Independently Wealthy: A Novel

by Lorraine Zago Rosenthal

  Caroline slid her feet off the desk and put them on the floor. “In regard to that incident … yes, he is. But in general … I think not.” She sighed, grabbed a Starbucks cup beside her computer, and leaned back into her chair. “I hope that’s not all you came up here for … because if there’s nothing else to talk about,” she said, nodding toward the document in front of her, “I’ll have to resume my slow death.”

  I glanced at the wall and her Harvard diploma inside a cherrywood frame embossed with a coat of arms and Veritas—Latin for truth, exactly what I was looking for.

  “There is something else to talk about,” I said, turning my eyes back to Caroline. “Do you know if Edward ever had any dealings with someone named Terrence Miller?”

  “Terrence Miller is the president of—”

  “Amicus Worldwide. I’m wondering if and how Edward could’ve known him.”

  Caroline shrugged. “The only connection I’m aware of between Dad and Amicus is through Carys Caldwell and her husband. Even the media hasn’t found another link. The company is based in D.C., so Miller isn’t someone Dad would run into much on a social level. Of course, we have no idea what Dad knew about Lake Kolenya … and that’s why I can’t intelligently hypothesize about anyone he might have known at Amicus.” She leaned forward, sliding her forearms onto her desk. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well,” I said with a sigh, “you probably won’t like this … but when I was in Larchmont and Ned gave me a tour of the house, I spent some time alone in Edward’s office. It was when you and Virginia were talking to Ned in the hall … he asked me to stay inside because he thought your mother would flip if she knew he’d let me into that room.”

  “True,” Caroline said slowly. “I guess you found something in there?”

  I nodded. “Terrence Miller’s phone number … it was scribbled on some notes. I didn’t know who the number belonged to, but this morning I called it from a pay phone—”

  “Smart. He’ll know the call came from Manhattan, but he probably gets a lot of business calls from here.”

  “Right,” I said. “I reached his voice mail, so I just hung up. I think it was his cell because I couldn’t find the number online … it probably would’ve come up if it was a work number. Then I saw his name on the Amicus Web site and realized who he is. And I hope you’re not mad about how I got that number.”

  She settled back into her chair and aimlessly flipped the edges of a notepad while she stared at me. “No,” she said finally. “You have as much right to be in Dad’s office as Ned and I do. I have to admit we ransacked that room after he died, but we didn’t find anything … and unfortunately, I’m not sure you have, either.”

  “I know,” I said, trying not to feel completely hopeless. “But I wonder if the first PI Ned hired investigated Miller … and if I should tell Ned the new one should.”

  Caroline was still flipping those pages. She stopped and shifted her eyes to the ashen sky outside to the souvenirs on the windowsill and back to me. “You’re aware,” she said, “that Ned doesn’t want us involved, so you shouldn’t tell him a thing. Let’s wait and see if the new investigator pinpoints Miller on his own. As far as the old PI … if I call him and start asking questions, he’ll most likely rat me out to Ned, since that’s who paid his bills. But Ned does have a copy of his file.”

  “That might help,” I said. “I can’t ask Ned for it, though.”

  “No … but you can burglarize his office and take it,” she said with a sly grin. “He won’t miss the file … I’m sure he’s too frazzled with work to notice it’s gone. He’s in a meeting right now, so it’s the perfect time for a heist.”

  I smiled, feeling like I’d secured an accomplice.

  She checked her watch. “He’ll be out of the meeting soon, so you should get going. And if he catches you, just pretend I wanted you to get my iPod from him … he borrowed it to use at the gym a few weeks ago, and I’ve asked for it five times but still haven’t seen it.”

  I nodded, stood up, and happened to glance at that doll on the windowsill.

  “It’s a matryoshka,” Caroline said as she left her seat and walked to the window, where she unscrewed the doll’s head and pulled out another doll to show me. “I bought it in Moscow.”

  “You used to travel a lot, didn’t you?” I asked.

  “All the time,” she said gloomily, “before I was forced to work here.”

