Morning, Noon & Night

by Sidney Sheldon

  The others watched as Woody pushed past them and took Peggy upstairs.

  The rest of the group walked into the huge drawing room. The room was dominated by a pair of massive Louis XIV armoires. Scattered around the room were a giltwood console table with a molded marble top, and an array of exquisite period chairs and couches. An ormolu chandelier hung from the high ceiling. On the walls were dark medieval paintings.

  Clark turned to Tyler. “Judge Stanford, I have a message for you. Mr. Simon Fitzgerald would like you to telephone him to tell him when it would be convenient to arrange a meeting with the family.”

  “Who is Simon Fitzgerald?” Marc asked.

  Kendall replied. “He’s the family attorney. Father has been with him forever but we’ve never met him.”

  “I presume he wants to discuss the disposition of the estate,” Tyler said. He turned to the others. “If it’s all right with all of you, I’ll arrange for him to meet us here tomorrow morning.”

  “That will be fine,” Kendall said.

  “The chef is preparing dinner,” Clark told them. “Will eight o’clock be satisfactory?”

  “Yes,” Tyler said. “Thank you.”

  “Eva and Millie will show you to your rooms.”

  Tyler turned to his sister and her husband. “We’ll meet down here at eight, shall we?”

  As Woody and Peggy entered their bedroom upstairs, Peggy asked, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Woody snapped. “Leave me alone.”

  She watched him go into the bathroom and slam the door shut. She stood there, waiting.

  Ten minutes later, Woody came out. He was smiling. “Hi, baby.”

  “Hi.”

  “Well, how do you like the old house?”

  “It’s…it’s enormous.”

  “It’s a monstrosity.” He walked over to the bed and put his arms around Peggy. “This is my old room. These walls were covered with sports posters—the Bruins, the Celtics, the Red Sox. I wanted to be an athlete. I had big dreams. In my senior year in boarding school, I was captain of the football team. I got offers of admission from half a dozen college coaches.”

  “Which one did you take?”

  He shook his head. “None of them. My father said they were only interested in the Stanford name, that they just wanted money from him. He sent me to an engineering school where they didn’t play football.” He was silent for a moment. Then he mumbled, “I could’a been a contenda…”

  She looked at him puzzled. “What?”

  He looked up. “Didn’t you ever see On the Waterfront?”

  “No.”

  “It was a line that Marlon Brando said. It means we both got screwed.”

  “Your father must have been tough.”

  Woody gave a short, derisive laugh. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said about him. I remember when I was just a kid, I fell off a horse. I wanted to get back on and ride again. My father wouldn’t let me. ‘You’ll never be a rider,’ he said. ‘You’re too clumsy.’” Woody looked up at her. “That’s why I became a nine-goal polo player.”

  They came together at the dinner table, strangers to one another, seated in an uncomfortable silence, their only connection, childhood traumas.

  Kendall looked around the room. Terrible memories mingled with an appreciation for its beauty. The dining table was classical French, an early Louis XV, surrounded by Directoire walnut chairs. In one corner was a blue-and-cream painted French provincial corner armoire. On the walls were drawings by Watteau and Fragonard.

  Kendall turned to Tyler. “I read about your decision in the Fiorello case. He deserved what you gave him.”

  “It must be exciting being a judge,” Peggy said.

  “Sometimes it is.”

  “What kind of cases do you handle?” Marc inquired.

  “Criminal cases—rapes, drugs, murder.”

  Kendall turned pale and started to say something, and Marc grabbed her hand and squeezed it as a warning.

  Tyler said politely to Kendall, “You’ve become a successful designer.”

  Kendall was finding it hard to breathe. “Yes.”

  “She’s fantastic,” Marc said.

  “And Marc, what do you do?”

  “I’m with a brokerage house.”

  “Oh, you’re one of those young Wall Street millionaires.”

  “Well, not exactly, Judge. I’m really just getting started.”

  Tyler gave Marc a patronizing look. “I guess it’s lucky you have a successful wife.”

