Fatal Trust

by Diana Miller

  “He got a job playing Goofy,” Ben told Lexie. “I forgot him since he was only here a few weeks. Grandfather thought the name was appropriate for a butler at Nevermore, and with what he paid, he could probably have called them all Tinker Bell if he wanted.” He shifted his gaze to Muriel. “We could let number eight use his real name now.”

  “Why bother? He seems perfectly happy being Igor.” Muriel lifted the skirt of her habit. “Please excuse me while I retire to say some rosaries for my dear brother. Although the way he lived, I’m afraid he may not have made it to purgatory.”

  “Sharing a room is not part of our deal,” Lexie murmured when Muriel was out of earshot.

  “It would have looked suspicious if I hadn’t tried,” Ben said. “I knew Aunt Muriel would object.”

  “Max never mentioned that his sister’s a nun.”

  “That’s because she isn’t one,” Ben said. “She was married for more than fifty years, but when her husband died, she decided to join a convent. Unfortunately she couldn’t find one willing to accept her.”

  “Because she’d been married?”

  “That she’s Lutheran and didn’t think she should have to convert was a bigger impediment,” he said dryly. “She also discovered she’d have to give up her little cigars, Jack Daniel’s on the rocks, and satellite TV, and reconsidered. So she bought a habit and wears it when she’s in the mood to be Catholic. She’s got a house in Lakeview.”

  Ben put his hand on the small of Lexie’s back. “Let’s check out the living room.”

  “Am I going to encounter a couple of Munchkins in there?” Lexie asked. “Or maybe the White Rabbit?” Between Nevermore, a fake nun in devil-red lipstick, and a butler called Igor, she was starting to feel a little like Alice wandering around Wonderland.

  “The next best thing.” Ben directed her into an enormous living room with the same dark paneling as the foyer, an ornately carved wood fireplace, and a sleek black leather couch and matching chairs.

  “As you’ll notice, Grandfather liked nineteenth-century architecture and mahogany, but he wasn’t a big fan of the furnishings,” he said. “The parlor and dining room are the only rooms that look like they belong in this place.”

  Lexie wandered over to the fireplace. Each end of the mahogany mantel held a statue of a black bird. “I assume that’s in honor of the raven from Poe’s poem,” she said, pointing.

  Ben nodded. “Grandfather thought it appropriate since the bird inspired the name of this place,” he said. “And the other one’s the Maltese falcon. One of several used in the movie and touched by Humphrey Bogart himself.”

  “You’re kidding.” She moved closer to examine it, resisting the urge to pick it up. After all these years she doubted she’d smudge any historic fingerprints, but some things were too sacred to disturb. “That’s one of my favorite movies.”

  “You like old movies? Even when they haven’t been colorized?”

  Speaking of things that were sacred … “Colorization should be illegal.”

  “One of the first things we agree on,” Ben said. “Except just so you know, none of my girlfriends would ever like black-and-white movies.”

  She gave him an over-the-shoulder glance, but his half-smile and love of old movies torpedoed her planned derogatory retort. “That’s what a year of college does for you,” she said instead.

  “Other items in this room are also movie memorabilia, although nothing’s from Oz or Wonderland.” Ben walked over to a high table. “This brandy snifter and martini shaker are from a Thin Man movie. That ashtray is from The Big Sleep, and the candelabrum was in Dracula. And several pieces are from movies made from Grandfather’s books.”

  Lexie crossed the room to a low, curved chest that looked Italian or Spanish, displaying a pair of silver candlesticks and a bloodred bowl she remembered had played a prominent role in Deadly Light. Just looking at this stuff was giving her goose bumps. “This is amazing.”

  “Ben. Aunt Muriel said you were here.” An attractive brunette wearing a deep tan and a white sundress strode into the room. She gave Ben a hug. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Speaking of amazing, this is my cousin Cecilia from Phoenix,” Ben said, his smile now full and holding genuine affection. “Cecilia, meet Lexie. I met her at a wedding last month. She heard about Grandfather’s death and came all the way from Kentucky to comfort me.”

