by Sue Grafton
Presently, Ash appeared with Mrs. Wood holding on to her arm. The woman walked slowly, with a halting gait, as if she’d been forced to ambulate with a pair of swim fins for shoes. I was startled to realize she must be in her early seventies, which meant that she’d had her children rather late. Seventy isn’t that old out here. People in California seem to age at a different rate than the rest of the country. Maybe it’s the passion for diet and exercise, maybe the popularity of cosmetic surgery. Or maybe we’re afflicted with such a horror of aging that we’ve halted the process psychically. Mrs. Wood apparently hadn’t developed the knack. The years had knocked her flat, leaving her knees weak and her hands atremble, a phenomenon that seemed to cause her bitter amusement. She appeared to watch her own progress as if she were having an out-of-body experience.
“Hello, Kinsey. It’s been a long time,” she said. She lifted her face to mine at that point, her gaze dark and snappish. Whatever energy had been drained from her limbs was being concentrated now in her eyes. She had high cheekbones and a strong chin. The skin hung from her face like tissue-thin kid leather, lined and seamed, yellowing with the years like a pair of cotillion gloves. Like Ashley, she was big: wide through the shoulders, thick through the waist. Like Ash, too, she might have been a redhead in her youth. Now her hair was a soft puff of white, gathered on top and secured by a series of tortoiseshell combs. Her clothes were beautifully made ��� a softly draped kimono of navy silk over a dark red silk wrap-around dress. Ashley helped her into a chair, pulling the tea cart within range so her mother could supervise the pouring of tea.
Ash glanced over at me. “Would you prefer sherry? The tea is Earl Grey.”
“Tea’s fine.”
Ash poured three cups of tea while Helen selected a little plate of cookies and finger sandwiches for each of us. White bread spread with butter, sprigs of watercress peeping out. Wheat bread with curried chicken salad. Rye layered with herbed cream cheese and lox. There was something about the ritual attention to detail that made me realize neither of them cared what I was wearing or whether my social status was equivalent to theirs.
Ashley flashed me a smile when she handed me my tea. “Mother and I live for this,” she said, dimples appearing.
“Oh, yes,” Helen said, with a smile. “Food is my last great vice and I intend to sin incessantly as long as my palate holds out.”
We munched and sipped tea and laughed and chatted about old times. Helen told me that both she and Woody had sprung from the commonplace. His father had owned a hardware store in town for years. Her father was a stonemason. Each had inherited a modest sum which they’d pooled to form Wood/Warren sometime in the forties. The money they’d amassed was all fun and games as far as they were concerned. Woody was dead serious about the running of the company, but the profits had seemed like a happy accident. Helen said he’d carried nearly two million dollars’ worth of life insurance on himself, considering it a hot joke as it was the only investment he knew of with a guaranteed payoff.
At 5:00, Ash excused herself, leaving the two of us alone.
Helen’s manner became brisk. “Now tell me about this business with Lance.”
I brought her up-to-date. Ash had apparently filled her in, but Helen wanted to hear it all again from me.
“I want you to work for me,” she said promptly when I finished.
“I can’t do that, Helen. For starters, my attorney doesn’t want me anywhere near Lance, and I certainly can’t accept employment from the Wood family. It already looks like I’m being paid off.”
“I want to know who’s behind this,” she said.
“So do I. But suppose it turns out to be one of you. I don’t mean to offend, but we can’t rule that out.”
“Then we’d have to put a stop to it. I don’t like underhanded dealings, especially when people outside the company are affected. Will you keep me informed?”
“If it’s practical, of course. I’m willing to share anything I find. For once, I don’t have a client to protect.”
“Tell me how I can help.”
“Fill me in on the details of Woody’s will, if that’s not too personal. How was his estate divided? Who controls the company?”
