The Philanthropist's Danse

by Wornham, Paul

  $

  Camille Jolivet woke from a deep sleep when the telephone rang at six a.m. She had requested a wake-up call from Jeremy, and it was his voice she heard on the telephone now. She smiled as she replaced the receiver. It had been a long time since the man she’d spoken to last thing at night was the same man to greet her the next morning. She remembered that she liked it.

  Camille reached for her cigarettes and lighter from the nightstand, propped herself up on her plush pillows and lit the first cigarette of the day, drawing deeply with her eyes closed, savoring the rush as the nicotine worked its magic. She exhaled joyously and lay in her bed, truly happy.

  She reviewed the events of the night before. Her first face-to-face meeting with her secret half-sister, the shock that her father was dead, and the realization she would be rich. Wealthy. Loaded. Riche. She rolled the words around in her mind, savoring them as she savored her cigarette.

  Camille felt no grief at her father’s death. She had barely known him and had never felt the lack of a father figure in her life. She had crossed the Atlantic Ocean because she wanted the man’s money, not his love. She had suffered in life, but no one needed to know about her past. It was better they didn’t. All they needed to see was the elegant French girl grieving for her father even as she staked her claim to his money.

  She would soon have everything she had ever wanted. She could endure a few more days of faking a daughter’s love, and after it was done she would be free forever. Camille listed the places she’d travel and the clothes she would buy and the jewels she desired. She stubbed her cigarette out in a heavy crystal ashtray on the nightstand, swung her legs out of bed and enjoyed the feel of the thick carpet between her toes as she padded to the shower, humming a happy tune.

  $

  Winnie Tremethick had not slept well. She had woken at 2am and been unable to return to sleep. Her routine at home was to wake for chores at seven, and her old body refused to accept the notion she was anywhere other than in Cornwall. She lay in bed for long hours until the dark sky turned lighter, signaling dawn’s arrival.

  She wanted a hot drink, but the idea of calling someone else to bring her a pot of tea seemed scandalous, so she went without. She drew a bath and picked out her best dress while it filled. The lawyer, Mr. Bird, had made it clear that today was important, and she wanted to dress appropriately. She picked out her favorite brooch, a gold oak leaf, and laid it on the bed next to her clothes before returning to the sparkling marble and gold bathtub.

  Winnie was confused about why she was in America. The lawyer had asked her how she had known the famous philanthropist, but she had not been able to answer. She hadn’t known Thurwell. She had never met an American in her life. Not many would have reason to visit her village and Winnie had never traveled. Her answer had clearly troubled Mr. Bird and she was sorry for causing him concern, he seemed like a nice fellow. She had promised to think on it overnight, and though she had been doing little else for the past five hours, no answers came.

  She lay in the hot water, and the warmth eased her joints and gave some little relief to her arthritic fingers. She closed her eyes and wondered where and when she might have met a rich American that wanted her to share his fortune. As she pondered the stubborn question, she drifted back to sleep.

  $

  Caroline Smith was showered and dressed in a smart business suit at 6.10am. She stood in front of the mirror as she applied her make-up, practicing a sad expression she could use when she met Junior and his siblings. She added some darker shades under her eyes to make it look like she had not slept well, though the truth was she had slept soundly despite her growing excitement at how large her share of Thurwell’s money might be.

  She teased her hair one last time and stood straight, turning a quarter turn to the left to admire her tailored suit. She looked just right, businesslike and professional but with an air of mourning about her, attractive but not glamorous. Smith stepped out of the room, closed her door quietly and stood still for a moment.

  A few soft coughs, water running and a flushing toilet were the noises of morning she heard. The mansion, for all its luxury, was like any hotel. She walked toward the grand staircase, looking forward to a healthy breakfast. Only at the last moment did she remember to suppress the spring in her step.

