Parker walked over to her desk while Meredith spread pale pink linen place mats on the dining room table.
“Are they in here?” he asked, holding up a manila envelope.
She glanced over her shoulder at the envelope. “No. That’s my passport, birth certificate, and some other papers. The stock certificates are in a larger envelope.”
He held one up, looking at the return address on the outside, and frowning with confusion. “In this one?”
“No,” she said with another glance over her shoulder. “That’s my divorce papers.”
“This envelope has never been opened. Haven’t you ever read them?”
She shrugged as she took out linen napkins from the side table. “Not since I signed them. I remember what they say, though. They say that in return for a ten-thousand-dollar payoff from my father, Matthew Farrell grants me a divorce and relinquishes all right to any claims on me or anything I ever have.”
“I’m certain they aren’t worded exactly like that,” Parker said with a grim chuckle, turning the envelope over in his hand. “Do you mind if I have a look?”
“No, but why would you want to?”
He grinned. “Professional curiosity—I am an attorney, you know. I’m not entirely the boring, fastidious banker your friend Lisa likes to think I am. She needles me about that all the time, you know.”
It was not the first time Parker had made a remark that indicated Lisa’s joking jibes got under his skin, and Meredith made a mental note to tell Lisa, very firmly this time, that it had to stop. Parker had much to be proud of. Taking all that into consideration, she decided it was unwise and unnecessary to add to his pique by reminding him that he had specialized in tax law, not domestic law. “Look all you like,” she replied, and leaning forward, she pressed a kiss on his temple. “I wish you didn’t have to go to Switzerland. I’m going to miss you every day.”
“It’s only for two weeks. You could go with me.”
He was scheduled to address the World Banking Conference there, and she would have loved to watch him do it, but it wasn’t possible. “You know I’d love to. But this season is—”
“Your busiest time of the year,” he finished without resentment. “I know.”
In the refrigerator Meredith found a beautifully arranged platter of cold, marinated chicken and a salad of hearts of palm. As usual, there was little for her to do except open a bottle of wine and put the platter in the center of the dining room table—which was about the extent of her culinary abilities anyway. Cooking was something she’d tried to do a few times and failed, and since she didn’t enjoy it anyway, she was content to spend her time working and leave domestic chores to Mrs. Ellis. If food couldn’t go directly to the table via the microwave or oven, Meredith had no desire whatsoever to bother with it.
Rain was spattering against the windows, and she lit the candles in the antique candelabra, then she carried out the chicken and salad and chilled white wine and put them on the table. Standing back, she surveyed the effect of the table setting. Fresh pink roses reposed in an ornate bowl in the center of the table, and the antique silver flatware looked lovely against the pink linen place mats. Thinking she ought to contribute something more to the meal than merely setting the table and putting the platters and wine there, she reached out and poked gently at two of the fresh pink roses in the centerpiece.
“Dinner is ready,” she said, walking over to Parker. For a moment he seemed not to hear her, then he pulled his gaze from the documents he was reading and looked at her, frowning. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m not certain,” he said, but he sounded as if something was very wrong. “Who handled your divorce?”
Unconcerned, she perched on the arm of his wing chair and glanced distastefully at the papers that were headed Decree of Divorce: Meredith Alexandra Bancroft vs. Matthew Allan Farrell. “My father took care of everything. Why do you ask?”
“Because I find these documents very irregular from a legal standpoint.”
“In what way?” Meredith asked, noticing that her father’s lawyer had misspelled Matt’s middle name as Allan instead of Allen.
“In every way,” Parker said, flipping back and forth through the pages, truly agitated.
The tension in his voice communicated itself to Meredith, and because she hated thinking of Matt and the divorce, she immediately tried to reassure Parker and herself that whatever Parker was concerned about was meaningless, even though she hadn’t the vaguest idea what he was concerned about. “I’m certain everything was done legally and correctly. My father handled everything, and you know what a stickler for detail he is, Parker.”