  Kendall blushed and whispered in Marc’s ear, “Pay no attention. Remember I love you.”

  Woody was beginning to feel the effect of the drug. He turned to look at his wife. “Peggy could use some decent clothes,” he said. “But she doesn’t care how she looks. Do you, angel?”

  Peggy sat there, embarrassed, not knowing what to say.

  “Maybe a little waitress costume?” Woody suggested.

  Peggy said, “Excuse me.” She got up from the table and fled upstairs.

  They were all staring at Woody.

  He grinned. “She’s oversensitive. So, we’re having a discussion about the will tomorrow, eh?”

  “That’s right,” Tyler said.

  “I’ll make you a bet the old man didn’t leave us one dime.”

  Marc said, “But there’s so much money in the estate…”

  Woody snorted. “You didn’t know our father. He probably left us his old jackets and a box of cigars. He liked to use his money to control us. His favorite line was ‘You don’t want to disappoint me, do you?’ And we all behaved like good little children because, as you said, there was so much money. Well, I’ll bet the old man found a way to take it with him.”

  Tyler said, “We’ll know tomorrow, won’t we?”

  Early the following morning, Simon Fitzgerald and Steve Sloane arrived. Clark escorted them into the library. “I’ll inform the family that you’re here,” he said.

  “Thank you.” They watched him leave.

  The library was huge and opened onto a garden through two large French doors. The room was paneled in dark-stained oak, and the walls were lined with bookcases filled with handsome leather-bound volumes. There was a scattering of comfortable chairs and Italian reading lamps. In one corner stood a customized beveled-glass and ormolu-mounted mahogany cabinet that displayed Harry Stanford’s enviable gun collection. Special drawers had been designed beneath the display case to house the ammunition.

  “It’s going to be an interesting morning,” Steve said. “I wonder how they’re going to react.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  Kendall and Marc came into the room first.

  Simon Fitzgerald said, “Good morning. I’m Simon Fitzgerald. This is my associate, Steve Sloane.”

  “I’m Kendall Renaud, and this is my husband, Marc.”

  The men shook hands.

  Woody and Peggy entered the room.

  Kendall said, “Woody, this is Mr. Fitzgerald and Mr. Sloane.”

  Woody nodded. “Hi. Did you bring the cash with you?”

  “Well, we really…”

  “I’m only kidding! This is my wife, Peggy.” Woody looked at Steve. “Did the old man leave me anything or…?”

  Tyler entered the room. “Good morning.”

  “Judge Stanford?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Simon Fitzgerald, and this is Steve Sloane, my associate. It was Steve who arranged to have your father’s body brought back from Corsica.”

  Tyler turned to Steve. “I appreciate that. We’re not sure what happened exactly. The press has had so many different versions of the story. Was there foul play involved?”

  “No. It seems to have been an accident. Your father’s yacht was caught in a terrible storm off the coast of Corsica. According to a deposition from Dmitri Kaminsky, his bodyguard, your father was standing on the outside veranda of his cabin and the wind blew some papers out of his hand. He reached
for them, lost his balance, and fell overboard. By the time they recovered his body, it was too late.”

  “What a horrible way to die.” Kendall shuddered.

  “Did you talk to this Kaminsky person?” Tyler asked.

  “Unfortunately, no. By the time I arrived in Corsica, he had left.”

  Fitzgerald said, “The captain of the yacht had advised your father not to sail into that storm, but for some reason, he was in a hurry to return here. He had arranged for a helicopter to bring him back. There was some kind of urgent problem.”

  Tyler asked, “Do you know what the problem was?”

  “No. I cut short my vacation to meet him back here. I don’t know what—”

  Woody interrupted. “That’s all very interesting, but it’s ancient history, isn’t it? Let’s talk about the will. Did he leave us anything or not?” His hands were twitching.

  “Why don’t we sit down?” Tyler suggested.

  They took chairs. Simon Fitzgerald sat at the desk, facing them. He opened a briefcase and started to take out some papers.

