Inheritance (63 page)

"It's a long way off, Ginny. I'm just thinking about it."

"A lot, sounds like. Well, keep me informed about your thinking."

"I will." She sat forward again, picking out familiar land-maiks as they drove. "Almost there. I hope you like it; it's the only place I've seen that I'd really like to live in."

**Tlien what do you care whether I like it or not?" Ginny asked.

"I need your sharp eye. The rent is too low, so there may be something wrong with the house that I'm not seeing."

"But hasn't Wes seen it?'

Laura nodded. "He says I should take it. But I want to know what you think."

In the Village, the chauffeur parked on Grove Street, and Ginny and Laura walked throu^ a narrow passage between two bouses to a small cobblestone court lined with a solid row of narrow, three-story brick houses, white-shutteied, looking out on gnarled trees where birds sang. "My God," Ginny tneadied. "Who would have thought—T'

"Wes found it," Laura said. She opened one of the doors with a key. "It's empty; the owner is in Europe for two years. If I don't rent it by tonight, I have to return the key."

**Or it turns back into a pumpkin," Ginny murmured. She followed Laura, who flew up and down the stairs, pointing out details preserved from the 1830 construction, her face bright with excitement. Ginny's heels clicked »naitly on the pine plank floors as her shrewd glance appraised the new kitchen,

Judith Michael

the four fireplaces, the large bedroom on the third floor, and the roof garden, bare from neglect but bordered with planters ready for flowers, and tubs where small trees could grow. *'One in a million,** she pronounced when they returned to the living room on the second floor. "And that*s about what it would cost to buy. What's the rentT*

*Two thousand a month," Laura said.

**In^)ossible. They could get three times that."

*That*s what I said. It's too low."

Ginny perched on a windowsill. The house was very small: living room, dining room, library, kitchen, bedroom. But the kitchen and baths were new, there was a finished basement, plus those four fireplaces and the roof garden. And the privacy of Grove Court.

It also had Currier's approval. And that was the answer, Ginny suddenly thought. It seemed likely that Wes Currier's check made up the (fifference between what the owner was asking and the rent Laura would be charged.

Of course I don't know that for sure, Ginny thought. And neither does Laura, even though she may wonder about it. So I surely won't be the one to bring it up.

She had known the minute she stepped into Grove Court diat this was the place where Laura should live. It reminded her of Laura's description of the compound on Cape Cod; it was reminiscent of the narrow, shaded streets of Beacon Hill, and also the DePaul neighborhood in Chicago where Laura had lived. She was making it big in a tough business, Ginny thought, and she'd come to one of the toughest cities in tte worid, but she was happiest in small, enclosed places: small towns, family enclaves, close-knit neighborhoods. That was what she needed, a place to belong. She needed Grove Court.

"'It might not be all that strange," she said to Laura. *There are owners who'll take a lower rent if they know diey're getting a tenant with top credentials, somebody who'll take care of the place like their very own."

Laura nodded slowly. "But it may be that Wes is— **

*1 very much doubt it," Ginny said briskly. "I think this is die place for you and you ought to grab it."

Laura walked the length of the living room to the front windows and looked up as the brilliant red of a cardinal

Inheritance

flashed across the courtyard, from one tree to another. A nanny walked by, shepherding a small child pedaling a wooden car; behind them a spaniel bounded into view, followed by an elderly woman, reading as she walked, a leash looped over her arm. Home. For as long as I can stay.

**Thank you," she said, turning from the window. Her face bright again, she put her arms around Ginny and kissed her. *1 love it when you give good advice. And I love you. Will you be my first dinner guest? As soon as I buy some furniture, that

IS."

itT»^

*rd be privileged. And let me help pick out your fumitore. Next to spending my own money, there's nothing I like better tfian spending somebody else's. You'll want a long sofa here, with an oversize coffee table—oh, shoot." She looked sheepishly at Laura. "I'm sounding like Wes, aren't I? Trying to take over what's really your project. I'll stop; I won't say anodierword."

"Not quite like Wes," Laura laughed. "He doesn't stop so easily. But I'd like to have you help me. Can you do it this week? I want to move in as soon as possible."

"I can do it tomorrow. Ten o'clock? I'll pick you up at your office."

