Independently Wealthy: A Novel

by Lorraine Zago Rosenthal

  I ignored the last comment and pushed forward. “I’m sorry,” I said again. “I’m not accusing you of anything, sir. I know the NYPD and the PI cleared you from suspicion, but … it’s just that I thought you might have some information you didn’t share with them. And if you do, I wish you’d tell me … because anything you know might help. I’m trying to find the truth about my father … what he knew about Lake Kolenya and whether his death was really an accident.”

  “Your father,” Peter began, “had blood on his hands. Do you know how many people died from the lake Amicus poisoned? Edward Stone had the power to expose what was going on … but instead he just let it happen.”

  I twisted my hair until it pinched my scalp. “How do you know that?”

  “Like I told the cops and the PI, I did some work at Senator Caldwell’s house. You know Senator Caldwell, right? She’s the piece of ass your father was screwing on the side.”

  That was so spiteful. It was like he couldn’t hurt Edward, so he was trying to do it to me by saying what no daughter wants to hear. “I know who she is,” I answered stiffly.

  “Well, let’s just say I heard a few things. And even if Stone didn’t know for sure what was going on, he shouldn’t have let that lady politician trick him for all those months. She had him so wild about her, he wasn’t thinking with his brain.”

  “Wait a second,” I said. “What do you mean, even if he didn’t know for sure?”

  “I meant exactly what I said, sweetheart. She convinced your father that her husband’s company was pure as snow … for a while, anyway.” He laughed nastily. “Edward Stone, the famous billionaire … he was supposed to be a genius businessman, right? I guess he wasn’t too smart if he let himself get hoodwinked by some broad.”

  My eyes darted around my office as I held the phone to my ear, shocked at what I’d just heard. If it was true, then Edward really hadn’t known what Amicus was up to, and that was an incredible relief. But why didn’t he do anything after he found out? Or maybe he’d tried, and that’s why he was removed from the equation.

  “What else did you hear?” I pressed. “Do you know who killed my father?”

  The dinnertime noises quieted suddenly, like he’d moved to another room so whoever else was around wouldn’t hear. “I don’t want to get mixed up in this,” he said. “All I know about your father is what I’ve told you. As far as him getting knocked off … I know nothing. And if you keep on bothering me, I’ll get a restraining order. I’ll do the same if you ever call here again.”

  “Mr. Hansen,” I said, “you’re a father. How do you think your kids would feel if what happened to Edward happened to you? Don’t you think they’d want justice? That’s what I want for my father. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  There was silence. I heard his labored breathing and a child’s voice calling him to dinner.

  “I think you know more than you pretend,” I went on. “I can pay for that information.”

  He scoffed like I’d insulted him. “I don’t want your goddamn money. I work for what I have. Here’s a free tip, though: The man you’re looking for isn’t in New York.”

  *

  “Let me see if I have this straight,” Caroline said as I sat across from her desk at Stone News the next morning. I’d just summarized my conversation with Peter Hansen, and she was looking at me like I needed a straightjacket. “A stranger—who clearly despised our father—hinted that the person who’s responsible for Dad’s death is a man, and he’s somewhere outside New York. And even though there are countless options, you’re sure this place is D.C.”

  “I’m not sure at all,” I said. “But Amicus is there … so it’s possible.”

  Caroline stared at me while I rubbed my eyes. “Savannah,” she said. “Forget about work today and go back to bed. You look exhausted … and there’s a Cheerio in your hair.”

  I’d been so focused on getting here and sharing my plan with Caroline that I hadn’t even checked a mirror this morning after a night of no sleep. “I must’ve dozed off while I was eating breakfast,” I said, picking at my hair until I found the cereal. I pitched it into her trash can and moved on. “Anyway … poking around D.C. isn’t as crazy as you seem to think.”

  She took a bite of the bagel she’d been eating when I stormed into her office. “Maybe not … but this man could be trying to lead you down the wrong path. Have you considered that?”

