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"Oh," Laura said. "I almost forgot. . . ." She reached down and opened her purse and took out Leni*s necklace. "I brought this for you; I was going to give it to Ben, but it's much better this way. I'm so sorry we ever planned it . . ."
Leni held the necklace in the palm of her hand. "But if you hadn't, you wouldn't be part of our family today.'* She gave Laura a smile so open and loving that Laura caught her breath; it was as if the years had disappeared. "Welcome back, dearest Laura. We've missed you. You'll stay with us tonight, won't you? Can you wait until tomorrow to go back? I'll be leaving then; we could go together. We have so much to talk about, much more than we can fit into one evening." She stood and held out her arms.
Laura went to her, dazed by the strangeness of what was happening. "I'd like very much to stay," she said.
Leni held her as if she were a little girl, and smiled. "It's such a relief," she murmured. "Such a wonderful relief to know we weren't wrong in our love. It's quite worth waiting for, to discover that."
How did she get the money?
It was the second time she'd made a fool of him: first with his father, and now with his board of directors, and this time he wasn't going to let it go, the way he had before; this time he'd find a way to destroy her. And it would be through the money; everything came down to money in the end. Whatever anyone did was done because of money. Whatever anyone thought was the result of thinking first about money. He'd get her through the money.
So think. How does a conniving witch who hasn't a penny to her name get the money to buy four hotels and, on top of that, two percent of one of the top corporations in America? She steals it, she forges checks, she prints money in her basement—for Christ's sake, this is no time for jokes—she cons some poor old sucker on his deathbed, somebody who prefers her to his own family . . .
But that's not a crime. You can't get her for that.
Unless it's fraud. And there has to be fraud. There's no way she could have gotten that money legally.
But it could be theft. Jewels. Or art. Colby thought she was
Judith Michael
doing it; he didn't try to hide what he thought. But it wasn't big enough. She couldn't get the kind of money she'd need . . . Could she? He hadn't asked Colby which paintings were stolen. The Rouaults he'd been robbed of were worth a fortune at auction, but how much could someone get fencing them? A fraction of their worth.
Unless they were stolen for someone who was willing to pay for them. Then she might have gotten half a million for the three of them. But to buy the hotels and the shares, she needed at least twenty million, cash.
Maybe it was a little of everything. Fraud, theft, and wheedling it out of men. Fraud, theft, and trickery. A stew of money.
He had to see what her finances were. And he had ways of doing that. It was expensive, but the few times he'd done it with other people who were in his way, it had been well worth it.
It took three days. His informants had to find out which banks she used for mortgages, construction loans, and corporate and personal banking, and then find the people from whom they could buy the information. But it was done quietly and simply, and then he had it all. She was up to her neck in debt.
A smile twisted his mouth. He'd been exaggerating when he told Colby her interest payments could be half a million dollars a year, but he was a lot closer than he'd known; it was probably about three hundred fifty thousand. And it had to come out of those four hotels, plus a salary high enough to support her in New York. Unless it all disintegrated.
She had to have an impossibly high occupancy rate to make that kind of money. That meant creating and keeping the unshakable trust and good will of her clientele.
And what would her clientele think when they heard she was being investigated for a string of art thefts?
All it took was a hint of trouble to worry the kind of people who paid a thousand dollars a night for a suite.
She was as vulnerable as a rabbit in a field of foxes. All he had to figure out was how to make it public and still protect himself.
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And so it was that the next afternoon, the last day of September and one of the hottest afternoons in Boston's history, Felix Salinger held a news conference in his air-conditioned office on the top floor of the Boston Salinger Hotel. He wore a daiic suit; he looked somber and respectable; he looked like the essence of old Boston as he spoke to business reporters from Advertising Age and Business Week, stringers from The Wall Street Journal, The New York Times, and The Chicago Tribune, and a reporter from the Associated Press. They weren't the top people in town; he didn't expect that. But they were good enough.
And they did what he expected them to do with the story he gave them. In the next day's newspapers, and sitting like time bombs in the offices of the two weekly magazines, were stories quoting him as he defended Laura Fairchild.
Felix Salinger, owner of Salinger Hotels Incorporated and a vice president of the International Hotel Association, said yesterday there was no truth to rumors that Laura Fairchild, principal owner of the prestigious Beacon Hill hotels, is using her hotels to mastermind thefts of irreplaceable art.
"We have looked into the rumors, and there is absolutely no truth to them," he said from his office in the Boston Salinger Hotel. "Such irresponsible talk damages the entire industry by causing customers to lose faith in our ability to ensure their safety, when the truth is we are better equipped to ensure it than ever before."
Mr. Salinger was referring to several thefts of notable artworks from well-known collectors, all of whom had been guests at one of the four Beacon Hill hotels shortly before having their homes burglarized. It had not been publicly revealed, prior to this time, that six major thefts on two continents over the past three years may be related. Mr. Salinger said that no one knew who was responsible for the thefts. "But we do know," he said, "that members of the International Hotel Association police themselves, and I can assure the public that our hotels are safe and will remain so. If there is a common
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element to these thefts, I am confident it will be found to be something other than the fact that the victims were guests at one of the Beacon Hill hotels."