A flash of irritation crossed her face. “That was the only thing we argued about. He was determined to leave the business to Lance, which I didn’t disagree with in principle. Of all the children, Lance seemed to be the best qualified to carry on once his father was gone. But I felt Woody should have given him the clout to go with it. Woody wouldn’t do it. He absolutely refused to give him control.”
“Meaning what?”
“Fifty-one percent of the stock, that’s what. I said, ‘Why give him the position if you won’t give him the power to go along with it? Let the boy run it his way, for God’s sake, you old goat!’ But Woody wouldn’t hear of it. Wouldn’t even consider the possibility. I was livid, but that old fool wouldn’t budge. Lord, he could be stubborn when he made his mind up.”
“What was he so worried about?”
“He was afraid Lance would run the business into the ground. Lance’s judgment is sometimes faulty. I’d be the first to admit it. He doesn’t seem to have a feel for the market like Woody did. He doesn’t have the relationships with suppliers or customers, not to mention employees. Lance is impetuous and he has very grandiose schemes that never quite pan out. He’s better now, but those last few years before Woody died, Lance would go off on a tear, all obsessed with some muddleheaded idea he’d got hold of. While Woody was alive, he could rein him in, but he was petrified that Lance would make a disastrous mistake.”
“Why leave him the company in the first place? Why not put someone he trusted at the helm?”
“I suggested that myself, but he wouldn’t hear of it. It had to be one of the boys, and Lance was the logical choice. Bass was… well, you know Bass. He had no desire to follow in Woody’s footsteps unless they led straight to the bank.”
“What about Ebony? Ash mentioned she was interested.”
“I suppose she was, but by the time Woody made out this last will of his, she was off in Europe and showed no signs of coming back.”
“How was the stock divided?”
“Lance has forty-eight percent. I have nine, our attorney has three percent, and Ebony, Olive, Ash, and Bass each have ten.”
“An odd division, isn’t it?”
“It’s set up so Lance can’t act alone. To make up a majority, he has to persuade at least one of us that what he’s proposing makes good business sense. For the most part he’s free to do as he sees fit, but we can always rally and outvote him in a pinch.”
“That must drive him crazy.”
“Oh, he hates it, but I must say I begin to see Woody’s point. Lance is young yet and he’s not that experienced. Let him get a few years under his belt and then we’ll see how things stand.”
“Then the situation could change?”
“Well, yes, depending on what happens to my shares when I die. Woody left that entirely up to me. All I have to do is leave three shares to Lance. That would make him a majority stockholder. No one could touch him.”
“Sounds like the stuff of which soap operas are made.”
“I can wield power like a man if it comes to that. Next to eating, it’s what I enjoy best.” She glanced at the watch that was pinned to her dress, then reached over to the wall and pressed a button that apparently signaled the maid somewhere in the house. “Time for my swim. Would you care to join me? We have extra suits and I’d enjoy the company. I can still do a mile, but it bores me to death.”
“Maybe another time. I tend to be a land animal, given my choice.” I got up and shook her hand. “Tea was lovely. Thanks for the invitation.”
“Come again, any time. Meanwhile, I’ll see that Ebony and Olive give you any information you need.”
“I’d appreciate that. I’ll see myself out.”
As I moved toward the foyer, the maid was returning with a portable w
heelchair.
Behind her the front door opened, and Ebony came in. I hadn’t seen her since I was seventeen. She must have been twenty-five then, which seemed very mature and sophisticated to me. She still had the power to intimidate. She was tall, rail-thin, high cheekbones, dark-red lipstick. Her hair was jet-black and pulled back dramatically, worn with a bow at her neck. She’d gone to Europe originally as a fashion model and she still walked like she was whipping down a runway. She’d been at Gal Poly for two years, had quit, had tried photography, dance, design school, and freelance journalism before she turned to modeling. She’d been married maybe six years to a man whose name had recently been linked with Princess Caroline of Monaco. As far as I knew, Ebony had no children and, at forty, seemed an unlikely prospect for motherhood.