  $

  Dennis Elliot looked outside and watched the snow. Janice was still sleeping, but he had been awake for over an hour. He knew he should wake her, but figured a few more moments of peace wouldn’t hurt, so he sat on the window ledge with his head against the cool glass and stared into the storm. He drew meaningless shapes with his fingertip in the fog his breath made on the glass. He was sad that Mr. Thurwell was dead. He had known the Old Man for a long time. He had been a good boss. He was more than relieved to know he and Janice would share some money.

  Mr. Thurwell had always promised he’d take care of Dennis, and he had kept that promise, though the manservant was surprised to be included with the family. His wife stirred in the bed, and he sighed. She’d soon be telling him what to do, what to say and what to think. Jeremy had offered them separate rooms, but Janice had insisted they occupy only one, much to Dennis’s annoyance. She won’t let me out of her sight for one Goddamn minute, he thought.

  There had been no love in their marriage for a long time. After the wedding, Janice had quickly taken control of Dennis and never eased her grip. She had killed what small independence he had possessed with the sole exception of his Tuesdays off. He had begged Mr. Thurwell not to give his servants a common day off, which had been granted with some disapproval from the Old Man and great rancor by Janice. However, it gave Dennis one whole day to himself and Tuesdays became the only respite he could look forward to.

  He had taken to spending his day off at the track in the summer, or the OTB in the winter, betting on any tracks that offered a card. The habit had cost him most of his savings, but his problem in recent weeks had been increased pressure to pay off his bookie. Dennis owed an unforgiving man too much money and was uncertain what to do because his diminished savings didn’t cover what he owed. It was convenient timing to come into money. Not that he meant Mr. Thurwell any ill will, but his death was well timed to solve Dennis’ troubles.

  He looked up and saw his wife’s accusing eye appraising him from across the room. Her mouth opened for the day’s first volley of invective. Perhaps I can even afford a divorce, he thought, as he stood and offered his wife a thin, beaten smile.

  $

  Philip Thurwell jumped out of bed and began restlessly pacing his room. He hated being cooped up inside the mansion. At 6.30, he climbed into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and jogged to the gymnasium, one floor below. He was surprised to find the gym occupied. Larry MacLean pounded the rolling road, the sheen of sweat on his body suggested he had been running for a while. Philip nodded a greeting to his ‘uncle’ but said nothing. He liked his father’s friend well enough, but they had exchanged some angry words at their last meeting and Philip was still sore about it.

  Larry nodded his own greeting and maintained the easy pace of an experienced runner. It was his habit to run every morning, although he preferred actual roads to indoor machines. The weather made running outside impossible, so he closed his mind to the suffocating walls and drifted into his routine, concerned only with the rhythm of his strides and the evenness of his breathing.

  Philip watched MacLean run. He had excellent form for an old guy. Larry kept in shape because it helped him keep up with the younger women he loved to love. Thurwell’s youngest son grabbed a towel from the corner rack and began stretching. His back was to MacLean, but he was able to watch him reflected in the mirror that covered an entire wall of the gym. Philip ran through his warm-up, hopped on the bike and accelerated to a comfortable speed. He and MacLean faced each other as they exercised.

  “Why’d he do it, Larry? Why die alone and not call us?” It was the question that bothered Philip most. He couldn’t imagine his father not
wanting his family around him when he was dying. It was out of character. Philip might have understood if his father had only called Bethany and left his sons out, but he hadn’t even called for her.

  “Son, the same question bothers me. I knew your father all his life, and for him to die without a word just seems wrong.”

  Philip nodded, wrong was the right word. It was all wrong. “This meeting, getting us all here at the mansion, does that seem normal to you? I don’t know half the people we saw last night.” Philip’s legs pumped as the bike’s program simulated a hill and he started to sweat.

  MacLean looked at Philip with sympathy. The boy reminded him of himself in younger, wilder days. “Philip, I wish I had answers for you. But face it, we’re in the dark here, only Bill Bird has the answers, and I’m not sure even he has all of them.”

  He saw a shadow cross Philip’s face at the mention of Bird. Philip was silent as he rode the bike hard, and sweat rolled freely down his face. Larry looked more closely and saw there was more than just sweat on Philip’s face. He was crying with his eyes clamped tight shut.

