Inheritance

by Judith Michael

  Ginny was in shnky black covered in paillettes that reflected every beam of light. "What do you think?" she asked Laura. "Do I look like a sex symbol or the wicked witch of the night?"

  "Sex wins," Laura laughed. "Have you been here long?" "Long enough to see you dancing with Britt. The word is that you'll marry him."

  Laura sighed. "I wish 'the word' was that the Beacon Hill is the best hotel in Washington. Or that all the Beacon Hills are the best, wherever they are. Or even that Laura Fairchild is the best hotel executive in America. Why does the word always have to be about somebody sleeping with somebody,

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  or marrying somebody, or not sleeping or not getting married?"

  "People like sex better than business, you know that. They like business, too, especially if it's ruthless, but sex comes first. The best combination was you and Wes. Sleeping together, working together, making money together."

  "We weren't ruthless."

  "Well, three out of four isn't bad." They laughed, and Ginny said, "Can we have a drink together? I want to talk to you about something."

  "Sex or business?"

  "Business."

  *Then I'd love it."

  They sat on high-backed stools at the Victorian bar that Laura had rescued &om a mansion being torn down at the time tiie Beacon Hill was being renovated. *Two Armagnacs," Ginny said to the bartender, then bent close to Laura to be heard beneath the orchestra and the high pitch of conversation without raising her voice. "A party isn't your usual place to talk business, but once I make up my mind about doing something nice, I have to spit it out or I feel like I'll choke to death on it. So listen. Whatever the word is for anybody else, for me it's that this hotel is sensational. And you're absolutely right: every Beacon Hill is the best. No hotel can ever be the same as home—you know that, I know that—but you've come closer than anybody I know. You are an impressive lady and I love you."

  Sli paused to wave to Daniel Inouti, who was waving to her from across the room. "He's building two hotels for the Salingers; I think he's here as a spy."

  "He was invited," Laura said with a laugh. "And why would he be spying? Everything I've done has been written about in hotel magazines. Anyway, Felix doesn't like small hotels; he likes them big and anonymous, with small rooms and high prices. Sort of like a one-night stand."

  Ginny's eyes gleamed. "I like that. And you don't like him."

  *That*s hardly a secret."

  **But you want to buy into his company."

  "You know why; I've told you that story."

  I

  Inheritance

  "So you have." Their drinks arrived, and she sipped at hers. "Good. You always stock your bars with the best."

  "Ginny, you're being coy. What did you want to talk about?"

  "You. And the Salingers. Do you still want to buy shares in that company?"

  "Of course. But I haven't found a way to get the money, and I don't know if any of them would be willing to sell even if I did have it."

  'That's what I want to talk about. You've never asked me to invest in OWL Development; you've never asked for a loan. I like that: friendship and business don't mix. Usually. However, I have now seen you open four hotels, and I've watched them take off. What's your occupancy rate?"

  "Overall? Between seventy-five and eighty-eight percent."

  "Unheard of in the industry. Right?"

  Laura nodded. She was tense with excitement because she knew now what Ginny was going to say.

  "Right," Ginny repeated. "So you're good. We all know that. So I want to be in this with you. I've talked to my accountants and so on, and I'm planning on loaning you the money to buy into Salinger Hotels."

  Laura put her arm around Ginny and lay her cheek against hers. They sat that way for a moment, without saying anything, without needing to say anything. Then she straightened. "So many people have helped me," she said quietly; Ginny had to strain to hear her words. "I've been so lucky to find so many wonderful people . . ."

  "It's not luck," Ginny said flatly. "Don't you know how much you give to people? You listen to their problems, you don't judge them, you invite them to your parties, whoever they are, you don't talk about yourself as much as you pay attention to them. Remember Chicago? I thought you were a fool to sit with Britt at brunch the day after he baiked up that danmed ruckus, but I was wrong; now he's your firiend for life. Not that he can do much for you— **

  "I didn't do it so he'd do something for me."