“Well, he might be, but this lawyer—Stanislaus Spyzhalski, whoever that is—wasn’t concerned with details. Look here,” he said, flipping back to the cover letter that had been addressed to her father. “This letter says he’s enclosed the entire file, and that the court has sealed the records, as your father asked.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong is that this ‘entire file’ does not contain a notice that Farrell was ever served with the petition for divorce, or that he ever appeared in court, or that he ever waived his right to appear—and that’s only a small part of what bothers me.”
Meredith felt the first twinges of genuine alarm, but she firmly ignored them. “What difference does all this make now? We’re divorced, that’s all that matters.”
Instead of replying, Parker flipped back to the first page of the divorce petition and began reading it slowly, his scowl deepening with every paragraph. When Meredith couldn’t stand the suspense anymore, she stood up. “What,” she demanded in a calm, no-nonsense tone, “is bothering you now?”
“This entire document is bothering me,” he replied with unintended curtness. “Divorce decrees are drawn up by lawyers and signed by the judge, but this decree reads like none I’ve ever seen written by any reasonably competent attorney. Look at the wording of this!” he said, jabbing his index finger at the last paragraph on the last page as he read.
“In return for $10,000 and other good and valuable consideration paid to Matthew A. Farrell, Matthew Farrell relinquishes all claim to any property or possessions owned now or in the future by Meredith Bancroft Farrell. Furthermore, this court herewith grants a decree of divorce to Meredith Bancroft Farrell.”
Even now the memory of the way she’d felt eleven years ago when she learned that Matt had accepted money from her father made Meredith wince. He’d been such a liar, such a rotten hypocrite when they were married and he’d protested that he’d never touch a cent of her money.
“I cannot believe the wording of this!” Parker’s low, angry voice pulled her from her brief reflections. “It reads like a damned real estate contract: ‘In return for $10,000 and other good and valuable consideration,’ ” he said again. “Who in the hell is this guy?” he demanded of Meredith. “Look at his address! Why would your father hire an attorney whose practice was on the South Side, practically in the slums?”
“Secrecy,” Meredith said, glad at least to have an answer for something. “He told me at the time that he’d deliberately hired ‘a nobody lawyer’ on the South Side—someone who wouldn’t guess who I am or who Father is either. He was very upset about everything, as I told you before. What are you doing?” she asked as he reached for the phone on her desk.
“I’m going to call your father,” he said, and then with a brief grim smile to silence her protest, he added, “I’m not going to alarm him. I’m not sure there’s anything to be alarmed about.” True to his word, when her father answered his phone, Parker indulged in small talk with him for a few moments, and then he casually remarked that he’d been looking over Meredith’s divorce decree. As if teasing her father about his choosing a lawyer on the fringe of the slums, he asked him who had recommended Mr. Stanislaus Spyzhalski, Esquire. He laughed at whatever Philip replied, but when he hung up the phone, Parker’s smile vanished.
“What
did he say?”
“He said he got his name from the Yellow Pages.”
“So what?” Meredith said, trying desperately not to react to the generalized alarm shaking through her. She felt as if she were being thrust into dark, dangerous territory and threatened by something vague and unidentifiable. “Now who are you calling?” she asked when Parker took out the slender black phone book he carried inside his coat pocket and picked up the phone.
“Howard Turnbill.”
Torn between concern and anger at his uninformative replies, she said, “Why are you calling Howard Turnbill?”
“We were at Princeton together,” he replied unhelpfully.
“Parker, if you are trying to make me really angry, you’re going to succeed,” she warned him as he began pressing the keypad on her phone. “I want to know why you’re calling your old Princeton classmate now.”
