She knew then that she had to call Christian Hunter.
She had to.
“Something wrong, Mrs. Carleton?”
She forced herself to turn away from the phone and smile at Kogi. “No, nothing.” I’ll know in two weeks. Two weeks.
“Mr. Rowe come to dinner tonight?”
“Yes, Kogi, he is. Will you make sushi? He is very fond of it.”
Her life was a successive march of light and shadows. Automatically she went toward the light, to her piano. She played Scarlatti, Rowe’s favorite composer, for three hours. No one disturbed her.
She received the letter the following day.
Just a few lines, very neatly typed, no signature.
And she felt as if someone had slammed her in the stomach.
Mrs. Carleton:
On Thursday night drive to Laurette Carleton’s estate on Long Island. Eight-thirty should be the right time. Do not announce yourself. Walk around to the library. You will learn how MAI knew to buy Bell-Haverson, among other things. If you are wise you will tell no one. No one.
That was all. She stared at it, even shook the single sheet of paper. The betrayer. But she already knew who the betrayer had been. Avery Ramson, a man who was high enough up, an assistant to Coy Siverston. He’d killed himself, and left a suicide note stating he was dying of cancer. That was it.
She wadded the paper and threw it against the wall, then closed her eyes, not wanting to see anything, but the images raced before her, threatening, insane images. I can’t go on like this. She grabbed the phone to call Adrian. His secretary, one of Millicent Stacy’s assistants, came on the line at the second ring.
“Janice? This is Mrs. Carleton. Is Mr. Marsh there?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Carleton . . . no, here he is now. Just a moment, please.”
“Elizabeth? What’s up?”
Adrian’s voice, so solid, like him, and trustworthy and loyal. Tell no one.
“Elizabeth? Are you there?”
“Mr. Adman,” she said. “How . . . how are you?”
There was a surprised pause. “I’m okay. What’s up?”
“I . . . Nothing, really, Adrian. I was just thinking about Avery Ramson.”
“Why?”
“It’s just a shame, that’s all. You know that big ad campaign for MacKenzie-Carleton Foods?”
“I know it well. We lost well over a million dollars on it.”
“That was after Avery’s death.”
“Yes, I know. But secrecy with campaigns like that . . . well, the fact is that it was in essence stolen. It happens, Elizabeth. Really. Let it go.”
Did it really just happen, like that? Forget it?
“Elizabeth, what’s wrong?”
She forced a smile, realized he couldn’t see it, and laughed at herself. That laugh eased him.
“I was just thinking, Adrian, about a lot of things, that’s all. I know you must be very busy—”
“Never too busy for the boss.”
“Yes, well, give my love to Elaine.”
“You’re very kind, Elizabeth,” he said, and she knew he was thinking of that awful evening and the scene with Catherine.
When she rang off, she wandered around the house, then donned dark glasses and a coat. She spent three hours walking, just walking. You’re walking just like you were the evening Timothy was killed.
She wanted to call Rowe. She needed him more than ever, but he was in Boston and wouldn’t return until Friday. She would show him the letter then. But what about Thursday night?
Rowe called her late that evening.
“A fund-raiser, sweetheart. Hope you weren’t asleep.”
She had been, but of course denied it. “No, I was thinking about you. I miss you, Rowe.”
“No more than I do you, Elizabeth. You sound down. Anything wrong?”
She wanted to tell him, pour it all out, let him handle it. But it was her problem to resolve, all hers. It wasn’t fair to bring Rowe into it. He’d be furious. He’d probably hire a task force to go to Laurette’s estate.
“No, nothing’s wrong. I have tickets for a benefit for the New York Philharmonic Friday night.”
“Sounds good to me, if it doesn’t go on too long. I want your body, lady.”
She tried to laugh. “I’ll be waiting, Rowe.”
“With bells on?”
“With anything you wish.”
“You sure nothing’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“No, nothing. Friday night, Rowe.”
She took two sleeping pills at two o’clock.