  Cecilia turned her smile on Lexie, extending a manicured hand. “I’m happy to meet you. Great shoes, by the way. Jimmy Choos?”

  “I live near a fabulous consignment shop,” Lexie said, since new Jimmy Choos probably weren’t in most cocktail waitresses’ budgets.

  “I’m sorry about your divorce,” Ben said.

  “So am I.” Cecilia waved her hand. “I thought the third one would be the charm, but obviously that doesn’t work for marriages. Or maybe it’s just me and marriages.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with you,” Ben said firmly. “You’ve chosen the wrong men for the wrong reasons.”

  “Well, at the rate I’m going, I’ll pass Mother before I’m forty.” Cecilia’s expression held a combination of regret and resignation. “My mother’s on husband number six,” she told Lexie.

  “She’s the major reason you keep choosing the wrong men,” Ben said. “Is anyone else here yet?”

  Cecilia’s expression became even more resigned and regretful. “Just Dylan. He’s in his room sleeping off a hangover. As usual.”

  “Is he still gambling?” Ben asked.

  “He lives to gamble.” The classic features Cecilia had inherited from Max tightened. “Although he had to stop once he’d borrowed the maximum a Las Vegas loan shark would lend him. I’m hoping he was smart enough to find one without Mafia connections, since his lender could very well track him down here.”

  The grandfather clock in the corner sounded. Instead of the usual tune, Lexie recognized the desolate first measures of the Carmina Burana.

  “It’s already five,” Ben said when the clock began chiming the hour. “Lexie and I’d better head upstairs. See you at sherry hour.”

  “Sherry hour is from six to seven every night, followed by dinner,” he explained as he and Lexie walked toward the polished mahogany spiral staircase. Two devils brandishing pitchforks guarded the steps, one carved into each of the bottom newel posts. “We dress up, but if you didn’t bring anything—”

  “Max mentioned that in my letter, so I’m good,” Lexie said. “He said sherry hour would provide an opportunity to check people out.”

  “He’s right. Thank God no one sticks to sherry, since those gatherings call for something stronger.”

  They ascended the stairs, and then started down a long hallway. Ben stopped at the second door and flung it open. “You’re staying here.”

  Lexie walked into a large room with an attached bath. The sapphire silk comforter and drapes and the black lacquer furniture coordinated with a sapphire, black, and white Oriental carpet. “This is beautiful. How many bedrooms are there?”

  “Thirteen, of course,” Ben said. “Ten on this floor. Grandfather’s bedroom is on the third floor, along with two tower bedrooms.”

  “I assume the tower rooms are supposedly haunted.”

  “According to Grandfather, all the bedrooms are.” Ben turned and headed to the door. “I’ll stop by at six.”

  # # #

  “You know, you’d be a lot happier if you loosened up,” Max said. He was sitting in one of the leather chairs that faced Catherine’s desk.

  His comment had come out of the blue—they’d been discussing a proposed revision to his trust. But Max frequently switched topics without warning. He claimed it was because he liked to catch her off guard. Catherine suspected it was really because when it came to estate planning issues, he was easily bored.

  She rested her palms on her mahogany desk. “I thought we’d agreed that you pay me to be anal retentive,” she said levelly.

  “When you’re my attorney,” Max said, w
aving his hand. “But that doesn’t mean you should act like you’ve got a stick up your ass the rest of the time.”

  His words made Catherine smile. “Aunt Jessica always used to describe my mother that way.”

  Max’s smile was tinged with sadness. “I know. I owe it to Jessica to make sure you don’t turn into another uptight Elizabeth.”

  “As Aunt Jessica also used to say, one Elizabeth Barrington is more than enough for the world.”

  “I’m sure your mother would say the same thing about me,” Max said.

  “No, she wouldn’t.”

  “Don’t bother lying to be polite,” Max said, his smile now genuine. “Your mother’s opinion really doesn’t bother me.”

  “I’m not lying,” Catherine said. “She’d never say it because that wouldn’t be polite. Of course, that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t think it.”

  “Actually, I owe your mother,” Max said. “She’s inspired my next book.”

