A Ruling Passion

by Judith Michael

  "Graceville?"

  "You haven't heard of it?

  'TSIo, should I have? Has it been in the papers?"

  "Not yet. But Carl was at the cathedral."

  "Yes, I remember. You talked about it that day at lunch. And I asked if there would be a town around it."

  "I hadn't even thought about a town until you mentioned it," Sybille said. "But then I knew it was the right thing to do. And Lily was ecstatic at the idea."

  'Tou're building a town, then. Graceville. A real town?"

  "Of course. Shops, theaters, houses, town houses, apartments, hotels, a hospital... everything."

  "And churches?"

  "The cathedral."

  Valerie smiled faindy. "It's a real town, but it has only one religion."

  "Anyone who comes to Graceville wants to be close to Lily Grace. People who don't believe in her won't come. I don't want them."

  Rosemary Ashbrook knocked lighdy on the open door. "You've been talking to visitors all day," she said to Valerie, and turned a social smile on Sybille. "I'm so sorry, but I really must protect my daughter; she never thinks of herself at all."

  Sybille's face showed disbelief, but she stood up quickly, reaching

  for her purse. Valerie followed, wincing as the pain shot through her feet, still hurting after two months. "It was good of you to come," she said, hobbling beside Sybille. "And thank you for all the flowers."

  They came ever' week, with a card that said "Love, Sybille"—huge, lavish bouquets that reminded Valerie of the towering arrangements that accompanied funeral processions of dictators and Mafia dons. She always threw out the protea that looked as if they would devour her at any minute, and made five or six small arrangements from what was left.

  "And thank you again for coming to Carl's ftmeral; it was very thoughtftil of you."

  "I couldn't miss it," Sybille said. "I'll be back to see you as soon as I can; it's hard to get away; we're so busy... But if you want to talk, call me; call anytime. You know I want to help."

  In the foyer, the women touched cheeks and Valerie's mother closed the door. "She's so devoted," Rosemary said. "It's amazing that she comes so often, living in Washington. Valerie, Dan Lithigate is in the library, with that detective, what's his name. I told him you were busy, but they said they'd wait. Do you want to talk to them.> I can say you're not feeling well."

  "No, I have to see them. Mother; I have to know what they've found." Valerie had already turned and was walking as rapidly as she could toward the library.

  The men stood as she came in, and Lithigate held a chair for her. Valerie cut off" the casual chatter with which he ritually began every meeting. "Dan, I'm a little anxious about this. Could you tell me what you've found?"

  "Ah. Of course. Of course, you're anxious. And I can tell you right up front, Valerie, ifs not a pretty story. Not a good one for you and your mother either, I might add. I have to tell you again, I am absolutely astonished at Carlton's behavior; I cannot fathom what went through his mind—"

  "Can we begin .>" Valerie asked edgily.

  "Yes. Well, let me review the overall picture first. Last September, Carlton made some bad investments. Very bad. He lost about fifteen million dollars. In the next three months, before the end of the year, he raised approximately thirteen million dollars. In December, he bought thirteen million dollars' worth of bearer bonds from his broker. And thafs as far as we can go. Bearer bonds are unregistered and as negotiable as cash. There's no trace of them and most likely there never will be. We do know, of course, that Carlton seemed desperately anxious to

  fly back from the Adirondacks early in January, and it seems probable that that had something to do with those bearer bonds, but we cannot even be sure of that."

  Valerie was watching him intently, giving no sign that she was hearing a tale of personal disaster.

  Lithigate gestured to the man beside him. "Fred can tell you what he's found."

  Fred Burstin was the detective Lithigate had hired after Carlton's death. His investigation went on simultaneously with the one being conducted by the National Transportation Safety Board. The NTSB investigates every crash in which there is a fatality, taking up to a year or more to release its findings. Valerie had heard nothing from them after their initial questioning of her. She knew they had sent a team to investigate the crash site and to remove what was left of the plane for study; she knew other investigators had examined the maintenance records of Carlton's plane, and interviewed the Tarrants, Lily, and the maintenance men at the Lake Placid airport. And she knew that the medical report would become part of their findings: that the autopsy had shown that Carlton had not been impaired by drugs or alcohol; that he had died of a massive head injury.