It was cloudy, the air heavy with coming rain. She’d rented a car, a small dark blue Mustang. She hoped it wouldn’t rain. She didn’t know where the windshield wipers were. Luckily she’d located the headlights.
Traffic was light on the expressway. Laurette’s estate was in Southampton. She reviewed the security in her mind. As far as she could remember, there was only a burglar alarm, and she wouldn’t trip that. No, she was only going to listen at the glass doors at the library. No dogs, no guards, no electric fences. She felt like a thief, a criminal, and could imagine the gloating look on Moretti’s face if she were discovered lurking about the Carleton estate.
Who sent that letter? Why?
It seemed her life was a series of questions, questions with no answers, except she would find one answer tonight.
She felt cold, but her armpits were damp.
She was even dressed like a thief, all in black, down to her low-heeled boots, up to her hair that was braided and tucked under a black ski cap.
She should have asked Adrian to come with her.
She should have begged Rowe to come home.
The Carleton estate was just ahead. The house where Timothy had been born and raised. It was off Cowslip Road, fifteen acres, grounds groomed religiously, trees lining the perimeter. Elizabeth pulled the Mustang off the road, next to the six-foot stone fence. She stopped short, and laughed softly. A musician climbing over a stupid wall.
Even her gloves were black. She was over the wall in a matter of moments. She saw the lights ahead. The vast library, the scene of every family conclave, was on the east side of the house. She didn’t need her small flashlight.
What am I doing here? Have I lost my mind?
She kept walking, slightly bent over—like a thief.
What if I’m caught?
She wouldn’t think about that, but she could see the headlines: “CARLETON WIDOW ARRESTED FOR TRESPASSING: D.A. SALIVATES.”
Oh, God, what was she doing? What was she supposed to overhear?
Another betrayer? Adrian? Rod? Oh, please, no.
She skirted the wide circular drive. There were four cars in front. Quite a family gathering.
Elizabeth was breathing hard, not from exertion, but from fear, when she eased next to the library windows. Laurette loved fresh air, every month of the year. Several of the windows were three inches open. Did the person who wrote that letter know that?
She peered into a window. It was Laurette, Elizabeth knew, who had refurbished the Carleton library many years before, using the library from the Duke of Marlborough’s Blenheim as her model. It was an overly long room, three walls covered with book-shelves, all of them filled, the wooden floor covered with a dozen small Tabriz carpets, and its effect, at least to Elizabeth, was oppressive and melancholy.
Laurette was seated like Queen Victoria in a high-backed chair away from the fireplace. Behind her, displayed proudly, was her collection of Fabregé clocks. Timothy had given her the exquisite dark blue one for her birthday two years before. On her left Michael Carleton stood, quite at ease, a smile on his lips. He looked thinner, she thought, but still fit, his face so tanned he looked as though he’d sailed to Australia with his brother, William. And there was Catherine, seated on a love seat, laughing, wearing tight jeans and a white oversized shirt. Brad was leaning against the mantel, his hands stuffed in his pants pockets, his shoulders hunched. She saw Laurette’s butler com
e into view.
He spoke quietly to Laurette. Elizabeth couldn’t make out his words.
Why was she here? To hear the Carletons’ plans to ruin her?
She froze, and her heart began to pound, slow, sharp beats that made her nauseated.
Rowe Chalmers walked into the library with that cocky walk of his that she loved to watch.
“You’re late, darling,” Catherine said, waving a hand. “Not that I’m not delighted to see Elizabeth’s own personal stud, of course.”
“Shut up, Catherine,” Michael said.
Rowe nodded toward Laurette, but made no move to sit down.
Brad pushed away from the mantelpiece. “What news have you for us, Chalmers?”
Laurette’s voice rang out, sharp, clear, in command. “We will have a bit of civilization before we proceed. What would you like to drink, Mr. Chalmers? Scotch? Bourbon?”
“Nothing, Mrs. Carleton,” Rowe said. He sounded so normal, as if he were talking to Kogi or to her.
“Very well. Now I suppose we can get down to business. My grandson asked you what news you have.”
“None,” said Rowe.
