by Leslie Meier
“Right, Ted.” Lucy twirled her chair around to face her computer. Soon she was clicking away on her keyboard, transcribing her notes from the finance committee meeting. It was all very predictable; sometimes she felt she was writing the same story week after week. The town manager presented a budget and the finance committee members tore it apart, demanding to know why the highway department was spending so much on office supplies or why the school board was buying grass seed. The town manager’s response was always the same: “I’ll look into it and get back to you.” And so it went, week after week, leaving her mind free to roam.
And roam it did. She couldn’t stop thinking about Maxine and how indignant she’d been the day she came into the Pennysaver office with her accusations against the Three Pigs, as she’d called them. It was easy then to dismiss her as slightly cracked or even self-interested, but now it seemed she was on to something. The same went for the scene at the funeral. Miss Manners might well term her behavior inappropriate, but Lucy believed Maxine’s accusations came from deep conviction. She’d believed that something was not right at Pine Point and she wanted to fix it, and that was an impulse that Lucy understood and even shared.
Abandoning the finance committee story, she did a quick computer search and found Juliette’s website. It had been professionally produced and featured lots of photos which drifted across the screen in a seemingly endless slide show. After gazing at those enormous eyes, that perfect nose, and those gorgeous cheekbones for a few minutes, Lucy clicked on CONTACT JULIETTE, getting a modeling agency. Lucy doubted very much they would provide her with Juliette’s phone number, but she hoped they might pass along a message, so she called them.
“John Gale Agency,” announced a female voice with a distinct New York accent.
“I’m Lucy Stone with the Pennysaver newspaper in Tinker’s Cove, Maine. I’m trying to reach Juliette Duff.”
“What’s this in regard to?” demanded the voice.
“I’m looking for information about her mother—for her obituary.”
“Did you say obituary?”
“Yes. Juliette’s mother, Maxine Carey, was in an automobile accident. Her body was found this morning.”
“My God!”
Lucy’s heart was sinking, realizing she’d gotten ahead of herself. Horowitz had found Maxine’s purse, complete with driver’s license, but that wasn’t enough for an official identification. It was possible, indeed likely, that Juliette didn’t know about her mother’s death. She certainly didn’t want to be the one to tell her. “I can leave a number and she can call me when she’s ready,” suggested Lucy, hoping to buy some time.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. She’s on a photo shoot somewhere in Peru. Really remote, up in the mountains. No phones, no cell phones, no Internet, nothing.”
Lucy let out a long sigh of relief. “For how long?”
“Hard to say. Wim Wilson is the photographer and he’s, well, an artiste. He’ll go to hell and back to get the right shot, and take everybody with him.” She sighed. “Poor Juliette. She left right after her father’s funeral and now her mother is gone, too? It’s not going to be a very nice homecoming, is it?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” said Lucy, finding the receptionist surprisingly talkative and fishing for more information.. “Have the police called? Juliette is her mother’s next of kin.”
“Just before you,” said the receptionist. “They didn’t say what it was about and I figured it was a traffic ticket, something like that. Juliette drives like a maniac. I told them the same as I told you, she’s in Peru, in the mountains.”
For a moment, Lucy pictured Horowitz trudging up a rock-strewn path panting as he chased Juliette through thin air in a treeless landscape. “There must be some way they can reach her,” she said.
“Well, if there is, I don’t know it,” said the receptionist. “Have a nice day.”
Ted was on it before Lucy could replace the phone in its cradle. “Is there a problem?”
“I can’t reach Juliette. She’s in Peru, on a photo shoot.”
Phyllis’s penciled eyebrows rose in surprise. “Peru!”
Ted knit his brows together. “When will she be back?”
“Not until the photographer is satisfied.”
For once, Ted was speechless. “Humph,” was all he could manage.
Bob Goodman had hired a function room at the Best Western out by the interstate for his press conference and had even provided several vats of coffee and a mountain of Danish, but he could have saved the expense. Only a handful of reporters showed up on Tuesday morning and Lucy recognized them all when she and Ted arrived. There was Pete Withers from the Portland Press, Bob Mayes who was a stringer for the Boston Globe, and Deb Hildreth from the local Gilead Enterprise. The TV stations had all passed, but there was a kid from the radio station at the community college, a good-looking kid with a shaved head, fiddling with a fancy recording setup.
