Independently Wealthy: A Novel

by Lorraine Zago Rosenthal

  His sarcasm never ceased to annoy. “No,” I said irritably. “My mother concocted a story to explain where the gifts came from. Edward used an alias.”

  “What was that?” Caroline asked.

  “Aunt Primrose,” I said.

  Caroline laughed. Then she held her hand to her mouth like she hadn’t planned for that to come out. “Come on,” she said when Ned glared at her. “You know that sounds just like Dad.”

  Ned snapped his fingers at our waitress as she passed by. “India Pale Ale,” he said.

  Caroline looked at me. “I have jewelry from Dad, too. He always gave me and Ned the best gifts—and he loved to surprise us.” She nudged Ned. “Remember your tenth birthday, when Dad scheduled his private plane to take us and all your friends to Disney World? He flew everyone to Florida for the afternoon, and he got them back to New York before bedtime. You were the hero of the fifth grade after that.”

  “Yup,” Ned replied curtly, rubbing his cleft chin. “But you forgot that Dad didn’t join us in Florida. Something came up at the office, so he sent his secretary as our chaperone.”

  Caroline’s burst of nostalgia seemed to fade. “I did forget that,” she said rather glumly.

  Ned looked at me. “My father gave us lavish birthday parties … but he was rarely there to see us blow out the candles.”

  “What about Christmas?” Caroline said. “He was always with us for Christmas.”

  Ned nodded. “I can’t deny that … or the stacks of gifts we had under the tree. But then Dad’s generosity toward us simply … wore out.”

  “That isn’t what happened,” I said. “Don’t think he stopped caring about you just because of how he left his money.”

  Ned gave me a tired stare. “I know, Savannah … we heard the same rhetoric from his attorney after she dropped his will on us. Caroline and I deserve to be on the naughty list forever, right? My father wanted to teach me the value of money and hard work … and trust me,” he said, grabbing the bottle the waitress handed to him, “I’m learning.”

  He probably was. I didn’t say anything, and Caroline watched Ned guzzle India Pale Ale.

  “Why are you drinking?” she asked. “It’ll hinder your work performance.”

  He looked at her indignantly, the bottle still in his hand. “What am I, a fucking neurosurgeon? This is only a beer, and it could be helpful to my work performance—maybe it’ll get some creative ideas flowing. And I think we’ve veered off course. You dragged me here to talk about what happened to Dad.”

  “Yes,” Caroline said. “I did … and as I was telling Savannah earlier, we should pick up the investigation where our PI left off. Maybe we can delve into this on our own.”

  Ned rested his bottle on the table. “Caroline,” he began in a calm voice, “I hate to break this to you, but we aren’t in an episode of CSI. You’re not going to become an amateur sleuth and dig into things that could put you in danger. And neither are you,” he said as he looked at me across the table.

  I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered that he was concerned for my safety or enraged by his commanding tone. “We can’t let this go,” I said. “Caroline and I don’t believe Halstead Simms was driving the car that hit Edward.”

  “Agreed,” Ned replied.

  “So the accident was probably executed or set up by Senator Caldwell, her husband, or someone related to one of the Lake Kolenya victims.”

  Ned nodded. “Or it could’ve been somebody at Amicus who was afraid that Dad would expose the company, or a waitress who wasn’t happy with Dad’s tip, or somebody his driver flipped off in traffic.”

  “Now you’re just being sarcastic,” Caroline said.

  Ned swigged his beer. “True … but I’m also right. You can’t waste your time and risk your safety by chasing down every possibility. And I’m doubtful of your partner’s crime-fighting skills,” he added, shifting his attention to me. “As I’ve mentioned, that lead you gave me … the man who was protesting outside Stone News—”

  “Peter Hansen,” I said.

  “—led to nothing other than he grew up near Lake Kolenya and was a handyman at Senator Caldwell’s house. Both the NYPD and our investigator interviewed and cleared him.”

  “I know that, Ned. But just because the cops and your PI couldn’t uncover anything doesn’t mean I was wrong. Maybe they didn’t do a competent job.”