She paused when she caught sight of me, and for a moment I wasn’t sure if she remembered who I was. She flicked me a chill smile and continued toward the stairs.
“Hello, Kinsey. Come upstairs. I think we should talk.”
I followed her. She was wearing a wide-shouldered black suit, nipped in at the waist, a stark white shirt, knee-high glossy black boots with heels sharp enough to pierce a cheap floor covering. She smelled of a high-powered perfume, dark and intense, faintly unpleasant at close range. A trail of it wafted back at me like diesel fuel. This was going to give me a headache, I could tell. I was already annoyed by her attitude, which was peremptory at best.
The second floor was carpeted in pale beige, a wool pile so dense I felt as if we were slogging through dry sand.
The hallway was wide enough to accommodate a settee and a massive antique armoire. It surprised me somehow that she was living at home. Maybe, like Ash, she was here temporarily until she found a permanent residence somewhere else.
She opened a bedroom door and stepped back, waiting for me to pass in front of her. She should have been a school principal, I thought. With a tiny whip, she could have done a thriving trade in dominance. As soon as I’d entered the room, she closed the door and leaned against it, still holding onto the knob at the small of her back. Her complexion was fine, loose powder lending a matte finish to her face, like the pale cast of hoarfrost.
Chapter 9
*
There was an alcove to the left, done up as a little sitting room with a coffee table and two easy chairs. “Sit down,” she said.
“Why don’t you just tell me what you want and let’s get on with it?”
She shrugged and crossed the room. She leaned down and plucked a cigarette from the crystal box on the coffee table. She sat down in one of the upholstered chairs. She lit her cigarette. She blew the smoke out. Every gesture was separate and deliberate, designed to call maximum attention to herself.
I moved to the door and opened it. “Thanks for the trip upstairs. It’s been swell,” I said, as I started out the door.
“Kinsey, wait. Please.”
I paused, looking back at her.
“I’m sorry. I apologize. I know I’m rude.”
“I don’t care if you’re rude, Ebony. Just pick up the pace a bit.”
Her smile was wintry. “Please sit, if you would.”
I sat down.
“Would you like a martini?” She set her burning cigarette in the ashtray and opened a small refrigerator unit built into the coffee table. She extracted chilled glasses, a jar of pitted green olives, and a bottle of gin. There was no vermouth in sight. Her nails were so long they had to be fake, but they allowed her to extract the olives without getting her fingers wet. She inserted an acrylic tip and pierced the olives one by one, lifting them out. I watched her pour gin with a glint in her eye that suggested a thirst springing straight from her core.
She handed me a drink. “What happened with you and Lance?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m curious. The company’s affected by whatever affects him. I want to know what’s going on.” She picked up her cigarette again and took a deep drag. I could tell the nicotine and alcohol were soothing some inner anxiety.
“He knows as much as I do. Why don’t you ask him?”
“I thought you might tell me, as long as you’re here.”
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. He seems to think you’re part of it.”
Her smile returned, but it held no mirth. “In this family, I’m not part of anything. I wish I were.”
I felt another surge of impatience. I said, “Jesus, let’s quit fencing. I hate conversations like this. Here’s the deal. Someone set me up and I don’t like it. I have no idea why and I don’t much give a shit, but I’m going to find out who it was. At the moment I’m self-employed, so the only client I have to answer to is me. If you want information, hire a private detective. My services are spoken for.”
Her expression hardened like plaster of Paris, dead white. I suspected if I reached out to touch her, her skin would have had the same catalytic heat. “I hoped you’d be reasonable.”
“What for? I don’t know what’s going on, and what I’ve seen so far, I don’t like. For all I know, you’re at the bottom of this or you know who is.”
“You don’t mince words, do you?”
“Why should I mince words? I don’t work for you.”
“I made a simple inquiry. I can see you’ve decided to take offense.” She stubbed out her cigarette at the halfway mark.
