“Yes, I got rid of Joel.”
“Good. You can do better.”
“Dad. Tell me what’s happened to you.”
He looked away.
“Dad. Please.”
He was shaking his head. “You don’t want to be…involved.”
“Yes, I do.” Her voice stunned her with its absolute conviction. “I do want to be involved.” And in spite of what she’d been telling herself for months now, she realized it was true. “I need to be involved.” And that was true, too.
Jake scrubbed a hand down his face. “No. Not good. Shouldn’t. God. Shouldn’t…”
But she knew that he wanted to tell it, whatever it was. That he wanted to get it out. “Tell me, Dad. It’s all right. You have to tell someone. And I’m family. I love you, and you can trust me. Tell me.”
“God. Nat…”
“Come on. I’m listening.”
He muttered a name.
“What, Dad? Who?”
“Monica,” he said low. “That bitch Monica Malone.”
Natalie swallowed and wondered whether she should stop pushing him to confide in her. She felt like a little girl again. She wanted her father to be strong and her family to be whole and perfect. She wanted her innocence back. She wanted everything the way it used to be.
But it wasn’t the way it used to be. And it was probably about time she came to grips with that.
“What about her, Dad?” she coaxed. “What about Monica Malone?”
“Blackmailing bitch,” he muttered, then covered his face with his hands.
Natalie reached up, took his wrists and peeled them away from his tired, gray face. Everyone in the family assumed the woman must have something on her father, but Jake had never admitted it. Until now. “Monica Malone’s been blackmailing you?”
Jake groaned. “All that damn stock. She demanded the stock.”
“Your personal stocks that you turned over to her? Is that what you mean?”
He nodded, pressed his fist to his mouth.
“You say it was blackmail? Blackmail for what?”
He blinked, peered hard at her, then looked away. “Need ’nother drink.”
“No, Dad. You’ve had enough. Tell me—”
But he was already talking, telling her what had happened, in his own disjointed way. “I’ve been thinking, lately, that I had to have it out with her.”
“With Monica?”
“Yeah. The bitch. Had to draw the line on her, tell her I was through jumping through hoops for her. And then that proxy thing she’s pulling, it was the final straw.”
“Proxy?”
“She’s been trying to take over the goddamn board.”
“The board of Fortune Industries?”
“Right. It’s too damn much. Got to stop her. Got to draw the line. So I went to her place.”
“Tonight? You went to Monica Malone’s tonight?”
“Yeah. I went there. To her mansion. Ever seen that place?”
“No, Dad.”
He shook his head. “A monstrous exercise in bad taste, that place of Monica’s. Fake as one of those two-bit costume dramas she used to star in. Fits her to a T.” Jake shuddered.
“What happened there?”
“At Monica’s?”
She nodded.
He looked away. “What happened at Monica’s…” He pondered heavily for a moment, staring off toward the doors to the hall. And then his gaze was on Natalie again. “I…had it out with her. I tol’ her I was through with it. Through with her and her tricks. Through with her demands. That she could tell it all, I didn’t give a damn. I said I would be fighting her, every step of the way, from now on.”
“Dad, what could she tell? You still haven’t said.”
He waved her words away with a weary hand. “Doesn’t matter. The point is, she went wild.” He blinked, rubbed his eyes.
“What do you mean, she went wild?”
He shook his head. “Drink. ’Nother drink.”
Natalie held on to the arms of his chair. “Dad. I’m trying to understand. What happened?”
He groaned. “She fell.”
“Fell? Dad. Dad look at me. Listen to me.”
“I’m listening, Nat.”
“Is she all right?”
He frowned. “All right?”
“You said Monica fell….”
He was still frowning. “What? No. No, never mind about that. We argued, that’s all.”
“You argued.”
Her father nodded, then sighed heavily.
“And then what?”
He rubbed his eyes, dragged his hands down his face. “That’s all. I saw it was getting nowhere. I’d said what I came to say. So I left. She was spitting threats at my back as I went out the door.” He sighed, a sigh that turned into a hiccup. “Now, how ’bout another drink?”
“But what about your shoulder, Dad?”
“Huh?”
“What happened to your shoulder?”
He glanced at it. “Oh. That.” He looked at Natalie, and blinked. “Don’t know, Nat. Just don’t know… But I can tell you for sure, I really need a drink…”
Natalie reached out and screwed the lid on the bottle. “No, Dad.” She still didn’t really know what was going on. But she knew as much as she was going to get out of him in his current condition. He’d had an argument with Monica Malone and he was upset about it. And right now, he needed rest. “It’s time for bed.” She stood and took him by both hands.
“Nat. C’mon…”
She almost smiled. He seemed so helpless. It was touching; and yet unreal. As a matter of fact, everything about tonight was beginning to seem unreal. “Let’s go upstairs. You can clean up. I’ll look at your shoulder, and—”
“I told you. Shoulder’s nothing.”
“You’ll have a shower, and I’ll look at your shoulder.” She spoke in the firm tone she used on recalcitrant students. “And then you can go to bed.”
He actually stuck out his lower lip. “I want a drink.”