  “I have. Still, I don’t have much to go on, and so far all signs point to D.C. First it was Terrence Miller, and now this. Maybe Miller is who Peter Hansen was talking about … and he was afraid to tell me. He’s a working-class guy … and even though he talks tough, I’m sure he’s intimidated by someone as powerful as the president of Amicus Worldwide.”

  “Probably,” Caroline said, reaching for an orange juice container. She took a sip and then stared at me. “So tell me something … what does Alex think about your D.C. theory?”

  “He doesn’t know about it. We broke up.”

  “Oh,” she said as she put down her juice. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  I held up my hand to block the pity. “It’s okay. I’ll be all right. I’m getting over it. I actually hadn’t even thought about him since I read that file last night.”

  “Hmm,” she said pensively. “What you mean is … you’re sublimating. You’re transferring your unsatisfied sexual urges and using that energy toward this investigation. That’s why you’re so bent on going to D.C. You also want a change of scenery to take your mind off Alex.”

  “Caroline,” I said slowly and firmly, “my sexual urges aren’t all that unsatisfied. They were satisfied quite well not too long ago, thank you very much … and I really don’t care to discuss them any further. Sure, I’ll admit that getting out of New York for a few days might be good for me … but even more so for Edward. Now I read in Washington Scene that—”

  “Washington Scene?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

  I nodded. “It’s an online guide to the most important happenings in D.C. I spent the night researching, and it was worthwhile because I found out that Terrence Miller’s daughter is getting married at the Hay-Adams Hotel on the first Saturday in February. So what’s the harm if I discreetly crash the reception and try to get some information?”

  She took off her glasses. “The harm is that you could get in serious trouble … and I don’t want that to happen.”

  What a twist. When Caroline and I first met, she probably prayed I’d reach an untimely end from the West Nile virus or by stepping in front of an MTA bus.

  “Thanks for your concern,” I said. “But I’ll be fine. And after everything Edward has done—for both of us—can’t you let me do this for him?”

  She pondered that until she tossed her glasses onto her desk and started talking business. “We’ll have to involve Kitty,” she said. “As we well know, you’d lose your inheritance if you left New York without a reason that Ned will accept … so the only way we can get you to D.C. without any problems is to pretend it’s Femme related. That worked last time.”

  I nodded, remembering when I’d run home to Charleston and Kitty fooled Ned into believing she’d sent me there on assignment. Then Caroline and I went downstairs to Kitty’s office, where we locked the door and swore her to secrecy and told her about everything—including my breakup. She was sympathetic about that and totally against my proposed trip, but I persuaded her to change her mind.

  “There’s a magazine editors’ conference coming up in D.C.,” she said, leaning toward her computer as she sat at her desk. Caroline and I sat across from her and watched her type on her keyboard. “Oh, but it’s the first week of March, not February. Well, whatever … you can still use it as your alibi. Tell Ned I’m sending you there to attend in my place. He doesn’t know anything about those conferences.”

  “I doubt he’d look into it,” Caroline said. “He never even comes down here, does he?”

  “Never,” Kitty said happily. “
But he knows these conferences usually run for a week … so don’t stay longer than that, Savannah.”

  “I won’t,” I said. “A week should be enough time to do some digging. By the way, Kitty … are you going to the conference when it actually happens in March? I’ll put it on your calendar.”

  She shook her head. “I considered it a while ago. But now I have things to keep me here.”

  I grinned. “How are Charlie and Ethan?”

  She glanced at Caroline. “I’m not sure it’s appropriate to discuss them at the moment.”

  “It is so,” Caroline said. “We discuss everything else … and you shouldn’t hide your relationship from me because I’m Ned’s sister. He’s dealing with it … and I’m happy for you.”

  Kitty smiled. “Thank you for that. And I’m glad to say things are good with Charlie … and Ethan, too. But I don’t want to be like those nauseating women who constantly gush about new boyfriends … so let’s get back to the D.C. issue.” She pointed her finger at me. “Be careful while you’re there. Caroline and I will never be able to live with ourselves if something goes wrong.”