The art thefts are under investigation at the present time.
The next day, the telephone in Laura's office rang constantly. And in her four hotels, cancellations poured in.
Chapter 31
THE story became known in newspaper and television newsrooms as "Felix's Bullshit": his "defense" that was in fact a knife in Laura Fairchild's back. The smart ones knew it as soon as they saw the story tucked away in the business section. They talked about Felix with contempt, but also with a kind of grudging admiration—"The son of a bitch can't even be sued for libel; he said she didn't do it"—and they knew he'd done them a favor by handing them a great story with everything in it: big money, international society, art thefts, a beautiful young woman, and posh hotels. And so with enthusiastic persistence they began telephoning Laura, and before the morning was half gone her secretary had memorized the standard response: "I'm sorry, but Miss Fairchild is in a meeting and can't be disturbed; she hasn't seen the newspaper story, but as soon as she does she'll probably have a statement for you. We'll let you know."
Laura had seen it and read it a hundred times; that was another open secret. But none of the reporters accused the secretary of lying; they simply showed up at the New York Beacon Hill and camped in the lobby.
"Laura," her secretary said on the intercom, "Sam Colby is on the telephone. I thought this one you'd want to take."
Laura nodded. "Thanks." She exchanged a quick look with Ginny, who was sitting on the couch, and picked up the telephone. "Yes, Mr. Colby."
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"I'd like to see you, Miss Fairchild. Vm sorry I haven't called earlier."
"So am I. You might have had the courtesy to talk to me first
."
"I said I was sorry!" Sam Colby was in a rage, and his words burst out like a blast from a shotgun. "I was conducting a serious investigation—quietly, to protect everyone involved —and never in all my experience has someone done this, gone sneaking to the press with my story, twisting it for his own—" He bit back his words. "Please excuse me; I've had a difficult morning."
"Have you," Laura said dryly. "I can't see you today, Mr. Colby; perhaps tomorrow or the next day. I'll put my secretary on; she'll make an appointment for you."
"I'd prefer today. Miss Fairchild."
"But I wouldn't. I've had a difficult morning, too." She rang her secretary, then hung up the telephone. "I should have seen him today, shouldn't I?" she asked Ginny.
"Oh, I don't know that it makes much difference." Ginny reached for the coffeepot. "More?"
"Yes, thanks." She shivered. "It's only the beginning of October; why is it so cold? I should have worn a sweater."
"You should have poisoned Felix when you were cooking for his family. You're cold because you're nervous and worried, honey; it hasn't a fig to do with the weather. You'll feel better when you find that brother of yours and he confesses and gets you off the hook."
"I don't know when we'll find him. And he may not be the thief."
"I'll be glad to watch his face while he tells us he isn't. And I imagine you'll find him soon, now that Ben's hired a detective to look for him."
Laura shivered again. "I hate that. Sending a detective to hunt down Clay ..."
"Honey, he has not been kind to you."
Laura looked at her hands. "I know." She stared at them, longing for Paul. Leni and Allison had told her he was in London, and she had called him from the house on Beacon Hill the night she had stayed there. She had said good night to Ben and Allison and Leni and gone upstairs, to curl up in her
Inheritance
familiar window seat in her old sitting room, and think back over the long day that had begun with the Salinger board meeting. And then she had known there was one more momentous step she had to take, and she had reached for the telephone and called him at the London Salinger. But he was not there. "He asked us to take his messages," the desk clerk said. "He's traveling on the continent for a few days." After girding herself to call him and tell him about Ben, she had been so disappointed she couldn't think of anything to do next. She did the only thing she could: she left a message, asking him to call her in New Yoik. That had been five days ago, and she had not heard from him.
The secretary called on the intercom. "It's Ben Gardner, Laura; he says he's a relative and you'll definitely talk to him."
A laugh escaped Laura. "He's right."
"I just want you to know I'll be there this afternoon," Ben said. "The detective called. Nothing yet, but he's working on it. And Allison sends her love."
They were reaching out to her, Laura thought; a family, enfolding her when she was in trouble. Her family. "Ben, I love to hear from you, but you don't have to come down. There's nothing for you to do here. I'll tell the reporters something or other, and talk to Myma again about where Clay might have gone, and then Ginny and I are going to try to stop the cancellations. If we can convince people they're safe here, we'll be all right."
Ben did not tell her how hard that would be without a solution to the thefts; she knew it already. "You'll call me if you need me?"
"Of course; it's wonderful to know I can. I'll call you even if I don't need you."
He chuckled. "I'll talk to you this afternoon."
When Laura hung up, she began to pace around her office. "What am I going to say to the reporters?"
*That you're as clean as a Girl Scout in a convent, and as soon as you locate Clay you'll have a story for them, and until then they can get their asses out of here and leave you alone."
Laura shook her head. "I can't tell them about Clay until I'm sure. I have no proof; neither has Colby. But I could say
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we've found out who the thief is and he's not with the hotels anymore. That's the truth, and it ought to help people feel confident about staying here."
