“It was. At least that’s what we understood.”
“But they found a white knight?”
“Yes,” he said, nearly spitting out the word. “It’s damned impossible, really. It’s insane. It’s as if they . . . well, we can forget it, blast it!”
“We won’t get the company?”
“Haven’t you been listening to me, Elizabeth?” He raked his fingers through his dark hair. “Forgive me. No, we won’t get the company. It’s really not worth breaking our butts over it. It’s all over before it’s even had a chance to begin. You want to know who bailed them out?”
Elizabeth looked back down at the article. “It says something about MAI. Who are they?”
Adrian felt another wave of exasperation flow over him. Then he stilled his impatience. She’d lived with only her music for so long. How could he expect her to know? But she should know. He said very slowly, “Your brother-in-law, Michael Carleton, is chairman of MAI. That stands for Michael Abercrombie, Elizabeth.”
“Laurette’s maiden name,” Elizabeth said dully. “Did Brad do this?”
“He could have spilled the beans to his uncle, I suppose, but he didn’t know about it, Elizabeth, couldn’t have known about it. The level of secrecy has been high.”
“One of the Noble Six, then. Or one of our lawyers or investment bankers.”
“Could be,” he admitted, and eased himself into a chair that groaned under his weight. “Damnation, this is a kicker. Maybe even one of the secretaries, though Millicent has been the only one involved and her mouth is tight as a clam. It’s just that none of us expected it. All possibilities are discussed thoroughly—you know that. But this came out of the blue.”
“What will we do now?”
“Lick our wounds, try to shore up any leaks, then go to the second computer company on the list.”
“Who’s that?”
“A man by the name of Jonathan Harley owns it. It’s called NetFrame. He’s good, very good, and has views for expansion himself. Our problem will be a stock buy-up, enough to take over. I understand he’s in the middle of a divorce and his wife will take him, and that includes Harley stock. She already owns about ten percent and will get even more in the settlement.”
“How soon?”
“A while yet. The divorce is just getting started, according to our sources. We’ll just have to wait awhile. When we move, it’ll be fast.”
“This one will be hostile?”
“That’s for sure. And, Elizabeth, not a word to anyone. Not even to Kogi or Gallagher or Drake.”
Adrian saw that she looked upset, and rather helpless, a look he hadn’t seen in several weeks. He softened just a bit. “Look, why don’t you just forget the entire business for now. It will be several months yet. Just put it out of your mind, and don’t worry.”
Because Elizabeth wanted to forget all of it, she did put it out of her mind. She went on a baroque kick, immersing herself in Bach, back in the eighteenth century, when things were simple and there were no such things as white knights or black knights or any other color.
She had her music and Rowe Chalmers, and signed her name when Adrian placed papers in front of her. Her hours in the beautiful corner office decreased.
She was content.
She thought about marriage and a home and children.
She asked Rowe on Saturday evening, “When will I meet your parents?”
He paused a moment, and she saw the flicker of something she read as appalling in his eyes. Before he could answer her, she said, forcing a small tight smile, “It’s all right, Rowe. It’s too soon, I was foolish to forget. To your parents, I’m that scarlet woman, or whatever. After all, I was acquitted, found not guilty, but the murderer wasn’t unveiled like he always is on Perry Mason.” She’d begun watching Perry Mason reruns every day at noon. It was like a daily catharsis when the real murderer spilled his or her guts in the final two minutes of the show.
Not real life at all.
“Just a while longer, my darling,” he told her.
But his parents had to know about them, she thought. They’d been photographed several times and written up in clever articles that made her want to yell with the unfairness of it all. To protect him, she’d asked each of her Noble Six to escort her now and again. And the papers made it seem like she was the Merry Widow.
And there was nothing, absolutely nothing from Christian Hunter. Instead of making her feel relieved, deep inside she knew fear. She could forget him for hours at a time, but when she remembered, the fear blossomed and she was swamped with anxiety. She wanted to call him, but she was too afraid.
Life went on as it inevitably did, but unpleasantness didn’t touch her. Until one Friday night.