  Valerie had gotten the medical results the day she was flown in an ambulance plane to Virginia, for Carlton's burial in his family plot. She had returned to New York to face more questions from insurance investigators, Fred Burstin, and the New York State Police about the possibility that Carlton had been the victim of foul play, and perhaps had been involved in illegal activities. All those investigators shared some information, and held back some. From everything he had gleaned, and found on his own, Burstin had compiled his report.

  "I'll run through all of it," he said, as Lithigate had done. "Just to get the whole picture. Where I am is, it's pretty clear your husband didn't go through his preflight check. You told us you were helping the other passengers get settled, and didn't pay attention, but it seems someone would have noticed if he'd been going through all the steps; there are a lot of them. And none of you noticed him using his gauge to check for water in the fuel tanks."

  When he paused, Valerie said, "I suppose not. I didn't."

  "You said you trusted him."

  'Tes. That^s what I told you. I had no reason not to."

  Burstin sighed. "He lost twenty-eight million dollars, a lot of it yours and your mother's, and you trusted him. Okay, I'll go on. He

  didn't gamble much, you said, and I haven't been able to place him in the Las Vegas or Adantic City casinos in the past couple of years. He might have gone out of the country, but you said you usually traveled together. Okay, next. You said he didn't own any overseas companies and, as far as you know, wasn't a partner in any, and I've been through his office and personal files, his bank and brokerage records, and his appointment calendar, and haven't found any evidence that he was. I've interviewed his secretary', his business associates, his friends and the others on the plane with you, and they couldn't help, either. No evidence of foreign companies, foreign partnerships, or illegal dealings here or overseas. No evidence of other women either. I checked hotels, talked to the doorman of your building in New York, and your housekeeper in the Adirondacks; the usual stuff". I've searched his safe deposit box, his club locker, and the crash site—the NTSB's helped me in a lot of this—your apartment, the house in the Adirondacks, and Sterling Farms, and didn't find anything, including the bearer bonds; I thought he might have died before he had a chance to use them, and the)^d still be around. But no such luck.

  "So, where I am is, I'm assuming he was trying to recoup his losses in the market by gambling. We couldn't place him at casinos in this country, but all those other places—England, Spain, Africa—have their own gambling setups and he mighfve preferred them; a long way from home. So he lost even more, and then had gambling debts to pay. Those guys don't fool around, you know; he had to come home and raise the money in a hurry: thirteen million in under three months is pretty quick work. Since we never found the bearer bonds, and you haven't heard from anybody looking for money, I assume he paid off those debts before he died. I haven't found any evidence that he was planning to disappear, and he doesn't seem like the type who'd do that. The police haven't found anything that points to foul play; of course that won't be final till the NTSB report comes in."

  He stopped. Valerie had not moved during his long recital. "He told me it wasn't an accident," she said at last.

  "I
took that into consideration. So did the NTSB. Right now, where I am is, you were the only one who heard that, and you were in a state of shock. And he had fatal injuries and was probably delirious. I can't rely too strongly on a statement made in those circumstances."

  "He knew what he was saying," Valerie insisted, "And I know what I heard."

  "Okay, then, who did it? Who wanted him dead.> Who had a chance

  to fool around with his plane and make sure he'd crash? Who hated him so much he didn't care whether he killed four people while he got your husband?"

  There was another silence. "I don't know," Valerie said. Her voice was barely audible. Then she looked at Burstin. 'Tou haven't found anything," she said bitingly. "All Fve heard so far is what you haven't found."

