“But that doesn’t mean—”
“If he were a jewel thief, Ash, he’d act like a jewel thief. He wouldn’t be out in the country slopping pigs and chopping wood.”
Ashley sighed. It was a point she’d considered a thousand times over the years. “Maybe my parents were.”
“They’re dead, Ash. You never even knew them.”
“But maybe Barky’s protecting them.”
“You going to keep asking yourself questions, or are you going to get off your ass and get some answers?”
Patti Morgan, Ashley’s indispensable twenty-year-old secretary, poked her head into the sleek bone-and-mauve office. “A Sybil Morgenstern on the line for you, Ashley. Says she’s editor in chief of You magazine and wants to talk to you. Won’t take no for an answer.”
“Thanks, Patti. I’ll take the call.”
Caroline looked at Ashley in consternation. “You know what you’re getting yourself into?”
Ashley shrugged. “Not really. But I have a feeling I’ll find out.” She pressed the flashing button on her phone and said, “Ashley Wakefield.”
“Ahh...the elusive mystery lady of Boston.” The voice was throaty, the tone casual. “Sybil Morgenstern here. We’d like to do your story, Ashley.”
“I’m flattered, but I’m afraid I don’t give personal interviews.”
“Don’t you? Well, we can always run what we have and let the chips fall where they may.”
Ashley glanced at Caroline, who shook her head in commiseration. She had always supported Ashley’s decision to keep the tantalizing story of her sudden wealth to herself—although not to the point of letting it interfere with her romantic life, which it did. For Ashley, men tended to fall into two categories: those she might consider telling the truth about herself, and those she would never consider telling the truth about herself. She saw both kinds, but “might” had never translated itself into action. There had been no middle-of-the-night confessions about Liechtenstein trusts, mysterious jewels, farmer uncles, weekends spent making maple syrup and planting peas and chasing chickens. It was impossible to get close to a man and still remain an enigma, a woman who had seemingly sprung full-grown at age twenty-five from the head of Zeus.
Maybe she was tired of being mysterious.
“We have some intriguing photographs of you, Ashley,” Sybil Morgenstern went on. “Partying in Newport and the Berkshires, shopping in New York, playing female exec in Boston, rescuing dolphins on the Cape, stomping around under your plane—”
“It’s called ‘preflighting,’” Ashley interrupted. “It’s the pilot’s manual and visual check of the aircraft before—”
“Whatever.”
Ashley sighed. She was in a daze. “So the skinny photographer with the jeans works for you.”
“He works for himself. Best paparazzo in town—but a germ. Rob Gazelle. He also has the most stunning shots of you the other night at the New England Oceanographic Institute. The dress was a Givenchy, wasn’t it? Maybe fifteen grand? And the jewels. They’re something.”
“Damn.”
“Mmm. We can just run the photos, Ashley. They’ll make a hell of a spread. But look.” Her tone changed, becoming conspiratorial, maternal, affectionate. “Look, Ashley, we don’t want to do a hatchet job on you. We just want to know who you are.”
“I’m founder and president of Touchstone Communications, publisher of Currents, a director and trustee for the New England Oceanographic Institute. That’s me, Ms. Morgenstern. Thanks for your interest—”
“It’s not enough and you know it.”
“I’m afraid it’ll have to be.”
“Rob did some digging. We know all about your rustic roots, Ashley. The farm, the pigs, the cows.”
Ashley winced as if in pain. “We never had cows.”
“No matter. That little tidbit will go into our piece, and you know us: we’ll draw our own conclusions. I should think you’d want to tell the story yourself.”
Licking her lips, Ashley wondered what would happen if the tiara and the choker were plastered all across the country in a national magazine. But there seemed nothing at all she could do about it. And maybe, she thought, she didn’t want to do anything.
“I’ll agree to an interview,” she said abruptly, “but on one condition.”
“No conditions.”
“Then no interview. All I want is for you to promise to leave my family out of this. I respect their privacy. If you don’t agree, you can just go with what you have.”
