Inheritance

by Judith Michael

  **Oh, shit, did I forget to tell you about that? Right. I didn't like the way he worked, he didn't know how to take orders, so I let him go. I thought, when I'm in Chicago this weekend I'd talk to some of the guys on the security sti^ and bring one of them here next week. If that's okay with you."

  "I thought we agreed you wouldn't fire anyone without checking with me."

  "Right, we did. I should have. He really got to me. I'm sorry, Laura; it won't happen again, I promise. I do know who I'm woiking for: a wonderful lady who's understanding and tolerant and very loving to her brother. You should meet her sometime; you'd like her."

  Laura smiled. "I don't want it happening again, Clay."

  "Right. Is it okay if I have my breakfast now?"

  "Clay, for heaven's sake—! You don't have to ask permission; go get your breakfast. Here, don't forget these reports."

  He gave her a small salute, took some food from the refrigerator and left. Laura rested her head on her hand and gazed out the window. She shouldn't have reacted that way to his joke about breakfast. But he made her feel frustrated and impatient just when she wanted to rely on him. One minute he was a man, handling a job that was already complicated and would get more so as they opened the three hotels that were all being renovated at the same time; the next he was a little boy looking gleeful over the chance to get away from the office for a week. He was smart but lazy, and he resisted growing up. It was one of the reasons she still did not confide in him. When they had dinner together. Clay told her about his giris, his loft, even his card games, since she no longer criticized him for them, but he asked few questions about her and none about the finances of the business that she ran and he worked for.

  Laura knew he didn't want details; he didn't want to worry OT know that she had worries. In many ways, he liked being her little brother. Or a son, she thought; children don't want to know if their parents have worries, either.

  But maybe that was partly her fault. K Clay liked being a

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  little brother or a son, she liked being an older sister or even a mother; it made her feel as if she had a real family. And even if he did ask about her finances, she probably wouldn*t tell him very much since she really confided only in Cunier about money. Not even in Ginny, though she knew she could.

  Ginny asked no questions about money. She and Laura talked about almost everything else, and she figured when Laura wanted to talk to her about money, she*d do it on her own. She could even ask me to invest in OWL Development, Ginny thought as she stopped at Laura's office to pick her up. It*s probably a good investment. But there aren't many times when friendship and money make a good mix, so we'll let that go, too.

  *'I just had an idea," Laura said as she sat beside her in her limousine. *Tell me what you think of it."

  It was one of the hottest days of August, but air conditioning kept the gray velvet luxury of the limousine cool and quiet as they drove from Laura's hotel to Greenwich Village. A foldout silver tray with iced Perrier and lime was in front of them, and Ginny was filling their glasses. She handed one to Laura, noting the brightness of her eyes. "You always have an idea," she said. "Or a dozen. What's this one?"

  "Well, I do have a few. Shall I save the best for last?" Her smile was mischievous, secretive, pleased with herself and the world. Ginny smiled back. No one could help but smile back when Laura looked like that. In fact, Ginny had never met anyone whose excitement was as contagious as hers. As Laura talked about the design of the suites in the hotel and the antique wardrobes in the corridors that would hold linen and cleaning supplies so maids would not have to push unwieldy, unlovely carts around, she was so involved in what she was saying that her face lost its cool reticence and glowed with pleasure. Shoot, Ginny thought, a man ought to nuike her look like that, not a hotel. But of course it was more than a hotel: it was Laura's work, her dream, almost her whole Ufe.

  "Now—are you ready for this?—the best ictea of all," Laura said, her smile wide and happy. "I really want your opinion of it."

  "You already told me it's the best of all," Ginny murmured.

  Laura laughed. "I want to make the New York Beacon Hill

  Judith Michael

  so exclusive that no one can stay in it without a recommendation from a former guest."

  There was a silence. Ginny contemplated her. "Very bold. Very risky. Very clever. There's a little place in London that does that, and I must say, it's comforting, even for a tough Texan who can take anything, to know you're sleeping in a bed that's only been slept in by somebody you know or have heard of."