  MacLean slowed his run to a walk and wiped his face with a towel. He stepped off the machine and drew an icy drink from the water cooler. He walked to the bike and put his hand on Philip’s back. “It’s alright, I understand.”

  “Fuck you Larry, it’s not alright. It’s not even close to being alright, and you know it.” Larry stood next to Philip as the young man slowed his pace and racking sobs escaped him. He crumpled, and his forehead rested on the handlebars as his shoulders shook. “Be a sport and fuck off Larry. I’d like to think you weren’t seeing this.”

  MacLean patted Philip on the back and left, he understood the anger in the boy was not meant for him, but his dead father. Larry looked back, Philip was still slumped on the bike but the thick glass suppressed the heart-rending sound of his sobs. MacLean headed upstairs and almost bumped into a large black figure coming down. They stopped, each surprised by the other.

  “Good Morning, Mr.?”

  “MacLean, Larry MacLean. You’re the Judge, if I recall correctly?” The two men shook hands. “You were headed for the gym, Judge?”

  “Yes, I like to keep my routine if I can. I thought it was this way?” Larry didn’t like the idea of Philip being discovered in his grief. “Yeah, it is, but it’d be better if you skipped this morning.” Larry put his hand on the large man’s shoulder conspiratorially. “One of Mr. Thurwell’s sons is in there, and he needs some… time.” He looked into the Judge’s eyes and tried to convey his meaning but needn’t have worried, the man caught his intent.

  “I guess I can skip this morning, maybe eat one fewer pieces of toast at breakfast.” He smiled and turned to head up the stairs with Larry, who was grateful for the Judge’s gentlemanly acceptance of his request. “So, Larry, how did you know Mr. Thurwell?”

  MacLean stopped in his tracks. Philip was right, there were some strangers at the mansion, and the Judge was one of them. He sighed and felt the loss of his friend as he answered. “Johnston and I were college buddies and he was the best friend a man could have wished for.” He looked at his shoes as he spoke, then up at the face of his companion, who reached down and placed a massive hand on MacLean’s shoulder.

  “Then I am sorry for your loss Larry, truly sorry.” Larry nodded, the Judge seemed sincere, and there was richness to his voice he found comforting.

  “How about you, Ron, how did you know Johnston?” The Judge paused and Larry thought he saw a flicker of annoyance, or embarrassment.

  “I had business with Mr. Thurwell in Georgia.” His deep baritone contained a quaver Larry had not noticed before. He waited for the rest of the story, but none came.

  “That’s it? You did a little business with Johnston, but you get to share his fortune? Hell, half the country did business with him, and they’re not here.” Larry’s voice had an edge to it, he was irritated. Who the hell does this guy think he’s holding out on, damned ‘business in Georgia.’ What the hell does that mean?

  The Judge looked at Larry and shook his head. “I don’t know what else I can say, I’m sorry. I think we had better not say anything else until the meeting starts. There might be some ground rules about what we can say, or not.” It was a weak excuse, and Freeman knew it.

  Larry was angry, he thought the other man was stalling, but there might be something in what he’d said, so he let it go. “Maybe. I guess I’ll take a shower and see you later.”

  The two men walked in uncomfortable silence until the Judge reached his room and disappeared. MacLean arrived at his own room and closed the door too hard. The slam broke his angry funk. It was time to get ready, so he started the shower and stepped into the stream of water, cursing as it scalded his back. He adjusted the temperature and angrily scrubbed himself. We’ll all need answers soon, he thought, or this meeting is going nowhere.

  $

  William entered the dining room precisely at 7.45am dressed immaculately in a dark suit with a subtle pin stripe. He wore a fresh white shirt but his cufflinks were the same as yesterday, they were the lucky set his wife had bought him the first day he addressed a jury as a young lawyer.

  He felt rested even though he had woken at 4.30 with nerves jangling and his stomach a mess of flutters. He had control of his emotions now as he looked around and saw Caroline Smith reading the New York Times.

