“I’m supposed to meet Mr. Margoletti later this afternoon. He’s coming in to talk with Mr. McEvoy and they want me to start working on a list of potential donors to the new art gallery.”
“Does Vince Margoletti know you’re doing research on him?”
“I doubt it.”
“May I suggest something?”
She nodded.
“For now, don’t volunteer that you’ve been checking into his financial background. It makes some donors feel awkward to be reminded that people are looking the proverbial gift horse in the mouth. Know what I mean?”
She smiled. “Not to worry. That’s my ongoing instruction from my boss about every donor.”
I was glad to hear it, especially if there was something in Margoletti’s background that had seriously worried Saylor. I stood at the top of the stairs while Gabby copied the notes I wanted at the nearby machine in an alcove and then walked with her into Saylor’s office. The vice president’s group occupied a space that was divided by a reception area, with his executive office on the left, and a set of rooms on the right. A few staff members were clustered in the doorway, talking in low tones. They glanced at Gabby and nodded, but no one said anything to us as we headed into Saylor’s office. The young researcher replaced the originals on a large table near a window.
The room was masculine and well furnished, tidy, with a large desk and a bank of file cabinets on one wall. A handful of glossy business magazines was scattered on the table.
“Stories about the companies Mr. Margoletti is involved with as their attorney or a board member,” Gabby said when she saw me fingering one. “The guys who started them are so creative. Dermott and I were impressed when we read about them.”
“Is Dermott interested in business theory?”
“Not really. He only wishes he made more money. The life of a Ph.D. in history is not anything like this high tech world.”
“So true. I read last week about a fourteen-year old who sold his company, if you can even call it that, to one of the big online search firms for more than a million dollars.”
Gabby sighed.
“Does it bother you?”
“Not me. The comparisons are hard, though, when you’re looking at having to pay back big student loans. We’ll be fine. We’re a lot better off than that poor guy from Reomantics.”
“Poor? I doubt any of them are poor,” I said as we exited the office.
“He was about to make it big when someone else started a company using the same idea for software, or so he claimed. It was one of the cases Mr. Margoletti was involved in. At first he was this guy’s attorney, then he dropped him and became the other man’s representative. It was in the articles I collected.”
“What happened to the original CEO?” I said as much to myself as to the researcher.
“After all those hassles, he was back to square one, trying to come up with another idea when, wham, he rammed into a freeway pillar and died.”
That did it. I was officially creeped out.
****
The scene in the president’s office was different from when I first visited. His assistant was standing behind her desk, talking softly but urgently on the phone and gesturing to a wide-eyed student, who was shifting from one foot to the other while he waited for instructions. Several middle-aged men and one woman were squeezed onto the couch and chairs, checking their smartphones and glancing up periodically. The door to the president’s office was closed, but I could hear the president’s baritone voice even though the words weren’t distinct.
With no place to sit, I waited by a window, looking out at the peaceful campus and the clumps of students crisscrossing walkways and lawns. While I watched, a gray squirrel dashed across a utility wire from one treetop to another. I could see why someone could get comfortable working here for decades.
“Ms. O’Rourke? The president can see you now.” The assistant interrupted my daydreaming. As I walked to the door, I was aware of the curious glances the seated people gave me.
Brennan was still in executive mode. He got up and came around his desk, gesturing to two men seated in comfortable chairs.
“You’ve met Dean Anderson, I believe?” Coe Anderson nodded and murmured hello. “And this is Vince Margoletti, the donor we’ve talked so much about.”
Given what Gabby and I had been talking about, it was hard to look at him and not see trouble. He rose from his chair, played with his cufflinks for a split second, long enough to make sure he had my full attention, then extended his hand. “I understand you’re good friends with my old classmate Geoff Johnson. Great guy.” His voice signaled lukewarm interest, whether in me or Geoff I wasn’t sure, while his eyes seemed to be measuring my response. I did my best to keep my expression neutral, pleasant.
“I work for him, indirectly,” I said. “He’s a real friend to the Devor Museum.”
“Yes, so I understand. Although I may give him a run for his money here, right Rory?” He looked down at his perfectly buffed nails before raising his head to look at Lynthorpe’s leader.
“Indeed, Vince,” the president said. “Your magnificent gift would turn heads anywhere. You know how grateful I am personally. We all are, of course,” he added as Dean Anderson twitched in his seat and re-crossed his legs suddenly.
Let’s all fall over ourselves with gratitude. Margoletti was not very subtle cueing up the compliments. Taking the chair Brennan pointed me to, I wondered what this meeting was about and wished someone had given me a heads up. In the absence of any hard information, I looked for clues in the body language of the three men sitting there. I noticed that the development director was missing. He was probably too busy tallying up hundred dollar checks from the alumni fundraising drive. Catty, I chided myself.
Brennan was at turns serious and almost jocular as he threaded his way through a monologue on the situation. “Our cherished colleague and friend is gone, and the last thing we want to do is carry on business as usual,” he said. “I’d like nothing better than to send everyone home to grieve and remember Larry, each in their own way.” He paused, looked down at his folded hands as if in prayer.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Vince Margoletti’s hands on the arm of his chair and I noticed one was opening and closing in a tight fist. Arthritis? Tension? At one point, he flicked his wrist and dollar chimes began ringing in my head. His Patek Phillippe watch had more complications, as they’re called, than my eyes could register crammed onto the watch face. Definitely over one hundred thousand dollars, about the same price as one of Dickie’s beloved Porsches. This man had money.
