Maxine (15 page)

The roses were blooming, filling the air with a sweet fragrance. She loved this time of year.

“Too bad we can’t barbecue,” said Nick. “It’s a nice day.”

Remembering her grandfather’s birthday barbecues, Cara decided it was a family tradition she wanted to continue. “We’ll barbecue tomorrow, on my birthday. My grandfather used to do it every year, and he always invited the staff and their families. My mother used to invite everyone for birthday cake, but Mr. and Mrs. Corinth wouldn’t even allow me to do that.” She turned to face him. “I hate to give you a big head, but you were right about the staff. I don’t know all their names.”

Nick lifted his chin and grinned. The cocky attitude was back. “I’m always right.”

“Always?”

He shrugged. “Almost always.”

Gerry walked up behind them. “Except when it came to marrying my sister. That was a mistake. I’m sorry about what happened, Nick.” He pointed at Nick. “And if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it.”

Cara was crazy about Nick, rough edges and all. When she was with him, she felt free to be herself. Maybe after she ended her marriage, they could take their friendship to another level.

She excused herself and went inside to tell Mr. Pettibone what she wanted for her birthday dinner.

“For how many, Miss Andrews?” asked Mr. Pettibone.

“For me and my guests, the entire staff and their families. We’ll do it every year on my birthday.”

Mr. Pettibone smiled. He’d done a lot of that today. “The staff will be delighted.”

“I hope so. Will Miss McCullough be gone by then?”

“They are preparing the plane as we speak. I’ve been informed that the authorities here have asked the authorities in Seattle to place your husband in custody. I understand a warrant has been issued on the matter of the painting. He has called for Miss McCullough three times this afternoon, but she has refused to take his calls.”

“Did he ask for Mr. and Mrs. Corinth?”

“No.”

She sighed. “They’ve already called him.”

“Yes, I assume so. Security has been alerted.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pettibone.” This whole place would unravel without him.

<>

Cara spent a restless night and woke tired and apprehensive. Facing her guardians and her husband’s lover hadn’t been easy, even though she’d been well prepared. Meeting with the trustees made her feel like an insecure child. She knew little about the business of the estate and would be at a big disadvantage. She’d never even met most of those people. She vaguely remembered Mr. Holcomb from her grandfather’s funeral. Mr. Morrison came to the house several times when Cara’s grandfather was still alive, but she’d never met the others.

Someone tapped lightly on Cara’s door. When she opened it, Nick said, “I don’t have to wear that suit until the meeting, right?” He wore the same brown slacks he’d worn the day before, with a plaid sports shirt.

She straightened his collar. “And I’m not putting on pantyhose until I have to.”

He blew out a big breath. “Gerry went downstairs. He said Paul Rosenberg is due any time.”

“Good. He can join us for breakfast.”

Cara’s intercom buzzed. Mr. Pettibone said, “Mr. Rosenberg has arrived. He’s with Mr. Merlino in the study.”

“We’ll be right down. Please have breakfast served in the sun room this morning.”

<>

Paul Rosenberg was an older man with gray hair, a warm smile, and an easy-going manner. The wrinkles around his eyes deepened when he smiled, reminding Cara of her family doctor. He handed her a folder. “I thought you’d like to review this before the meeting. You should know there are warrants out for your husband in both Washington and California, but he has disappeared.”

“They’ll find him,” said Gerry, “and I’ll file divorce papers as soon as we get back to Washington. After a judge hears what Sally had to say, Lance won’t get a penny.”

Inside the folder, Cara found a profile on each of the seven trustees, beginning with Ronald Holcomb. He began his association with her grandfather years ago, serving first as his assistant, then as his business manager. He earned a handsome salary managing the estate.

Boyd “Hutch” Hutchinson, the newest trustee, had served for the past six years. He owned and operated a company that manufactured airplane parts.

At seventy-six, William Morrison was the oldest trustee. Well known as a shrewd businessman, he and Cara’s grandfather had been good friends. She remembered asking her grandfather if he was the William Morrison of the talent agency, but her grandfather had laughed and assured her he was not the same person. Years later, she realized the name was different.

An attorney with a solid background in business and finance, Carter Singletary had a reputation for getting to the core of a problem and resolving it quickly.

The only woman, Sylvia Towne, was a widow who inherited her husband’s failing business and turned it around. Cara’s estate owned stock in her company.

The accountant, Bart Cantrell, also served as a trustee. At forty-three, he was the youngest. He took over the accounting for the estate when Norton Lippincott retired eight years ago. Lippincott stayed on as a trustee.

Paul said, “Norton Lippincott is in Tokyo and I don’t think Carter Singletary is back from London. I wouldn’t expect to see either of them today.”

“That’s all right,” said Cara. “It’s a lot of people to get to know in one meeting.”

“The only trustees who work full time for the estate are Ron Holcomb and Bart Cantrell,” said Paul. “The others are more like a Board of Directors. From what I’ve read and heard, Holcomb and Cantrell are both doing a good job.”

“Which one hired Ian and Jane Corinth?” asked Nick.

“Ron Holcomb,” said Paul. “Ian Corinth is his cousin.”

Stunned, Cara said, “And that qualified them to be my guardians?”

Paul shrugged. “He knew them personally, knew what kind of people they were.”

Nick asked, “What did they do before they came here?”

“Ian ran small businesses and always managed to run out of money. Jane worked as a personal secretary for a Mrs. Peters in San Francisco, but she didn’t make much. Mrs. Peters was an older woman, very wealthy, a little quirky.”