  *T'm counting on others feeling that way, too," Laura said. She leaned forward, filled with nervous energy, as if she could push the limousine faster down Seventh Avenue, through the crowded garment district where men pushing racks of clothing made better time than they did. The chauffeur calmly swung the wheel, slipping between a car and a delivery truck, weaving around a taxi picking up a fare and another letting one off, and in a few minutes passed Madison Square Garden and then was in Chelsea, where the traffic eased and he could speed up.

  Watching Laura's nervous energy, Giimy shook her head. "What're you going to do with yourself when you finish your hotelsr

  **Oh, buy another one, maybe. Or, better yet . . ." She hesitated, as if she were still unsure of hersetf. **rve been thinking the past few weeks—and I haven't told anyone yet, not even Wes—what I'd really like to do when I've got the hotels running smoothly . . . what I really want is to buy into the Salinger Corporation."

  Ginny stared at her. Still wanting to even scores, she thought, and be as big as Owen told her she could be. When the blue-eyed devil would Laura start to live just for herself? She'd told Ginny the story about the Salingers soon after the Chicago Beacon Hill opened, when Ginny was spending a lot of time in Chicago, trying to mother h^. She h»£i't made it a long story, and she hadn't told it with a lot of emotion, but Ginny had gotten the picture: there was plenty of emotion there, even after all this time, especiaUy about Faul. Laura had talked about him even more briefly than about his family, which made Ginny sure she was still in love widi him, since stories tend to get longer the more removed we aie from tibe subject. But to try to buy into the family conqKUiy . . . that seemed to be going a mite too far.

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  "What for?" she asked bluntly. "You'd he damned uncom-d fortable sitting on that board with your few little votes against b tbt rest of them."

  "Fd be part of the company, the way I was supposed to be. ] I'd be voting the way I think Owen would."

  "And if you don't know how he'd vote?"

  "I'd vote the way I want."

  "Well, that part is sensible." Ginny thought for a minute. "Flying pretty high, honey."

  "I didn't say I could do it. I only said I want to."

  "So far, what you've wanted you've managed to get. But even if you found somebody to sell you some shares, my guess is you'd need a heap of money."

  "It's a long way off, Ginny. I'm just thinking about it."

  "A lot, sounds like. Well, keep me informed about your thinking."

  "I will." She sat forward again, picking out familiar land-maiks as they drove. "Almost there. I hope you like it; it's the only place I've seen that I'd really like to live in."

  **Tlien what do you care whether I like it or not?" Ginny asked.

  "I need your sharp eye. The rent is too low, so there may be something wrong with the house that I'm not seeing."

  "But hasn't Wes seen it?'

  Laura nodded. "He says I should take it. But I want to know what you think."

  In the Village, the chauffeur parked on Grove Street, and Ginny and Laura walked throu^ a narrow passage between two bouses to a small cobblestone court lined with a solid row of narrow, three-story brick houses, white-shutteied, looking out on gnarled trees where birds sang. "My God," Ginny tneadied. "Who would have thought—T'

  "Wes found it," Laura said. She opened one of the doors with a key. "It's empty; t
he owner is in Europe for two years. If I don't rent it by tonight, I have to return the key."

  **Or it turns back into a pumpkin," Ginny murmured. She followed Laura, who flew up and down the stairs, pointing out details preserved from the 1830 construction, her face bright with excitement. Ginny's heels clicked »naitly on the pine plank floors as her shrewd glance appraised the new kitchen,

  Judith Michael

  the four fireplaces, the large bedroom on the third floor, and the roof garden, bare from neglect but bordered with planters ready for flowers, and tubs where small trees could grow. *'One in a million,** she pronounced when they returned to the living room on the second floor. "And that*s about what it would cost to buy. What's the rentT*

  *Two thousand a month," Laura said.

  **In^)ossible. They could get three times that."

  *That*s what I said. It's too low."