Adrian and his wife, Elaine, invited her out to dinner, and because Rowe was out of town, she accepted. Elaine was a small, vivacious woman who ordered her huge husband around like a puppy. Elizabeth liked her and did her best to make the woman feel at ease with her. They went to Chanterelle, a small restaurant in Soho with nouvelle French cuisine. Elizabeth ate oysters with white truffles, and conversation centered on the Marshs’ home life and their two children.
Then Elizabeth spotted Catherine. She was with the same man as before, many months before when Elizabeth had been with Rod Samuels at the Quilted Giraffe. They appeared to be arguing.
“Elizabeth, what’s wrong?”
She pulled herself back to Adrian’s concerned voice. She found she was hunching down in her chair, raising her wineglass so it hid her profile. She shook her head and tried to smile.
“Is someone here you don’t like?” Afraid of is more like it, Adrian thought, growing more concerned. Such a small restaurant, off the beaten path. Still Elizabeth only shook her head again, and asked Elaine a domestic question.
Adrian looked about and spotted Catherine Carleton. He knew about her, of course. Beautiful, young, spoiled. Even though they’d just barely finished their entrée, Adrian said pleasantly, “Why don’t we get out of here now. There’s this special place I want to take you gorgeous women to, for a brandy.”
He knows, Elizabeth thought, and gave him a grateful smile. She grabbed her purse and started to rise. The waiter saw her motion and rushed to the table to assist her.
Catherine was drunk. And furious. Chad Walters was a bastard, and demanding more money from her. Or he wouldn’t provide her with the cocaine she wanted so desperately. It was top-grade. She had no other contacts. Then she saw the waiter from the corner of her eye, and then Elizabeth. She saw red.
She felt a wave of dizziness as she jumped to her feet and shook her head. “You god-awful lying bitch,” she said. She thought she’d whispered it, but she heard Chad say sharply, “Shut up, Cathy, and sit down! God, everyone is staring!”
But she didn’t. She was out of control and couldn’t seem to stop herself. She’d said it aloud and she wasn’t about to stop now. She strode to Elizabeth’s table. She saw Elizabeth’s face, utterly devoid of color, and knew that she’d heard what she’d said.
“I mean it,” she said, her voice shrill. “You bribed that man, and you got away with murder. You did it, I know you did. You killed my father.”
The restaurant was deadly silent. It was like a tableau, Elizabeth thought vaguely. Everyone had struck an attitude.
“Catherine,” she said very clearly, “you’re not well. Go home.”
“What, dear stepmother? Leave you in peace? Are you sleeping with him too?” She sent a mocking glance at Adrian. “Perhaps a little ménage a` trois?” Then she was trembling, knowing she’d gone too far, but the rage, the anger, propelled her. “I know, I know you did it. I’ll see you—” She got no further.
Adrian leapt from his chair, grabbed Catherine, one huge hand covering her mouth, and dragged her through the restaurant and out the door. Chad Walters tossed Elizabeth a mock salute, which she didn’t see, and strolled through the restaurant after Adrian.
“No, Elizabeth, don’t say anything. Let’s get out of her
e.”
Elizabeth felt Elaine’s hand on her arm and followed her out like a witless child. She heard the building sea of conversation in their wake. It would never stop, never. She wanted to die. Once they were outside, she looked blankly upon a scene that would have made for an excellent Hollywood set.
Adrian was shaking Catherine like a dog. Chad Walters merely stood by watching, a mocking smile on his lips. And a group of people was gathering to watch.
The police would come quickly, Elizabeth thought, and the ever-lurking paparazzi, and the media. Oh, God.
She heard herself shout, “Come along, Adrian. Now, quickly. Let her go.”
Adrian released Catherine and felt her long nails score down his cheek. “You damned bitch,” he said, turned on his heel, and walked quickly to Elizabeth and Elaine.
“Please take me home,” Elizabeth said, surprised that this sorry excuse for a voice was hers.
“Yes, I think we can get out of here now,” Adrian said. He was holding both women very close. “You all right, Elizabeth?’
“Yes. Elaine,” she began, turning to Adrian’s white-faced wife, “I’m so sorry. Please . . .”