  He took a warm plate from the rack and nodded a good morning to Jeremy who stood to the side of the long buffet table. He assembled a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, hash browns and a small dish of fresh fruit and carried it to Smith’s table. “Good morning, Caroline. I hope you were able to rest?”

  Smith looked up from her paper, the only evidence she had already eaten were a few crumbs on the table, but she had a fresh coffee in her hand. “William, good morning. I guess I got some sleep, but not much. It’s all so, well, sudden. For the rest of us.” She made certain William caught the slight that he was not considered one of the mourners. He took a seat opposite her, and she returned to her newspaper, leaving him to eat without her company.

  As Bird began his eggs, Betty Freah entered the dining room. She looked unsure what to do, but the attentive Jeremy expertly guided her to the buffet. He plated a meal for her and led her to sit with the others.

  Caroline had remembered everything about Betty in her room last night. She recalled Bethany’s reaction when Betty first appeared and realized the rumors that Thurwell kept a hooker on the payroll were true. She smiled but returned to her coffee and newspaper to let the whore and the lawyer chat. She hoped to curry favor with Bethany by attacking Betty, but would save her outrage for a larger audience when it would do her more good.

  As more guests arrived, the dining room filled with the soft murmur of conversation and the clinks of heavy cutlery on fine china. The guests had spread out over the available tables. Philip and Junior sat together but had nothing to say to each other while Larry MacLean and Freddie Hagood enjoyed a quiet conversation across the room.

  Only Bethany was absent when William walked to the center of the room. “Good morning, we’ll start promptly at nine in the conference room, I’ll see you shortly.” He left to collect his laptop. He was ready, even if his guests looked far from it.

  Chapter Six

  William Bird entered the conference room and was surprised to see Bethany already waiting. She looks like hell, he thought, as he set up his workspace. His laptop stayed closed, it was only needed to record the group’s votes. Everything else was on note cards or committed to memory.

  Once he was ready, he looked at Bethany who looked back through red-rimmed eyes. “How are you, Beth?” She said nothing. Her eyes left his and returned to contemplate the table in front of her. “Do you want me to get you a coffee, or something to eat?” She made no indication of having heard him, so he let it go.

  He walked to the window and waited for the others. Over three feet of snow had fallen overnight, but the groundskeepers had cleared
the drive for the delivery truck that brought the day’s fresh supplies, mail and newspapers. The drive was already covered again, the storm was relentless. It was going to be a long day for everyone, whether they were in the conference room or working at keeping its occupants comfortable.

  He heard others arrive and noticed how their conversations dried up when they saw Bethany. Camille Jolivet saw her half-sister’s disheveled grief with a wicked satisfaction. The guests found their places without needing nameplates to guide them, they all remembered their places. Jeremy’s staff brought fresh coffee and stoked the fire, adding a couple of huge logs that would take hours to burn.

  William stood behind his chair, his hands on the high back and waited for the group to settle. “Good Morning and thank you for being on time,” he realized he sounded formal but continued, hoping the occasion might benefit from a little formality. “Let me recap the purpose of this meeting so there can be no misunderstanding your purpose.”

  No-one interrupted him today, even Junior just listened. “Mr. Thurwell has chosen you to share his fortune. There is no Will other than his instructions for the week. The decisions you make will be respected as Mr. Thurwell’s last wishes.” He paused and looked at Junior and Philip. “In the event of any legal contest to these arrangements, all disbursements will be voided, and the entire fortune will be seized and donated to the Thurwell Foundation.”

  Junior’s eyes flashed in anger. William could tell the thought of contesting the process had already occurred to the eldest son. He scowled at the lawyer but said nothing. Bird was a pawn, his father had set up this humiliation, but for what purpose Junior had no idea.

  Bird continued, relieved that Junior held his tongue. “As I told you last night, you have little time to complete your task. At midnight tonight, the fortune will be reduced by twenty percent. That penalty will be repeated each midnight until you reach a decision or there is no fortune left for you to share. The money you forfeit goes to the Thurwell Foundation.”