  Ginny perched on a windowsill. The house was very small: living room, dining room, library, kitchen, bedroom. But the kitchen and baths were new, there was a finished basement, plus those four fireplaces and the roof garden. And the privacy of Grove Court.

  It also had Currier's approval. And that was the answer, Ginny suddenly thought. It seemed likely that Wes Currier's check made up the (fifference between what the owner was asking and the rent Laura would be charged.

  Of course I don't know that for sure, Ginny thought. And neither does Laura, even though she may wonder about it. So I surely won't be the one to bring it up.

  She had known the minute she stepped into Grove Court diat this was the place where Laura should live. It reminded her of Laura's description of the compound on Cape Cod; it was reminiscent of the narrow, shaded streets of Beacon Hill, and also the DePaul neighborhood in Chicago where Laura had lived. She was making it big in a tough business, Ginny thought, and she'd come to one of the toughest cities in tte worid, but she was happiest in small, enclosed places: small towns, family enclaves, close-knit neighborhoods. That was what she needed, a place to belong. She needed Grove Court.

  "'It might not be all that strange," she said to Laura. *There are owners who'll take a lower rent if they know diey're getting a tenant with top credentials, somebody who'll take care of the place like their very own."

  Laura nodded slowly. "But it may be that Wes is— **

  *1 very much doubt it," Ginny said briskly. "I think this is die place for you and you ought to grab it."

  Laura walked the length of the living room to the front windows and looked up as the brilliant red of a cardinal

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  flashed across the courtyard, from one tree to another. A nanny walked by, shepherding a small child pedaling a wooden car; behind them a spaniel bounded into view, followed by an elderly woman, reading as she walked, a leash looped over her arm. Home. For as long as I can stay.

  **Thank you," she said, turning from the window. Her face bright again, she put her arms around Ginny and kissed her. *1 love it when you give good advice. And I love you. Will you be my first dinner guest? As soon as I buy some furniture, that

  IS."

  itT»^

  *rd be privileged. And let me help pick out your fumitore. Next to spending my own money, there's nothing I like better tfian spending somebody else's. You'll want a long sofa here, with an oversize coffee table—oh, shoot." She looked sheepishly at Laura. "I'm sounding like Wes, aren't I? Trying to take over what's really your project. I'll stop; I won't say anodierword."

  "Not quite like Wes," Laura laughed. "He doesn't stop so easily. But I'd like to have you help me. Can you do it this week? I want to move in as soon as possible."

  "I can do it tomorrow. Ten o'clock? I'll pick you up at your office."

  But there was a brief delay the next morning at ten, because, just as Ginny arrived, Laura's telephone rang.

  "I'U just be a minute," she told Ginny and picked it up.

  "Hi, there, sweetheart, how are you, it's Britt." His voice was loud and excited. "I'm calling to invite you to my party."

  Chapter 23

  THE third theft was in Palm Springs on the first day of September. Clay had told Laura he would be in Los Angeles for the Labor Day weekend, visiting friends. It was an easy drive from the city to Palm Springs, and to the sprawling house screened by tdl trees and manicured shrubs where he made his surefooted way, first to the living room and then to the master bedroom. It was nine-thirty at night: the hour always full on the datebook he had found in Amelia Laughton's purse; the hour when the residents of Palm Springs were busy entertaining or being enteitained; tbt hour when daiimess hid Clay*s passage through the house and his gloved hands as they gently lifted paintings from the Laughtons* walls. He workSd swiftly, whistling softly as he stacked the paintings beside the door. Then, because he felt so terrific, he added a pair of Durer prints he decided he wanted just for himself. And when he was through, he drove sedately through the hushed streets, amiably saluting a chauffeur in a black Mercedes who was gazing in boredom at the sky.

  Three weeks later, Sid and Amelia Laughton told everyone about the robbery at Britt Farley's celebration party in a Manhattan mansion Louie had rented for the occasion.