  Woody was ready to explode. “Well? For God’s sake, did he or didn’t he?”

  Kendall said, “Woody…”

  “I know the answer,” Woody said angrily. “He didn’t leave us a damn cent.”

  Fitzgerald looked into the faces of the children of Harry Stanford. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “each of you will share equally in the estate.”

  Steve could feel the sudden euphoria that swept through the room.

  Woody was staring at Fitzgerald, openmouthed. “What? Are you serious?” He jumped to his feet. “That’s fantastic!” He turned to the others. “Did you hear that? The old bastard finally came through!” He looked at Simon Fitzgerald. “How much money are we talking about?”

  “I don’t have the exact figure. According to the latest issue of Forbes magazine, Stanford Enterprises is worth six billion dollars. Most of it is invested in various corporations, but there is roughly four hundred million dollars available in liquid assets.”

  Kendall was listening, stunned. “That’s more than a hundred million dollars for each of us. I can’t believe it!” I’m free, she thought. I can pay them off and be rid of them forever. She looked at Marc, her face shining, and squeezed his hand.

  “Congratulations,” Marc said. He knew more than the others what the money would mean.

  Simon Fitzgerald spoke up. “As you know, ninety-nine percent of the shares in Stanford Enterprises was held by your father. So those shares will be divided equally among you. Also, now that his father is deceased, Judge Stanford owns outright that other one percent that had been held in trust. Of course, there will be certain formalities. Furthermore, I should inform you that there is a possibility of another heir being involved.”

  “Another heir?” Tyler asked.

  “Your father’s will specifically provides that the estate is to be divided equally among his issue.”

  Peggy looked puzzled. “What…what do you mean by issue?”

  Tyler spoke up. “Natural-born descendants and legally adopted descendants.”

  Fitzgerald nodded. “That is correct. Any descendant born out of wedlock is deemed a descendant of the mother and the father, whose protection is established under the law of the jurisdiction.”

  “What are you saying?” Woody asked impatiently.

  “I’m saying that there may be another claimant.”

  Kendall looked at him. “Who?”

  Simon Fitzgerald hesitated. There was no way to be tactful. “I’m sure that you are all aware of the fact that, a number of years ago, your father sired a child by a governess who worked here.”

  “Rosemary Nelson,” Tyler said.

  “Yes. Her daughter was born at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Milwaukee. She named her Julia.”

  The room was thick with silence.

  “Hey!” Woody exclaimed. “That was twenty-five years ago.”

  “Twenty-six, to be exact.”

  Kendall asked, “Does anyone know where she is?”

  Simon Fitzgerald could hear Harry Stanford’s voice. “She wrote to tell me that it was a girl. Well, if she thinks she’s going to get a dime out of me, she can go to hell.” “No,” Fitzgerald said slowly. “No one knows where she is.”

  “Then what the hell are we talking about?” Woody demanded.

  “I just wanted all of you to be aware that if she does appear, she will be entitled to an equal share of the estate.”

  “I don’t think we have anything to worry about,” Woody said confidently. “She probably never even knew who her father was.”

  Tyler turned to Simon Fitzgerald. “You say you don’t know the exact amount of the estate. May I ask why not?”

  “Because our firm handles only your father’s personal affairs. His corporate affairs are represented by two other law firms. I’ve been in touch with them and have asked them to prepare financial statements as soon as possible.”

  “What kind of time frame are we talking about?” Kendall asked anxiously. “We will need $100,000 immediately to cover our expenses.”

  “Probably two to three months.”

  Marc saw the consternation on his wife’s face. He turned to Fitzgerald. “Isn’t there some way to hurry things along?”

  Steve Sloane answered. “I’m afraid not. The will has to go through probate court, and their calendar is rather heavy right now.”

  “What is a probate court?” Peggy asked.

  “Probate is from the past participle of probare—to prove. It’s the act of—”

  “She didn’t ask you for a damned English lesson!” Woody exploded. “Why can’t we just wrap things up now?”