She was right. I was hot and I wasn’t sure why. I took a deep breath and calmed myself. Not for her sake, but for mine. I tried again. “You’re right. I’m out of line. I didn’t think I was pissed off, but clearly I am. Somehow I’ve gotten caught up in family politics and that doesn’t sit well with me.”
“What makes you so sure it’s family politics? Suppose it’s someone outside the company?”
“Like who?”
“We have competitors like anybody else.” She took a sip of her martini and I could see her savor the icy liquid as it flooded through her mouth. Her face was narrow, her features fine. Her skin was flawless and unlined, giving her the bland expression of a Madame Alexander doll. Either she’d already had plastic surgery or she’d somehow learned not to have the kinds of feelings that leave telltale marks. It was hard to imagine that she and Ash were sisters. Ash was earthy and open with a sunny disposition, generous, good-natured, easygoing, relaxed. Ebony was as lean as a whip, all edged ��� brittle, aloof, controlled, arrogant. It was possible, I thought, that the differences between them were related, in part, to their relative positions in the family constellation. Ebony was the oldest daughter, Ash the youngest. Woody and Helen had probably expected perfection of their first child. By the time they got down to Ash, and beyond her to Bass, they must have given up expecting anything.
Ebony touched the olive in her drink, turning it. She eased the fingernail into the hole and plucked it out, laying the green globe on her tongue. Her lips closed around her finger and she made a faint sucking noise. The gesture had obscene overtones and I wondered suddenly if she was coming on to me.
She said, “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what Mother wanted.”
I could feel my temper climb again. “Don’t you people talk to each other? She invited me for tea. We had a few laughs about old times. I’m not going to run straight up here and spill it all to you. If you want to know what we talked about, ask her. When I find out what’s going on, I’ll be delighted to dump the whole thing in your lap. In the meantime, I don’t think it’s smart to run around telling everything I know.”
Ebony was amused. I could see the corners of her mouth turning up.
I stopped what I was saying. “Have you got some kind of problem with that?”
She laughed. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to condescend, but you were always like this. All that energy. So fiery and defensive.”
I stared at her, stumped for a response.
“You’re a professional,” she went on pleasantly. “I understand that. I’m not asking you to divulge any confidences. This is my family and I
’m concerned about what goes on. That’s my only point. If I can be of any help, just tell me how. If something you discover has a bearing on me, I’d like to hear about it. Is that so unreasonable?”
“Of course not. Sorry,” I said. I circled back through our conversation, returning to something she’d said earlier. “You mentioned that the trouble might originate from someone outside the company. Were you talking in general or specific terms?”
She shrugged languidly. “General, really, though I do know of someone who hates us bitterly.” She paused, as though trying to decide how to frame her explanation. “There was an engineer who worked for us for many years. A fellow named Hugh Case. Two years ago, a couple of months before my father died, as a matter of fact, he ��� um, killed himself.”
“Was there a connection?”
She seemed faintly startled. “With Daddy’s death? Oh, no, I’m sure not, but from what I’m told, Hugh’s wife was convinced Lance was responsible.”
“How so?”
“You’d have to ask someone else for the details. I was in Europe at the time, so I don’t know much except that Hugh shut himself up in his garage and ran his car until he died of carbon monoxide poisoning.” She paused to light another cigarette and then sat for a moment, using the spent match to rake the ash into a neat pile in the ashtray.
“His wife felt Lance drove him to it?”
“Not quite. She thought Lance murdered him.”
“Oh, come on!”
“Well, he was the one who stood to benefit. There was a rumor floating around at the time that Hugh Case intended to leave Wood/Warren and start a company of his own in competition with us. He was in charge of research and development, and apparently he was on the track of a revolutionary new process. The desertion could have caused us serious harm. There are only fifteen or so companies nationwide in our line of work so the defection would have set us back.”
“But that’s ridiculous. A man doesn’t get murdered because he wants to change jobs!”
Ebony arched an eyebrow delicately. “Unless it represents a crippling financial loss to the company he leaves.”