  “But you don’t have to work here, Caroline. With your education, I’m sure you could get a job wherever you want. Yet you still come here every day … and based on what I saw when you helped Ned with his speech, you’re good at your work.”

  She sat on the windowsill. “I try to be.”

  “I think Edward would be proud of you for that. And I’m sure,” I said, nodding toward her desk, “you’re the only person he’d want in this spot.”

  She leaned her back against the window as Manhattan loomed behind her. Then she smiled, and I hoped she finally understood that she’d been entrusted instead of imprisoned.

  Fifteen

  I crept by Ned’s secretary’s desk. Her chair was pushed back and her computer monitor was glowing, and she’d probably return any second so I couldn’t waste time. I dashed into Ned’s spacious office, closed the door, and looked at his wide mahogany desk and plush leather chair.

  I slipped behind the desk, opened a drawer, and found a framed photo inside—the wedding picture of Ned and Kitty that used to be on one of those bookshelves across the room.

  I wasn’t surprised he’d kept it. And I was sure his reaction to finding it in my hands wouldn’t be pretty. So I put it away, crouched down, and opened a lower drawer that was filled with manila folders. I scanned a row of labels but didn’t see what I needed.

  There was a tall filing cabinet in a corner of the room. I went to it, searched through a drawer and three others, and finally found a folder labeled AMSTERDAM INVESTIGATIONS. Inside was a typed report with “Edward Stone” as its title.

  I heard noise outside—Ned talking to his secretary. I tore open my blazer, shoved the folder into the waist of my skirt, and buttoned my jacket over it before the doorknob turned and Ned walked in, dressed in a chocolate-colored suit and carrying a legal pad.

  “Christ,” he said, startled. “What are you doing in here?”

  He had seven stitches. They were above his left eyebrow, covered by a transparent bandage. “I hope you had that psycho arrested,” I said. “A few centimeters lower and you could’ve lost your eye.”

  He walked to his desk and slammed down the pad. “Is there anything Caroline doesn’t tell you? Your coziness with her is becoming a thorn in my side. And no, I’m not prosecuting anybody … I don’t need the public gossip.” He sighed tiredly and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I ask again: What are you doing in here?”

  “Caroline sent me,” I said as casually as I could. “She wants her iPod back.”

  He didn’t seem to buy that. “Couldn’t Caroline ask me for it?”

  I kept a straight face. “She’s … busy.”

  “And you’re not? If you don’t have enough work to do, I can find a lot of it for you.”

  “I’m very busy,” I said, “but I have some free time this morning because Kitty’s out at…” I stopped, annoyed with myself for bringing her up. “Well … never mind. So do you have the—”

  “Kitty is out where?” Ned asked. “Don’t lie to me. Remember who’s in charge here.”

  Of course he had to be overbearing about the whole thing. “She’s taking Charlie Beckford’s son to the doctor, if you must know. I was trying to avoid a touchy subject so I wouldn’t hurt your feelings, but you had to force the issue. Happy now?”

  He wasn’t. I could tell by how quickly his green eyes dimmed. “Oh,” he said, slowly lowering his sturdy frame into his chair. He kept his eyes on his desk, where he flicked a flash drive and watched it spin. “Yeah, I … I know Charlie has a son … and what happened to his wife. So I guess h
e and Kitty are getting serious, huh? I mean … since he trusts her with his child.”

  “I think you might be right about that.”

  Ned turned on his computer. “Kitty has wanted a kid forever … and I guess that boy needs a mother. She’ll be a great one, too. So … everybody wins, right?”

  He gave me a smile that I saw right through. I sat down in the chair across from his desk, crinkling the folder under my jacket.

  “Ned,” I began, but stopped when he pulled an iPod from underneath a stack of papers and chucked it at me.

  “Give that to Caroline,” he said after it fell onto my lap.

  I stuck it in my pocket. “Ned,” I repeated, “you can’t go on like … like this,” I said, pointing to his bandage. “These girls you’ve been seeing are—”

  “I know,” he said in a fed-up voice. “You’ve already lectured me, remember? But where are all these phenomenal women of whom you speak? You haven’t shown me any yet.”