  Tyler turned to his brother. “The law doesn’t work that way. When there’s a death, the will has to be filed in the probate court. There has to be an appraisal of all assets—real estate, closely held corporations, cash, jewelry—then an inventory has to be prepared and filed in the court. Taxes have to be taken care of, and specific bequests paid. After that, a petition is filed for permission to distribute the balance of the estate to the beneficiaries.”

  Woody grinned. “What the hell. I’ve waited almost forty years to be a millionaire. I guess I can wait another month or two.”

  Simon Fitzgerald stood up. “Aside from your father’s bequests to you, there are some minor gifts, but they don’t affect the bulk of the estate.” Fitzgerald looked around the room. “Well, if there’s nothing else…”

  Tyler rose. “I think not. Thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald, Mr. Sloane. If there are any problems, we’ll be in touch.”

  Fitzgerald nodded to the group. “Ladies and gentlemen.” He turned and went toward the door, Steve Sloane following him.

  Outside, in the driveway, Simon Fitzgerald turned to Steve. “Well, now you’ve met the family. What do you think?”

  “It was more like a celebration than a mourning. I’m puzzled by something, Simon. If their father hated them as much as they seem to hate him, why did he leave them all that money?”

  Simon Fitzgerald shrugged. “That’s something we’ll never know. Maybe that’s why he was coming to see me, to leave the money to someone else.”

  None of the group was able to sleep that night, each lost in his or her own thoughts.

  Tyler was thinking, It’s happened. It’s really happened! I can afford to give Lee the world. Anything! Everything!

  Kendall was thinking, As soon as I get the money, I’ll find a way to buy them off permanently, and I’ll make sure they never bother me again.

  Woody was thinking, I’m going to have the best string of polo ponies in the world. No more borrowing other people’s ponies. I’m going to be ten goals! He glanced over at Peggy, sleeping at his side. The first thing I’ll do is get rid of this stupid bitch. Then he thought, No, I can’t do that.…He got out of bed and went into the bathroom. When he came out, he was feeling wonderful.

  The atmosphere at breakfast the next morning was exuberant.


  “Well,” Woody said happily, “I suppose all of you have been making plans.”

  Marc shrugged. “How does one plan for something like this? It is an unbelievable amount of money.”

  Tyler looked up. “It’s certainly going to change all our lives.”

  Woody nodded. “The bastard should have given it to us while he was alive, so we could have enjoyed it then. If it’s not impolite to hate the dead, I have to tell you something…”

  Kendall said reproachfully, “Woody…”

  “Well, let’s not be hypocrites. We all despised him, and he deserved it. Just look what he tried to—”

  Clark came into the room. He stood there, apologetically. “Excuse me,” he said. “There is a Miss Julia Stanford at the door.”

  NOON

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Julia Stanford?”

  They stared at one another, frozen.

  “The hell she is!” Woody exploded.

  Tyler said quickly, “I suggest we adjourn to the library.” He turned to Clark. “Would you send the young lady in there, please?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She stood in the doorway, looking at each of them, obviously ill at ease. “I…I probably shouldn’t have come,” she said.

  “You’re damn right!” Woody said. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m Julia Stanford.” She was almost stammering in her nervousness.

  “No. I mean who are you really?”

  She started to say something, then shook her head. “I…My mother was Rosemary Nelson. Harry Stanford was my father.”

  The group looked at one another.

  “Do you have any proof of that?” Tyler asked.

  She swallowed. “I don’t think I have any real proof.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Woody snapped. “How do you have the nerve to—”

  Kendall interrupted. “This is rather a shock to all of us, as you can imagine. If what you’re saying is true, then you’re…you’re our half sister.”

  Julia nodded. “You’re Kendall.” She turned to Tyler. “You’re Tyler.” She turned to Woody. “And you’re Woodrow. They call you Woody.”

  “As People magazine could have told you,” Woody said sarcastically.