  'That's die point! You do those things because you care about people. I know, I know, you do care; you've had your own bad times. But not everybody who has them remembers

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  tfaem. Well, anyway"—she sat back and drank her brandy— *'you shouldn't be surprised that people do things for you. However, I am loaning you money because you are a terrific businesswoman and a good bet. I have been known to get sentimental, but not—at least I sincerely hope not—when I'm handing over ten million dollars."

  Stunned, Laura stared at her. The talk and laughter in the room and the pulsing beat of the orchestra seemed to swell, washing over her. "How much?"

  "Ten million. Give or take a few."

  "How do you know? You mean someone is selling shares?"

  Ginny nodded. "A friend of a friend. They're in some trouble over there—^Felix expanded too fast, and they've got some hard work ahead to get back to as solid as they'd like, and one of the board members wants to bail out while the price is good. He owns two percent of the company; ten million dollars* worth, which is what I'm offering you so you can buy in. We'U talk about interest and other terms tomorrow; I can promise they'll be very favorable. If this sounds agreeable to you."

  Of my thirty percent holdings in Salinger Hotels Incorporated, I leave twenty-eight percent, divided equally, to my sons Felix and Asa Salinger. And to my most beloved Laura Fair-child, who has brought joy and love to the last years of my life, I leave the remaining two percent of my shares . . .

  Two percent.

  Owen, we've done it.

  Laura took Ginny's hand between hers and once again leaned forward to kiss her cheek. "Dearest Ginny," she said. "It sounds wonderfully agreeable."

  Chapter 28

  THE sixth theft was of four Matisse line drawings from the Hawaiian estate of Daniel Inouti, stolen while he was in London for an Easter gathering of his far-flung family. Nothing else was taken, no clues were left, and the caretakers in their adjoining apartment slept through the night undisturbed.

  Sam Colby was in a rage. Six! Six different locations on two continents, with no clues, except they all had the same pattern. What the hell did he have to hang an investigation on? He took it as a personal insult, and as soon as he could arrange it, he flew to Hawaii to talk to Inouti, who arrived from London the same day.

  'Tell me everything!" he said to Inouti.

  "About what?" Inouti asked.

  "Everything, damn it! How do I know what's going to be useful until I hear it?" They sat on a veranda overlooking the ocean. Around them were brilliant displays of orchids and hibiscus; above, the sky was cloudless and birds soared. Colby noticed none of it. He might as well have been in a windowless office. "Start with the staff; at least half the time they're the guilty ones. How many houses do you own?"

  "Four."

  Colby sighed and launched into his questions. From there they turned to Inouti's four offices and the staffs in each, his close business associates, the sixty-four members of his fam-

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  Uy, and the people with whom he socialized. "Okay, now your travel schedule."

  "Almost no one knows that but my secretary."

  "But people can call her and find out where you are."

  **Of course. It would be impossible to do business if I couldn't be reached. I have no reason to hide myself."

  "Right. So I want to know where you've been in the past year."

  "Why is that?"

  "Because there's a
thief who knew when you'd be away from Hawaii, and I don't want him or them to be the only ones with information around here. Okay?"

  Inouti reached into his pocket and brought out a thick leather-covered appointment book. "I can read to you everywhere I have been."

  **Fine." As Inouti read, Colby wrote, and for the first time noticed that the sun was almost down. Someone once told him he should be sure to see a Hawaiian sunset if be ever had a chance. Well, I blew it, he thought. Maybe tomorrow. "Can we turn on a light?" he asked.

  Inouti pulled a bell cord, and a servant appeared and lit an overhead light and then a row of oil-filled lamps along the edge of the veranda. After an hour, they had gotten through only five months of Inouti's busy year, and at that point he invited Colby to have dinner with tdm. "I have no plans, and you must be hungry."

