Foxy Roxy

by Nancy Martin

  It took a moment for Dorothy to absorb that information. Then she pierced Henry with those rheumy but intelligent blue eyes. “Were his brothers both accounted for at the time?”

  “I don’t know if either of your younger sons were even in town tonight. They’re often away on—well, business.”

  “My business,” Dorothy said. “What about the police investigation?”

  “It won’t be pretty. Of late, there’s been an unfortunate amount of media attention focused on Julius’s personal life. But it will die down. It’s football season, you know. The Steelers have a shot at the playoffs.”

  “Where did it happen?”

  Gently, Henry said, “Julius was shot on the grounds of your Pittsburgh home. And there’s more bad news where the house is concerned, I’m afraid. A few weeks ago, it was destroyed by fire.”

  “A fire!” Dorothy immediately forgot about her son’s demise. Aghast, she cried, “You say it was destroyed?”

  “Essentially, yes. Julius’s attorneys have been handling the insurance issues and so forth. The property will probably be sold to one of the nearby universities for a campus expansion. I thought you’d find that a suitable use for the land, so I didn’t object to the plan.”

  She waved off the subject with one hand. “The house was a hideous pile of bricks. It’s the contents that matter! What about the paintings? They’re gone? The Van Gogh? The Pollock?”

  Henry concealed a smile, pleased to have anticipated Dorothy’s certain interest in the most valuable works of art. “The Van Gogh was rescued with minimal damage and it can be restored. Monica had the presence of mind to carry it out of the fire herself. It’s with a gentleman in New York right now. Monica directed the firefighters to rescue all the important pieces. The Pollock, I understand, was moved to Julius’s home in Palm Beach last year. Monica’s idea, too.”

  Dorothy snorted. “That Monica still fancies herself an expert in art, doesn’t she? After a few years of working as some curator’s secretary? Well, the Pollock doesn’t belong in Florida, for God’s sake. Any fool can see that.”

  Henry decided not to go into the details of Monica’s current situation. Not yet. He said, “A few lesser paintings were saved, and some glass. Unfortunately, quite a few pieces of furniture were lost, along with rugs, a pair of Audubon prints, and a small watercolor of boats, artist unknown.”

  “The so-called artist was my father. It had sentimental value, nothing more. And the furniture was insured. I never cared much about furniture. At least the Van Gogh and Pollock are safe.” Dorothy shot another sharp glance up at Henry. “I never liked the Pollock much, but it was a good investment. On my death, it’s supposed to go to the Metropolitan. It’s my farewell gesture to the art world. You’ll remember that, Henry?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Hyde.”

  “I never liked the Metropolitan. Too political.” She folded her slender hands on her lap, fingers touching—her usual gesture before getting down to business. “I suppose you’d better file an injunction or whatever you call it. Stop the distribution of Julius’s will, please, Henry. I don’t want anyone inside or outside the family poking their noses into that document until I have a grasp of the situation. Heaven only knows what nonsense Julius promised the various women in his life. His ego got the better of him in the last few years, didn’t it?”

  It was Henry’s private opinion that Julius suffered from the Prince Charles syndrome—waiting for his mother to kick the bucket so he could live his life. Julius had lost sight of his priorities during the waiting game. But he said, “I’ll take care of the injunction immediately.”

  “Good. And get me a copy of his will from his lawyers, will you?”

  “That might be tricky.”

  “Tricky is what you’re good at, Henry. Surely you play golf with the right person?”

  “Well…”

  “Excellent. Now, what about my Achilles?”

  Henry hesitated. “Your…?”

  “My statue. We found it in Greece fifty—no, sixty years ago. My husband was an amateur archaeologist, you know. Well, he was drinking gin on the terrace of our Greek getaway place while locals dug us a new well in the backyard. And guess what the diggers uncovered?” She smiled at the memory. “We had quite a time getting it out of the country. I borrowed my cousin’s yacht, but never mind that now. Where is it?”

  “Your statue,” Henry said.

