Foxy Roxy

by Nancy Martin

  The surrounded walls were artfully papered with clippings of Monica making donations. The headlines trumpeted her philanthropic largesse—the activities that had bought her way into a level of society she would never have achieved otherwise. Her work had also kept Julius from being completely ostracized for his steadily declining social conduct.

  Looking at the collage of her charitable work on her husband’s behalf, Henry said, “You’re a complex person, Monica.”

  She sent him a sidelong glance. “And you’re a smoothie with the compliments, Henry. Most women must be putty in your hands. Once they sleep with you, they do your bidding. Am I right?”

  He summoned an innocent expression. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, I—” She faltered. “I thought you were—never mind. For a moment I forgot my age.”

  “What does your age have to do with anything?”

  She smiled tentatively. “You’re a dear, Henry. Forgive me for thinking you might have motives unbecoming the gentleman you are. Once anyone joins forces with my mother-in-law, I immediately worry about his motives.”

  “Speaking of Mrs. Hyde, I was with her last evening.”

  Monica closed the door—perhaps more sharply than she intended. “Was she conscious? Or still napping?”

  “Wide awake. And concerned.”

  Unwrapping the Hermès scarf from around her neck, Monica asked, “Did you break the news about Julius?”

  “Yes.” Henry sat in a leather armchair. He crossed one leg over the other and smoothed the crease in his trousers. “She was dismayed. But it was also the first time Dorothy heard about the fire, and frankly, she became very worried about her property—primarily the artwork.”

  “Well, at least she has her priorities straight.”

  Henry chose to ignore her tart tone. “Julius’s death, of course, took her by surprise, but their relationship was difficult, as you know. Monica, forgive me for asking an indelicate question when Julius isn’t even—well, help me put Dorothy’s mind at ease concerning the art.”

  “Why should I care about her mind?”

  “Let me put it a different way. It might be beneficial for some of us to know where her things are. For safekeeping. And for proper distribution … later.” Letting Monica ponder her mother-in-law’s demise, he went on smoothly, “In your predivorce due diligence, I presume you made an inventory of Julius’s assets?”

  “You can only chair so many ladies’ luncheons, Henry, before you start thinking about detonating the centerpieces.”

  “So you made a complete list? Of the paintings? Antiques? Statuary and whatnot?”

  She dropped the scarf into her handbag and perched on the edge of her desk. “What are you asking?”

  “If you made a list of valuables, perhaps we could share information. Just you and me.”

  “Not Dodo?”

  “It’s not necessary for my client to know all the details.”

  Monica crossed her legs and made the mental leap to the time when Dorothy’s estate would be divvied up. She seemed to grasp the benefits of cooperating.

  Henry said, “I seek nothing more than a relatively accurate inventory of family assets, Monica. Whatever Julius gave you during your marriage, I’m sure you deserved.”

  She smoothed one hand down her kneecap. “His brothers might disagree.”

  “Good thing they’re not here, then.”

  She considered a moment longer, then relented. “When we were first married, it was quite a shock to discover what a short financial leash Dodo kept everyone on. She still does. But then, I suppose you know all about that.”

  “I do write all the checks for Mrs. Hyde.”

  “Well, would it do any harm to add another zero now and then, Henry? If Dodo were a little more generous, everyone would stop having to be so devious.”

  “Julius was devious?”

  “The whole family is!” Monica’s voice rose petulantly. “With all that money sitting in stocks and shares? And everyone on allowances? They’re always looking to finagle a little extra cash. I had to be very creative about our donations to the museum.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And Julius was especially hungry for spending money. For his girlfriends, I suppose. And lavish meals with friends. Jaunts to Las Vegas on the jet. A trip to the Super Bowl with his buddies cost nearly forty grand! So, back in January, Julius consulted with some dealers.”

  Henry decided not to remark upon Monica’s idea of restrained spending. “Art dealers?”

  She nodded. “I caught him, of course. He had the discretion of a marching band. I thought maybe he was buying that adorable little beach shack in Costa Rica for me, so like an idiot I told him that if he wanted to sell off his mother’s pictures while she was comatose, he ought to at least get top dollar.”