"If they believe it."
Laura glanced at the list of cancellations that lay on her desk. "Some of them may."
The intercom rang again; Currier was on the phone. Laura picked it up. "I tried to call you, Wes. Your secretary said you were out of town."
"I'm in Dallas; I'll be in New York by two. And at three we have a meeting with the investors."
"W? have a meeting—?"
"They've called it. Ordered it. They're worried about their money, Laura; you can't blame them."
"Wes, that story only appeared yesterday. They could give me a little time to straighten things out."
"That's what I'm going to recommend; I think you can weather this. Other hotels have survived crises, and they weren't as good as the Beacon Hill. But just because I believe that doesn't mean the others do; they want to know your plans. They've bought the right to know what they are."
There was a pause. "Of course. Where is the meeting?"
"In my office. I thought you'd feel better in familiar territory."
"Thank you, Wes. I'll be there."
Ginny was watching her thoughtfully. "Your money men?"
Laura nodded. "Worried about their money."
"You look mighty cool for a lady who's just been ordered into a lions' den."
Laura smiled faintly. "I have to be cool; they don't want to think they've invested in an emotional woman. But I know them pretty well; they're reasonable men and they've had a lot of confidence in me from the start. I'm not really worried."
"Sweetie, you're saying that for my benefit. You don't want me to worry about my millions. Well, you listen to me. I'd be a damn fool if I wasn't worried, but it's not a very big worry right now, and I can live with it. I'm not about to call my note; in fact, I'm doing the opposite. You can stop paying me for . . .oh, say six months. That'll cut down your monthly expenses and give you some breathing space until we get your
Inheritance
hotels filled up again. FU write you a letter on that; my accountant likes things to be in writing."
"Thank you, Ginny," Laura said. Her voice was husky. "I hope it won't take six months."
"I hope so, too, but I won't starve if it does. What are you going to tell the money men?"
"Probably the same thing I'll tell the press. As much of the truth as I can. I want to keep it as simple as possible."
But when she faced them in Currier's office, it was the investors who used that word. "We'll keep it simple, Laura," said Tim Alcott. He had made himself the spokesman for the three whom Currier had brought in when Laura wanted to buy the New York Salinger. Currier had argued against it at the time, since the new investors, voting together, would be able to outvote him and Laura, and control OWL Development, but she had been so determined to buy while she had the chance that he had given in. It had never been a problem until Laura sat with them at a round granite-topped table in Currier's office and Tim Alcott said, "We'll keep it simple." He owned Alcott Foods, the largest frozen-food company in the world, and he liked to say that he'd gotten where he was by being as hard and cold as his products. "We need to be sure we have a handle on OWL Development. We've got a substantial investment in it, and we want to have a substantial feeling of security, and right now we don't have that. You're getting cancellations right and left. If that isn't reversed soon we're going to be stuck with four very pretty, very empty buildings. So we're interested in how you plan to reverse it."
There always had been smiles when the five of them met; Laura hadn't realized how much she had taken those smiles for granted until now, when she saw around the table only the hard scrutiny of men appraising a piece of merchandise to see whether or not it was a good bargain. She wished she'd worn a suit instead of a silk dress. She wished she hadn't let her hair grow. She wished she looked more like a man.
Folding her hands on the table, she sat strai
^t and took her time. "There was in fact a thief in the Beacon Hill hotels. We think we've identified him: someone who was part of the company and evidently used his position to gain access to the homes of our guests. He no longer works for us. In addition,
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we*re expanding our security staff. AU that information will be in a letter I'm sending to everyone who has ever stayed in a Beacon Hill hotel. I'm also meeting in a day or two with Sam Colby, the insurance investigator who is working on the thefts, and we hope to announce very soon that the matter is resolved."
"How soon?"
"Who's the thief?"
"Where is he?"
"You think you know?"
The three of them were all talking at once.
"I think we might let Laura speak," Currier said.
"I can't tell you who he is," she said quietly, "until we have proof, and until he's charged—"
"You don't have proof?"
"Not yet. We're woridng on that."
"So what is it you think you know? Is he talking? Who's questioning him?"
*The important thing," Laura said, "is that we're making contact with our guests. Besides the letter I'm writing, Virginia Starrett and I are going to be calling all those who have cancelled, and almost a hundred others, to reassure them about the hotels, to tell them we're satisfied that only one person was responsible for the thefts and he no longer works for us, and to ask them to stay with us again. I'm sure many of them will renew their reservations, and once they come back and find everything perfectly normal— '*
"For God's sake!" Alcott exploded. "Everything is not perfectly normal! These hotels are tainted by scandal! You're nattering away about all this standard operating crap, but that's not what we need. We need action! And facts! And good publicity, for a change! Who is this thief you've got hidden away? I am asking you, young lady: who is he?"
"I can't tell you that. I won't accuse anyone publicly until I know for sure he's guilty."
*This isn't public, damn it, this is a closed meeting!"
"You'd talk, Tim. You want good publicity. I'm not going to take that chance."
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