Ted went straight to the refreshment table where he got busy talking shop with Mayes and Withers. Lucy took a seat in the front row, next to Deb, where she was soon joined by Rachel. “Wow, this is disappointing,” Rachel said. “You’d think there’d be more interest in the mistreatment of one of the country’s wealthiest women.”
“Don’t despair,” said Lucy. “The editors haven’t put two and two together. They don’t realize it’s about VV.”
“It said ‘elder abuse’ right in the press release,” said Rachel.
“Yeah,” agreed Deb. “But it led with the wrongful dismissal suit. I bet they didn’t read past that.”
“Really?” asked Rachel, raising her eyebrows.
“Really,” said Lucy. “But never fear—when we break this story, all hell is going to break loose. Trust me. Inside Edition will be calling before you’ve had your first cup of coffee tomorrow morning, and Nancy Grace will, too.”
“I hope so,” said Rachel.
Lucy patted her hand, pretty sure that this was one of those instances where getting what you wished for turned out to be more than you’d bargained for. Rachel and Bob were not prepared for the media storm that Lucy sensed was coming, as surely as she knew when a hurricane was brewing. “My advice is turn off your phone when you go to bed. Unplug it or you won’t be getting any sleep.”
Rachel looked doubtful and Lucy added a knowing nod for emphasis and pulled her notebook out of her purse. Opening the notebook, she jotted down the time and place, then glanced around the room, waiting for the show to begin.
A long table with a number of microphones was set up in the front of the room and promptly at nine-thirty Bob Goodman along with Willis, Andrew Duff, and Peter Reilly filed in and sat down. Bob looked as if he’d been burning the candle at both ends; he had puffy circles under his eyes and he was hunched forward, which made his suit jacket seem too big. He glanced nervously at Rachel, receiving a big smile and a thumbs up, and then he straightened his shoulders. Then he tapped the mike a few times. The reporters who’d been standing by the refreshment table quickly took their seats, and he proceeded to introduce the others.
“As I stated in the press release, the purpose of this conference is to announce a civil suit by James Willis against Victoria and Henry Allen and their attorney, George Weatherby. Mr. Willis alleges he was wrongfully dismissed from his position as butler to Vivian Van Vorst, who resides at Pine Point in Tinker’s Cove. Mr. Willis states he has served his employer, known as VV, faithfully for some thirty-seven years.
“Mr. Willis claims he was dismissed, against Mrs. Van Vorst’s wishes by Mr. and Mrs. Allen because he interfered with their efforts to take control of Mrs. Van Vorst’s fortune, estimated to be well over a hundred million dollars.”
It was that phrase, hundred million dollars, that got their attention. Suddenly, coffee cups and Danish were set aside in favor of tape recorders and notepads as the reporters sensed a really big story. Lucy had experienced it before in press conferences when the humdrum and routine suddenly became a
riveting story. You could feel it in the air, which suddenly became electric; you could see it in the body language of the reporters, who were leaning forward, hanging on every word.
“Mr. Willis also alleges that the Allens, abetted by their attorney George Weatherby, continually harassed Mrs. Van Vorst, a frail ninety-two-year-old widow, demanding that she sign numerous documents that were against her interests. The Allens have in this way seized control of various properties, including Mrs. Van Vorst’s Beacon Hill townhouse, as well as various trusts and investments.
“In addition, the Allens have stripped Pine Point of numerous works of art, including Mrs. Van Vorst’s prized sculpture, Jelly Beans, by the modern master Karl Klaus. Some of these works were subsequently auctioned and the proceeds claimed by the Allens. Jelly Beans, which Mrs. Van Vorst always intended to give to the Museum of Fine Arts, is now in Saudi Arabia, sold in a private sale negotiated by George Weatherby, who retained the proceeds.
“Furthermore, Mr. Willis, along with Mr. Peter Reilly and Mr. Andrew Duff, have all witnessed a deterioration in Mrs. Van Vorst’s living arrangements and standard of care. Staff at Pine Point has been reduced to the point where the house is not properly maintained. Deliveries of flowers have been discontinued, meals are substandard, even laundry and trash removal have been reduced in frequency.”