Sybil was silent for a moment. “All right. Your condition is accepted. I’ll have my reporter in your office in the morning.”
When Ashley hung up, Caroline looked at her and groaned. “Good Lord, Ashley, I hope to hell you know what you’re doing.”
Ashley exhaled, her shoulders sagging. “So do I, Caroline. So do I.”
“Are you going to warn the folks at home?”
“Not on your life.”
* * *
Late Monday morning, Lillian Parker turned in to the horseshoe-shaped driveway of the Wakefield farm and parked behind a disreputable-looking Land Rover. It was a gorgeous day: high blue sky, utterly cloudless and crisp. Summer was finally over.
The farm was everything she had imagined.
By last night, she had recovered enough from the shock of seeing Ashley Wakefield to remember that Rob Gazelle owed her a favor, and to work up the courage to call him. He hadn’t wanted to tell her anything: he was on Sybil Morgenstern’s payroll. But he was persuaded, and finally he told her what she wanted to know.
There was an uncle, he’d said, and a brother. Bartholomew and David. And there was a farm in Amherst, Massachusetts.
“You screw up this story for me,” Rob warned, “and I’ll haunt you forever.”
“You’ll have to stand in line, Rob.”
“What’s your interest?”
“Curiosity.”
As she climbed out of her Cadillac, she was greeted by the sounds of pigs and sheep. The air smelled fresh and clean. She just wanted to stand there, breathing.
There seemed to be no one about. Her heart pounding, Lillian walked over to a trailer at the exit of the driveway, where pumpkins, winter squash, gourds, Brussels sprouts and Indian corn were piled high. She chose a small pumpkin and slipped two quarters into the coffee can with the price list pasted on it.
This must have been a nice place to have grown up, she thought. And felt better for having come.
Up the slope rising behind the house, a stocky man came out of the barn. His shoulders were stooped slightly against the weight of two buckets, and he wore baggy jeans and a blue plaid flannel shirt. On his head was a Red Sox cap. His face was lost in the shadows, but Lillian watched him. She couldn’t breathe. Her fingers turned white as they clutched the pumpkin.
“You should hate him.”
“I can’t!”
“He betrayed us. He betrayed even you.”
“I don’t believe it. I won’t!”
“He’s a murderer and a traitor”
“No!”
A screen door banged. Startled, Lillian dropped the pumpkin. It didn’t break open, but she could feel the tears welling in her eyes, and she was suddenly furious with herself for having come. She stooped to pick up the pumpkin.
“Hi, there,” a friendly male voice said. “Can I help you with anything?”
Lillian rose, attempting to smile despite her embarrassment, fury and pain.
Then she froze. “Oh, God.”
“Huh? Something wrong?”
She reeled with the shock of seeing him. Again she dropped the pumpkin. This time he picked it up, handing it to her, his dark blue eyes filled with concern. “You okay? Hey—aren’t you Lillian Parker?”
“Yes, I—” She held the pumpkin close to her chest. For her excursion to the country, she had worn slacks and a cotton sweater, casual attire, but she felt so formal, so stiff, so afraid. She pushed absently at her windblown hair. “Yes, I a
m.”
His grin was endearingly lopsided. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I’m sorry. I... Hunger, I guess.”
“Want something to eat?”
“No, no, that’s all right.”
“You sure?”
She nodded. He was a good-looking young man. Very tall and sinewy, with dark hair, eyebrows, eyes. He wore tight jeans and a navy blue chamois shirt.
“I’m surprised you recognized me,” she said, hoping he would forget her ridiculous behavior. “I haven’t been on camera in quite some time.”
“Used to watch you every morning. My uncle’s a big fan of yours—want to meet him?”
“No! No, thank you, I have to be going.”
“Nice meeting you.”
She managed a smile. “Nice meeting you, too.”
“Name’s David, by the way. David Wakefield.”
