by SUE FINEMAN
Someone tapped lightly on Cara’s door. When she opened it, Nick said, “I don’t have to wear that suit until the meeting, right?” He wore the same brown slacks he’d worn the day before, with a plaid sports shirt.
She straightened his collar. “And I’m not putting on pantyhose until I have to.”
He blew out a big breath. “Gerry went downstairs. He said Paul Rosenberg is due any time.”
“Good. He can join us for breakfast.”
Cara’s intercom buzzed. Mr. Pettibone said, “Mr. Rosenberg has arrived. He’s with Mr. Merlino in the study.”
“We’ll be right down. Please have breakfast served in the sun room this morning.”
<>
Paul Rosenberg was an older man with gray hair, a warm smile, and an easy-going manner. The wrinkles around his eyes deepened when he smiled, reminding Cara of her family doctor. He handed her a folder. “I thought you’d like to review this before the meeting. You should know there are warrants out for your husband in both Washington and California, but he has disappeared.”
“They’ll find him,” said Gerry, “and I’ll file divorce papers as soon as we get back to Washington. After a judge hears what Sally had to say, Lance won’t get a penny.”
Inside the folder, Cara found a profile on each of the seven trustees, beginning with Ronald Holcomb. He began his association with her grandfather years ago, serving first as his assistant, then as his business manager. He earned a handsome salary managing the estate.
Boyd “Hutch” Hutchinson, the newest trustee, had served for the past six years. He owned and operated a company that manufactured airplane parts.
At seventy-six, William Morrison was the oldest trustee. Well known as a shrewd businessman, he and Cara’s grandfather had been good friends. She remembered asking her grandfather if he was the William Morrison of the talent agency, but her grandfather had laughed and assured her he was not the same person. Years later, she realized the name was different.
An attorney with a solid background in business and finance, Carter Singletary had a reputation for getting to the core of a problem and resolving it quickly.
The only woman, Sylvia Towne, was a widow who inherited her husband’s failing business and turned it around. Cara’s estate owned stock in her company.
The accountant, Bart Cantrell, also served as a trustee. At forty-three, he was the youngest. He took over the accounting for the estate when Norton Lippincott retired eight years ago. Lippincott stayed on as a trustee.
Paul said, “Norton Lippincott is in Tokyo and I don’t think Carter Singletary is back from London. I wouldn’t expect to see either of them today.”
“That’s all right,” said Cara. “It’s a lot of people to get to know in one meeting.”
“The only trustees who work full time for the estate are Ron Holcomb and Bart Cantrell,” said Paul. “The others are more like a Board of Directors. From what I’ve read and heard, Holcomb and Cantrell are both doing a good job.”
“Which one hired Ian and Jane Corinth?” asked Nick.
“Ron Holcomb,” said Paul. “Ian Corinth is his cousin.”
Stunned, Cara said, “And that qualified them to be my guardians?”
Paul shrugged. “He knew them personally, knew what kind of people they were.”
Nick asked, “What did they do before they came here?”
“Ian ran small businesses and always managed to run out of money. Jane worked as a personal secretary for a Mrs. Peters in San Francisco, but she didn’t make much. Mrs. Peters was an older woman, very wealthy, a little quirky.”
Gerry whipped off his glasses. “So Jane Corinth grew to resent rich people.”
“Damn!” Nick’s remark came out in an angry breath. “They sure as hell didn’t belong here.”
Teresa rolled in a breakfast buffet cart and Nick stared at the food. Cassie had outdone herself, with scrambled eggs, bacon, croissants and muffins, coffee, juice, and fresh fruit. “Breakfast is a help-yourself kind of thing in this house,” said Cara.
“Hey, no problem,” said Nick. Someone filled their coffee cups and put the insulated pot on the table, and the three men piled their plates high.
Gerry sat down and dug in. “If I lived here I’d weigh three hundred pounds.”
Cara smiled, but inside, she was apprehensive about meeting with the trustees. Could she bluff her way through the meeting as she’d bluffed her way through yesterday? Thank God Nick was going with her.