“Come now, darling,” Catherine said, sitting up on the edge of the love seat. “Surely all your after-sex talk isn’t about Elizabeth’s beautiful toes.”
“I have told you that Elizabeth has withdrawn more and more from the active business.”
“She still must know things,” Laurette said. “ Strategy that Brad isn’t let in on.”
“I told you about the sales campaign. That struck a significant blow,” said Rowe.
Michael said softly, “Such a pity that old Avery snuffed himself. The perfect scapegoat.”
“You should know,” Rowe said, his voice low. “You pushed him hard enough.”
“Come now, Mr. Chalmers,” Laurette said in her most imperious voice. “It was you who requested this meeting, not us. What is it you have to tell us?”
Rowe looked at each of them in turn. He wanted to kill them, all of them, very slowly. He said, “I have fulfilled my end of the bargain. I want out. Mr. Carleton”—he pointed a finger at Michael—“he promised me that it would end.”
Michael looked amused. “Really, my dear boy, it wasn’t my fault that your father squandered the family money through his miserable management and gambling. You need money to bail out your precious bank. And this is the only well in town.”
Rowe looked directly at Laurette. “Why do you want to hurt your son’s corporations? Why do you want to destroy what he built?”
Laurette said very softly, “Revenge, Mr. Chalmers. I want Elizabeth Xavier Carleton to know that she can’t murder my son and get off scot-free.”
“I do believe,” Catherine drawled, “that our dear stud is having attacks of conscience. Is dear Elizabeth that good a lay?”
“Don’t be crude, Catherine,” Laurette said, frowning slightly. Catherine hadn’t used to be so unladylike, but during the past six months or so . . . She would think about it later, these changes in Catherine. “Mr. Chalmers will continue to feed us information until we are satisfied. You will have another million dollars deposited in your personal account as soon as we know the next computer company scheduled for buy-out.”
“For God’s sake, Elizabeth doesn’t know!”
“Ask her,” said Michael.
“She’ll tell you anything, won’t she, Rowe?” Catherine crossed her legs. “You worked fast enough in Paris. You’ve got her just where you want her. Panting.”
“She didn’t kill your son, Mrs. Carleton.”
Laurette studied his face, and hers didn’t soften. “Is my granddaughter right, Mr. Chalmers? Are you falling, as they say, for that woman?”
Rowe didn’t answer.
“She murdered him, all right,” said Laurette. “I have no doubts, not a one. Perhaps you’d best watch your back.”
“You know the terms, Chalmers,” Michael said sharply. “Don’t try to back out on us. Don’t try to marry Elizabeth Carleton. You know what will happen if you try.”
“We need more information, Mr. Chalmers,” Laurette said quietly. “The security network that man Adrian Marsh has set up is very nearly impenetrable.”
“We couldn’t even set him up with the best-looking hooker in New York,” said Michael, honest surprise in his voice. “Have any of you seen his wife?”
“I did,” said Catherine. “I thought both she and Elizabeth would expire in the restaurant.”
“I will speak to you later about that, Catherine,” said Laurette, frowning at her granddaughter. “I detest ill-bred scenes.”
Catherine gave an elegant shrug.
“When do I get out of this?” Rowe asked.
“According to my information, which is entirely correct, of course,” said Michael, “you are still in need of about five million more. You’ve got a ways to go yet, Chalmers. Now, I believe you will be with Elizabeth this entire weekend, right?”
Rowe nodded.
“Then I suggest that you get cracking. You have a good deal of experience with women. Elizabeth can’t be all that different. Hell, talk her into being more involved with business. And, Chalmers, do find out about the next takeover, won’t you?”
Rowe stared at each of them in turn. Five million dollars, and everything would be safe. He would be saved, and his father wouldn’t be disgraced. “I hear that steel shipments have been stolen, lost, and otherwise detained.”
“Small beans,” said Michael. “All that does is give the managers ulcers.”
“And cut into direct profits,” said Rowe.
“You are dithering, Mr. Chalmers,” said Laurette suddenly. “What is the matter? The truth, if you please.”