Inexplicably, he grinned at her. “I love that particular tone of voice of yours. Reminds me of my kindergarten teacher. I had a crush on her.” Before she could strangle him, which she looked ready to do, he added hastily, “I’m calling Howard because he’s president of the Illinois Bar Association, and—” He broke off as Howard answered the phone. “Howard, this is Parker Reynolds,” he began, then he paused while the other man said something to him. “You’re right, I’d forgotten I owe you a rematch on that squash game. Call me at the office tomorrow, and we’ll set up a date.” He paused again and laughed at whatever Howard said, then he said, “Do you happen to have a roster of the Illinois Bar members handy? I’m not at home right now, and I’m curious to know whether a certain individual is a member. Could you check your roster and tell me if he is?” Howard obviously said he could do that, because Parker then said, “Good. The man’s name is Stanislaus Spyzhalski. That’s S-p-y-z-h-a-l-s-k-i. I’ll hold on.”
Covering the mouthpiece of the phone, Parker gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m probably worrying needlessly. Merely because the man’s incompetent doesn’t mean he isn’t a legitimate attorney.” A moment later, however, when Howard returned to the phone, Parker’s smile faded. “He’s not on the roster? You’re certain?” For a moment Parker was lost in thought, then he said, “Could you get a hold of a current roster for the American Bar Association and see if he’s listed there?” He paused, listening, then he said with forced joviality, “No, it’s not an emergency. Tomorrow will be fine. Give me a call at my office and we’ll set up the squash game then too. Thanks, Howard. Give my love to Helen.”
Lost in his own thoughts, Parker slowly replaced the phone on its cradle.
“I don’t think I understand what you’re worrying about,” Meredith said.
“I think I’d like another drink,” he announced, getting up and walking over to the liquor cabinet.
“Parker,” Meredith said firmly, “since this involves me, I think I have a right to know what you’re thinking.”
“At this moment I’m thinking of several known cases of men who set themselves up as attorneys—usually in poorer neighborhoods—and who took money from clients who believed they were going to handle legal work for them. One of the cases involved a man who was actually an attorney, but who pocketed the filing fees charged by the courts and who then ‘granted’ his clients an uncontested divorce by simply signing the document himself.”
“How could he do that?”
“Lawyers draw up the petitions for divorce. Judges merely sign them. He signed the judge’s name to them.”
“But how could he—they—get away with that?”
“They got away with it by handling only uncontested matters, including divorces.”
Meredith swallowed half her drink without realizing what she was doing, then she brightened. “But surely in those instances, when both parties acted in good faith, then the courts would honor the divorce decrees even though they weren’t filed?”
“Like hell they did.”
“I don’t like the tone of this conversation,” Meredith said, feeling a little woozy from the potent drink. “What did the courts do about those people who thought they were divorced?”
“If they’d remarried, the courts allowed them to be innocent of bigamy.”
“Good.”
“But the second marriage was invalidated and the first one had to be dissolved through the proper channels.”
“Dear God!” Meredith said, and sank into a chair. But she knew in her heart, she absolutely knew her divorce was legal and valid. She knew it because the alternative was unthinkable.
Belatedly realizing how upset she was, Parker reached out and gently ran his hand over her silky hair.
“Even if Spyzhalski doesn’t belong to the bar, even if he’s never been to law school, your divorce could still be legitimate—so long as he presented that absurd divorce petition to a judge and somehow got it signed.” She glanced up at him and her eyes were the same lovely blue-green as the sweater and slacks she wore—only darker now, and troubled. “I’ll have someone go over to the courthouse tomorrow and try to find out if the divorce was filed and recorded. As long as it was, there’s nothing more to worry about.”
23
Bad night?” Phyllis asked her the next morning as Meredith walked past her desk with an absentminded nod.
“It wasn’t the greatest. What’s on my calendar this morning?”
“You have a meeting here with the advertising division at ten o’clock to discuss the grand opening for the New Orleans store. Jerry Keaton in personnel asked to see you about some raises you need to approve, and I told him you could see him at eleven. Is that okay?”
“Fine.”