  “Do you kill her off in some particularly gruesome way?”

  “Of course not,” Max said, looking offended. “I could never kill off Jessica’s only sister, no matter how much she disapproves of me and I disapprove of her. I’m planning to write about a town where someone puts a drug in the water supply that turns everyone into stiff, uptight, unerringly proper people who never smile or have any fun but are always courteous. I’d call them something like Zombie Bluenoses.” His forehead creased. “Not that, of course. It doesn’t have the right ring. But you get the idea. A whole town full of pompous, polite paragons. Can you imagine a more horrifying place to live? Or even visit?”

  “The drug wouldn’t affect everyone in town,” Catherine pointed out. “Not everyone drinks tap water anymore.” Experience had taught her that Max not only wouldn’t get back on topic until he was ready but he expected her to join in the conversation. To be honest, it was more fun than discussing trust distribution issues anyway.

  “Good point,” Max said, stroking his white beard. ”I’ll have to come up with another distribution system.”

  “What do these people do once they’re affected? Catherine asked. “Storm Las Vegas and try to convert everyone there?”

  “That could be interesting,” Max said. “I haven’t figured that out yet. Although I do know I’ll need a hero. A guy who burps and scratches in public and eats with his fingers. He ends up saving the town. What do you think?”

  “I think it sounds ridiculous,” Catherine said. “And I think that if you write it, it will still end up being a bestseller.”

  “Which is another reason for you to loosen up,” Max said. “Otherwise I could very well put you in the book. Actually, maybe I’ll make you the heroine, the woman the hero teaches to loosen up. Once she does, she ends up helping him save the town.”

  Catherine rolled her eyes. “Too bad for you that you can’t manipulate real life like you do the characters in your books.”

  Max grinned. “So you think.”

  Lexie ran a brush through her loose hair, frowning at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. That conversation had occurred years ago, but she could still remember it perfectly. And Max had been right about his ability to manipulate real life. Thanks to his manipulation from the grave, she was now pretending to be Ben’s girlfriend while spying on his relatives, something she was not looking forward to. She’d even called First Trust, hoping that after hearing the plan’s specifics, the trustee would find some reason to object to it. No such luck.

  She surveyed herself in the bathroom mirror. She’d selected tonight’s dress because although it was navy silk, the V-neckline in both front and back made it the least conservative of the three dresses she’d brought along. For her investigation to succeed, she had to convince Ben’s family members she was his cocktail waitress girlfriend, and you only got one chance to make a first impression. Rule Number 9.

  She was applying her lipstick when Ben knocked on her door. She checked her watch. Seven minutes after six.

  She replaced the silver cover and set the lipstick tube on the bathroom vanity, then went to open her bedroom door.

  Her breath caught in her throat. Talk about cleaning up well. The man standing outside was Ben, but not the auto mechanic/NASCAR driver Ben she’d been with less than an hour ago. She’d never expected he’d own a suit, let alone a perfectly tailored charcoal one, which he wore with a white shirt and a silk tie that matched his eyes. With his hair damp and every trace of stubble and oil gone, this Ben had her stomach fluttering.

  Which annoyed her. “You’re late,” she said, even though she hadn’t been ready on time either.

  “Sorry.” He offered her his arm. “Let’s go, babe.”

  The fluttering stopped. She really wasn’t looking forward to tonight.

  ###

  Sherry hour was held in the parlor, a room furnished with the kind of elegantly uncomfortable Victorian-era furniture Lexie’s mother favored. Aunt Muriel was already there, still wearing her habit and bright lipstick as she drank what appeared to be whiskey on the rocks.

  “I’ll introduce you to Trey,” Ben said, leading Lexie to the stately silver-haired man standing next to the fireplace.

  “Trey, I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Lexie. Lexie, this is Grandfather’s best friend, Trey.”

  Lexie held her breath, ready for Trey to recognize her and tell everyone her true identity. But he simply extended his hand, not exhibiting a hint of suspicion. “Delighted to meet you, Lexie,” he said. “Where are you from?”