“No, Dad. You’ve had enough.” She pulled on his hands. Surprisingly, he made no more protests. He staggered upright, falling against her as he got to his feet.
“Whoa, Nat. The world’s spinning ’round a little faster than it should be….”
“Come on. It’s okay.” She wrapped his arm—the one on the uninjured side—over her shoulder.
“Where’s my jacket?” he asked woozily.
She managed to reach behind him and snare it off the back of the chair. “Right here. I’ve got it.”
He leaned against her. “You’re a good girl, Natty. Good to your old dad. Wish your mother was one-tenth as understanding as you….”
“This way.” She guided him toward the door.
By the time she got him up to his rooms, he’d turned cranky. But somehow, she managed to convince him to get out of his clothes and into the shower. While he bathed, she got his pajamas for him. But he wouldn’t wear them. He told her through the bathroom door that he wasn’t damn well ready for bed yet. So she passed him clean underwear, socks and a pair of slacks. When he had them on, she sat him down and took a look at the cut on his shoulder. It was superficial, as he’d kept insisting. She bandaged it and helped him into a polo shirt.
“Now enough, damn it,” he insisted. “Stop fussing over me.” He staggered over, scooped up his rumpled suit and torn shirt and stuffed them in the clothes hamper. “There. All cleaned up.”
She did manage to convince him to swallow a couple of aspirin. And somehow she extracted a grudging promise that he’d leave the Scotch alone for the rest of the night. Feeling she’d done the best she could under the circumstances, she left him in the sitting room of the master suite, watching television.
Before going to her own room, Natalie returned to the foyer to get her bags, then stopped in the library once more and chose a novel to take to bed with her.
It was well after midnight when she finally settled under the covers
in the blue room and opened the book to the first page.
In the master suite, Jake was watching the late late news on cable when he heard the update.
“As we reported when the news first broke, Monica Malone, the ever-youthful movie star and spokesmodel, has been found dead in her Minneapolis mansion….”
Jake blinked, his fogged mind refusing to take it in. He leaned forward, straining to catch every word.
“Though few details have been released, police are now admitting that it appears the actress was a victim of foul play….”
A long, tight moan escaped Jake. His shoulder throbbed. And he remembered all the parts of his encounter with Monica that he’d managed to keep from blurting out to Natalie.
“My son will replace you, Jake Fortune!” she’d shrieked at him. “Brandon will run Fortune Industries. I’ll make that happen if it’s the last thing I do.”
Jake had thrown back his head and laughed at the very idea. He’d met Brandon Malone, Monica’s adopted son, more than once. The man was his mother’s errand boy, not CEO material by any stretch of the imagination.
“Don’t you laugh at my son, you fatherless son of a bitch!” And then she’d come at him, wild-eyed, with a letter opener clutched in her hand. He’d put up his hands, but she’d still managed to cut through his jacket and his shirt and poke a hole in his shoulder.
He’d seen red. Grabbed for her. And all at once, they’d been tearing at each other, Monica screaming gutter words in his ear. He’d given her a good hard shove. And she’d fallen. Against that ridiculous marble fireplace with all those dancing, naked Cupids carved on it.
She’d hit her head. Been knocked out cold.
And he had stood there. Staring down at her. There had been blood in her hair. And she’d looked old. The witch was in her late sixties, maybe even seventy. But until then, every time Jake had been forced to deal with her, she’d always looked good.
But not then, not lying there with her legendary violet eyes shut and her mouth hanging open and blood in her gorgeous blond hair.
Jake had thought, Well, now Monica. Looks like you’re not exactly ageless, after all.
A minute later, she’d started moaning, coming to. Jake had helped her to a couch, even though what he really wanted to do was just to let her lie there on the floor.
The gutter language had been spilling out from between those red lips again. And he could see no point in hanging around. So he’d left.
Left her still very much alive and swearing to ruin him.
And that was all. The way it had happened. He was sure it was.
Wasn’t it?
His gut roiled. His head throbbed.
Yeah, all right, he’d been drinking too much lately. But he wasn’t that bad. He wasn’t to the point where he had blackouts or anything.
Or was he?
No. Surely not. Especially not tonight. He’d watched himself, kept the drinks to a minimum, before going to visit Monica. He’d wanted a clear head.
“Once again,” the announcer said, “Monica Malone, legendary star of the silver screen and the original Fortune’s Face, is with us no more….”
Jake pulled himself to his feet. Once there, he reeled. His stomach pitched and tightened, sending a hot squirt of acid into his throat. His head pounded like drums in the jungle. He grabbed for the back of the sofa and managed to steady himself.
They would be after him. People must have seen him. Monica’s household staff. People on the street, when he’d driven through her gates. And he’d bled on that letter opener, damn it. He’d left fingerprints all over everything. And Monica had fought with him. Scratched him. There’d be little bits of his skin under those long red nails of hers.
It was going to look bad. Worse than bad. With all the stuff they’d have on him, they wouldn’t waste a millisecond following other leads.
Damn. He needed a clear head. Now, of all times. He needed to think this through.
He closed his eyes, tried to breathe slowly and evenly. But his heart was hammering, and his fogged mind seemed to be playing one theme song, over and over: Go. Escape. Get away quick.