  **rd appreciate it," Colby replied.

  The meal was lavish and the conversation good, and Colby let himself relax and enjoy it. But when it was over, and Inouti had finished his cigar, he pushed back his chair. "Back to woric." He had to have a breakthrough. He had to solve these damn thefts or he'd go back to retirement and die of boredom.

  They took their cognacs into the living room, and Colby opened his notebook. "We stopped with Madrid. Where were you after that?"

  "In San Francisco with my married daughter for a month, then in Hong Kong with my son and his family. From there, in August, I went to Bangkok."

  "And stayed where?"

  "At the Bangkok Regency."

  INHERITANCB

  "And you had meetings there."

  "Oh, yes, many."

  "And after that?"

  'To Amsterdam. And I stayed at the Amsterdam Salinger. And, yes, I had meetings in my suite, and I suppose most of the men there knew I was then going to New York."

  "And in New York?"

  'The Beacon Hill. And of course I had meetings there, too, and I am sure I mentioned I was then going to Washington, D.C. And in Washington—this was in October—^I stayed at another Beacon Hill; it had just opened."

  Colby was writing, trying to keep up with Inouti's rapid speech. But his hand suddenly stopped. "The Beacon Hill," he murmured.

  "Yes. They are by far the most civilized hotels I know. Have you been to any of them?"

  "Not yet. Let's go on: October to now."

  "I was here until February, when I was in Geneva, at the Geneva Marquis, and then I went to Rome and stayed with friends until I went to London for Easter with my fanoily. And that is a whole year of my life." ^ "Who'd you travel with?" Colby asked. ^ "Ah, Mr. Colby, that is private." Colby tried to insist, for the sake of a complete investigation, but he was not pushing as hard as he might have been. Because behind his businesslike frown and matter-of-fact voice, Sam Colby was churning with excitement. He had the breakthrough he'd been looking for. He'd bet his bottom dollar he'd found the thread that connected six different robberies in six different cities on two continents and the island of Hawaii.

  He was wrong. When he returned to New York and reread his notes he realized only five of the six had something in common. Serrano didn't fit the pattern. So he had to talk to him again. This time Paul wanted to go along.

  "No, no, no," Colby told him. "I've told you before, I'll tell you again, that's no way to run an interview. Who's gonna give me straight answers with a camera pointed at his head, grinding away?"

  "They don't grind," Paul said patiendy. "And Britt Farley

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  talked straight; most of the time he forgot the cameraman was there. When he wanted him gone, we sent him away. Sam, I can't make a film about you if I can't film you at woiic."

  "You've been doing that. In my office, talking to insurance people and forgery experts and investigators in Europe, going through apartments that were robbed—and we never would have gotten permission for that if you hadn't known a couple of the victims. Anyway, you've got all that on film. And a million hours of me talking about my fife and how I work—"

  "Only thirty or forty hours so far," Paul said. "And it's good, ail of it, but it would be a lot better if there were some tension. What can make this film unique is an investigation in progress. Not a reenactment; audiences respond to the drama of the real thing. Sam, let me try it. If it doesn't woric, I won't ask again; I'll find other ways to do it."

  Colby wavered. He knew he was an expert interviewer, and the thought of preserving that on film for generations to come was irresistible. *Two conditions," he said. "You leave if Serrano wants you gone. And you don't tell a living soul what you hear in tfie interview. Not your wife, not your mother, not even your barber. I want your solemn promise.'*

  "You have it. You can trust me, Sam; you know that."

  "I think it. I never know anything until I have a stack of proof. Okay. Acapulco, tomorrow morning. The flight's at eight-thirty."

  Carios Serrano's apartment seemed to float above the bustling streets and crowded beaches of Acapulco: the walls were glass, and from a deep couch all Paul could see was the ocean merging with the cloudless sky of a clear April morning. Soaring gulls and white sails broke the blue vista beyond the windows; inside, the walls were a riot of color from oil paintings and shelves of ancient Peruvian pottery. One wall was conspicuously bare. "I keep it that way," Serrano said, "to remind me that I have been robbed once and therefore I must be more vigilant."

