"The other one was ten years ago, Daddy,** Allison said. "If it*s the same person, he's awfully patient.**
**Or she is.**
Allison spun on him. "We don*t know anything,*' she said vehemently. "It*s just a coincidence and we all hate it, but there isn't anything we can do except hire a watchman, and Motfaer*s already done that."
Felix did more: he had all the locks changed and spotlights installed at the front and back of the house. However, the neigjibors objected to the blinding lights, so they were removed. In tiie end, the new locks and a private watchman had
Inheritance
to satisfy him, and soon the robbery faded into the background. No one had been hurt, as Owen had been in the first robbery, and the paintings were insured. Besides, an insurance investigator had called to tell them he was working on the case and would be coming to the Cape to interview them; perhaps the paintings would be recovered. Although, as Leni said, none of her jewelry, except one bracelet, had ever been found; her necklace, the piece she had most loved and longed to have back, had not turned up even though she had advertised a reward for its return. They couldn't count on anything being found, ever.
*That*s correct," Sam Colby said when he talked to them a week later. They were sitting on the broad veranda of Leni's house and Colby sat back, stretching out his legs, admiring the view. "You can't count on anything. A lot of these thefts are conmiissioned by— **
"Conmiissioned!" Ben exclaimed.
"Right. By private collectors who know where the art is. They go to auctions, they have friends in art galleries who tip tiiem off when a major painting is sold, and so on, and they hire thieves to steal what they want. Sometimes they use a broker to find the thieves; it keeps them one step removed from the theft. Whichever, the art ends up in private collections all over the world, and it's never seen again, except by a few friends of the collector. And nobody talks. Why should they? Maybe someday they'll want some art that somebody else owns, and they're not about to make it harder for themselves by blowing the whistle on a friend who's done it."
"I've heard of that," Allison said. "Some of our customers in the gallery know people who've had paintings stolen, and they never ^ow up at auctions or estate sales so everyone assumes they're locked up in someone's home."
"Exactly." Colby beamed. "Well, now, Mrs. Salinger, these Rouaults that were taken from your home, let's talk about them. Where did you buy them?"
He led Leni through a history of the paintings, the security system in the town house, the testimony of the housekeeper, and then her own schedule. "How often are you there?"
**Quite a bit. Less this summer, of course, but usually I spend several days a week there."
Judith Michael
"But your home is in Boston?" *
"Beverly—it's a suburb of Boston,'* she corrected him gently. "But actually I have two homes. I'm on a number of boards in New York—hospitals and museums and so on— and I enjoy the theater and the concerts, so it's convenient for me to be there."
"So you have a schedule that other people would know?"
"Some of the time. I often make up my mind at the last minute. Sometimes I travel from New York without coming back to Boston, or I travel from Boston; it varies."
"Trips to other countries?"
"Sometimes."
"And you stay with friends or in hotels?"
"Both."
"You stay in your family hotels when you travel?"
"Always."
"Except once," Allison murmured.
"Well, yes," Leni said. "Once I stayed in a Beacon Hill hotel. But that was unusual."
"Why did you stay in a Beacon Hill hotel?"
*To find out what it was like. It's new; we're always looking for new ideas for our hotels."
"And where was that?"
"In New Yoric."
Colby nodded. "Now then, your board meetings. Your trips may be on the spur of the moment, but your meetings are regular, is that right? Second Tuesday of every month; that sort of thing?"
"Yes, except for special ones."
"And you have a calendar where you write them down? Hanging on the refrigerator in the kitchen? Or in the hall next to the phone?"
Leni smiled. "I'm afraid I'm not in the kitchen often enough to keep a calendar there. I have a desk calendar in Boston and one in New York."
"Nothing else?"
"No. Well, of course, my own date book."
"Date book. All your meetings and luncheons and so on?"
"Yes."
"Anything else?"
Inheritance
"No."
"Not, for example, the code for the alarm in your house?"
"Oh. Yes, I think it is. I don't know why I write it down every year when I get a new book—^I know it by heart—but I do."