“And at eleven-thirty Ellen Perkvale from legal needs to discuss a lawsuit that’s just been filed against us. It pertains to a lady who claims she broke a tooth in the Clarendon Room.”
Meredith rolled her eyes in disgust. “She’s suing us because she broke her tooth while eating in our dining room?”
“Not exactly. She’s suing us because she broke it on a nutshell that was in her trout amandine.”
“Oh,” Meredith said, unlocking her desk and accepting the likelihood of having to reach a settlement. “That changes matters.”
“True. Is eleven-thirty okay for that meeting?”
“Fine,” Meredith replied as the phone on her desk began to ring. “I’ll get it,” Phyllis said, and the day launched itself with the usual frenetic rush of store business that Meredith sometimes found exhausting yet always exhilarating. Occasionally, she had a moment to herself, and when that happened, she found herself staring at the phone, willing Parker to call and to say there was absolutely nothing amiss with her divorce.
It was nearly five o’clock when Phyllis finally said that Parker was on the phone. Racked with sudden tension, Meredith snatched the receiver from its cradle. “What did you find out?” she asked him.
“Nothing conclusive yet,” he replied, but there was a new, strained quality to his voice. “Spyzhalski isn’t a member of the ABA. I’m waiting to hear from someone at the Cook County courthouse. He’ll call me with the information I’ve asked for as soon as he has it. I’ll know exactly where we stand within the next few hours. Are you going to be home tonight?”
“No,” she sighed, “I’ll be at my father’s. He’s giving a small birthday party for Senator Davies. Call me there.”
“I will.”
“The moment you get your answers?”
“I promise.”
“The party will break up early because Senator Davies has to leave for Washington on a midnight flight, so if I’ve already left, call me at home.”
“I’ll find you, don’t worry.”
24
Trying not to worry became increasingly impossible as the evening wore on. Half convinced she was agonizing over nothing, and yet unable to quell her mounting sense of alarm, Meredith managed to smile and nod and be reasonably gracious to her father’s guests, but it took a supreme effort. Dinner had been over for an hour, and still Parker hadn’t phone
d. Trying to distract herself, she lingered in the dining room, supervising the clearing of the table, then she wandered into the library, where the guests had gathered for a brandy before leaving for their homes.
Someone had turned on the television and several of the men were standing near it, watching the news. “Lovely party, Meredith,” Senator Davies’s wife said, but the rest of her words seemed to vanish into the nether as Meredith heard the television commentator say, “Another Chicagoan was in the news today—Matthew Farrell was Barbara Walters’s guest on a taped broadcast earlier this evening. Among other things, he commented on the recent rash of corporate takeovers. Here’s a clip from that interview . . .”
The guests, who’d all read Sally Mansfield’s column, naturally assumed Meredith would be interested in seeing what Farrell had to say. After glancing at her with curious smiles, the roomful of people turned in unison to the television set as Matt’s face and voice filled the room.
“How do you feel about the growing number of hostile corporate takeovers?” Barbara Walters asked him, and Meredith noted with disgust that even the journalist was leaning forward in her chair, as if fascinated by him.
“I think it’s a trend that’s bound to continue, until such time as guidelines are set up to control it.”
“Is anyone immune from a forced merger with you—friends, and so forth? I mean,” she added with joking alarm, “is it possible that our own ABC could find itself your next prey?”
“The object of a takeover attempt is called the target,” Matt said evasively, smiling, “not the prey. However,” he said with a lazy, disarming smile, “if it will set your mind at rest, I can assure you that Intercorp does not have an acquisitive eye on ABC.” The men in the room chuckled at his quip, but Meredith kept her face perfectly blank.
“Can we talk a little more about your private life now? During the past few years you’ve reportedly had torrid love affairs with several movie stars, a princess, and most recently with Maria Calvaris, the shipping heiress. Were these widely publicized love affairs real, or were they invented by the gossip columnists?”
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