  “Maybe,” Ned agreed, “which is why I’m going to hire a different PI to start a new investigation. I want this thing solved, too … but I think it’s easier, wiser, and most importantly—safer—to leave it to a professional. Don’t you?”

  Caroline and I stared at each other for a moment, and then she looked back at Ned.

  “Yes,” she said. “I have to admit you’re right. But if this new PI doesn’t figure things out, Savannah and I are going to try it on our own. Deal?” she said, looking at me.

  I was disappointed she’d given in so easily, but I couldn’t blame her. It was easier and safer and maybe even wiser to leave the investigation to a genuine PI. But I couldn’t wait for months like I did last time, only to wind up with nothing.

  “Deal,” I said, crossing my fingers under the table.

  *

  Snow flurries fell from the sky when Ned and Caroline and I were walking back to work. Caroline put up her hood and Ned lifted the collar on his coat, but I didn’t pull my hat out of my pocket. I let the snow fall on my head and sink into my hair as I savored the smell of roasted chestnuts on vendors’ carts and the sound of a Salvation Army bell ringing on a distant corner.

  “Do you have plans this Saturday night?” Caroline asked.

  We’d just passed the tree at Rockefeller Center and were approaching the Stone News building. The plaza wasn’t as busy as it had been when we left, but there were still plenty of people around.

  “No,” I said, remembering that Alex didn’t have a free night until Sunday. “Why?”

  “I want to invite you to our pre-Christmas party in Westchester,” Caroline said, giving Ned a warning glance that kept him quiet. “It’s a Stone family tradition.”

  I could hardly believe she was including me in one of those. “Why’s it in Westchester?”

  We reached the plaza. Caroline stopped walking and turned toward me as Ned impatiently jangled what sounded like keys in his pocket. “Well,” she began, “we have a house up in Larchmont. Mother got it in the divorce, but she still shared it with Dad. He had an office there, and he used it during weekends when she wasn’t around. He bought the place when Ned and I were very young … and even though we lived in Manhattan, we went there every Christmas. As lovely as the city is this time of year, it’s nice to wake up on Christmas morning surrounded by hills and trees … and to open gifts in front of a fireplace.”

  I felt as envious and left out as Caroline probably had when she’d noticed my brooch. I longingly imagined an Edward Stone Christmas with piles of gifts under the tree, and Edward smiling while his children unwrapped the surprises he’d carefully planned.

  “That,” I forced myself to say, “must’ve been wonderful.”

  Caroline nodded. “It was. And it’s a great house … but Mother has listed it with a real estate agent. Unfortunately, the Caldwell family lives right down the hill … and as you can imagine, she no longer socializes with Carys or enjoys bumping into her when she shops in the village.”

  Sympathy struck me hard. Virginia had probably gabbed and gossiped with the senator until finding out that she was much more than a neighbor. And Virginia didn’t need another reminder of Edward’s infidelity showing up in Larchmont.

  “I appreciate the invitation,” I said. “But I can’t spoil your mother’s Christmas.”

  Caroline shook her head. “You won’t, Savannah. I’m not going to pretend she’ll be thrilled to have you there … but we’ve discussed my reasons for inviting you, and she understands them. I really want you to visit the house before it’s sold, and you should see how we spent the holidays wi
th Dad … since you never got to. I’m sure it’s what he’d want.”

  I thought about that for a moment, hoping it was true. Then I nodded and accepted the invitation, and Caroline smiled before moving her eyes toward the news ticker. I looked that way, too, and saw Kitty standing nearby, wearing a houndstooth coat and a matching beret and talking to a tall man with a thick mane of light-brown hair. He seemed to be Ned’s age, he was just as sharply dressed, and he scored off the charts in the good-looks category.

  He was probably York Prep Boy. And he was definitely Charles Beckford—a journalist and host of his own news show on ABN that aired weeknights at ten. He and Kitty were talking and laughing and smiling, and she put her hand on his shoulder and gave it a playful push.

  Ned saw everything. His olive-green eyes went from shocked to hurt to angry and back again, and I supposed the only thing more painful for him than seeing Kitty gaze admiringly at another man was when that man was soundly beating Ned’s own network in the ratings.