  “Yes, damn it, the marble sculpture of Achilles. It was in the garden. None of my offspring would appreciate him, so I parked him out by the pool where they wouldn’t take any notice. If I’d placed him on a plinth under some fancy lights, they’d have figured out he was priceless. So that’s why he’s been standing in the garden all these years—right under their silly noses.”

  “A statue by the pool,” Henry said. “How clever of you, Mrs. Hyde.”

  “Except my granddaughter Arden, of course. She’d have figured it out. Which is why I began sending her all over the world when she was a girl. Got her a passport when she was twelve, and she never looked back. It was a good excuse to get her away from her mother, too, the pill popper.” Dorothy skewered him with a look that had certainly caused many an investment adviser to squirm. “You’re keeping tabs on all my valuables, aren’t you, Henry?”

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a statue noted on any of your lists, Mrs.—”

  “For heaven’s sake, do I need to tell you every damn detail?”

  “No, but—”

  “It’s an antiquity, Henry! Probably worth fifty million dollars by now. That is, unless the Greeks start yammering about his return like he’s one of the Elgin Marbles. He’s my favorite piece in the whole collection. I want to know where he is.”

  “I’ll look into it immediately.”

  “Good,” said Dorothy. “Because I can find another lawyer, Henry. But there’s only one Achilles.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  3

  Arden Hyde took off her sunglasses to evaluate her appearance in a mirror in a women’s bathroom at Frankfurt airport. Bloodshot eyes? Nothing new. Gorgeous black Italian sweater with Dior ruffled tank underneath? Appropriate for stylish transatlantic travel to a funeral. Complexion? She peered closer at her face and shuddered. Best not to overanalyze. But her family was going to take one look and think she was ready for the coffin, not her uncle Julius.

  In preparation for reentry into family life, Arden scrounged in the bottom of her bag and came up with a handful of pills. Her fingers hovered over a slightly linty collection of pharmaceuticals. Maybe half a Xanax? An Ambien, too, of course. She could always pop something else in the air for added serenity, if needed. She gulped them dry, ignoring the American mother scrubbing her grubby child’s hands in the adjacent sink and giving her a disapproving frown in the mirror.

  Instead of acknowledging the disapproval—there would be plenty more of that soon enough—Arden dug into her bag and found her ticket. She congratulated herself for snaking the last first-class upgrade. Served Hadrian right for schmoozing in the lounge instead of dropping by the check-in desk for himself.

  Her boss, art dealer Hadrian Sloan-Whitaker, made it his business to troll airport lounges for possible celebrity clients. But he was going to sulk in coach the whole way home on this trip.

  Technically, though, Arden reminded herself, Hadrian hadn’t been her boss since a rather hideous scene in Florence.

  “We’re supposed to sell art to museums,” Hadrian had roared at her on the steps of an institution where a nearly done deal had gone woefully awry. “Not convince the bastards to sue us!”

  “It was the right thing to do,” Arden replied. At the time, she was under the influence of a Tylenol PM with a glass of white wine, so she kept her calm in the face of his rage. “The provenance makes it clear that our client’s Nazi uncle stole that triptych out of a Latvian church.”

  “We don’t know that!”

  “Oh, Hadrian. We both read the research. Don’t we have enough
money without aiding and abetting war criminals?”

  “Some of us,” Hadrian said, swelling up like a toad, “don’t live on trust funds, Miss Hyde. And we need to put food on the table. You’re fired.”

  Hadrian’s idea of putting food on the table meant fois gras at starred restaurants. So he wasn’t exactly hurting, either.

  In the airport bathroom, Arden’s cell phone rang. She carried it out into the concourse because who really wants to listen to toilets flushing on the phone?

  Arden checked the screen.

  And, despite the fact that the Xanax hadn’t kicked in yet, she took the call.

  “Daddy?”

  “Arden, I have bad news.”

  “I’ve seen CNN, Daddy. I heard about Uncle Julius.” She’d watched a whole report on a television in a convenient airport bar, and even now her throat closed with grief. She clutched the tiny phone with both hands. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course I’m all right!”

