by Sandra Brown
“That’s a stirring speech, Noah. I suggest you deliver it at the next sales conference to rally the troops. However, I fail to see how the valid points you made relate to either my question or this document.”
“That document,” Noah said, pointing to it where it still lay on the desk, “is our safety net. Publishing is changing constantly and swiftly. Matherly Press must be prepared for any contingency. We must be able to operate with fluidity, so that if an opportunity arises, it can be immediately seized.”
“Without Daniel’s consent.”
Noah assumed a sad expression. “Ah, Howard, that’s the hitch. It breaks Maris’s heart, as it does mine, that Daniel is getting on in years. That’s a sad fact we’ve been forced to accept. If he should take a sudden downward turn, say a stroke that renders him incapable of making business decisions, this power of attorney guarantees a smooth transition and protects the company from being pitched into chaos.”
“I wrote the provisos, Noah. I know their purpose. I also know that similar documents are already in place and have been for years. Daniel’s personal lawyer, Mr. Stern, drew them up when Maris turned twenty-one. I’ve got copies in my files, so I know that these documents include a living will and, as you say, cover every contingency. Should the unforeseen happen, Maris has been granted full power of attorney to make all Daniel’s decisions for him, personally and professionally.”
“I’m aware of the previous documents. This one’s different.”
“Indeed it is. It supersedes the others. It also grants you power of attorney to make Daniel’s decisions for him.”
Noah took umbrage. “Are you suggesting that I’m insinuating myself—”
“No.” Bancroft raised his hands, palms out. “Both Daniel and Maris have mentioned to me the need to amend their power of attorney documents to include you. But that responsibility should fall to Mr. Stern, not to me.”
“You’re more convenient.”
“To whom?”
Noah glared at him. “What else do you find so troubling, Howard?”
The lawyer hesitated, as though knowing it was ill-advised to continue, but apparently his convictions won out over caution. “It feels sleight of hand. I get the impression that this is being done behind Daniel’s back.”
“He’s authorized it. You said so yourself not thirty seconds ago.”
Obviously frustrated, Bancroft ran a hand over his knobby head. “It also bothers me to release such an important document when it hasn’t been signed and witnessed in my presence.”
“I told Maris that I refuse to sign it until she has,” Noah said. “I was adamant about that. She’ll have her signature notarized in Georgia. When the document is returned, I’ll sign it. As soon as she gets back, we’ll meet with Daniel. Frankly, I think he’ll be relieved that it’s a fait accompli. No one likes to think of himself as vulnerable to incapacity or death. He’ll be glad that we relieved him of this responsibility.”
“I’ve never known Daniel Matherly to shrink from life’s realities no matter how grim,” Bancroft argued. “But, that aside, why not wait until Maris’s return and do it all at one time? Explain to me the urgency.”
Noah sighed as though getting a grip on his diminishing patience. “Her being away is one reason Maris wanted this done with dispatch. She’s working with a reclusive fledgling author. Until his manuscript is finished, she’ll be pulled away frequently, and she’ll be out of town for extended and unspecified periods of time. Shit happens, Howard. Plane crashes. Car accidents. Sudden illness. In a worst-case scenario, she wants Matherly Press protected.”
“Is that why the document becomes valid with your signature alone?”
Noah said tightly, “I told Maris, and I’m telling you, I will not sign it until her signature is in place.”
Bancroft exchanged a long stare with him, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, Noah. I need Maris’s verification that this is the document she wants, and even then I will advise her to rethink its provisos. They’re unorthodox and inconsistent with prudence. I’ve worked for the Matherlys for a long time. They rely on me always to act in their best interest. Therefore, I’m sure you understand my precaution.”
“Which is completely unnecessary, besides being a flagrant insult to me.”
“Even so.”
“All right. Call Maris.” He gestured toward the telephone. It was a bluff, but he was gambling that Bancroft wouldn’t call it. “Or better yet, Daniel’s at home today. Ask him to come in and review this.”
“I’d like to reacquaint myself with their original documents prior to a meeting with either of them. Until I’ve had an opportunity to do that, I don’t wish to waste their time.” Bancroft folded his hands on top of the document, a gesture that was a statement in itself. “Unless Daniel or Maris calls me and gives me authorization, I cannot release this document to you today.”
Noah leveled a hard look on him. Then he grinned. And grinned wider. He had actually hoped the meeting would result in a standoff between him and Bancroft. He had hoped that the dwarf wouldn’t capitulate too soon and spoil his fun. Everything till now had been a warm-up for this, the big finish. He was going to enjoy it to the fullest.
“Well, Howard,” he said with soft menace, “it seems as though you suspect me of corporate subterfuge.”
“I suspect you of no such thing,” the lawyer returned blandly.
“That’s good. I’m relieved to hear that. Because I would hate for you to suspect me of duplicity. I find that despicable, don’t you? Duplicity. Betrayal. Disloyalty to one’s family. One’s race.”
Noah held the lawyer’s gaze as he picked up the folder that he’d brought in with him. Gently he set it on the desk and slid it toward Bancroft, who stared at it with the misgivings of one who must remove the lid from a basket, knowing that a cobra was coiled inside. After a full minute of palpable silence and dread, the attorney opened the cover and began to scan the printed material inside.