<>
A soft gray-blue silk dress with a full skirt and matching jacket seemed a good choice for the meeting. Cara wanted to look professional, but she didn’t want to wear something dark. She loved the color, maybe because it matched her eyes.
Nick wore an ill-fitting blue suit. “My wedding suit,” he said. “I wore it to court when I got divorced, too.”
“Does that mean it’s good luck or bad luck?” she asked.
“It means it’s the only suit I own.”
She straightened his tie. “You look handsome, Nick.”
“Does Maxine like it?”
Cara dropped her hands. “Maxine has deserted me today.”
“She’ll be there when you need her.”
“I hope so.”
Nick lifted her chin and peered closely at her face. “You covered all the bird tracks. Is this what you looked like before the earthquake?”
“Not quite. I had very long, reddish-blonde hair.”
“Which I whacked off.”
“Which you cut to save my life.”
He flipped her hair. “I like the curls.”
“So do I. Did you talk to your family about coming this afternoon?”
Nick’s face warmed. “Aunt Sophia was beside herself, Tony wanted to know if he should bring a suit, and Angelo wanted to rush right out and buy you a birthday present.”
“I hope you told him not to.”
“Yeah. They should be here around two-thirty or three. Did I say happy birthday?”
She smiled. “You just did.”
“Now don’t get mad, but I have a present for you. It’s not expensive or anything and you may not like it anyway.” He pulled a tiny box out of his pocket. “The man told me he could size it to fit. It’s a friendship ring.”
She opened the little box and took out a delicate silver filigree ring. It wasn’t as expensive as her other jewelry, but that didn’t matter. Nick’s friendship ring meant more to her than any other ring she owned. “I love it, Nick.” She held out her left hand. “You put it on.”
“On your wedding ring finger?”
“If that’s the finger it fits on.”
The ring was too big, so Nick slipped it on her middle finger. She held out her hand and admired it, then gave Nick a big hug. “Thank you, Nick. It’s the nicest birthday present I can remember.”
He kissed her lightly on the lips, but the kiss turned into more than a kiss of friendship. He held her head while his lips did wonderful, sensuous things to hers and she thought she’d melt into a little puddle on the floor. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark pools that seemed to see into her very soul. He pulled her tightly against him and held her. They didn’t speak, but they didn’t have to. Married or not, she wanted more with Nick, and from the way he kissed her and held her, he wanted more, too.
The intercom buzzed and Mr. Pettibone’s voice filled the room. “Miss Andrews, your limo is waiting.”
Cara pulled away from Nick to answer the intercom. “We’ll be right down, Mr. Pettibone.” She found silver earrings and a silver choker to match her new ring, grabbed her purse and the folder with the notes on the trustees, and she was ready to go.
“Maxine, I need you,” she whispered on her way downstairs.
Chapter Nine
Cara’s driver took her, Nick, and Gerry to a big office building in downtown San Francisco. The security guard Mr. Pettibone had sent along escorted them to the top floor offices with the word Andrews scrolled on the door.
&nb
sp; Mr. Holcomb’s secretary, Marge, a pleasant middle-aged woman, greeted them with a warm smile. “Mr. Holcomb is on the phone, but he’ll be with you shortly. The others are waiting in the conference room. This way, please.”
The conference room had a thick cushion of dark blue carpet with a dark red and gold paisley pattern, a large oval table of rich walnut with dark red leather chairs, and a wall of tinted windows overlooking the city. The walls were paneled and a large portrait of Cara’s grandfather, John Franklin Andrews, hung on the wall opposite the windows.
Marge introduced the four people at the conference table: Boyd Hutchinson, a husky man with gray hair and wrinkles around his eyes; Bill Morrison, an elderly man with a frail look about him; Sylvia Towne, a slightly overweight woman wearing a well-tailored navy pants suit with a white blouse; and Bart Cantrell, a younger man wearing wire-framed glasses. Carter Singletary and Norton Lippincott were not present, which was fine with Cara. She was intimidated enough without more people in the room.