“I’ll remember that.” Was there any chance of forgetting it, ever? “Thanks for the pumpkin.”
* * *
The You reporter appeared in Ashley’s office promptly at ten o’clock the following morning. She was fair skinned, attractive, smartly dressed, obviously tenacious and aggressive. Determined not to get too cozy, Ashley sat at her desk and offered the reporter the chair in front of her. Ashley had worn black for the occasion. Intimidating. But the reporter didn’t look intimidated. In fact, as she arranged her tape recorder and flipped open her notepad and settled herself in for the millennium, she looked as if she’d eat Ashley alive, given the opportunity.
Ashley didn’t intend to give her the opportunity.
“My name’s Pat Oberlin.” She smiled. “And you’re Sybil’s mystery lady.”
“I’m Ashley Wakefield.” She folded her hands on her desk and recited the instructions she’d given numerous clients when facing the press: “Keep smiling...don’t criticize...don’t be defensive...be clear and concise...” She could think of a dozen different clients who’d be snorting now with glee, seeing the shoe on the other foot.
The interview proceeded smoothly. Ashley told of her work at Touchstone, with the institute, impersonal things she didn’t mind discussing.
Then Pat Oberlin asked about “romantic interests.” Ashley said, “None at the moment.” It was, she thought, the distressing truth.
“Do you consider yourself a jet setter?”
“No.”
“But you lead an active social life?”
“I try to.”
“I see.” Oberlin switched tactics. “What about your childhood?”
“Very happy.”
“You grew up on a farm?”
“Yes.” How much more clear and concise could she be?
“Tell me about it. What was it like?”
“A mixture of hard work and fun.”
“What about your family?”
“My parents died when my twin brother and I were a few months old. Our uncle, my father’s brother, raised us. And that’s all I’m going to say about them. It’s the condition for this interview, remember?”
“Right, right. So you went from the farm to Boston University, where you majored in communications. You were a scholarship student.”
Ashley shifted in her chair: Pat Oberlin had definitely done her homework.
“Your first job was in the public relations department of a Boston management consulting group. According to former co-workers, you made maybe seventeen, eighteen thousand a year. You quit in 1982, and a few months later started up this outfit, revamped Currents with your own money into a slick, expensive magazine that still doesn’t pay for itself, and, rumor has it, donated a sweet million to the New England Oceanographic Institute. You also started turning up at high-class parties all over New England and Manhattan, bought a condo here in Boston, land on Cape Cod, a co-op in New York. You took up flying, bought your own plane. You wear dresses that cost just about what you used to make in a year. So. As you can see, it just doesn’t add up.”
Ashley shrugged. “No, it doesn’t.”
“You’re secretive about where you got your money. Why?”
“I was raised not to discuss such things in public.” Which was a lot of nonsense. Barky would discuss money with anyone.
“You win the lottery?”
“No.”
“Come on, Ashley. What do you think this interview’s all about? People are going to want to know where you got your millions.”
Ashley breathed heavily.
“Hey. Better to tell me right up front than have me speculate in print.”
“I suppose you have a point. All right, but it’s complicated—and not really very exciting. My brother and I are the beneficiaries of a Liechtenstein trust.”
“What’s that?”
Naturally she would ask. Ashley said, “It’s complicated.”
“I’m a smart person.”
Pat Oberlin could find out what a Liechtenstein trust was if she put her mind to it—and Ashley had no doubt she would. Perhaps it was better this way, she thought. Perhaps, in a way, she had been gearing up for this moment for the past four years and, especially, for the past couple of months. She could have guessed Rob Gazelle would be at the opening Saturday night. She could have found out who he was if she’d really wanted to...needed to. But she hadn’t. And there had to be a reason for that: she wanted the proverbial cat out of the bag.
I think...“Oh, hell.”
“Just spit it out,” Pat Oberlin suggested.
“A Liechtenstein trust is a device created by the Swiss banking system to ensure anonymity and used, most often, in cases presenting inheritance difficulties.”