“Elizabeth loves me. I can’t continue stringing her along without marriage. She wants marriage and a family, I know it. She wants a commitment from me.”
“So did my son, Mr. Chalmers, so did my son, and look where he ended up.”
“Lie,” said Brad. “You’re a marvel at that, Chalmers.”
Rowe turned on his heel and strode toward the door. He heard Michael call after him, “Just remember the five million. I’ll call you on Tuesday evening. Be home, Rowe, and have some information for me. Worthwhile information, or I promise you, you will regret it.”
It had begun to rain, a steady, cold downpour. Elizabeth didn’t move, not until she heard a car, Rowe’s car, screech down the driveway.
8
“Good evening, Mr. Chalmers.” “Hello, Kogi. How are you?”
“Just fine, thank you, sir,” Kogi said as he took Rowe’s black umbrella. “Mrs. Carleton be out in a moment. A drink, Mr. Rowe?”
“One of your martinis, Kogi.” Left alone for a moment, Rowe walked to the long set of floor-to-ceiling windows and peered out into the heavy rain. He didn’t want to go out again, particularly in this god-awful weather, but Elizabeth loved the symphony.
“Good evening, Rowe.”
He spun around, a wide smile on his lips. “ Elizabeth,” he said, and strode toward her.
God, she looked beautiful, in a long white satin gown with narrow straps over her shoulders. She was wearing an emerald pendant around her neck that reached the cleavage between her breasts. He felt his breathing quicken, and reached for her.
Elizabeth stepped back, to stand on the other side of her piano. “How was Boston?”
“Muggy and hot, as usual, about the same as here, except you’ve got the rain.”
“When did you get in?”
“An hour ago. I went to my place first to change.”
“Yes,” she said. “You look very nice in a dinner jacket, Rowe. Very nice indeed.”
“You know, sweetheart, we don’t have to go out this evening. I would just as soon not share you, not as gorgeous as you look.”
She smiled at him. “Thank you. No, I really don’t want to go out tonight either.”
“It has been a long week,” he said, giving her his special smile. “Too long away from you
.”
“Kogi has prepared us one of his special dinners. I trust you’re hungry?”
“You can count on that, lady. Now, about food . . .” He broke off and gave her his best comical leer.
“Ah, here’s your martini and my white wine. Thank you, Kogi. Mr. Rowe and I will dine in, say, thirty minutes?”
“Yes, certainly, Mrs. Carleton,” Kogi said, and took himself back to his kitchen.
“To us, Elizabeth,” Rowe said, and clicked his glass toward hers.
“Yes, to you and to me.”
Elizabeth sipped at her wine, watching him. She gave him a sweet, wistful smile and said, “When will I meet your family, Rowe?”
“Not as soon as I’d like,” he said. “My parents can’t abide the humid weather and are leaving tomorrow for Bermuda.”
“I see. How long will they be gone?”
He shrugged. “A couple of months, I suppose. They have a house in Hamilton, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know, but it makes no difference, does it?”
“No,” he said slowly, “I suppose not. What have you been doing, Elizabeth?”
“This week? Ah, I decided to give my music a bit of a rest. I spent most of today with Adrian and my other nobles.” She sighed. “I do miss Avery. Poor man.”
“Are you certain you wish to embroil yourself in all that nonsense again?”
“Rod and Adrian have convinced me to. And, of course, we need to replace Avery. We reviewed applications this afternoon.”
“I see. Wanna give me the job?” He skirted the piano as he spoke, and drew her into his arms. “Then I could be with you every day and you could chase me around my desk.”
He kissed her. Then he grew still. He leaned back and looked down into her face. “What’s wrong, Elizabeth?”
She rested her fingertips against his jaw. “Nothing, it’s just that . . .”
“Just what?”
“Well, I started my period today, Rowe.”
He gave her a moan that turned into a grin. “I keep telling you that that doesn’t have to be a problem.”
He kissed her again. “You’re not feeling too hot?”
“No, not really. Forgive me, Rowe.”
FALSE PRETENSES Page 9