  "One Picasso," Amelia said to Emily Janssen and anyone else who cared to listen. "A Mir6, three late Braques and a pair of Diirer prints. It is too revolting; the oidy week all summer our couple took a vacation and left the house en^ty— **

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  "No sign of a break-in," Sid replied to a question. 'They had a key. And the code for the alann system— "

  "And knew our couple would be gone that week/* said Amelia, plucking a shrimp from a tray as a waiter passed within reach.

  **Or were watching the house," said Sid. "Hard to tell; we don't have any clues. Anyway, they knew what they wanted: they went straight to the paintings; didn't touch another tiling."

  **The only bright side," said Amelia, "is that the pohce aren't the only ones investigating it; the insurance company brought their top man in: very experienced, very dedicated, very determined. We've talked to him twice and I was impressed: if anyone can track down the thieves, he can."

  There was a stir at the door as Britt Fariey arrived. "Late for his own party," Amelia murmured. "But it is a grand entrance, isn't it?"

  He wore a white tuxedo with a red tie and cunmieibund, and over it a white cape lined in red, and as he stood in the doorway, surveying his guests, he looked like the ruler of a mythical kingdom waiting for his subjects to bow. "Well, why not?" Amelia said, and swept him a deep, flourishing curtsy.

  Laughter filled the room. Britt threw Amelia a &s as his guests crowded around him, congratulating him on the tour, telling him how wonderful he looked, asking about his plans. The Laughtons' robbery was forgotten, as well as a good deal of other gossip; everything revolved around Britt. Among themselves, the guests said he didn't look good: he'd lost weight, his face was gaunt and pouchy, and hS eyes were too shiny and fixedly staring: he was on something. But none of tbem said it very loudly, and no one said it in his vicinity. Instead tbey touched him and stroked him and made him feel like a star.

  At the other end of the silk-hung recq^tion room, Paul stood al(Hie beside the bar, watching. The tour had ended four weeks before with a record anoount raised for the hungiy, more than half of it from the hugely successful ccmcert in WEtthington. The publicity had been heavy and favorable, but no call had come inviting Farley to star in a new television series, and little by litde he had sunk fiom high expectations

  Judith Michael

  to brooding indifference. It was Louie who made all the arrangements for the party. '1 wanted to cancel it/' he told Paul, '*but he wouldn't let me. He's up one minute and down the next, and when he's up, he wants to star in something and this party is it, and he isn't giving it up."

  It was a good thing the film was almost finished, Paul thought. The few interviews he still needed, and the editing, did not involve Britt at all.

  But despite Farley's mood swings, his party would be a s
uccess bemuse that was what everyone wanted, and New Yorkers were wonderfully adept at turning parties to their own purposes. Everyone would stroke and praise Britt Farley, hold his attention, stay close to him, and be seen as his intimate friend so that whatever followed—a comeback as a world star or the end of his career—they could talk about it as insiders. That was why they were there.

  And why am I here? Paul wondered. Because Britt and Lx)uie both had asked him, because Emily wanted to come, because he had two cameramen filming the party in case there was something diey could use, but mainly because—

  And then he saw her.

  She was in white, her shoulders and arms bare, her chesmut hair gleaming red-bronze in the bright light. It was cut short —Paul had never imagined her with short hair—and skillfully shaped to frame her b^uty, emphasizing her wide-spaced eyes and warm mouth, making her look older and more sophisticated. But she is older and more sophisticated, he told himself; it's been six years . . .

  Ife gazed at her, catching quick glimpses as the crowd between them shifted, trying to match her image to his memories. Ife felt the past blur and slip away, imd the stimning woman in the doorway seemed more and mcne a stranger.

  He saw someone greet her and introduce a friend. Laura smiled at than. And with that smile, the past swept over Paul in a torrent
  I

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  by waiters struggling to move. Everyone shifted, parting and coming together, blocking Paul's way.

  When he reached the doorway she was gone. It took him a minute to find her, enveloped in Farley's arms. "God, Laura, am I glad you're here!" Farley boomed. "You're late!"

  "I couldn't get away from the office any earlier. Britt, what's wrong?"

  He looked down at her, his arms still around her. "Meaning?"