  “Did he?”

  “I put him in touch with a lot of contacts. Why should he do business with the small-time dealers when there was big money to be made?”

  The idea that Julius might have been selling off his mother’s property had occurred to Henry, but here was Monica throwing prudence to the wind and saying he’d done just that. Henry said, “Now that the house and contents have burned up, we’ll never know exactly what he sold, will we? Except by your list.”

  Monica recrossed her legs demurely. This time Henry couldn’t stop himself from looking. She wore her tweed skirt with no stockings. Her legs were smooth—no blue veins, either. He began to think a fifteen-year difference in their ages meant very little these days.

  Perhaps guessing the direction of his thoughts, Monica smiled at him. “Truth be told, I might have sold off some silverware myself, for pin money. Who needs four sets?”

  He smiled, too. “Who, indeed? Did you mention your pin money to the fire insurance people?”

  “Maybe I forgot. They were very rude to me, Henry.”

  No doubt they’d wanted to strangle her. She’d burned up millions they’d never see again, Henry knew, if the family decided to close ranks against her. Or the family could help Monica by somehow helping her duck responsibility for the blaze. Of course, insurance issues were going to drag on for years, no matter what. With luck, Henry would be long gone to his new life by the time the final checks were cut.

  But killing her husband before he could divorce her? Smart move. Now she might gain a significantly larger share of the Hyde pie. Hundreds of millions larger.

  “You were very wise to keep your own counsel, Monica.” Now that they were cozy conspirators, he asked, “Did you send Julius to any dealer in particular? One of the New York auction houses, perhaps?”

  Monica ticktocked her forefinger at him. “They’re too fussy about the rules for Julius. Reporting to the IRS—that kind of thing. No, he went the other route—using people with few scruples about where their art comes from.”

  “Care to share any names?”

  “What will you give me in return, Henry?”

  Matching her light tone, he said, “Name your price.”

  The luscious tears suddenly returned to her eyes. “Help me get my dog back,” Monica said in a broken whisper.

  Henry took her hands and said he’d do anything in the world to help her. He could have kissed her, he supposed later, but that might have scotched the deal.

  Monica rattled some keys on her BlackBerry, and they were soon bending their heads close together over a list of art dealers on the small screen.

  Then a commotion erupted in the outer office. At the same moment, the door burst open and a large, red-faced man thrust himself into the room.

  “Quentin!” Monica jumped away from Henry and managed to avoid looking guilty.

  “Damn it, Monica, why can’t you answer your cell phone once in a while?”

  Her Texas vowels returned. “Reporters kept calling me, Quen. So I shut off the ringer. Would you rather I talk to them?”

  “Of course not,” Quentin snapped. “We had enough bad press after the fire. It drove the company stock price down to an al
l-time low.” He gave a shudder at the catastrophic financial memory. “We don’t need another downward spiral, especially now. Hello, Paxton. What the hell are you doing here?”

  Quentin Hyde, Julius’s younger brother, had inherited all of his mother’s smarts, but none of her gentility. Which probably explained why he was the one who wrested Hyde Communications from the more ineffectual family member and rolled the company from a small venture in cable television into a conglomerate that fed television, Internet, and phone access into most North American households. Word was, he had his eye on Europe and Asia now.

  Glaring at Henry as if challenging his right to be anywhere but his mother’s bedside, Quentin said, “Is something wrong with Dodo?”

  “Not a thing,” Henry replied. “Except she’s grief-stricken about your brother.” A little hyperbole didn’t hurt every now and then. Gravely, he added, “My condolences, Quentin.”

  “Right.” Quentin couldn’t hide a nervous twitch. “She’s awake?”

  “At the moment, yes. She’ll be looking forward to seeing you, I’m sure.”

  Quentin winced at the news. He probably hated reporting to his mother, who tended to ask uncomfortable questions that probed more deeply than a proctologist. Gruffly, he said, “I’ll be in touch with Dodo as soon as possible. But I’m sure you understand I’m very busy right now.”