Elaine didn’t say anything. Nothing like this had ever happened in her life. For God’s sake, she’d grown up in Fort Worth, Texas, her father was a math professor at TCU. Her only publicity was Girl of the Month in high school, and she hadn’t even made that during the school year, but during August. She felt strangely disembodied. She heard Adrian talking, heard Elizabeth. She raised her head, looked directly into Elizabeth’s eyes, and said, “I don’t want to ever see you again.”
“Elaine, it wasn’t Elizabeth’s fault!”
She shook off her husband’s hand and marched down the street.
Elizabeth sagged against the brick wall behind her. She saw that Adrian didn’t know what to do. Which one of them to leave?
She started laughing. “Let’s go, Adrian. Find me a taxi, then see to Elaine.”
She laughed until Adrian assisted her into a taxi and gave the driver her address.
“Hey, lady, you all right?”
The driver was a middle-aged man with a beer belly and a Bronx accent.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m just ducky.”
She didn’t leave the house for three days.
The appalling scene made all the papers, of course, but Elizabeth didn’t see them. Kogi told Gallagher to keep out all newspapers and all reporters. Kogi turned on the answering machine, reviewed all the messages himself, and passed only those from people he trusted.
Rowe returned from San Francisco the following Tuesday and immediately went to Elizabeth’s house. Gallagher looked at him like he was the savior of the world.
Rowe thought Elizabeth looked like hell. Like she’d been through hell, and wished she hadn’t come out.
He held her, saying nothing. She didn’t cry. She didn’t say anything. Rowe dismissed Kogi and Mrs. Jeffers, the maid, and took Elizabeth to bed. He didn’t make love to her, merely held her, stroking her back. God, she felt as though she’d lost twenty pounds. Thin and white and nearly boneless. Her pain was palpable.
Finally he said, “All right, Elizabeth, that’s enough. It’s Catherine we’re talking about, Catherine, who is twisted and sick, not you. You’ve got to pull yourself together now. I’m certain you’ve ignored all the business, including your Noble Six. You’re needed, sweetheart. Now, you’re going to put your face on and we’re going out. To Elizabeth, New Jersey, if you like. But we’re going out.”
“I want to go to Hoboken,” she said, and it was there they went, to a small Italian restaurant that was surprisingly good.
Elizabeth received an apology from Elaine Marsh, delivered by an embarrassed Adrian.
“Tell Elaine to forget it,” Elizabeth said, patting his massive shoulder. “I don’t blame her, not a bit. It was just as awful for her, I know.” She drew a deep breath and forced a smile. “Now, what’s going on?”
Jonathan Harley knew he was going to lose controlling interest. And he didn’t have enough money to buy back the stocks to make the difference. He was broke in terms of ready cash. His plans for expansion were down the tubes. Rose had walked out, and the Pillsons had risen against him, all their power focused on him, one man who only wanted to be left alone.
He’d lost weight, and his secretary, Midge, Sweet-Talkin’ Midge, as he sarcastically called her, said to him, “You look like a railroad track, like you could lie down and have Amtrak run over you. What do you weigh, anyway?”
He didn’t know.
“I’d say one-seventy, and you at least six feet, two inches. Idiot. Here, eat!” And she plied him with cartons of Chinese food. Then she spoke to his cook, Mrs. Mallson, and enough food for a battalion appeared on his table every evening.
He went to Boston to visit his cousin and family. He had sense enough to realize that he was in bad shape, and not knowing what else to do, found himself three different willing women and made love to all of them on successive nights until he was insensate.
But then he’d wake up in the morning and wonder where the hell he was and who the woman was who was lying beside him.
One woman, he thought her name was Nancy, said to him when she saw him come out of the bathroom naked, “You’re a handsome man, Jonathan. You’re a very nice man and an excellent lover. But you’re destroying yourself. It’s not a pleasant sight. Go home and get your shit together.”
He did, surprisingly enough.
Midge cheered when he invited her out to lunch at the Bookery.
“Is this my belated Christmas present, boss?”
“No,” he said. He raised his wineglass. “A toast, Midge. To Nancy.”