  I smiled. Not so long ago I’d wished for a sister, and now I felt like I had two.

  Sixteen

  It was the end of January and my last Friday at Femme before my trip to D.C. Kitty was out at meetings all day, but I was still so busy that I was surprised when I looked up from my work to find it was almost noon.

  I put down my pencil and picked up my phone. Celeste and I still hadn’t had lunch together, so I called her and asked if she was available now, but it turned out that she wasn’t.

  “Your brother is taking me to lunch at the Four Seasons,” she said.

  Perfect. Brilliant. Good job, Ned. “We’ll do it another time, then.”

  “Monday?” she asked.

  “I’ll be out of town all next week. But I’ll give you my cell number … we can schedule something for when I get back.”

  She agreed. We exchanged numbers, and after we hung up I decided to skip lunch because there was a lot to do before I left. So I stayed where I was until six, and then I put on my coat and walked out to the lobby to wait for an elevator. When it arrived and the doors opened, I saw Ned inside. I joined him and watched the doors shut.

  “Big plans tonight?” I asked as the elevator raced downward.

  “I’ll be working,” he said. “I’m just going out to get dinner.”

  I nodded. “How was lunch today? At the Four Seasons, I mean.”

  He gave me a weary stare. “I didn’t realize our deal required postgame analysis.”

  He never failed to irritate me. “I’ve already told you this isn’t a deal. Celeste mentioned you were taking her to lunch, so I was just wondering how it went. By the way … I approve of your first-date restaurant selection.”

  “It wasn’t a first date. We had lunch once last week and dinner on Saturday.”

  “You did? I had no idea, Ned. So how’s it going? Are you seeing her this weekend?”

  The elevator stopped at another floor. The doors opened, a crowd of people came inside, and Ned moved closer to me and lowered his voice. “It’s going fine. And I am seeing her this weekend. But don’t sound so damn eager. It puts me on edge.”

  He turned away and stared straight ahead like he didn’t want to talk anymore, probably because his employees were around. Soon the elevator stopped, the doors opened, and the other people walked out.

  I turned to Ned as we stepped into the lobby. “Well … have a nice weekend,” I said.

  “Not likely, as I’ll be here for most of it. But I guess you won’t be around for a while, right? Caroline mentioned you’re heading to a conference in … what did she tell me … Philly?”

  “D.C.,” I said.

  He nodded, moving his eyes to the buttons on his coat. I watched him close each one, and then he looked at me again. “Take care of yourself while you’re there,” he said, giving me a smile I didn’t expect. I also didn’t expect to feel guilty for conning him.

  *

  Marjorie had a dance recital for her tap class on Saturday morning. Allison and Tony had invited me, and I hated to miss it, but I needed to leave early for D.C. Tony said he’d pick me up from LaGuardia when I returned the next week, and I told him I’d take a cab to my departing flight. So I grabbed a taxi outside my building that left me at LaGuardia Airport, and a few hours later I landed at Reagan National, where I found another cab.

  “I’m going to the Hay-Adams Hotel,” I said after the driver locked my bags in the trunk and I slipped into the backseat.

  He glimpsed me in the rearview mirror. “On Sixteenth Street Northwest,” he said, “across from the White House.”

  I nodded. He pulled away from the airport and headed toward D.C., and it didn’t take long before we were downtown, which reminded me of New York except it was less crowded, much quieter, and the skyline wasn’t as tall. The driver had just informed me that D.C. has strict height restrictions for its buildings when my phone rang. I answered it, and Mom was on the other end.

  “Savannah,” she said, “how’s our nation’s capital?”

  “I just got here. It looks interesting so far, though.”

  “Send me pictures. But will you have time to sightsee with the conference going on?”

  I’d lied to her—and to Tina. The real story was too much to explain and would only make them worry. “I’ll do my best,” I said, cringing at what a liar I was.