  "Those are findings, too, Mrs. Sterling. We have to rule out wherever we can. We've ruled out a lot with your husband. And I gave you my conclusions. I think any further investigation is poindess; there's nothing left to uncover. The money is gone and it's a good bet it won't ever show up. And your husband's death was a tragic accident, no more."

  "No more," repeated Valerie coldly. "That was quite a bit."

  "Valerie," said Lithigate, "there are some things we must discuss. Fred will leave us his written report."

  Valerie took the large envelope Burstin handed her as he left. "He didn't find anything. He just made some guesses."

  "Sound ones," Lithigate said. "You should not dismiss them out of hand. Sometimes the obvious answer is the correct one."

  She contemplated him. "I don't think there's anything obvious about what's happened in the past few months. What did you want to talk about?"

  "Your situation. It's very bad, Valerie, and I can't help you by keeping it from you. We have all the information, now, and we'll face it together."

  Valerie gave a brief, wintry smile. "Mother and I are the ones who have to face it, Dan. Go ahead."

  "When Carlton raised the thirteen million dollars, he realized four million by selling the rest of your portfolios, seven million by mortgaging your various properties, and two million in personal loans. The payments due on the mortgages and loans come to just over a million dollars a year. As you know, he carried five hundred thousand dollars in life insurance, with you as the sole beneficiary. His will leaves two million dollars to a number of relatives and charities, and everything else to you."

  Rosemary, who had so far not said a word, held out a bewildered hand. "Can we handle a million dollars a year in payments?"

  'No," said Valerie. "That's right isn't it, Dan?"

  "Fm afraid so. Your portfolios are gone and all your property is mortgaged or sold. What you must do, as trustee of Carlton's es-

  tate..." His voice faded away. "I'm sorry, diis is very difficult for me. If you sell Sterling Farms and the New York apartment, you'll have about a million dollars after you pay off the mortgages. Once you sell the horses, and the art and sculpture, and pay off the money Carlton borrowed on them, you'll have close to another million. That would leave you a total of two million dollars."

  "Well, then," said Rosemary, her face brightening.

  Valerie shook her head. "Carl left two million dollars to some charities and all his relatives. I can't imagine why; he almost never saw diem."

  "But that's not right!" her mother cried. "Valerie, the circumstances have changed! No one would take that money when they find out you don't have anything! They'd understand...!"

  "I don't have a choice. That's right, isn't it, Dan? If the money is available, the conditions of the will must be met?"

  He nodded.

  Valerie spread the fingers of her hands and contemplated them. "Which leaves me nothing."

  The room was silent. Damn Carl, damn him, damn him for putting me through this.

  Why did he do this? Why did he leave me this way?

  What am l£ioin£f to do?

  Lithigate left, and Rosemary sat beside Valerie. Her hands fluttered in her lap, her breath came in long, trembling sighs, and she watched Valerie, waiting for solutions to all their problems.

  "I don't know," Valerie said at last, to herself as well as to Rosemary. "I don't know."

  Her friends knew. They had been telling her since word got out that Carlton's finances were not in good shape. "You have to get married," they said. "To someone wealthy. And right away."

  They all said it even though they knew she had been much admired on television, and with her horses, and as a... Well, Valerie admitted to herself, that was the problem; she had no other credits. She was an excellent shopper, a knowledgeable traveler, a good friend, a noted hostess, and a delightfiil companion at a dinner party. But no one is willing to pay for that, she thought, except a husband.

  Thirty-three years old and decorative. And not much else.

  And that was the most depressing of all.

  That was depressing, but her finances were terrifying. And yet, the more she repeated the facts Dan Lithigate had reeled off, the more unreal they seemed. They were terrifying, they were the stuff of night-

  mares, but she could not believe they had anything to do with her.

  But she knew they did when, bit by bit, her possessions were sold. Sterling Farms was listed with a realtor, but everything else was gone: the Adirondacks house and the New York apartment had sold quickly because she was not in a position to price them high and wait for the right buyer; the horses and the art collection were sold; and all the bequests had been made. And Valerie was living in her mother's rented Park Avenue apartment, which was the sole survivor of the debacle. She had nothing of her own.