One of his Porsches was out front, where he’d left it when he returned from Monica’s. He wouldn’t even have to call Edgar. He wouldn’t have to disturb anyone at all….
Natalie woke from troubled dreams just as dawn lightened the sky. For a few moments, she imagined she might try to go back to sleep.
But she was wide awake, too troubled by the events of the night before to relax again right then. So she pulled on some leggings and a tunic and padded on bare feet down to the house’s huge kitchen. The coffee, of course, was set up and ready to go. She set the dial to brew and then wandered over to a window that looked out on a side yard. The pot was just beginning to fill when the buzzer to the main gate out front rang.
Since one of the control consoles was on the wall nearby, she went to it and pushed the talk button. “Yes? Who is it, please?”
“Detectives Harbing and Rosczak, Minneapolis police. We’d like to speak with Jacob Fortune.”
Natalie’s heart seemed to stop—and then to rocket into high gear. Her father seemed to have no end of problems lately. And now the police wanted to talk to him….
“Ma’am?” the voice demanded. “Are you there, ma’am? Will you please open the gates?”
She ordered her mind to think logically, and decided there was nothing to be gained by refusing them entry. “Yes. Of course. Come in.” She pressed the button that would let them through.
The man on the other end was thanking her politely as she whirled and headed for the stairs.
Dread was an icy rock in her stomach when she pounded on her father’s door. She waited. He didn’t come. She put her ear to the door. She thought she heard the low drone of voices on the other side.
How long could it take him to get to the door? He’d been so drunk. Maybe he was out cold, dead to the world. But then who would be talking in there?
She tried the knob. It turned. “Dad?”
He wasn’t in the sitting room, though she discovered the source of the voices she’d heard; he’d left the television on.
“Dad?” She went to the door of his bedroom.
He wasn’t there, either. The spread on the bed was a wide, unwrinkled expanse.
She rubbed her tired eyes. Think. Think…
The library. Maybe he’d returned to the library to have some more of the Scotch he’d so solemnly promised to leave alone. Maybe he was passed out there now. She turned and sprinted for the stairs.
But when she got to the library, there was no sign of him. The room seemed undisturbed from the last time she’d seen it, the night before. She was staring at the half-empty bottle of Scotch and the short, thick crystal glass beside it when the front doorbell rang.
There was nothing to do but go and answer it.
When she reached the foyer, Mrs. Laughlin was already there. The housekeeper turned when she heard the whisper of Natalie’s bare feet on the floor. “Shall I answer it, miss?”
Natalie squared her shoulders. “Yes, I suppose so.”
Thirteen
At a little before eight, across the lake, Rick and Toby were just finishing up their breakfast when the house phone rang. Normally Natalie would be up by now, dressed in her exercise gear, jumping around to one of those fitness tapes of hers. She would have heard the ringing and answered on the upstairs line. But today the phone kept on ringing, which made Toby look up at Rick, his eyes questioning.
Rick gave his son a none-of-our-business shrug. He had heard Natalie leave last night, so he knew she wasn’t there to answer her phone. The machine on the counter not far away would handle it.
After the fourth ring, they were treated to Natalie’s voice, asking her caller to please leave a message. And then they heard Erica.
“Natalie? Natalie, please. Pick up.” A pause. “Natalie? I mean it. This is urgent….”
Toby’s brows drew together. “Daddy?” T
he sound was thready and didn’t have much volume, but the single word seemed to have a thousand meanings:
Something’s wrong. You have to answer. Fix things, Daddy. Make things right….
“Natalie. Oh, Nat. Please…”
Rick couldn’t stand the agitation in Erica Fortune’s voice— not to mention his son’s trusting, worried eyes on him. He stood.
On the other end of the phone line, Erica sighed. “All right. I can see that you’re not—”
Rick picked up the phone before she could finish. “Hello, Mrs. Fortune. This is—”
“Rick? Is that you, Rick?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Oh, thank God. I must speak with Natalie. Is she there?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Do you know where she is, then?”
He hesitated, thinking of the night before, reluctant to reveal anything that Natalie wouldn’t want her mother to know.
“Rick?”
“She went over to the estate last night.”
“She’s been at the estate…all night?”
He couldn’t think of anything to tell her but the truth. “She drove over after ten.”
“After ten. Did she happen to see her father, then?”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t spoken with her since she left.” Toby was still looking at him. He turned his back to the boy and lowered his voice. “Mrs. Fortune, what is going on?”
There was a silence on the line. Then Erica said, “I shouldn’t burden you with this. It has nothing to do with you.”
“I’d like to help, if I can.”
Erica hesitated another long moment before admitting, “It’s Jake.”
“Your husband?”
“Yes. The police have called here at my house, looking for him. They said they’ve already been to the estate. And that he wasn’t there. Of course, I immediately contacted Sterling Foster, who’s handled our family’s legal matters for years.”
“Yes, I’ve met Sterling.”
“He said he would deal with it. But I can’t settle down. I’m simply frantic. I really have been trying not to bother Nat. I understand she has her own life. But I thought, if I could just speak with her, I’d feel a little better. She always calms me down.”
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