  Quentin Hyde’s voice sounded blustery. Arden knew her father liked to think of himself as the family’s commander in chief, a captain of industry who showed no weakness—a gruff, heartless businessman who slew the bulls and bears of Wall Street. Even the death of his elder brother would make no dent in his emotional armor.

  “Are you on your way home?” he barked long-distance.

  “I’m getting on the plane any minute.”

  “Good. I’ll send the jet to meet you in New York. We need you here immediately.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s important to show family solidarity in a crisis, that’s all. I don’t want anyone thinking Hyde Communications might be weakened by recent events.”

  “I’m sure the company will survive.” Arden checked her watch and tried to calculate the minute she might feel emotionally capable of coping with her family.

  If Quentin heard something negative in her tone, he pretended otherwise. “I want everyone in upper management to be on alert. Your presence is required.”

  “I’m not management, Daddy—upper or lower. I’ve never been employed by Hyde Communications, and I don’t—”

  “Can anyone hear you? Don’t be talking company business within earshot of the press. Those media bastards will screw us to the wall if we leak the wrong message.”

  Most of her fellow passengers were making their way to the gate. Arden could see them gathering their comfort measures—cashmere pashminas, spritz bottles of moisturizer, little bags of cosmetics. She wanted to remind Daddy that she wasn’t working for the company. Not now, not ever. But the Xanax was stealing blissfully into her brain.

  “You’re an important part of the team,” Daddy was saying. “I need reliable help if we’re going to weather this storm.”

  Hyde Communications didn’t need any help in its inexorable march to world domination. Pretty soon her father would have control of cell phones, television, and Internet coverage in every country and most of outer space.

  The only thing he couldn’t dominate was his youngest daughter. One by one, her siblings had given in, taken his money, and done his bidding—even if it meant giving up their right to think their own thoughts. But Arden managed to resist. She had more esoteric interests than cell phone towers. There was art and history. Wonderful books to absorb and—

  “It’s time you left that dead-end job, Arden.” He interrupted her thoughts. “The market for fine art has collapsed completely. I read about it in the Journal. You should reconsider joining Hyde Communications.”

  Feeling almost serene, Arden asked, “Are the funeral arrangements made?”

  He took the bait. “There are legal issues we must iron out first. Right now, though, I’m too busy doing damage control where Monica is concerned.”

  “Monica?” Arden was surprised to hear the name of Uncle Julius’s latest wife, who she thought was a pleasant woman with a passing good understanding of impressionist painters. “What’s she done?”

  “Well, she set fire to the family homestead,” Quentin said quite unnecessarily. Who hadn’t heard about the blaze started by the outraged wife of a billionaire? Even the European press printed photos. He continued, “But turns out Monica has been systematically raiding my mother’s house for anything valuable. Silver, furniture, porcelain—everything. The woman’s been acting like a drunken sailor on shore leave! All in the name of charity, for God’s sake. She may have given away dozens of masterpieces! I need your help getting back the most important items. Surely there are loopholes in these museum deals.”

  “What’s Monica given away?”

  “Who knows? Why Julius let her run rampant, I’ll never understand. You can look around and see what’s missing. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that woman was getting kickbacks. There had to be something fishy going on.”

  Arden noted that her father was focusing all his rage on Monica, when he was probably feeling angry with Julius instead. Redirecting emotions was nothing new in the Hyde family.

  Arden said, “My flight arrives at noon. But don’t send a plane, Daddy. I’ll fly commercial.”

  “It’s no trouble to—”

  “No, really, I can manage for myself.”

  “All right,” he said, sounding doubtful. “But get home soon. We need you here, Arden.”

  He terminated the call with that.

  She shut off her cell phone and thought about how much nicer it would be to find a pleasant hotel and just hole up for a while. Maybe wander some galleries. Hike in the Black Forest to absorb the clear air. But she shouldered her bag and got into the line to board.