Bob’s voice rose as he declared: “Vivian Van Vorst, who was formerly one of the region’s most generous benefactors and who gave unstinting support to numerous charitable organizations, is now confined to a filthy bed, denied fresh linens and nightclothes, is subsisting on an inadequate diet completely devoid of fresh food, and is even refused the company and consolation of her beloved pet dogs, Yum-Yum and Nanki-Poo.
“This is an intolerable situation and we are demanding that the district attorney immediately begin an investigation of these allegations of financial misconduct and elder abuse by the three individuals named: Victoria Allen, Henry Allen, and George Weatherby. We are confident that an investigation will result in criminal charges and will hopefully restore Mrs. Van Vorst to an acceptable level of comfort and care. Thank you. Now we will take questions.”
“Who exactly are these Allens?” asked Pete Withers from the Portland Press.
“Mrs. Allen is Mrs. Van Vorst’s granddaughter, and she is the daughter of Mr. Duff, who is present here today, and his ex-wife, also named Vivian, who is Mrs. Van Vorst’s daughter.”
“This question is for Mr. Duff. Is it true you’re alleging your own daughter is abusing her grandmother?” asked Withers.
“I’m afraid so,” said Andrew Duff slowly, his cheeks reddening. “It is not something I want to do, but I find that I must. I cannot sit idly by and allow this situation to continue. I am very fond of VV and her present living conditions are intolerable.”
“So how much was VV paying Mr. Willis?” asked Bob Mayes, the Globe stringer. Lucy knew he always got down to business, asking the tough questions.
“I earned seventy-eight thousand a year, plus room and board,” said Willis.
“No wonder you’re suing,” said Mayes, who earned much less, along with most everyone in Maine.
Bob was ready to defend his client. “I might remind you that a trained butler like Mr. Willis could expect to earn much more; according to the most recent figures I could find, the going rate for a top-notch butler is well over six figures annually. Mr. Willis was content to earn less because of his affection for VV and their long-standing relationship.”
“Am I hearing this right? Mr. Willis and VV had a relationship?” asked Deb Hildreth.
“An employer-employee relationship. Nothing improper, I assure you,” said Bob.
“What’s with the jelly beans?” asked the kid from the community college. “They don’t cost much, they’re reduced now. You can get a bag for twenty-five cents.”
Bob was smiling. “Jelly Beans is a sculpture that graced Mrs. Van Vorst’s foyer for many years; it is a work by the acclaimed sculptor Karl Klaus. Mrs. Van Vorst was one of the first to recognize Klaus’s genius. His works now go for millions of dollars. The work was promised to the Museum of Fine Arts, but we believe it was sold to a Saudi citizen instead. That’s one reason why we’re asking the DA to investigate.”
“What is Mr. Reilly’s relationship to Mrs. Van Vorst?” asked Ted.
“I am a former son-in-law,” he said, smiling genially. “I was also married to Little Viv.”
“The same Vivian as him?” asked Withers, rudely pointing to Andrew Duff.
Peter was unfazed, still smiling. “The very same.”
“And how much is the old lady worth? Can you tell me again?” asked Mayes, once again going straight to the heart of the matter.
“Something in the neighborhood of a hundred million dollars,” said Bob.
“And they won’t give her clean sheets?” asked Deb, struggling to understand.
“Only once a week,” said Willis. “And then the top sheet goes on the bottom. She gets one clean sheet and one clean pillowcase a week.”
“Well, it is better for the environment,” said Deb. “Less laundry, less nitrogen in the water.”
“I don’t believe the environment is a concern here,” said Willis, in a voice so dry Lucy expected it to crack.
Lucy raised her hand. “What do you hope to achieve? What would be the best possible outcome?”
Bob gave her a grateful smile. “The best outcome would be that Mr. Willis goes back to Pine Point and takes complete control of the house and provides a proper and appropriate standard of care for Mrs. Van Vorst. As for the criminal allegations, we expect a full investigation. It’s up to the DA to decide what steps to take after that, but we expect charges will ultimately be brought against the Allens and Weatherby. If that happens, we expect the court to dismiss the Allens as Mrs. Van Vorst’s legal guardians and to name a new guardian.”