Cara introduced Gerry as “my personal attorney,” and Nick as “my good friend and advisor.” She sat across from Boyd Hutchinson, Bill Morrison, and Sylvia Towne. Nick sat on her left, Gerry on her right, with Bart Cantrell at the end by Gerry. The chair at the head of the table, Ron Holcomb’s chair, she assumed, remained empty.
Marge served coffee and sweet rolls. Nick ate again. Cara didn’t know where he put it. He’d eaten everything in sight at breakfast. And still Mr. Holcomb did not appear.
At twenty minutes after eleven, Nick nudged Cara and pointed to his watch.
Cara glanced around the table. They’d all wasted enough time with pointless small talk, and Nick was fidgeting uncomfortably. It was time to get down to business. She cleared her throat. “Why don’t we start the meeting without Mr. Holcomb?”
Hutch leaned back in his chair. “Good idea. Tell us why you’re here today, Cara.”
“According to my grandfather’s will, the estate passes to his grandchildren on their twenty-seventh birthdays.”
“I wasn’t aware of that,” said Hutch.
“I am his only living grandchild.” She looked around the table again, trying to anticipate their reaction. “And today is my twenty-seventh birthday.”
A hush fell over the room, and then Hutch, who seemed to have appointed himself spokesman for the group, leaned forward and smiled. “Happy birthday, Cara.”
The others echoed Hutch’s words, wishing her a happy birthday. When the room grew silent again, Gerry said, “Miss Andrews wants to be informed and involved in the business of the estate. She wants a say in how things are handled.”
Bart clicked his pen. “You want to be involved to what extent, Miss Andrews?”
“Not in the day-to-day business, but I do want a say in major decisions. When I was a little girl, my grandfather spent time with me every day, talking about business. I think he was preparing me even then to take over some day. He was proud of his accomplishments and I am proud to be his granddaughter. It’s my right and my responsibility to be involved.”
“Your grandfather was a good man,” said Bill. “He was well respected in the business community.”
“He respected you, too, Mr. Morrison.”
A sad look passed over Bill’s eyes. “Cara, I’m sorry about the loss of your mother. Even though she couldn’t be with you, I know she loved you dearly.”
Touched by his remark, Cara nodded her thanks.
When Ron Holcomb walked in, Nick tapped his watch again. Cara exchanged a look with Nick as Ron took his place at the head of the table. He had wasted thirty minutes of everyone’s time.
“Ron, you remember Cara.” Hutch introduced Gerry and Nick. “Today is Cara’s birthday, the day she inherits the estate.”
Ron’s eyes widened. “Oh, I didn’t realize. Cara, I’m not prepared to—”
“I’d like an overview, Mr. Holcomb.”
“Yes, all right.” Ron was a slender man wearing a bad toupee. It was very dark, a sharp contrast to his thin gray eyebrows and pasty skin. Immaculately dressed, he fidgeted with the crease in his pants and straightened his tie. “If you’ll come back next week, I’ll—”
Cara took an instant dislike to the man. “I’m leaving tomorrow, and I want something to take back with me.”
Gerry chewed on the stem of his glasses. “Surely you have financial statements, quarterly reports, investment portfolios—”
“Yes, of course.” Ron jumped up and walked out of the room. Minutes later, Marge produced copies of the first quarter report. Ron sat down and started down the list of assets, explaining what companies they were invested in and what products or services they each provided. Then he spoke quickly in terms Cara wasn’t familiar with, as if he were speaking with a business or investment expert, not a young woman inexperienced in such matters. Nick asked a few questions and seemed to understand, but Cara was lost. She grabbed Nick’s hand under the table.
He came to her rescue, as she knew he would. “Cara needs a break.”
“Now?” said Gerry.
“Right now,” said Cara. Before her head exploded.
Ron’s face creased with a smug smile and he gathered his papers. “All right, Cara. We’ll continue this at our next meeting.” His tone of voice suggested he was speaking with a child, irritating Cara even more.
Nick glared at Ron. “No, we’ll take a short break and continue. This meeting is not over until Cara is finished.”
Bill spoke directly to Cara. “I have another meeting, something I can’t miss. I’m afraid I’ll have to bail out.”