But there was a brief delay the next morning at ten, because, just as Ginny arrived, Laura's telephone rang.

"I'U just be a minute," she told Ginny and picked it up.

"Hi, there, sweetheart, how are you, it's Britt." His voice was loud and excited. "I'm calling to invite you to my party."

Chapter 23

THE third theft was in Palm Springs on the first day of September. Clay had told Laura he would be in Los Angeles for the Labor Day weekend, visiting friends. It was an easy drive from the city to Palm Springs, and to the sprawling house screened by tdl trees and manicured shrubs where he made his surefooted way, first to the living room and then to the master bedroom. It was nine-thirty at night: the hour always full on the datebook he had found in Amelia Laughton's purse; the hour when the residents of Palm Springs were busy entertaining or being enteitained; tbt hour when daiimess hid Clay*s passage through the house and his gloved hands as they gently lifted paintings from the Laughtons* walls. He workSd swiftly, whistling softly as he stacked the paintings beside the door. Then, because he felt so terrific, he added a pair of Durer prints he decided he wanted just for himself. And when he was through, he drove sedately through the hushed streets, amiably saluting a chauffeur in a black Mercedes who was gazing in boredom at the sky.

Three weeks later, Sid and Amelia Laughton told everyone about the robbery at Britt Farley's celebration party in a Manhattan mansion Louie had rented for the occasion.

"One Picasso," Amelia said to Emily Janssen and anyone else who cared to listen. "A Mir6, three late Braques and a pair of Diirer prints. It is too revolting; the oidy week all summer our couple took a vacation and left the house en^ty— **

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"No sign of a break-in," Sid replied to a question. 'They had a key. And the code for the alann system— "

"And knew our couple would be gone that week/* said Amelia, plucking a shrimp from a tray as a waiter passed within reach.

**Or were watching the house," said Sid. "Hard to tell; we don't have any clues. Anyway, they knew what they wanted: they went straight to the paintings; didn't touch another tiling."

**The only bright side," said Amelia, "is that the pohce aren't the only ones investigating it; the insurance company brought their top man in: very experienced, very dedicated, very determined. We've talked to him twice and I was impressed: if anyone can track down the thieves, he can."

There was a stir at the door as Britt Fariey arrived. "Late for his own party," Amelia murmured. "But it is a grand entrance, isn't it?"

He wore a white tuxedo with a red tie and cunmieibund, and over it a white cape lined in red, and as he stood in the doorway, surveying his guests, he looked like the ruler of a mythical kingdom waiting for his subjects to bow. "Well, why not?" Amelia said, and swept him a deep, flourishing curtsy.

Laughter filled the room. Britt threw Amelia a &s as his guests crowded around him, congratulating him on the tour, telling him how wonderful he looked, asking about his plans. The Laughtons' robbery was forgotten, as well as a good deal of other gossip; everything revolved around Britt. Among themselves, the guests said he didn't look good: he'd lost weight, his face was gaunt and pouchy, and hS eyes were too shiny and fixedly staring: he was on something. But none of tbem said it very loudly, and no one said it in his vicinity. Instead tbey touched him and stroked him and made him feel like a star.

At the other end of the silk-hung recq^tion room, Paul stood al(Hie beside the bar, watching. The tour had ended four weeks before with a record anoount raised for the hungiy, more than half of it from the hugely successful ccmcert in WEtthington. The publicity had been heavy and favorable, but no call had come inviting Farley to star in a new television series, and little by litde he had sunk fiom high expectations

Judith Michael

to brooding indifference. It was Louie who made all the arrangements for the party. '1 wanted to cancel it/' he told Paul, '*but he wouldn't let me. He's up one minute and down the next, and when he's up, he wants to star in something and this party is it, and he isn't giving it up."

It was a good thing the film was almost finished, Paul thought. The few interviews he still needed, and the editing, did not involve Britt at all.

But despite Farley's mood swings, his party would be a success bemuse that was what everyone wanted, and New Yorkers were wonderfully adept at turning parties to their own purposes. Everyone would stroke and praise Britt Farley, hold his attention, stay close to him, and be seen as his intimate friend so that whatever followed—a comeback as a world star or the end of his career—they could talk about it as insiders. That was why they were there.