“Who would have thought it, Howard?” Noah said. “Your mother fucked Nazis.”
Bancroft’s narrow shoulders sagged forward.
“See, Howard, knowledge equates to power. I make it a point to learn all I can about the people around me, especially those who could be a hindrance. Investigating your background cost me a lot of money and took up valuable time, but I must say it yielded more than I bargained for.
“I paid your mother a visit in the nursing home where you had sequestered her. After a little arm-twisting, she confessed her shameful secret to me, and, for a nominal fee, an attendant wrote it all down word for word. Your mother signed it. Recognize her signature there on the last page? At that point she was so weak, she could barely hold the pen. Frankly, I wasn’t surprised that she died just a few days later.
“You know the story well, Howard, but I was fascinated. She was twenty-three when she was dragged from her home in Poland. The rest of her family, her brothers, sister, parents, were backed against a wall and shot. She was lucky enough to be transported to a concentration camp.
“At that time, in the Old World, twenty-three was borderline spinsterhood. Your mother had prevented her younger sister from marrying an ardent suitor because she hadn’t married first. Her inability to attract a man had created quite a rift in the family.
“But at the camp, she received a lot of attention from men. From the guards. See, Howard, your mother bartered her pussy for her life. Routinely. Over the next five years. She came to like the favors she was granted and flaunted them. She could have toiled alongside the other women prisoners, had her head shaved, subsisted on bread and water, lived in daily fear of her life. But no, she fucked her way into comfortable quarters. Ate well. Drank wine. Made merry with Nazis. She was the camp whore. And for that, she was despised.
“Now, is it any wonder she changed her name and created a fictitious history for herself when she emigrated to America?
“That story she told about the Jewish freedom fighter who had sacrificed his life
for her and his unborn child was sweet, but it was completely untrue, as you yourself discovered when you were… what? Seven? Eight? Old enough to get the gist of the accusations hurled at her. You came home from school one day and asked your mother why everyone called you ugly names and spat on you. That’s when she decided to relocate.”
Howard Bancroft’s hands were trembling so badly that when he removed his eyeglasses this time, he dropped them onto his desk. He covered his eyes and uttered a low moan.
“She couldn’t be sure which of the camp guards was your father. She had spread her legs for so many, you see. But she suspected it was an officer who shot himself in the head hours before the Allied troops liberated the camp. You were born four months later. She was too far gone to abort you, I guess. Or maybe she had a soft spot for this particular officer. I’ve heard that even whores have feelings.
“Howard, Howard, what a nasty secret you’ve kept. I don’t think the Jewish community would look too kindly on you if they knew that your mother happily serviced the men that marched them into the gas chambers, and that your father had ordered thousands of their people to be tortured and exterminated, do you?
“Considering the advocate you’ve been for Holocaust survivors, they might regard your crusade as hypocritical. Your friends in Israel—which are many, I understand—would revile you. Your blood is tainted with that of a traitorous whore and an Aryan murderer.
“Now, you might say to me, You can’t prove this. But your reaction is proof enough, isn’t it? Besides, I don’t need to prove it. The rumor alone would effectively destroy your reputation as a good Jew. Even a hint of something this shameful would do irreparable damage.
“Your family would be shattered. Because even your wife and children believe the fabrication that you and your mother concocted. I shudder to think of the impact this would have on them. Imagine them having to explain to your grandchildren that Grandpa started as Nazi ejaculate. You would never be esteemed or trusted by anyone, ever again. Indeed, you would live in infamy as a liar and a traitor to your religion and your race, just as your mother was.”
Howard Bancroft was weeping into his hands, his whole body shaking as uncontrollably as if he’d been inflicted with a palsy.
“No one need ever know, of course,” Noah said, switching to an upbeat tone. He stood up and retrieved both his folder and the power of attorney document. “I can keep a secret. Cross my heart.” He drew an invisible X on his chest.
“However, I’m sure you understand my precaution,” he said, making a mockery of the lawyer’s earlier statement. “A copy of your mother’s confession is in my safe-deposit box. Another is with an attorney I retained solely for this purpose. He’s an oily, unscrupulous, litigious individual with strong anti-Semitic leanings.
“Should anything untoward happen to me, he’s under strict instructions to distribute your mother’s signed statement to all the synagogues in and around the five boroughs. It would make for very interesting reading, don’t you think? Especially the accounts of her sucking off the SS officers. Some were too fastidious to have intercourse with a Jewess, but apparently fellatio didn’t count.”
Noah crossed to the door. Although the lawyer had made no effort to move but continued to cry into his hands, Noah said, “No, no, Howard, don’t bother seeing me out. Have a nice day.”
Chapter 13
“You’re leaving tomorrow?”
“In the morning,” Maris replied. Nervously her gaze moved around the solarium, never stopping directly on Parker. “Mike arranged for a boat to pick me up. I have a nine-thirty flight out of Savannah, connecting in Atlanta to La Guardia.”