  Although she hadn’t really enjoyed the many pleasures of her family’s fortune—no boats, no long visits to lavish vacation homes, no cosmetic surgery, no runway shows or lunches with movie stars—the one thing Arden might actually mind losing would be the Hyde family art collection. Or perhaps—if she were truthful with herself—the right to bask in the glow of the reflected good taste of her relatives. It was easier to enjoy the company of art than the people who’d collected it.

  But it was very trying to spend more than an hour with her grandmother Dorothy, fondly known as Dodo. Too many questions, too many expectations. Uncle Julius’s death was going to send everyone scrambling to restructure the family hierarchy, too.

  The dread of seeing everyone again bubbled up in Arden’s throat like bile.

  She closed her eyes and tried to conjure up the soothing Van Gogh. And the Calder mobile that slowly spun in the sunlight cast from the skylights at the family’s island getaway. Dodo’s Rauschenberg hung in the corporate headquarters of Hyde Communications, where it was hardly appreciated by the employees, but served its purpose when competitors needed to be impressed. While they admired the painting, they often didn’t notice they were being consumed by her father, absorbed into the massive corporation, stripped of their own identity, eaten alive.

  So why had Julius died? Why hadn’t Arden’s father been the one murdered instead? Quentin was the ruthless corporate raider with enemies all over the globe. Julius had become little more than a harmless, aging playboy.

  “Miss?”

  Arden woke and handed over her ticket.

  “Have a nice flight.”

  She shuffled onto the plane and found her seat. The man in the window seat looked pleased to see a well-dressed young woman stowing her Gucci carry-on next to his, but she ignored him as she settled in.

  The flight attendant appeared with a tray of beverages. “Something to drink, miss?”

  “Yes, a vodka rocks, please. Just a small one.”

  “Right away.”

  As the steward went away, Arden groped in her bag for that other half Xanax. She found a stray Ativan, too. A lucky, just-in-case find. By the time she had to face her family, she would be fully anesthetized.

  4

  It was late when Roxy helped Nooch stash the statue in a back corner of her warehouse—a damp and smelly area so skeezy where even the most determined snoopers were unlikely t
o explore. They threw a tarp over the statue, bound it loosely with twine, and walked away.

  With a feeling she might score big with this find, Roxy happily filled various buckets of water for Rooney while Nooch scattered chewie bones and nuggets of kibble around the perimeter of the chain-link fence to keep the dog roaming throughout the night.

  She was reaching to haul down the garage door when a small, dented pickup fishtailed into the yard and slid to a stop on the gravel in front of her. The driver’s window was down, and the shriek of guitars burst into the night air. Some crazy Irish punk rock. Punching off the CD player, the driver leaned out the window.

  “Flynn,” she said when she recognized him. “Shouldn’t you be washing dishes?”

  “Shouldn’t you be home in bed?”

  “Sorry to spoil your fantasy.” Roxy sauntered over to the pickup, but didn’t lean down to get intimate.

  The light from the dashboard illuminated the sharp cut of Patrick Flynn’s cheekbone and the stubble on his jaw, but his eyes were in shadow, so she couldn’t gauge his mood. He probably wanted to keep it that way.

  The back of his truck was cluttered with a bunch of little cages full of straw that had a definite stink. Roxy took a step away from it. “What the hell are you doing? Hauling livestock?”

  He grinned a little. “Free-range chickens.”

  “You’re kidding, right? You’re a farmer now?”

  “I’m experimenting for the restaurant. Fresh ingredients, you know. Nothing but the best.”

  “I remember a time when you ate only hot dogs and onion rings. Now it’s fancy food and guys saying, ‘Yes, Chef’ when you give orders?”

  Instead of answering, he grabbed a rumpled sweatshirt from the passenger seat and threw it at her. It was the hoodie she’d wiggled out of earlier. “You dropped your glass slipper earlier, Cinderella. I’ll trade it for my hockey helmet. Which I believe you stole last week.”

  She caught the sweatshirt with a grin and slipped it on. It was two-sweatshirt weather these days. In another month she’d add a flannel shirt to her layers. “You playing tonight? This late? Don’t you have to get up early to milk cows or something?”