley.

  “Stop what you’re doing, Henry. You have to take me to the hospital right away. Thomas just called to say they had to admit my husband. We have to hurry, Henry.”

  “Yes, ma’am, we can go right now. Do you need to take anything with you?”

  “No. No, I’m fine. Armand carries all his own medical cards.”

  For the second time that day, tears rolled down Lorraine Farquar’s cheeks.

  What would she do without Armand at her side? For the past year the doctors had been warning her that this day was coming. They’d urged Armand to cut back, to become an invalid. He’d said no, he intended to live his days to the fullest for as long as he could. How she loved the man, admired him, doted on him. Why did this have to happen today of all days? Was it another omen of some kind?

  “Can’t you go any faster, Henry?”

  “I’m already going ten miles over the speed limit, ma’am. You want to get there in one piece, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course. I just don’t want to be…too late.”

  “Gracie, you look exhausted. You didn’t sleep, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t sleep. I can sleep anytime. In my business when you’re on a roll, you roll. Before I tell you what I found, let me tell you that Dicky Tee called me. He said my article was a piece of crap. He just said that because someone from the Times called his publisher, and he isn’t going to be writing an exposé on you. He was so mad he was chewing nails and spitting rust. I could hear it in his voice. No one is going to write anything bad about you as long as I’m around.” Her voice was so vehement, Ricky smiled.

  “That’s nice to know, Gracie. Thank you. I’m sure the boys will be relieved to hear the news, too. Maybe you should call them later and tell them the news.”

  “Maybe. I’m going to take a swim and a nap after I drink this coffee. If I can stay awake that long. See this,” she said, pointing to a ten-inch stack of printouts. This is every person in the United States who has the last name of Nolan. My brother and sister helped me separate the V. Nolans to names like Vincent, Victoria, etc. Then we looked for the ones with a first name with a middle initial of V. Of course there were thousands of those. We stayed with it, though, concentrating on the ones we thought might be important. You know, with enough clout to make adoption records disappear.

  “My sister, who is a high school junior is the one who homed in on the right name almost instantly. She’s up on all that kind of stuff. Wally and I have been out of school a while. Adam V. Nolan,” Gracie said triumphantly. She waited for a reaction.

  “And that would be…who?”

  “Mr. Lam, think!”

  Ricky’s eyebrows shot upward. “Do you mean…Gracie, are you sure?”

  “Damn straight, I’m sure. The vice prez himself. He went to UCLA. All the dates are right. Well, what do you think?”

  “I think I’m in shock is what I think. Philly’s father is the vice president of the United States, and his mother is married to one of the richest men in the world! You were right, Gracie. If I were wearing socks, you would have blown them off. We can’t be certain, though, can we?”

  “I’m as sure as I can be. I’d stake my career on it, Mr. Lam. I downloaded the ma
n’s life. He is a paragon of virtue. And, he plans to run for the presidency in two years. He’s already gearing up for the run. I guess if you want one hundred percent proof, you’ll have to get it from Mrs. Farquar. I bet when you spring this on her, she’ll buckle. Take this printout with you for your proof.

  “Look, Mr. Lam, I finished my coffee. I’m going for a swim. If you need me, just call.”

  Ricky hugged the young woman. He hoped she would one day become his daughter-in-law. It would be nice to have a daughter. “I owe you, Gracie.”

  “Jeez, we aren’t going through that again, are we? I owe you. Why don’t we just say we’re even, okay?’ Night.”

  “I don’t want to see you till tomorrow, Gracie!” Ricky called after her.

  Ricky sat down at the table and stared across at Roxy. “What do you think?” His fingers played with the legal letter from Tim Andreadis, but he made no effort to open it. It was probably a bill.

  “I think it’s pretty scary. This is over and above anything I could have imagined. What are you going to do? You can’t just call up the vice president and…and…tell him something like this. If you were able to get to him, he’d still deny it. Gracie’s right. Mrs. Farquar is the only one who can help you. You need hard proof, Ricky? Think about who the man is.”

  “Okay. Since Mrs. Farquar has an unlisted phone number, we’ll have to go back to her house in the morning. We can pick up the glass at the lab on the way and say we’re returning it. For some reason, I don’t think she’s as coldhearted as she tried to make us believe. I think we frightened her. It was natural for her to deny everything. Her nice life is going to be upset. I’m almost certain she didn’t tell her husband. Would you have told, Roxy, if you were in her position?”

  “No, I don’t think I would have told my husband something like that. All of a sudden, I’m feeling motherly. I think I’ll go upstairs and call Reba. After I call her, how about if I go to the store and pick up some salmon filets? I have this great recipe. I’d like to show off my culinary skills for you since we’re going to get married. I hate eating out all the time.”