“And I have a lunch meeting,” said Sylvia. “I only scheduled an hour here.”
Cara clasped Nick’s hand under the table. She knew what they were doing. They were shoving her off, getting rid of her. “Two minutes,” she said.
“Please excuse us,” said Gerry. The trustees left the room.
Nick rubbed Cara’s back. “You can do this, Maxine.”
“He’s throwing things at me so fast, I can’t think.”
“He’s doing it on purpose,” said Gerry. “Jerk.”
“Okay, Maxine.” Nick stood and walked around the table to face Cara. “Why don’t we even things out some?”
“How?”
“Poke holes in his balloon. He’s acting so damn high and mighty. Let the air out of his balloon, bring him down to our level.”
Cara took a deep breath and blew it out. “I can barely stand to look at him. All I can think about is him sending those people to take care of me, and then ignoring me.”
Nick smacked the table. “Then use it.”
“Absolutely,” said Gerry. “Here they come now.”
As Nick took his seat, he leaned close and whispered, “Turn Maxine loose and let him have it. Put him in his place so we can get down to business.”
Ron Holcomb sat down and looked down his nose at Cara, the first time he’d looked directly at her. “All right now, Cara?”
How dare he act as if she were nothing more than a spoiled child to be placated and pushed out the door? All she’d ever been to him was a nuisance, like an untrained puppy. Anger burned inside her. This puppy fully intended to piddle all over his shiny shoes.
Nick nodded slightly and she read the unspoken words in his eyes. Go get ’em, Maxine.
Cara stared at Ron Holcomb. “Before we continue, I’d like to talk about something more personal, Mr. Holcomb.”
His eyes flickered around the room and settled on her. She wanted to wipe the smug smile off his face. He laughed nervously. “Personal?”
“When Johnny died and my mother went to the sanitarium, you hired guardians to take care of me.”
“Yes, I did,” he said proudly. “The best people I could find.”
Bill said, “Ron brought us your report cards, your school reports, and pictures. We watched you grow up.”
“From a distance,” she said. “No one bothered to actually speak to me, to ask me how things were going, to see if I was all
right.”
As silence settled over the room, Ron’s face flushed and every other set of eyes in the room stared at him.
“I spoke often with your guardians,” said Ron.
Gerry set his glasses on the table and spoke calmly, but firmly. “I certainly hope you gave more attention to the business than you gave to Cara.”
Ron’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about? She had the best of care.”
Nick said, “She fired her guardians yesterday.”
Ron brushed an invisible piece of lint off his lapel. “Yes, I know. Ian called me last night. He said there’d been some kind of disagreement, that they’d left the house. I’ve authorized a nice severance package and—”
Cara’s anger bubbled to the surface and she nearly came out of her chair. Nick’s hand on her thigh steadied her. “How dare you. I fired them for good cause and you didn’t even to bother to ask me why.”
Five shocked people had their eyes on her now. Nick’s slight squeeze told her she’d said exactly the right thing.
Gerry said, “Years ago, you left a distraught child in the hands of cold, unfeeling people, people who punished her for crying, people who wouldn’t allow her a moment of privacy, who constantly put her down.”
Nick glanced at Cara and continued, speaking directly to Ron Holcomb. “Those people told their niece, Sally McCullough, that Cara’s mother was mentally ill and Cara would be, too. They said Cara didn’t deserve to inherit the estate. Sally told her boyfriend, who decided Cara would be an easy mark. His name is Michael Lance, but Cara knew him as Lance Berkshire.”
Sylvia’s hands dropped to the table. “Your husband?”
“I didn’t know he was drugging my tea until I poured it out one night,” said Cara. “I was wide awake when I heard him on the phone with his lover the next morning. They were planning to lock me in a sanitarium in the Caribbean, so they could steal the estate.”
“Oh, my God!” Hutch’s words echoed murmurs of shock around the table. Ron’s face had turned white. He looked ill, but Cara couldn’t summon any sympathy.
“There’s a warrant out for his arrest,” said Gerry. “Cara talked with Miss McCullough and she gave us a statement.”