“Like what?”
“Annoying spouses, unpleasant children, that sort of thing. I’m not an expert. I’m just repeating what my attorney told me.” Ashley put her hands in her lap so Oberlin couldn’t see her twisting her fingers together. “Basically, the donor—the person setting up the trust—goes to the bank in person with the funds to be deposited, satisfies the bank the account won’t infringe on any laws and signs a ‘declaration of honorable intent.’ This protects the bank.”
Pat Oberlin rattled her pen in the crook between her thumb and forefinger but didn’t interrupt.
“Then the donor assigns power of attorney to a group of Liechtenstein lawyers who will serve as the fund’s trustees. They ensure the terms of the trust will be carried out precisely according to the wishes of the donor—and within the realm of the law. The beauty of a Liechtenstein trust is that this arrangement can continue even after the death of the donor.”
“Now we’re getting down to the grit,” the You reporter said with a hopeful grin. “You mean your donor could be dead?”
“Theoretically, yes.”
“You don’t know?”
“Let me finish," Ashley said. "Together, the donor and the lawyers set up a portfolio management agreement, which gives the Swiss bank the authority to manage the funds in the trust. The donor may set up guidelines, but all actual buying and selling is performed by the bank.”
“Who’s your bank?”
“Piccard Cie in Geneva, Switzerland.” There was no harm in telling Oberlin that much: no one at Piccard would discuss the terms of the trust with anyone but Ashley, David and their attorneys.
“Whoopee. Go on.”
“In a Liechtenstein trust, the donor may dictate precisely when, to whom and how the trust funds will be distributed to the named beneficiaries. By law, the trustees must abide by the terms of the trust. They are permitted to tell the beneficiaries only what the donor has instructed them to tell, and nothing else.”
Pat Oberlin leaned back in her chair and gave Ashley an astute look. “You’re telling me this for a reason, aren’t you?”
Ashley smiled coolly. “Because you asked.”
“Right.”
“Well, that’s it. Basically, that’s what a Liechtenstein trust is.”
“Tell me about your Liechtenstein trust.”
“Oh. Well, it’
s pretty straightforward. Piccard Cie retained the services of Parrington, Parrington and Smith, a Park Avenue law firm, and through a private investigator they located my brother and me shortly before our twenty-fifth birthday, when we were to be notified of the existence of the trust.”
“Didn’t they know where the hell you were?”
“Uh-uh.”
“The bank didn’t have your address?”
Piccard Cie only had the names, birth dates and foot and hand prints of the Wakefield twins, nothing else. But Ashley didn’t think You magazine needed to know that. “It’s a common occurrence,” she said, guessing.
“How much money are we talking here?”
“A significant amount.”
“Yeah, right.”
In 1982, Ashley recalled, the principal of the trust was worth approximately thirty-four million U.S. dollars. According to the wishes of their particular donor, she and David were to receive annual payments, consisting of the investment income of the principal, beginning on their twenty-fifth birthday and continuing to them and their heirs in perpetuity. They would never have access to the principal itself, which would continue to be managed by Piccard Cie. Evan Parrington had said that was a clever arrangement, considering U.S. tax laws.
His figures had proven to be conservative, and had fluctuated over the years. But annual payments had never fallen below four million dollars. In general, they were higher.
More details, Ashley decided, that Pat Oberlin didn’t need to know—although, certainly, she would want to.
“This is wild,” the reporter said. “So who set this thing up?”
Ashley hesitated for a moment, choosing her words carefully. “You see, Ms. Oberlin, that’s one of the beauties of the Liechtenstein trust—from the donor’s point of view. He or she may remain anonymous to the beneficiaries. The trustees will abide by this.”
“You’re saying you don’t know who made you and your brother millionaires.” Pat Oberlin was obviously just barely containing her excitement.
Ashley smiled, also maintaining her composure. “I’m saying that information is between God and the Swiss banking system.”
The reporter grinned broadly. “Wow. Just…wow.”
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