  “Of course. I expect I’ll be meeting with you in a few days.”

  “What for?”

  “Julius and I were cotrustees of your mother’s estate. Standard safeguarding practices. Mrs. Hyde will probably choose you to represent Julius’s part from now on. You or,” he said gently, “one of your siblings, I suppose. Whomever she selects, I look forward to working together.”

  The situation had clearly occurred to Quentin already, but his closed face indicated that he wasn’t prepared to discuss control of his mother’s vast estate just yet. Not until he’d figured out a plan to his own advantage.

  Quentin turned to Monica. “You shouldn’t be subjected to unwanted attention, Monica. I’ll take you home.”

  “I don’t have a home at the moment.”

  “Find another hotel, damn it.” Quentin’s temper erupted once more. “You shouldn’t be out in public. What will people think? We can’t have your face in the papers all over again.” He glared at the collage of newspaper photographs on the wall, and his bulldog jaw tightened—perhaps at the thought of all that money draining away.

  Monica said, “I could wear a veil, I suppose. It might look very Jackie Kennedy. Or maybe I should stay with you for a little while, Quen? That way, you could keep an eye on my activities.”

  “What activities?”

  She waved a graceful hand at her publicized good deeds. “My museum work.”

  “That kind of work,” Quentin said, turning purple, “is going to stop immediately. We can’t have you—well, we’ll discuss it when we’re alone.”

  “So I’ll be moving in with you?” The honey thick.

  “No, no!” Flustered, Quentin said, “With my wife in Mexico, I can hardly have my brother’s widow staying in the same house.”

  “She won’t be coming home for the funeral?”

  Unless Quentin’s wife spontaneously enjoyed a miracle cure for her various prescription drug addictions, Henry knew there was no chance she’d be home before hell froze over.

  Henry watched and wondered. There was some kind of dynamic going on between the big ox and Monica. Quentin was the opposite of his brother Julius—not a womanizer or a lavish spender, or even a man who enjoyed many pleasures, so it was hardly a flirtation. Businesslike—that was Quentin. Devoid of subtle people skills. Probably lousy at intimacy. No wonder his wife turned to pills.

  But Monica was looking like a startled doe—ready to dash into the forest if Quentin flashed his big antlers at her.

  What was going on? Quentin ought to be furious with her. She’d lit a match to a considerable part of his inheritance. But there was something else in the air.

  Abruptly, Henry found himself wondering if Quentin was capable of murdering his own brother.

  Monica’s deerlike body language hinted she was thinking precisely the same thing. And yet her eyes sparkled with interest. Confound it, was she actually attracted to Quentin?

  To ease tensions, Henry said, “Monica, why don’t you move into Hilltop? While Mrs. Hyde stays at the nursing home, you’d have all the privacy you could ever want. The staff is engaged part-time at the moment, but it only takes a phone call to gear up for you. I could drive you there myself, if you like.”

  Quentin’s glare was suspicious as he tried to decide if Henry might be outmaneuvering him or whether having Monica out of the public eye was preferable.

  Monica said, “Oh, Henry, you’re so sweet.”

  “Nonsense.” He patted her hand. “Mrs. Hyde will want you to be comfortable.”

  Quentin’s complexion turned an even more dangerous shade.

  Monica gently bit her lower lip, then said, “But the police told me not to leave town.”

  “I’m sure they meant you aren’t supposed to abscond to South America. I can make a phone call on your behalf. Let them know how to reach you.”

  “It’s not a bad idea,” Quentin said at last, apparently concluding it would be best if Monica were to disappear from the public eye. He checked his watch. “I’d take you myself, but I’m meeting my daughter Arden.”

  “Arden’s come home?” Henry couldn’t stop himself from asking the question, and immediately regretted his slip.

  Quentin zeroed in on Henry. “Yes, she’s back from Italy or Budapest or wherever the hell she’s been wasting her time.”

  “It will be good to have Arden around,” Monica said. “She’ll be a comfort to her grandmother.”