"Most people do; you'd be surprised. Anything else? Money machine code?"
"I'm afraid I keep that, too, but it's in my checkbook."
"So there's nothing else in your date book."
"No. Yes. The combination for the wall safe in the study. But none of this helps, you know; the date book and my checkbook are always in my purse."
"And always with you?"
"Always."
"Even when you change purses?"
"Of course."
"You change outfits; you take everything out of one purse —lipstick, comb, mirror, wallet, keys, date book, everything —and transfer them to a purse that matches the new outfit?"
"Exactly."
"But when you go out at night, you only take a small purse? No room for keys and date book and so on?"
"Yes."
"So everybody on the staff of your Boston house and your New York house has access to the date book. Not to mention your keys."
"I have absolute confidence in my staff."
"I understand. But someone knew you wouldn't be in your town house at four-thirty in the morning of July second."
"What's that?" Ben asked. "How do you know the time? No one's mentioned it."
"A neighbor saw somebody at the door at four-thirty. She was getting ready to go running as soon as it got light, and she saw him."
"Him," Ben repeated. "Everyone's always said *they.'"
"Well, there might have been more than one. The neighbor only saw one man. He could have had accomplices waiting somewhere."
The questioning went on: around and around Colby went, and the longer he pursued every angle, the more uncomfort-
Judith Michael ^
able Allison became. They'd been through this and it was hateful—all this suspicion—and she didn't want to have anything to do with it. When Colby began to ask about repairmen who came to the New York and Beverly houses, caterers Leni used regularly, friends who visited frequently, she excused herself and went to see if the nanny had gotten Judd up from his nap. She didn't believe anybody on the staff was involved; nobody they knew was involved. We should just leave it alone, she thought, walking upstairs to the nursery. We have so many more important things to think about. As soon as Colby leaves, we'll put it behind us, we'll forget it. We'll just leave it alone.
The fourth Beacon Hill hotel opened in early October, in Washington, D.C., when the city had awakened to the fall. Laura and Currier were both there, greeting regular guests and new ones who had heard of the Beacon Hill and booked months in advance when they knew it would be open when Congress was back in session. It was the smoothest opening of the four; Laura knew most of the pitfalls, and Kelly had worked harder than anyone to avoid them—^"so you'll keep me around," she told Laura as they had a drink together at the end of the day. "I didn't know how much I wanted to get off that island until I got off that island. Or maybe it was getting away from John and not having to feel guilty about liking hard work." She raised her glass. "Thanks. I'm having the time of my life."
Laura touched her glass to Kelly's. "You've done a wonderful job; I can't find anything to worry about."
"You will when we tsdk about some of the cost
overruns. But we're booked solid until Thanksgiving, so maybe we shouldn't be worrying about money."
"I always worry about money. I didn't hear about overruns."
"None of them was big enough to call you about, and they all piled up in the last three weeks when we were pushing to get open on time. We'll go over the books tomorrow morning; I don't think you'll find anything too surprising."
"I'm never surprised when things cost more than I thought they would," Laura said dryly. "Let's do the books day after tomorrow. We'll have enough tomorrow with the benefit."
Inheritance
The gala that officially opened the Washington Beacon Hill was a benefit for the symphony orchestra, held the first weekend the hotel was open. Five hundred people in politics, business, and the arts dined and danced in the penthouse ballroom, launching the city's social season and bringing the hotel a year's Worth of publicity in one evening. Laura took time out to dance the first dance with Currier. "You're looking especially lovely," he said. "I've always liked you best in white."
She smiled. "Thank you." She wore a white organza blouse with a demure collar, and an amber taffeta skirt that swirled behind her as they waltzed. "And you look sleek and satisfied," she said. "A new business triumph? Or a new woman?"
"Would you mind if it were a new woman?"
She was silent as they made a full turn about the floor. "A little, because I'd be a little envious. But that's all. I'm happy for you, Wes; I hope she's very good to you. Do I know her?"