Brennan lifted his head and sighed audibly. “But life doesn’t give us that luxury, does it? Coe and Vince and I have been talking, Danielle, and thought you might have some advice for us based on your own extensive experience.”
Watching Brennan’s face and listening to his unctuous comments was a distraction. What I really wanted was an excuse to stare at Vince Margoletti. I’d read so much about him by now, a lot of it hinting at his toughness, that his appearance caught me off guard. Newspaper and magazine photos didn’t do him justice. Of medium height, he was slim, fit, had a full head of expertly cut, curly blonde hair set off by a slight tan. The hair might have been helped by a bottle of bleach but, if so, it was skillfully done. He was wearing what I’d bet was a bespoke suit from the best London tailor. Other than that clenched fist, his movements were relaxed and smooth, he spoke easily, and his straight-backed posture put my own to shame. I had been expecting someone different, visibly harder, more grasping.
Brennan was moving on to his real point. “We have had what I consider a wonderful idea to honor Larry. The gallery and the collection will be named for Vince, of course, but there’s a way to remember Larry too. Vince, why don’t you explain it to Danielle?”
Margoletti looked at me with dark, opaque eyes that then slid away to focus on the wall behind me. “Larry worked hard to make this dream of mine come true,” he said. “I unde
rstood he had to push back now and then in the college’s best interests. Ultimately, I knew the Vincent Margoletti Collection would become a reality.”
So Saylor had brought up at least some concerns about the proposed gift with Margoletti. I wondered how much Saylor might have sugarcoated his concerns in his attempt not to trigger the temper Gabby mentioned.
“I respected him for that and I think I answered all of his questions to his satisfaction.”
I decided this was my chance to ask the question that had been burning at me since Gabby told me. “Did you discuss it yesterday, while you were playing golf?”
There was a moment of silence. The three men froze. Then, Margoletti said, “No, the game was purely social. Rory, Coe, Larry, and I wanted some time together not talking business, right?” He turned to the others, whose smiles were a little tentative.
“Oh, I hadn’t realized you were all together.” I didn’t point out that I was in the room because the pesky details of that business hadn’t been worked out. Margoletti may have read my mind.
“We met to discuss the details earlier. I was trying to keep the gift as simple and straightforward as possible.” He went on quickly. “After what happened, I’ve suggested to Rory and Coe here that I put in another million dollars so that one of the main areas in the new art building can be named for Larry, perhaps a study room, or a sculpture atrium. I don’t see anything particularly complicated about that. Do you?” He turned one palm up in a question and I noticed him spreading open the fingers of his other hand, laying them deliberately along his thigh.
“Offhand, no,” I said. “If you’re talking about enlarging the building’s footprint or needing an extra type of security or climate control system, the costs for the additional space might be proportionally higher, but you and Coe would find that out early on in the planning phase. Larry Saylor’s campus colleagues will appreciate the gesture.”
Coe Anderson was beginning to resemble a bobble head doll. The president was doing his avuncular beaming thing at Margoletti and me. I was puzzled as to why I was here since this didn’t seem like an issue that would detract from the college’s decision to accept the gift. I looked toward Margoletti and suddenly caught a glitter in his eye that made my skin prickle. It vanished almost immediately and he was once again the polished philanthropist, but in that moment I had seen something different, something much closer to the man I had been reading about. His cold eyes had been sizing me up, measuring my response again. He looked tense beneath that controlled exterior and I wondered why. The proposal he had made was reasonable and generous, and I knew by now that I had no real power in the approval process. If the president were determined to accept it, the majority of the board would go along with it.
“However,” he continued, “we need to sign the papers and make the announcement without any more delays. I’ve got paintings just sitting in a warehouse in California because I have no place to show them. At this rate, I begin to worry we’ll forget what’s there.” He smiled to show he was joking. “I know my friend Coe here is dying to tell the media, and I want to show my respect publicly for Larry.”
President Brennan jumped in. “I couldn’t agree more. In light of this tragic event, we want to be able to announce Vince’s gift right away. It will help the campus deal with Larry’s death.” Turning to me, he lowered his eyebrows and signaled my instructions. “I’m hoping you might be able to finish your interviews and satisfy Geoff Johnson without delay.”
So that was it. These three were determined to pressure me into doing a fast sign off. If I didn’t respect Geoff Johnson so much, or hadn’t seen the look in Margoletti’s eyes, I might have folded right then. Brennan’s phone rang. He spoke a few words, okayed something, then hung up and turned back to the group.
“I have a suggestion,” I said. “I’m proceeding without Larry Saylor’s guidance, concentrating on the key provisions of the gift. I can do most of what I still need to do on the phone. I should review the letter of intent with Lynthorpe’s attorney, which I’m sure you understand since it’s the core of the legal arrangement,” I said to Margoletti. “And it makes sense, given my museum background, that I look at the valuations your lawyers have placed on the donated art, to see if it tallies at least roughly with current market prices. I have a copy of the list of included artwork that your lawyers drew up, Mr. Margoletti.”