And why am I here? Paul wondered. Because Britt and Lx)uie both had asked him, because Emily wanted to come, because he had two cameramen filming the party in case there was something diey could use, but mainly because—

And then he saw her.

She was in white, her shoulders and arms bare, her chesmut hair gleaming red-bronze in the bright light. It was cut short —Paul had never imagined her with short hair—and skillfully shaped to frame her b^uty, emphasizing her wide-spaced eyes and warm mouth, making her look older and more sophisticated. But she is older and more sophisticated, he told himself; it's been six years . . .

Ife gazed at her, catching quick glimpses as the crowd between them shifted, trying to match her image to his memories. Ife felt the past blur and slip away, imd the stimning woman in the doorway seemed more and mcne a stranger.

He saw someone greet her and introduce a friend. Laura smiled at than. And with that smile, the past swept over Paul in a torrent

I

Inheritance

by waiters struggling to move. Everyone shifted, parting and coming together, blocking Paul's way.

When he reached the doorway she was gone. It took him a minute to find her, enveloped in Farley's arms. "God, Laura, am I glad you're here!" Farley boomed. "You're late!"

"I couldn't get away from the office any earlier. Britt, what's wrong?"

He looked down at her, his arms still around her. "Meaning?"

"You look tired, and you've lost weight. And why are you so glad to see me?"

"Because you're a smart, beautiful lady who likes me even when I'm a bad boy." He closed his eyes for a moment. **A'course you're right, sweetheart: I've lost weight and I'm tired. But there's nothing wrong! Everything's fine! I've been working like a drone; you wouldn't beheve it: the tour and the movie . . . Did you know I've been making a movie? Not me, you know, I'm not making it, but I'm it —^I'm the movie —how about that?"

"It's wonderful, Britt."

"And I want you to meet the genius who thought of it; he's here somewhere—^" His bright, fixed eyes scanned the crowd and found Paul. "Hey, friend, here's my sweetheart Laura, the lady I told you about." He turned, bringing Laura with him. "Laura, this is the genius who got me in my own movie."

Laura's eyes widened in shock. The crowded room wavered before her, like a picture seen through a rainy window, and she swayed against Farley's arm.

He never noticed. "You two are the only ones who don't bullshit me, you know that? Means a lot to me. A lot of people act like I'm dumb, but you don't and I like that. So you oughta be friends. Paul, you want to get this lady a drink?"

Paul had already moved to her, his hand outstretched. "I'd be very pleased to get Miss Fairchild a drink."

Laura took his hand.

"Great," said Farley; he was already distracted by someone who was beckoning to him, and he dr^d away.

The noise level rose higher. Paul and Laura stood still, their hands clasped. He looked so much older, she thought: the

Judith Michael

lines in his face had subtly deepened, making it look narrower and harder. But he was more handsome than she remembered, and taller; his hair more unruly, his skin darker. His hands— the long tense fingers holding hers—were as familiar as her own.

"Do you want a drink?" he asked.

She shook her head.

*Then let's find a quiet place."

She took her hand from his. "Fm not sure that's a good idea."

"I am." He put his hand on her arm. "Laura, please."

At the sound of his voice saying her name, she began to tremble. It isn't fair; everything was fine. Vd forgotten him. Involuntarily, she smiled.

"What is it?" Paul asked. And she remembered he'd always done that: wanted to share whatever it was that made her smile.

"I was thinking I'd forgotten you. And that was absurd."

His hand tightened on her arm. "We can go upstairs. They won't serve dinner for another hour."

He looked for Emily; she was happily surrounded by her own crowd, and he knew he would not be missed. His hand still on Laura's arm, he led the way, and together, they moved through the crowd, prying guests apart so diey could squeeze through.

Laura was almost unaware of the party. Her arm burned where Paul's hand held it; their bodies pressed together in the crush of people. And then they were on the stairs, finee of the crowd. But when they reached the dining room that took up almost die entire third floor of the mansion, everything was confiision as tables were still being readied for the four hundred guests. "Upstairs," Paul said again, and they climbed another wide, carpeted stairway to the ballroom. It was eerily quiet, the bandstand chairs and music stands awaiting the orchestra, the flowering trees shadowed in the half-li^t. Paul led Laura to one of the couches along the wall, and she sat in the comer, curled up with her legs under her, like a young girl.