"Yes, but I'd rather not tell you who it is until I know what will come of it. She's married, for one thing, though it hasn't been much of a marriage for a long time." He held her closer for a moment. "You're a lovely lady, my dear."
Laura flushed and kissed his cheek. "What a nice thing for a partner to say."
They finished the dance in silence. "Speaking of partners," Currier said as they left the dance floor, "I'd like to go over the books here before I leave. Is tomorrow morning ail right for your*
"Fine. I've akeady talked to Kelly about it. I'll be in her office at ten." She stopped. "Wes, Britt Farley just came in."
"Where?" He followed her look. "I'll be damned. I'll go talk to him; we may have to ask him to leave if he's going to make trouble."
"He doesn't look as if he would. He looks different. Better than I've ever seen him. I'll talk to him. Will you dance with Senator Brookstone's wife? She's sitting by herself, and she doesn't look happy about it."
'Then I'll try to make her happy. Thank you for the dance."
"It was lovely, Wes."
She skirted the dance floor and reached Farley at his table as he was ordering from a waiter. 'Two vodkas with tonic, easy on the vodka, and one white wine for the lady." He saw
Judith Michael
Laura and his face brightened. "I was watching you dance. You look gorgeous. Laura, this is my good friend Laura. Took me a while to realize that was my favorite name for a lady."
Laura and the young girl shook hands. "Sit with us," Farley said. "I know you're busy, but sit for five minutes."
She took the chair he held for her. "I looked for you after Paul's film. Where did you go?"
*'Back to the hotel and cried like a baby. Blubbered and threw up and thought about killing myself. You believe that?"
"Yes."
"I knew you would. Louie says I'm exaggerating. But, shit, he wasn't there. What the hell, you saw that movie: my handsome self fifteen feet high, looking like some fticking god, and then my rotten self at the end, a lousy wreck . . . Paul's good, you know; he's a goddam genius. He did something that made me look even better in the beginning—you know? I mean, I'm not the smartest guy in the world, but I think he did something with the Ughting or contrast or something and made me lock sensational. And that made me look even worse at the end. And ail I could think was I'd been shitting on myself for years, and FIl tell you, that did something to me. Paul did that: showed me things nobody else did. Jesus, Laura, why didn't anybody tell me I looked like that?"
"You had a mirror."
"I didn't look. Or I didn't see what was there. That's what my shrink says. He says I saw my idealized image wherever I went. Do you know what that means?"
"I think so. You aren't on anything now?"
"Vodka and tonic," he said as the drinks were placed before him. *Two a day, max. And my shrink, once a day, five days a week. Woricouts on Nautilus every morning. Tennis lessons every afternoon. Talking to Louie once or twice a day to convince him I'm ready for work, even though he says he can't sell me yet. Playing with Laura—my new Laura—at night. And these guys, a support group. A bunch of weirdos like myself trying to clean up their act. I call them whenev^ I need to tsdk to somebody. Does it sound dull?"
"It sounds like hard work."
"That's it; I knew you'd get it. It's a goddam tough job, and I hate it. But eveiy time I think it's not worth it, I look at that
Inheritance
fucking film. Paul gave me a videotape. It's my bedtime story, to scare me into being a good boy."
Laura put her hand on his. "You really are scared."
"Scared to death, sweetheart. Because what if I can't do it? I don't want to die, you know . . . shit, why am I talking like this at your party? Hey, dance with me." He turned to the young girl. "Laura, you don't mind, do you? She's an old friend."
The girl shook her head, and Farley led Laura to the dance floor. They made a striking couple, and others turned to watch. "Don't feel sorry for me," he said. "Everybody's scared of something. My shrink told me that. We're all scared and nmning from something or other—the past, the present, the future, whatever—and I'm just the same. It's just that I'm scared of never not being scared. What do you think? You think ru make it?"
"I think you have a good change," she said softly. "Some things stay with us and you'll have to keep on fighting, but it gets easier after a while."
"I'm in love with you, did you know that?" he asked.
"Yes." She smiled gently. "But you've got your Laura, Britt, and it looks to me like she's crazy about you, and I think you could love her if you let yourself."