  Obviously, the last thing on Quentin’s mind was his mother’s comfort. He whipped out his cell phone. “Let me make sure her flight’s on time. Maybe I can rearrange my schedule and take you to Hilltop.”

  While Quentin made a call, Henry got back to business. With Monica’s BlackBerry in hand, he ran his finger down the long line of local and distant dealers who might have done business with Julius Hyde before his demise. He paused when he came upon a female name.

  Leaning toward Monica, he asked softly, “Who’s this?”

  Monica’s reading glasses had the Chanel interlocking Cs on the frames. She peered at the list in Henry’s hand. “Oh, that’s some woman Julius hired to haul a few things away last spring when we renovated a garage. It was just junk.”

  “Her listing says ‘architectural salvage.’ What does that mean, exactly?” Henry’s radar had begun to hum.

  “I don’t remember. Maybe she was the one Julius played pool with. Quite the tomboy.” Monica took off her glasses and looked into his eyes. “But listen, Henry, Julius was being positively nefarious once he decided he needed more income. He picked the least scrupulous associates. If you’re serious about tracking down things Julius might have sold, you should look for someone who’s one step from being a thief.”

  Good advice. But first he’d see Monica safely ensconced at Hilltop, just a stone’s throw from his own apartment.

  6

  Arden Hyde took a US Airways flight to Pittsburgh, where the terminal was as empty as a bowling alley. She stopped in a bathroom to wash her face and check her bag. The Ambien and Xanax had worn off, leaving her feeling low. She contemplated her choices for revival. Half a caffeine pill? Just the thing.

  She caught a taxi and sat in the back feeling her energy coming back. Great! The weather was fantastic! Autumn in Pennsylvania—what could be nicer? It made her think of a line from Proust, but she couldn’t quite summon it up. And the view coming out of the tunnel and bursting across the bridge into Pittsburgh—breathtaking!

  Arden heard herself chattering at the driver and realized maybe she needed to come down a notch, so she swallowed half an Ativan and sat back, confident she had sufficiently medicated herself to avoid too muc
h reality but maintain the appearance of sentience. She’d put off her father’s offer to pick her up at the airport, and he’d suggested they meet at the Hyde house. The cab arrived at the burned-out mansion in the late afternoon. Her first glimpse of the old house was quite a shock. All that remained was an ugly hulk. Manderley after Mrs. Danvers.

  In the driveway, Arden found her way blocked by police tape and a gum-chewing security guard. And Quentin Hyde.

  Daddy climbed out of his long black Mercedes, holding his cell phone to his ear. He was shouting at someone about a merger. The other half of the Ativan called to Arden from her bag.

  The security guard asked Arden to respect the crime-scene tape, so she stopped at the edge of the driveway, put on her sunglasses, and waited for Daddy to finish his shouting. The security guard left her alone and watched the passing traffic, sharpening his attention when a car slowed down so the passengers could gawk. She was back in Pittsburgh, all right, where even security guards took their work seriously.

  As he bellowed into the phone, her father looked like he was holding off a heart attack by force of will. Since she’d last been home, he’d grown a little beard—carefully trimmed to give him the firm jawline that had long ago been lost to too many steak dinners at Morton’s. He wore a too-tight camel-colored sport coat over a black sweater, and dark trousers that had been chosen, Arden was sure, to look slimming. His efforts were rather endearing.

  Whoever was on the other end of his phone call was getting royally reamed, though.

  Arden tuned him out. With her hands shoved into her pockets, she turned and stood looking at the remains of the once magnificent house. What she saw made her incredibly sad. She had no cherished childhood memories of the mansion—years of boarding school prevented that—but the idea that so many things of value had been destroyed gave her a surge of sorrow. And nausea.

  Or maybe it was that last vodka on the airplane.

  Quentin pocketed his phone. “Idiots.”

  “Hello, Daddy.”

  “You should go to law school,” he said without greeting. “I need to get the new headquarters built. You could run the project while I focus on the merger.”