  “Lexington, Kentucky, believe it or not,” she said, relaxing. “Although I wasn’t born there, so I can’t blame my parents for the ‘Lexie from Lexington’ idiocy.”

  Trey smiled. “I can blame my parents for my nickname Trey. My name is actually Thomas J. Donaldson III. My grandfather was Tom and my father was Tommie, so my parents decided I needed something completely different. They came up with Trey, which is based on the Italian word for ‘three.’ They claimed it was because I was conceived in Rome, although I have no idea if that was true.”

  “It makes a good story,” Lexie said.

  Trey nodded. “And after spending so many years with Max, I know the story is the most important thing.”

  “Let’s go get something to drink, Lexie,” Ben said.

  “It’s been very nice meeting you, Trey,” Lexie said.

  “I told you he wouldn’t suspect,” Ben murmured as they walked over to the drink table.

  A few minutes later Cecilia came in, wearing an elegant black sheath and accompanied by a man who resembled her so closely he had to be Dylan. With his dark hair in a ponytail and striking features, Dylan was movie star handsome, although his red-rimmed brown eyes somewhat ruined the effect. He headed directly to the drink cart.

  “I’ll have to keep an eye on Dylan,” Cecilia said as she walked up to them. “He could very well get drunk enough to head to the nearest casino for a couple of days and lose his share of the trust.”

  “I thought he was out of money,” Ben said.

  “I’m sure he can borrow more now that he’s in line to inherit a fortune.”

  Ben draped an arm around Lexie’s shoulders, pulling her against his side. He smelled like pine soap, which surprised her. She’d expected some men’s cologne with a virile name and an overdose of spice and musk. “Why don’t you get me another drink, Lexie? She’s a cocktail waitress,” he told Cecilia.

  Lexie gave him a tight smile. “I’m off duty.”

  “I promise I’ll make it worth your while,” Ben said, his voice lowered suggestively.

  She was supposed to be crazy about him, so instead of telling him where to stick it, she raised her chin. “I came out here to give you emotional support. Not to wait on you.”

  “Good for you, Lexie,” Cecilia said. “Ben always dates twits who do whatever he wants. He needs someone who’ll stand up to him.”

  Ben sighed as if he’d been ordered to haul stones across the Sahara for a new pyramid rather than his own gla
ss across the room for a refill. “With the two of you ganging up on me, I guess I’ll get my own drink.”

  “Bring me a glass of cabernet while you’re at it,” Cecilia called after him.

  “They got me.”

  The words came from the man who’d just stumbled into the parlor. His light brown hair was all wild wisps and spikes, one sleeve of his suit coat was torn, and his shirt had been pulled from his trousers.

  And he was covered with blood.

  “They came out of the trees,” he wheezed out. “I couldn’t stop them. I tried, but I couldn’t.”

  “Help me.” His voice was just above a whisper. “Please.”

  Then he collapsed in a bloody mess on the parlor floor.

  CHAPTER 3

  Lexie froze, her body tensing and her blood chilling. “Oh my God,” she said. “We need to call 911.”

  “Don’t bother,” Ben said. He hadn’t moved.

  Actually, no one else in the room had moved either. Meanwhile the man lay motionless on the floor, dripping blood onto the carpet.

  “Someone’s out there, someone who attacked him,” Lexie said, her voice edged with hysteria. “Probably more than one person. And without medical attention, he’s going to bleed to death. You can’t just let him die.” What was wrong with these people?

  “He’s not going to die,” Ben said. “Death Dreams, right?”

  Lexie’s body unclenched as the bloody man got to his feet, grinning. “I should have known you’d figure it out, Ben,” he said. “I thought it was a fitting tribute to Grandfather. Let me clean up, and I’ll be right back.”

  “The housekeeper won’t be happy about the blood on the carpet,” Cecilia said as Seth left the room.

  “It’s water soluble,” he yelled over his shoulder.

  “That was my cousin Seth making an entrance,” Ben said. “He was playing a scene from one of Grandfather’s books.”

  Lexie nodded. “Death Dreams. I read it.”

  “You’re a fan of Grandfather’s, Lexie?” Cecilia asked.