  “That’s Charlie Beckford,” Caroline said, looking stunned.

  “I’m aware,” Ned replied in a distant voice.

  A police car with a blaring siren passed on the street behind us. Charlie glanced toward it, and then he spotted Ned and Caroline and he paused for a moment, like he was deciding whether to be polite. Manners clearly won out, and he headed our way with Kitty following behind.

  “Hey, man,” he said with a smile, holding out his hand as he approached Ned.

  “Pleasure to see you,” Ned replied, reaching for Charlie’s hand and giving it a solid pump. He’d also pasted on a friendly smile, and it must have been torture to keep it there. But he was doing an impressive job of the Good Sport act.

  “You, too,” Charlie said before turning to Caroline. “How’s my fellow Harvard alum?”

  He was a Harvard grad. No surprise. It fit with the package—his six-foot-two frame and his buff physique, his flawless hair and those glowing, bluish-green eyes. And from what I’d heard, he was a self-sacrificing, philanthropic journalist who’d worked as a foreign correspondent before landing his anchor job and still risked death in war-torn countries and pitched in to rebuild cities ravaged by earthquakes and floods. He was a glorious specimen of man candy—wholesomeness dipped in a scrumptious coating.

  “Fine, thanks,” Caroline said. “Are you two just coming back from lunch?”

  Kitty nodded. “We went to The Lambs Club.”

  Caroline and Ned jerked their heads toward me; I stiffened as I kept my eyes on Charlie and extended my hand. “I’m Savannah Morgan,” I said.

  He slipped his palm into mine. “Kitty’s told me a lot of good things about you.”

  “Well,” Caroline cut in, “we’d better get back to work. Ned has an important conference that starts in a few minutes … don’t you, Ned?”

  “Yes,” he said, glancing at his Rolex. “We really should go.”

  There were good-byes all around. Ned initiated another handshake with Charlie. Then Ned and Caroline and I walked in silence through the revolving doors and into the lobby, where we waited for an elevator that we shared with just a few people. We stood against the back wall, and Caroline was between me and Ned, and she turned toward him when the others left and the doors slid shut behind them.

  The elevator raced skyward. Ned’s eyes were on the numbers that lit up above the doors.

  Caroline let out a long sigh. “I tried to end that ordeal as quickly as I could, Ned. And I’m not sure if I should say that you’ve been served your just desserts … or that I’m really sorry.”

  His body was rigid against the wall and his eyes didn’t move from the numbers.

  “Please, Caroline,” he said. “I’d prefer you say nothing at all.”

  Five

  That night, I sat beside Tony as he drove the sedan toward the Seaport, and we were almost there when we hit some traffic that extended all the way down Pearl Street.

  “Can I walk from here?” I asked, looking through the windshield at a long line of brake lights heading into a parking garage. “I don’t want to be late for the party.”

  “You can if you don’t mind the cold. Just go down one block on Beekman Street,” Tony said as he pointed the way, “and then take a right on Front Street and a left into Fulton Market.”

  “Got it,” I said, grabbing my purse. “You’ll pick me up later?”

  He nodded. “I’ll be in Manhattan all night, driving clients to and from holiday parties … just give me a call when you’re ready.”

  Then I was walking in my pumps through the frigid air toward Fulton Market. The area looked like a quaint maritime town that had been frozen in a simpler century while skyscrapers grew and loomed around it. There were shops and restaurants inside Colonial-style buildings, cobblestoned streets filled with people, and the sound of a horn bellowing from the East River.

  I strolled with the crowd until I spotted Bridgewaters, which was inside a brick building. I walked through the entrance and into a lobby, and I was directed to an elevator that took me to an upstairs room abuzz with music and chatter.

  “The theme is Winter Wonderland,” I heard someone say.

  That was obvious. The spacious room was breathtaking and drenched in soft blue light. It had a wall of windows with a stunning view of the Brooklyn Bridge, there were white roses and glittery branches set in silver vases on each table, swatches of ivory tulle were draped from one end of the ceiling to the other, and candles in glass cylinders burned on the windowsills.