"Christ, you sound like my shrink. I could do this or that if I let myself. Why do I stop myself? Tell me that. If I know something is good for me, why don't I just go ahead and do the goddam thing, whatever it is?"
She shook her head. "I don't know."
Why can't I forget Paul and my anger at the Salingers and this feeling that I have to get more from them? I know it would be good for me to forget, so why can't I do it?
The dance was over. "I'm supposed to be working, helping Kelly run everything. Call me, Britt; let me know how you
are."
"Say a prayer for me," he said mockingly.
"I will." She kissed his cheek and left him at his table with his Laura and his two drinks, max, and the private war he was waging with himself.
Couples stopped her as she crossed the dance floor; she was invited to balls and dinner parties in Chicago and Philadelphia
Judith Michael
and New York. "After all, you do have hotels there; you must be there a lot.'* "I am, but I'm never sure when," she replied, "m call you; we'll be in touch; thanks so much . . ." Sometimes the world seemed glued together by parties, she thought. If they all stopped, would everyone fly off into space and disappear? Or sink into lonely little wells because they had nothing to do that night?
She was smiling to herself as she came upon Clay, dancing with Myma. "My goodness," she blurted, then apologized. "I'm sorry, you took me by surprise. Clay, I thought you were in New York. And I didn't know you and Myma were together."
"We're deciding that now," Myma said. "Clay says he wants it."
"It?" Laura asked.
"Myma wants it," Clay said. "I just want her to move to New York and live in my loft and see how we like it."
"We lived together in Chicago and liked it fine," Myma said.
He shmgged. "I just want to try it for a while. Thing
s are kind of getting out of hand, and I thought it might be nice to have you back."
"What does that mean?" Laura asked. "Out of hand."
'There's a lot going on," he said, gesturing. "Like the job. It's bigger than I expected—more responsibility, more money riding on my decisions. That's not easy to live with. And I thought it might be a good idea to relax a little bit. Not cut out the excitement—you know me, Laura, I have to have action or I go crazy—but kind of balance it with something a little more— '*
"Quiet," Myma said. "And stable. Men need that," she told Laura. "Without us they just go off in all directions. I love Clay and I want to take care of him, and if you don't mind—^"
"Hey, you don't have to ask Laura's permission to woo me!" Clay said with a short laugh. "She's not my guardian. Beloved sister and employer, but not guardian."
He was acting very oddly, Laura thought. Just having been with Farley, she wondered if he was on dmgs. But he didn't seem to be; he seemed mostly the way he always was: sweet and charming, with more energy than he could contain, too
Inheritance
many plans at once, a dependence on women. It occurred to m her that he was only a little younger than Paul had been when they had been planning their wedding. But Paul had been a man, and Clay was still a boy, afraid of being forced to grow up, probably afraid of marriage. But he'd called Myma, and he knew she wanted marriage. Getting out of hand. His gam-|l bling, she thought. Well, he'll have to get over it, the same as Britt with his drugs. And if Myma can help him, good for her. ^ "Whatever you two decide is fine with me," she said. "If ^ there's anything I can do, let me know. Just answer one ques-« tion. Clay. How come you're here? I thought it was Philadel-I phia this week and Washington the week after." " "It was. But I promised Myma she could come to the party, and we drove over from Philly. I'm not missing much work; we'll be back there before noon tomorrow. Hey, Laura, don't frown at me; I can't stand it when you do. What's so terrible about coming to a party if you're practically in the neighborhood?"
Laura hesitated. "Nothing; it's all right. I guess I just like to know where you are. Have a good time. Call me in the rooming before you leave, will you? I'll be in Kelly's office." I "Sure thing." *Thanks, Laura," Myma said. Laura wasn't sure what she was being thanked for, but Ginny was waving to her from the bar at the end of the room, so she nodded, kissed Clay, and left them. When she tumed to look back, they were dancing again, so slowly and sinuously it was almost as if they were making love.
Inheritance Page 60