  "Good," Colby nodded. "Well, now, I appreciate your seeing me again; you've been very patient, but I have a few more questions, and I'd like to review some of the answers you gave me before. I'm sorry if that inconveniences you."

  "No, no. It is for my paintings, after all. Anything you wish."

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  Flipping through his notebook, Colby wrote the April date at the top of a fresh page. "I want to go over your schedule again for the year preceding the theft: the places you went, the people you saw, your houseguests here."

  "You know the people I saw; we talked about them."

  "Fve already apologized for some repetition; I think it's necessary."

  In that case." Serrano opened a folder on a nearby table— You see, inspector, I am prepared for you"—and took from it a stack of handwritten notes. "In fact, I remembered some things I had forgotten. You wish to start—when?"

  "You were robbed a year ago last November. Start at the beginning of that year."

  The cameraman ah^ady had filmed the huge room, the view, the art collection in the other twelve rooms of the apartment; now, standing discreetly in a far comer, he focused on Serrano. Paul made occasional notes on lighting, sound level, questions that showed Colby's expertise, and movements of his body and hands, even his head, that indicated he was especially interested in something. He was especially interested in meetings in hotels; Paul made a note to ask him about it later.

  "And in Aspen, where did you stay?" Colby asked.

  "I rented a home on Red Mountain, but that is not significant; I had no meetings there. Aspen was relaxation."

  "For two months."

  "The skiing in Aspen is very good. I also bought two paintings, at Joanne Lyon's excellent gallery, so there was a bit of business, too. But no meetings."

  "All right; what about the sunmier?"

  Serrano listed his travels for the sununer: diey were all with friends. "In September I was in Chicago to meet with cattle and feed brokers. That was—^"

  "You didn't mention Chicago last time we talked."

  "That was one of the things I forgot. I stayed there at the Beacon Hill and had two meetings in a conference room in the hotel."

  "How long were you there?"

  "About five days."

  "And then?"

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  Serrano went on talking, but Paul was studying Colby's face. It had changed somehow; he was no longer as interested as he had been. Something had given him what he wanted. Paul thought back. Aspen. Joanne Lyon's gallery. Friends' houses in Switzerland and Italy. Chicago. A meeting of cattle and
feed brokers at the Beacon Hill.

  "What was it?" he asked on the plane returning to New York.

  Colby shook his head. "Can't tell you yet." And he opened his notebook, for once discouraging further conversation.

  Because he had to think, he had to plan. He had to figure out how to weave a net with the beautiftil fact that six robbery victims had one thing in common: they all had stayed at a Beacon Hill hotel within a few months of the time their houses were robbed.

  It was almost summer before Ginny got her financing organized and completed the purchase of two percent of the shares of Salinger Hotels Incorporated. It was all done in her name. Later she would sell the shares to Laura for the money she was loaning her, but first she wanted everything in order. So she was the one who appeared at the June board meeting of the corporation to have her purchase approved. There was not even a debate; the Starrett name was known, and the vote was unanimous.

  "Good to have you,'* Cole Hatton said. They had known each other casually for a long time.

  "You'll be a strong addition to our board," Felix said formally. He had known Wylie Starrett years before, and Wylie always believed in big business getting bigger, so Felix assume Ginny would be the same, since women got whatever business sense they had from their husbands, even if they later divorced them. Ginny would be his ally in his struggle to keep his empire intact, rather than selling off parts of it during brief periods of difficulty.

  "It's only a few difficulties," he told Ginny when they had coffee after the meeting. "Hardly a crisis. Occupancy is down, but we all go through cycles in this business. Of course we'd like to have a larger cushion of cash, but that also goes through cycles. We're building two new hotels, after all, so costs are up, but that's nothing new, either."

  Inheritance

  **But I gather some of the board wants to sell off a few hotels/* Ginny said, as if Hatton and the man who had sold her his shares had not told her all there was to know.