  I lingered in the doorway, listening to a band in the corner play a jazz medley of Christmas tunes and watching a throng of Stone News employees talk and laugh while they nursed their drinks and ate smoked oysters on zucchini canapés.

  I spotted Ned by the windows. He had a drink in his hand, and he was talking to Zachary Parker—the anchor of the daily morning show at Stone News. Then I spotted Ned’s eternally frumpy secretary taking a smoked salmon barquette from a waiter’s tray, Caroline standing at the bar, and Virginia promenading around. She wore a dress made of maroon velvet and her hair fell in dark waves down her back. She worked the room like a pro, shaking hands and giving each guest the most genteel smile.

  I also saw Fabian Spader. He leaned against a wall, wearing a beige jacket with a matching shirt and red pants that were disturbingly snug. He tossed his strawberry-blond hair and chatted with his photographer before he saw me.

  I was filled with a fresh and revitalized loathing. I averted my eyes, feeling queasy and remembering my excuse for avoiding The Lambs Club this afternoon as I thought that Fabian was my real aversion. I hadn’t let the online smear-job he’d initiated keep me away from New York, but I hadn’t forgotten it, either.

  I headed toward Virginia, whose back was toward me as she faced the windows, immersed in conversation with a group of women. I waited for her to take a breather, but she never did, so I tapped her shoulder and she turned around. I looked at her pale skin, her light-green eyes, and the thick gold chain that adorned her neck. The smile she’d been wearing faded, but only for a moment. When it returned, it reminded me of the way Ned looked when he was shaking hands with Kitty’s new man.

  “Mrs. Stone,” I began. “Do you—”

  “Call me Virginia. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.”

  I had an uncomfortable flashback to our run-in at The Plaza last summer. “Do you know,” I continued, “that Fabian Spader is here?”

  “Of course I do. I invited him.”

  “But … he…” I stammered. “I mean … did you forget what I told you? He shouldn’t be here. He isn’t your friend.”

  She lifted her hand to her neck and stroked the gold around it. “I didn’t forget what you told me. You might recall I said I’d keep it in mind … and that’s exactly what I’ve done. The truth is, Savannah … if I alienated everyone whose friendship I doubted, my guest lists would be tragically short. So I understand I’ll be seeing you in Larchmont on Saturday?”

  I
got the point. But I might not have if I’d only been paying attention to her sugary voice.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, and then she left me staring through the window at the lights that twinkled on the Brooklyn Bridge.

  *

  I sat at a table that had silver place-card holders and party favors—crystal Christmas ornaments in the shape of snowflakes engraved with each employee’s name and STONE NEWS CORPORATION.

  I slipped mine into my purse just as two waiters came by to serve dinner. Then I ate and talked with co-workers while Ned made multiple trips to the bar and Fabian Spader smirked at me from a nearby table.

  “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

  That came from a girl sitting opposite me when the waiters were clearing our dinner dishes. I’d seen her at work, but we’d never been introduced and hadn’t yet spoken tonight. She was probably a couple of years older than me, she had a sleek A-line lob, and the color corresponded to Medium Ash Brown on the hair-dye chart in Mom’s at-home salon.

  “I’m Celeste Natali, by the way,” she told me with a smile.

  “Savannah Morgan,” I said, thinking her hair color matched her eyes. Her lashes were lengthy and they curled up at the edges, and she had full lips and radiant skin. She was about my size, and she wore a tweed dress with a long necklace that ended in an elegant gold tassel.

  “You’re Ned Stone’s sister, right? That’s what I was going to ask you.”

  I glanced toward Ned. Now that dinner was over and guests were leaving their seats to raid the Viennese table, all the chairs around him were empty except the one to his left, which was filled by a Stone News reporter named Heather Schmidt. I’d heard she was forty-eight, but it was impossible to tell because of her stylish blond hair, her wrinkle-free face, and the killer legs she always showed off from her anchor chair. According to office gossip, her legs were insured for a half-million dollars each and she’d gone through a nasty divorce last year.

  “I’m … his half-sister,” I said, looking at Celeste again. It still felt weird saying that.

  “And you work at Femme … with Ned’s ex-wife.”