  We talked until the driver reached the Hay-Adams, and then I hung up when he stepped out of the car to grab my bags. He lined them up in front of the hotel, which was old and elegant and had a regal entrance and a spellbinding view. The White House was nearby and behind a wide gate that tourists strolled past with cameras. Its sprawling lawn was frosted with snow, and an American flag on top of the building flapped against the cloudy sky and the Washington Monument in the distance.

  “Thank you,” I said as I forked over my fare and the driver’s tip.

  When he was gone, a bellman loaded my bags onto a luggage cart and escorted me through a fancy lobby with walnut-paneled walls and high ceilings. I followed him into an elevator that took us to the fourth floor, and a few minutes later I was alone in my room, which had fine toile linens, ornate moldings, and a fireplace across from the bed.

  I opened a set of glass doors and looked past my balcony at the White House, inhaling the crisp air and feeling energized from being in a place that had existed for so long but was beautifully new to me. Then I closed the doors and started unpacking my carry-on and my suitcase and my garment bag that held a black satin dress. The dress was knee-length with asymmetrical draping on the bodice, and I hoped it was subdued but chic enough to make me look like I belonged at the wedding reception scheduled for seven thirty at the top of the hotel.

  I couldn’t stomach the possibility I’d be turned away. So I pretended I wouldn’t be, because confidence was crucial if I was going to pull this off.

  I hung up my dress, folded my clothes into the bureau drawers, and put my makeup in a bathroom that had marble fixtures and brass faucets. I arranged a wake-up call and flopped onto the bed, where I gazed at the White House until I didn’t see it anymore.

  *

  That night, I left my room and walked down the hall toward the elevators in my dress and matching heels. I’d latched a pearl choker around my neck and put a soft curl into my Sunflower-Blond hair, and I carried a beaded minaudière in the shape of a ridged fan. There was only enough space inside the purse for my lipstick and my room card and a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills, and I hoped that if I placed my money in the right hands, it might get me into the reception. It seemed that people—except Peter Hansen—reacted well to generous bribes.

  A few minutes later I was upstairs, standing last in line at the entrance to a rooftop room enclosed by French doors, where a small band played in one corner and a grand piano sat unattended in the other. The walls were the color of cream, there was a skyl
ight in a ceiling accented with latticework, and the chairs around the oval tables were covered in white cloth and tied with tea-rose ribbons. There were quite a few tables but not as many as I expected, and that was going to make it challenging to blend in. My stomach cramped as I watched the guests ahead of me move closer to a woman who was taking names and checking a list.

  What was I doing? I wasn’t on the list, and how was I supposed to grease that lady’s palm? There were lots of witnesses, and this place was too classy for a public payoff. I’d probably get tossed out into Lafayette Park for even suggesting such a tawdry thing.

  I couldn’t get in now, but I wasn’t going to give up on meeting Terrence Miller, either. I’d seen his picture on the Amicus Web site, and I knew he had to be that tall man with the black hair and graying temples who was greeting people alongside the bride and groom and an attractive older woman who was most likely his wife.

  I decided to bail and return later. The timing might be better then, when everybody had too many drinks in them to notice an intruder. So I headed down the hall, passing a few guests en route to the reception. I was waiting for an elevator when I heard footsteps coming my way.

  “Pardon me,” said a deep voice. “We know each other, don’t we?”

  That had to be a pick-up line. I knew nobody in this city. But when I looked to my right and saw a young man with tawny brown hair who was wearing a dark suit and had eyes as blue as sea glass, I was stunned to realize I’d been wrong.

  “Yeah,” he went on, tapping his finger in the air like he was remembering, “we met in New York … during the holidays, right?”

  Handsome Stranger. That’s who he was—the guy I’d nearly run over outside Senator Caldwell’s house. I kept quiet, afraid to answer his question because it might lead to more.

  “Was it at Gavin Chambliss’s New Year’s Day party?” he asked. “I’m sorry for not remembering, but I’ve been socializing too much lately and everything’s a blur. My mind isn’t functioning right … I just flew in from LaGuardia and I’m pretty beat.”