“Who would that be?” asked Lucy.
“That would be up to the court,” said Bob. He looked around and saw no more raised hands. “Thank you all for coming,” he said. “And, please, take some of those Danish.”
When Ted and Lucy got back to the Pennysaver, the expected media storm was already brewing. The phones were ringing constantly, e-mails were streaming in, and the fax machine was spewing out sheet after sheet. Phyllis was doing her best to keep up with it all, but she was clearly overwhelmed.
Ted quickly assessed the situation. “Phyllis, you handle the fax and anybody who comes in; Lucy, you keep an eye on the e-mails and don’t forget those stories I need. I’ll handle the phones.” He sat down and reached for the phone, then slapped his hand to his forehead. “We’ve got to get something on our website.”
“I’ll do it,” said Lucy. “I’ll write something up quick.”
The Pennysaver office was usually pretty quiet, so Lucy found it exhilarating to be in the center of a breaking story. She pounded out her version of the press conference and posted it, then turned to the e-mails. She could hear Ted taking the calls, dismissing inquiries from other news outlets as politely as he could and chatting up the callers who had new information. From time to time, scraps of conversation penetrated her thought processes: You were a cleaner at Pine Point and you saw Vicky kick Nanki-Poo? You recently sold Henry a Rolex watch? Your brother used to cut the grass at Pine Point but he was fired? You work at Walmart and you’re sure you helped Vicky find some cheap track suits for her grandmother? When was that?
On and on it went, with callers reporting large and small instances of bad behavior by Vicky and Henry. They may have thought they were insulated and protected in their chauffeur-driven limousine or behind the gates at Pine Point; they may have thought they were anonymous on the streets of Beacon Hill; they may have thought the townhouse was private and secure. But they were mistaken. Now it seemed everyone from the Merry Maids who cleaned the townhouse to the bank teller who cashed their checks to a shoe salesman at Neiman Marcus had tales to tell. Even a few members of the boards at the Muse
um of Fine Arts and the Boston Ballet were eager to dish about Vicky’s bad manners.
Only Weatherby leaped to their defense.
“Wow, that was fast,” said Lucy, firing up the printer. “Weatherby has already issued a response.” She handed Ted a copy.
“Figures,” snorted Ted. “He says the sale of Jelly Beans was entirely necessary to enable VV to stay in the comfort and familiar surroundings of her own beloved home in light of recent stock market losses. He claims Mr. and Mrs. Allen have no motive other than preserving and protecting VV’s assets so she may enjoy a peaceful and pleasant environment in her final days.”
“Good luck with that,” said Lucy, who had followed a tip to check out You Tube. There she found a video of Vicky, clad in a leopard-skin coat, arguing with a waiter on one side of a split screen. The other side showed a frail VV, clad in the same coat, getting out of a limousine. “This video makes it look like Vicky’s actually snatched the leopard coat off poor VV’s aged back.”
Phyllis leaned over her shoulder, studying the computer screen. “Talk about nerve,” she fumed.
“It might’ve been a gift,” said Lucy, clicking the mouse. “Oh, here we go. A tiara!”
“Check out those earrings,” said Phyllis, who loved bling. “I think VV was wearing them with the leopard coat.”
A few clicks and they were watching VV get out of the limo once again, wearing a fabulous pair of diamond and pearl earrings that Lucy recognized. “She wore those a lot. I’ve seen her wear them at the Easter egg hunt.”
“Not anymore,” said Phyllis. “Now Vicky wears them.”
“How much do you think they’re worth?” asked Lucy, deferring to Phyllis’s expertise.
“Depends,” said Phyllis, zooming in for a close-up. “Those are some pretty hunky diamonds; ’course, they might not be top quality. It’s hard to tell from the photo, but conservatively speaking, I’d say a couple hundred thousand, minimum.”
“Interesting,” mused Lucy, who was flipping through her notebook, looking for the notes she’d taken at the finance committee meeting. “One pair of earrings would cover the entire middle school budget shortfall. If they can’t find the money, they’re going to fire an art teacher, a couple of teacher’s aides, and one part-time maintenance man.” She sighed. “Puts it all in perspective, doesn’t it?”