  He seemed to be challenging me like he had when I was in his apartment, and I couldn’t back down from a challenge—especially one from him. “They’re all over the place,” I said.

  “Could you be any vaguer?” he asked smugly.

  Celeste Natali. That was specific. She was obviously smitten with him, and she wasn’t too young or too old, and she was college educated and artistically talented and thoughtful and kind and even environmentally conscious. I’d initially hoped Ned would stay away from her, but now I wondered if I’d been wrong. Maybe they needed each other.

  “One of them is closer than you think,” I said. “But I won’t tell you who she is unless you promise a few things.”

  He folded his arms and eyed me suspiciously. “What would those things be?”

  “Number one,” I said, holding up my index finger, “if you date her, you will be an absolute gentleman. This includes not rushing her into bed, cheating on her, lying to her, or anything else on your standard repertoire. She’s already been treated badly by a man, and I will not be responsible for that happening again.”

  Ned raised his dark eyebrows. “What man treated her badly and how?”

  “It isn’t my place to say. Number two,” I went on as I lifted another finger, “you will never let her or anyone else know I set this up. It’ll be better if everybody believes you did it on your own. Now if these terms work for you, I’ll give you her name.”

  “I don’t know,” he said through a yawn. “The last time I made a deal with you, I ended up signing divorce papers.”

  “That was your fault, not mine. I thought you’d figured this out.”

  He flicked that flash drive again. It skidded across the desk and landed on the floor.

  “Yes,” he said tersely. “I have.”

  “That’s good. It’s also one of the reasons I’m playing matchmaker. But this isn’t a deal, Ned … it’s an opportunity. So are you interested or not?”

  He shrugged. “I might be … depending on the woman. And if I am interested, I’ll abide by your conditions and be a perfect gentleman. I’ll be Rhett Butler.”

  I frowned. “He isn’t a true gentleman. As the novel explicitly states—”

  “I haven’t read the fucking novel,” he said. “I saw ten minutes of that stupid movie on AMC because a girl I was dating in college wouldn’t shut it off.”

  I clutched my heart. “Stupid movie? Yeah, Gone with the Wind was so stupid that it won Academy Awards for Best Picture and Best Actor and—”

  “Who the hell cares? Stop babbling and tell me who you’re trying to set me up with.”

  That offensive outburst almost made me tell him something else—that he’d blown it and he could forget I’d ever mentioned this, and maybe he should just run off to Scores and drop a few Benjamins to see some skin. But I remembered Ned saying that important things didn’t matter when you have nobody to share them with, and I couldn’t keep him from a girl who might turn out to be the right somebody.

  “It’s Celeste,” I said. “And trust me … if you ask her out, she won’t refuse.”

  He seemed to find that both surprising and intriguing. “Celeste,” he said musingly.

  “She’s lovely, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “But why are you so sure she’s interested in me?”

  “I hate to stroke your overinflated ego, Ned … but I’ve yet to find a woman who isn’t interested in you.”

  He chuckled. “You flatter me. Is this the Southern charm I’ve heard so much about?”

  “It’s just the truth. But if you think I’m charming … you should take notes.”

  His eyes fell to his Rolex, where they stayed for a moment before he looked at me again. “You’re right … I’ve been surly with you this morning.”

  I paused, waiting for the apology that should have come after that. But I didn’t get one, and now that I thought about it, I realized I’d never heard “I’m sorry” come from Ned’s mouth. Maybe he believed those two little words were something else that would make him seem weak.

  “I’m sure Celeste hasn’t seen your surly side,” I went on, “because she has a crush on you. She bought a copy of the magazine you’re in, and she’s worried about the cut on your face leaving a scar. How did that happen, anyway? I know it was a champagne glass, but—”

  “But not everyone appreciates my sardonic wit. That’s what happened.”