Midge rolled her eyes. “You’re the sweet-talking one, boss, not me. Who’s this Nancy? What’s her last name?”
Jonathan merely smiled and shook his head. “Search me,” he said, and drank deeply. He rubbed his hands together. “Did you bring your notebook, Midge?”
“For goodness’ sake, we’re supposed to be having lunch!”
“Lots to do. Okay, eat your calamari, even though it makes me sick to watch you.”
“Do you know my last name, boss?”
7
Christian Hunter didn’t say a word; he was too surprised.
“Who did you say, Mrs. Hightower?” he managed at last. His knuckles were white on the receiver.
“A Mrs. Carleton, Doctor.”
He looked at his Italian loafers. There was a smudge on the toe of one of them. He rubbed the toe behind his other leg.
“Dr. Hunter? Would you like me to have her call back? Leave a message?”
“No, I’ll take the call. When and who is my next patient?”
“It’s Mr. Pencini, at two o’clock.”
“All right. Put on Mrs. Carleton.”
Mrs. Hightower’s voice was her usual flat monotone. She hadn’t made the connection between the Mrs. Carleton on the phone and the Mrs. Carleton, Elizabeth X. In fact, she’d never shown a bit of interest in his sudden appearance in a murder trial except to say as she handed him a pile of letters to sign, “I suppose you know what you’re doing,” and that was it.
Christian wondered if he were losing his mind, thinking about staid, bored Victoria Hightower at this particular moment. He cleared his throat. “Hello, this is Dr. Hunter.”
Elizabeth discovered that she didn’t quite know what to say. She gripped the phone in a stranglehold.
“Dr. Christian Hunter?”
“Yes, Mrs. Carleton,” he said, and he felt himself go warm at the sound of her voice. It was soft, frightened, uncertain.
“I simply couldn’t wait any longer,” she said. “I’ve been going crazy, if you want to know the truth. I need to know.”
It was too soon, he knew. A couple more weeks, then he’d be ready. He said, his voice gentle and reassuring, his patented shrink’s voice, “Mrs. Carleton, I’m leaving for Vienna tomorrow night. When I return, we can meet. Not in public.
That wouldn’t be wise.”
“I see,” said Elizabeth. “At my house then, Dr. Hunter.”
“Say two weeks from Friday?”
“Yes . . . yes, that would be fine. I must know!”
“I realize that, Mrs. Carleton. I will see you at seven in the evening. Good-bye.”
Just like that, Elizabeth thought, staring at the buzzing receiver in her hand. Two weeks. At least there’d be an end to it. And she would know. He would tell her. She’d know if he were saint or sinner, God or the devil. Very slowly she replaced the receiver in its cradle. Then she frowned. Would he never have gotten in touch with her? Was she forcing something she shouldn’t touch? Over seven months had passed. Seven months of complete silence. She knew it had been the accidental meeting with Moretti, the New York district attorney, that had forced her to do this.
She hadn’t really imagined that a sneer could be other than a pat noun or verb in a book. But Moretti’s sneer hadn’t been at all pat. It had been filled with fury and contempt. She’d been alone, in front of Bloomingdale’s, of all places.
“So,” he said, stopping beside her as she stared into a window filled with lacy lingerie. “If it isn’t the murderess, free and in our midst.”
She froze, turned, and looked directly into his sneering face.
He waved a hand toward a lace bra and panties. “To seduce yet another lover, Mrs. Carleton? You need this kind of help, don’t you? Men eventually get frightened of you?”
“No, Mr. Moretti,” she said, “no to all of it. My husband’s murderer is still free. You never wanted to find him or her. You just wanted me. I was so handy, and your political ambitions were so pressing.”
The cords in his neck stood out, she saw, with rage, but his voice was venomously soft. “I wish Samuels had put you on the stand. I would have broken you in five minutes. Everyone would have seen what you are. You’re a miserable human being, Mrs. Carleton. But you’re rich, very rich, aren’t you? You can buy, steal, bribe anyone and anything.”
“You, Mr. Moretti, are a blind fool.” And she’d marched away, her shoulders squared, her head high. But she was full of misery inside. Nothing but naked misery.
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