Margoletti dipped his head fractionally, seemingly relaxed, although I sensed something—impatience, concern? I couldn’t figure it out but something about this conversation was making this powerful man uncomfortable.
“Frankly, I think it’s possible the collection is undervalued, given the heated market and the high demand for the limited number of works that have come to market by some of these artists.”
“I’m not too concerned about that,” Margoletti said. “I’m ready to sign over the artwork today, if it will get the project moving.”
“That’s very generous,” I said. “I’ll collect documentation on the donated pieces—”
Margoletti cut me off. “I hardly think you need to personally review the details to that degree, Ms. O’Rourke. Hardly the best use of your consulting time. Use the list my lawyers submitted. They attached fair market values to everything, I believe.” His hand made an involuntary fist again and a muscle in his jaw twitched as he stared at me. “Lynthorpe’s own staff will be curating the collection and can do the fine print stuff, isn’t that right, Rory?”
“Absolutely, Vince. I’ll personally see that our staff does a bang-up job.”
“All the same, Lynthorpe will want to make sure the collection can be insured properly,” I said. “If you want to close quickly, a second valuation is something I’ll recommend that the college commission do right away.” I didn’t mention my curiosity about the shares he held in private companies. Until I had a better idea of what Saylor had been worried about, I thought it was better to do my checking under his radar. “This shouldn’t take long, and I don’t need to do it here on campus while you’re all coping with this shock and its aftermath. My suggestion is I gather any papers he had on this project, take them back to San Francisco tomorrow, and finish my report from there. If I need to, I can come back for a few days next week, when things will be calmer here. The cataloging and final estimate of the value of the pieces can come after the gift has been made, as long as Mr. Margoletti’s tax attorneys agree.”
Coe Anderson had been silent, but he jumped in now. “As long as you can finish what is merely a formality quickly and let Geoff and the board know you see no problems. We’re trying to keep this quiet so we can do a big splash of an announcement.”
“Do you have the staff for that?” I said,
“Vince has recommended a national P.R. firm to make sure we get high level coverage, but the word is leaking out locally already. I don’t want anyone stealing our thunder.”
“I’m afraid it won’t be possible to give you Larry’s files,” Brennan said with a deep frown. “I can’t fathom why, but the local police have insisted on sealing his office.”
CHAPTER 6
“Why on earth would the police do that?” Coe said, red spots appearing on his cheeks. “Can’t you tell them it’s not necessary, Rory? After all, this is your campus. What right do they have to be here, anyway?”
President Brennan chewed on his lip. “To tell the truth, Coe, I don’t know what I can do. I’ll talk to the chief when we’re done here. It seems overly dramatic, but I guess there’s not much excitement in small towns, and the chief’s determined to look as good as the police he sees on television.”
Silently, I thanked Gabby for her quick action this morning, but decided I’d keep quiet about my earlier access to the originals and the fact that I had a copy of Saylor’s handwritten notes in the briefcase sitting next to my chair.
The president turned to me. “Perhaps you’re right, Danielle. It would be best to do what you can from San Francisco for the moment. If you need anything from us, call
my assistant or the young woman from the development office for help. We can finish this up early next week.”
Margoletti spoke up. “If not sooner. Ms. O’Rourke, if I can help in any way, please don’t hesitate to call. I don’t think you’ll need a lot of what I assume is voluminous research, but if there is anything more you need, you can come directly to me.” He handed me a thick, cream-colored business card. “My office can find me on a moment’s notice. I want this process to go smoothly. We all want the same thing, don’t we?”
The men stood as I picked up my briefcase. This might be the only time I had to ask, and I blurted out the question that was bothering me before I had fully weighed the wisdom of asking.
“I’m a bit confused, Mr. Margoletti. I understood you were playing with him when Mr. Saylor died, and now I realize all three of you were there. Was it you who called for help when he fell into the pond? Or,” turning to include Coe Anderson and Rory Brennan, “any of you?” What I really wanted to ask was how did a grown and presumably healthy man manage to drown in what Coe Anderson had assured me was shallow water, but I wasn’t brave enough to go that far.
The dean jumped in, ready to be offended. “Of course not. I was shocked when that young woman burst into my office to say he was dead. I had no idea when Rory and I left the clubhouse that he’d been taken ill.”
The president murmured his agreement and Margoletti’s brow furrowed while the corners of his thin mouth turned down. “Unfortunately, none of us was with him.” He turned to include Coe and the president. “The four of us played together and went to the bar for drinks after. But Larry had messed up at that hole and decided to go back on his own after the last scheduled foursome had played through and see if he couldn’t improve his performance. He left us right as we were ordering a second round.”
I glanced at the two other men, who had adopted the same serious looks. Coe hadn’t mentioned having been on the course with either Saylor or Margoletti when we met earlier and I wondered why not. Surely, he would have worked the prominent man’s name into the conversation. “Who did find him, then?”
Mixed Up With Murder Page 4