“Have a nice trip.” His surly expression suggested he hoped she would have the trip from hell.
This was the first time she’d seen Parker today. This morning she had slipped into the kitchen for a quick breakfast of cold cereal, she’d skipped lunch altogether, and then had asked Mike to bring her a sandwich to the cottage for dinner. She used work as her excuse for the solitude. She wanted to reread the manuscript with total concentration and without distraction. Mike had accepted the explanation. At least he’d pretended to.
If Parker’s scowl was any indication, she’d been smart to keep her distance all day. He looked ill-tempered, spoiling for a fight. The sooner she said what she had to say and left, the better.
“Before I leave,” she began, “I thought we should have one last discussion about the manuscript. I spent most of the day reevaluating it.”
“Reevaluation. That’s what we’re calling it?”
“Calling what?”
“Your avoidance of me.”
Okay. He wanted a fight. Why disappoint him? “Yes, I was avoiding you, Parker. Can you blame me? After—”
She broke off when Mike appeared with a service tray. “Fresh peach cobbler,” he announced.
Parker’s scowl deepened. “How come there’s no ice cream?”
“Did you want it to melt before I could get it served? Jeez.” Mike deposited the tray on the table, then stamped back into the kitchen, muttering about how grouchy everybody had been today. He returned with a carton of vanilla ice cream, which he scooped over the steaming portions of cobbler.
“I’m having mine in my room,” he said, taking one of the bowls for himself. “There’s a Bette Davis film festival on TV tonight. If you need anything, you can fetch it yourself,” he said to Parker. “Maris, if you need something, just knock on my door. Upstairs. First door on your right.”
“Thank you, Mike. I can’t imagine that I’ll need to disturb you. The cobbler looks delicious.”
“Enjoy.”
After Mike left them, Parker attacked his helping of cobbler and ice cream as though he were angry at it. When he finished, he dropped the spoon into the empty bowl with a loud clatter, returned it to the tray, then rolled his chair over to the computer desk. “Do you want to read what I’ve been working on, or what?”
“Of course I want to read it.”
While the new pages were printing out, Maris ate her cobbler. Carrying the crockery bowl with her, she moved slowly along the crammed bookcase, surveying the titles in Parker’s extensive collection. “You like mysteries.”
His head came around. “If they’re well written.”
“You must think Mackensie Roone writes well.”
“He’s okay.”
“Just okay? You have the entire Deck Cayton series.”
“Ever read one?”
“A few, not all.” She pulled one of the books from the shelf and thumbed through it. “I wish we were publishing them. They sell like hotcakes.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Why do you like them?”
He thought about it a moment. “They’re fluff, but they’re fun.”
She nodded. “Millions of readers worldwide think so, too. The character of Deck Cayton appeals to both men and women, and why not? He’s independently wealthy. Detective work is just his hobby. He lives on a fabulous houseboat, drives fast cars, flies his own jet. He’s as comfortable in a tuxedo as he is in blue jeans.”
“And even more comfortable out of them.”
“You must’ve read the one about the murder in the nudist colony.”
He grinned devilishly. “My personal favorite.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Getting back to the character…”
Absently, she licked some dripping ice cream off her spoon. “Deck Cayton is well drawn. He’s charming, witty, good-looking. He’s—”
“A jerk.”
“Sometimes he is. With a capital J. But he’s been so engagingly written that a reader forgives his flaws. The author allows him to be human, and the readers appreciate and identify with that. And even though he’s armed and dangerous and tough-talking, Deck has an underlying vulnerability.”
“Because of his wife’s death.”
“Right. It’s referred to, but I haven’t read that particular book.”
“First of the series,” he explained. “Skiing accident. He challenged her to a downhill race, and she crashed into a tree. Autopsy revealed she was several weeks pregnant. They hadn’t known. You should read it.”
“I definitely will.” She tapped the spoon against her front teeth. “Do you see how the author built in a reason for Deck’s vulnerability? Readers can empathize with him because of that tragic and fatal accident.”
“You’re sounding like an editor.”
She laughed. “Habit, I guess.”
“You’ve given it a lot of thought.”
“I analyze every bestseller. Especially the competition’s. I need to know why Deck Cayton strikes such a positive chord. Part of my job is trying to predict what the buying public wants to read.”
She polished off her cobbler. “But that doesn’t make me any less a fan. Character motivation notwithstanding, Deck is your basic larger-than-life action hero who never fails to solve the mystery, nab the bad guy, bed the babe.”
“And make her come.”
Maris closed the book with a decisive snap and replaced it on the shelf among the others. He’d only said that to provoke her, and it had worked. But damned if she would let it show. “As I said, he appeals to men and women alike.”
Her understatement made him grin, but he let it pass without comment. “Which was your favorite of the series?”
“Loose Change.”
He grimaced. “Seriously? In that book Deck came dangerously close to being a wimp.”
“Because he showed more sensitivity toward the female character?”
Scornfully, Parker placed his hands over his heart. “He got in touch with his feminine side.”
“But he soon reasserted himself as a real cad. By the end of the book, he was back to being the smooth operator that every man fantasizes being.”