  “Oh,” I said knowingly as his phone rang. He hit the speaker button and I listened to his secretary reminding him of a conference call that was about to begin. Then I stood up and lingered in front of his desk. “You should invite Celeste to lunch … that’s a safe way to start. Take her somewhere classy like—”

  “Savannah,” he said impatiently, “I haven’t agreed to take her anywhere, and I don’t need your dating tips. Trust me … I know how to treat a nice girl. I was married to one, remember?”

  I did, which was why I feared my plan might be a huge mistake. But if Jackson Lucas could redeem himself, maybe there was hope for Ned. Still, he needed a stern warning.

  I leaned toward him over his desk. “You better not screw this up, Ned. It’s your chance to prove what kind of man you really are.”

  He rolled his chair backward until it hit the wall. “Like I said … I haven’t agreed to anything. Even if I decide to ask her out, I doubt it’ll result in marriage. Lower the pressure.”

  “I’m not trying to pressure you … and I don’t expect you to marry her. Whatever happens, I just want it to be … not a disaster. If you do anything to hurt Celeste, I’ll never forgive you.”

  “I won’t,” he said, raising his hand like he was about to swear on a bible.

  I chose to believe that. I nodded and headed for the door, listening to him roll his chair back to his desk and start tapping on his keyboard.

  “Savannah,” he said, and I turned around. “I know you didn’t come in here for Caroline’s iPod. So do you want to tell me the real reason?”

  The folder from Amsterdam Investigations was digging into my ribs. I considered being honest, but Ned would only try to stand in the way of what I needed to do.

  “Not particularly,” I said with a shrug before I turned the doorknob and left.

  *

  All I heard after dinner that night was my dishwasher running and sleet coming down outside my apartment. I watched through my window as it fell over Central Park and I thought about Alex. He was done with his first day at Fletcher Cole, and if we had still been together he’d be here now, telling me about his new job while we ate dessert at my kitchen table. I was sure he would’ve slept here tonight and probably tomorrow night, too, because my place was so much closer to Madison Avenue than his.

  No. Stop. Don’t do this to yourself.

  I couldn’t pine for him and idealize our relationship as perfect, because it hadn’t been. I needed to occupy my mind with something productive, so I grabbed the Amsterdam Investigations folder out of my purse and carried it down the hall to my office, where I s
at with it at my desk.

  My lamp lit up the Edward Stone report. I read the first page and the second, and I didn’t stop until I was through. I learned only that the PI hadn’t found it necessary to look into Terrence Miller, and his investigation had come to a frustrating dead end.

  But there was one page that interested me. It had to do with Peter Hansen—the man who’d stopped me outside Stone News last summer and said People get blamed for things whether they’re guilty or not. People suffer when they shouldn’t.

  The PI hadn’t been able to get an explanation of that, but I wondered if I could. Peter Hansen’s Putnam County phone number was right there in the file, so I picked up my cell and dialed a number with an 845 area code. Then I nervously tapped a pen on my desk as the line rang until I was ready to forget this crazy idea. But someone finally picked up.

  “Can I speak with Peter Hansen, please?” I asked, biting my nail.

  “Hang on,” said the voice of a young boy, and I heard what sounded like dinner being prepared—a microwave beeping, dishes clattering, and a gruff voice barking orders about taking a roast out of the oven.

  “Yeah?” said that voice into the phone.

  I took my finger away from my mouth. “Is this Mr. Hansen?”

  “Yeah,” he repeated before letting out a cough that rattled his lungs. “Who’s this?”

  “Savannah Morgan,” I said. “I’m Edward Stone’s daughter. Remember we met last summer outside Stone News? My brother’s private investigator interviewed you, and—”

  “Now you’re pestering me, too. I thought I was done with this bullshit.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t mean to bother you. I know it’s dinnertime and I’m calling out of nowhere, and I don’t mean to be rude, but—”

  “Look,” he continued, “I had nothing to do with what happened to Stone, and that PI knows it. I even offered to take a lie-detector test. I mean … I think your father was a prize asshole, but I’m no murderer. I’m a single father with five kids … I wouldn’t risk going to prison and losing my children because of that man. I think he should’ve been dealt with in court so he could rot in jail for the next thirty years. A quick death was too good for him.”