  She kept repeating it, and she and Rosemary talked about it endlessly, trying to understand that it really was happening to them. Neither of them had ever worried about money; how could they start now? "It won't last," Valerie said one day in April, as she did every day. She and Rosemary were sitting at the breakfast table overlooking Park Avenue. It was cool and sunny, with new leaves on the trees below them and a fresh look to the air, as if everything were just beginning. A policeman directing traffic at the gridlocked corner looked like a ballet dancer pirouetting, stretching one arm to the front, the other to the back, occasionally leaping to a new position in the street. Valerie watched him with a smile. "Of course it won't last. Dan could be wrong—the bearer bonds could still show up—or the money will turn up, or I'll meet someone I can care about... Something will happen, and we'll get back to the way we were. Nobody's life changes like this, totally, all at once; people go through little traumas, but then they settle back to normal."

  "Of course," Rosemary said. She stirred her orange juice and sipped it pensively.

  "After all," Valerie went on, still watching the policeman, "no one could get rid of that much money that quickly and that invisibly. That business about Carl gambling is ridiculous. He told me he didn't have the stomach for it; he hated all the unknowns. Whatever he did, it was something else. We just haven't been looking in the right places. It will turn up; it has to."

  "Of course," Rosemary repeated. They had been through this conversation before.

  "But all that may take a while," Valerie said at last. "And while we're waiting, it looks like I'll have to get some kind of a job."

  'Well, I suppose I should, too," replied Rosemary. Another silence fell. Both of them felt a great weariness whenever they talked about jobs; the subject was so foreign to them. They had discussed calling their friends—the bankers, the chairmen of great corporations, the

  directors of hospitals, the owners of newspapers—but they had not been able to do it. Each time they reached for the telephone they drew back, hating to ask for favors when they were in no position to reciprocate, and faindy ashamed, as if Carl's disaster was their fault. But their friends were uncomfortable, too. They were sorry for Valerie and Rosemary, but they were a little embarrassed by their own continued good fortune, as if they ought to apologize for having no tragedy to share. It would almost be easier, Valerie thought, to look at want ads.

>   But when they did open the newspapers and scan them, and thought of making appointments, interviewing, talking about themselves to strangers, it all sounded impossible and demeaning. And even if they managed to do it, what could they say about themselves? They could not type or take shorthand; they had no training as nurses or nurses' aides or teachers or teachers' aides; they had never written advertising copy or newspaper stories or memorized those flmny marks proofreaders make on manuscripts; they knew nothing about bookkeeping; they had no idea how to run a switchboard or work a computer; they had never cooked or waited on tables or cleaned house.

  "Information desk in a museum," Valerie said. "Or tour guide. I know the collections."

  Rosemary brightened. "You'd be perfect. I could do that, too." Kcr face clouded. "But there don't seem to be many of those jobs around."

  "Not many." Valerie yawned. "Well, if if s not that it will be something else, something to fill in. It's not as if I'm looking for a career, you know." She toyed with her pencil. "The odd thing is, except for a museum job, I can't think of anything at all, even as a fill-in. I may have been right about cleaning stables after all."

  "Absolutely not," Rosemary declared. "You shouldn't even joke about it!" Her mouth trembled. "Shame on Carlton! What possessed him to do this to us.> He did love us, you know; after Daddy died he said he'd take care of us! Not leave us in the cold... at my age... thinking of jobs..."

  Valerie was silent. There was nothing to say.

  And it was that week, when they had reached that weary point, that Edgar Wymper called.

  He was the wealthy son of wealthy parents whose sprawling farm on Maryland's Eastern Shore had bordered Ashbrook Farms. Valerie had known him all her life, and had found him amusing, especially when they were sophomores in high school and he told her he planned to marry her when they graduated. He had never wavered from that goal, though they had not seen each other since her father sold Ash-