Gerry whipped off his glasses. “So Jane Corinth grew to resent rich people.”

“Damn!” Nick’s remark came out in an angry breath. “They sure as hell didn’t belong here.”

Teresa rolled in a breakfast buffet cart and Nick stared at the food. Cassie had outdone herself, with scrambled eggs, bacon, croissants and muffins, coffee, juice, and fresh fruit. “Breakfast is a help-yourself kind of thing in this house,” said Cara.

“Hey, no problem,” said Nick. Someone filled their coffee cups and put the insulated pot on the table, and the three men piled their plates high.

Gerry sat down and dug in. “If I lived here I’d weigh three hundred pounds.”

Cara smiled, but inside, she was apprehensive about meeting with the trustees. Could she bluff her way through the meeting as she’d bluffed her way through yesterday? Thank God Nick was going with her.

<>

A soft gray-blue silk dress with a full skirt and matching jacket seemed a good choice for the meeting. Cara wanted to look professional, but she didn’t want to wear something dark. She loved the color, maybe because it matched her eyes.

Nick wore an ill-fitting blue suit. “My wedding suit,” he said. “I wore it to court when I got divorced, too.”

“Does that mean it’s good luck or bad luck?” she asked.

“It means it’s the only suit I own.”

She straightened his tie. “You look handsome, Nick.”

“Does Maxine like it?”

Cara dropped her hands. “Maxine has deserted me today.”

“She’ll be there when you need her.”

“I hope so.”

Nick lifted her chin and peered closely at her face. “You covered all the bird tracks. Is this what you looked like before the earthquake?”

“Not quite. I had very long, reddish-blonde hair.”

“Which I whacked off.”

“Which you cut to save my life.”

He flipped her hair. “I like the curls.”

“So do I. Did you talk to your family about coming this afternoon?”

Nick’s face warmed. “Aunt Sophia was beside herself, Tony wanted to know if he should bring a suit, and Angelo wanted to rush right out and buy you a birthday present.”

“I hope you told him not to.”

“Yeah. They should be here around two-thirty or three. Did I say happy birthday?”

She smiled. “You just did.”

“Now don’t get mad, but I have a present for you. It’s not expensive or anything and you may not like it anyway.” He pulled a tiny box out of his pocket. “The man told me he could size it to fit. It’s a friendship ring.”

She opened the little box and took out a delicate silver filigree ring. It wasn’t as expensive as her other jewelry, but that didn’t matter. Nick’s friendship ring meant more to her than any other ring she owned. “I love it, Nick.” She held out her left hand. “You put it on.”

“On your wedding ring finger?”

“If that’s the finger it fits on.”

The ring was too big, so Nick slipped it on her middle finger. She held out her hand and admired it, then gave Nick a big hug. “Thank you, Nick. It’s the nicest birthday present I can remember.”

He kissed her lightly on the lips, but the kiss turned into more than a kiss of friendship. He held her head while his lips did wonderful, sensuous things to hers and she thought she’d melt into a little puddle on the floor. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark pools that seemed to see into her very soul. He pulled her tightly against him and held her. They didn’t speak, but they didn’t have to. Married or not, she wanted more with Nick, and from the way he kissed her and held her, he wanted more, too.

The intercom buzzed and Mr. Pettibone’s voice filled the room. “Miss Andrews, your limo is waiting.”

Cara pulled away from Nick to answer the intercom. “We’ll be right down, Mr. Pettibone.” She found silver earrings and a silver choker to match her new ring, grabbed her purse and the folder with the notes on the trustees, and she was ready to go.

“Maxine, I need you,” she whispered on her way downstairs.

Chapter Nine

C
ara’s driver took her, Nick, and Gerry to a big office building in downtown San Francisco. The security guard Mr. Pettibone had sent along escorted them to the top floor offices with the word
Andrews
scrolled on the door.

Mr. Holcomb’s secretary, Marge, a pleasant middle-aged woman, greeted them with a warm smile. “Mr. Holcomb is on the phone, but he’ll be with you shortly. The others are waiting in the conference room. This way, please.”

The conference room had a thick cushion of dark blue carpet with a dark red and gold paisley pattern, a large oval table of rich walnut with dark red leather chairs, and a wall of tinted windows overlooking the city. The walls were paneled and a large portrait of Cara’s grandfather, John Franklin Andrews, hung on the wall opposite the windows.

Marge introduced the four people at the conference table: Boyd Hutchinson, a husky man with gray hair and wrinkles around his eyes; Bill Morrison, an elderly man with a frail look about him; Sylvia Towne, a slightly overweight woman wearing a well-tailored navy pants suit with a white blouse; and Bart Cantrell, a younger man wearing wire-framed glasses. Carter Singletary and Norton Lippincott were not present, which was fine with Cara. She was intimidated enough without more people in the room.

Cara introduced Gerry as “my personal attorney,” and Nick as “my good friend and advisor.” She sat across from Boyd Hutchinson, Bill Morrison, and Sylvia Towne. Nick sat on her left, Gerry on her right, with Bart Cantrell at the end by Gerry. The chair at the head of the table, Ron Holcomb’s chair, she assumed, remained empty.

Marge served coffee and sweet rolls. Nick ate again. Cara didn’t know where he put it. He’d eaten everything in sight at breakfast. And still Mr. Holcomb did not appear.

At twenty minutes after eleven, Nick nudged Cara and pointed to his watch.

Cara glanced around the table. They’d all wasted enough time with pointless small talk, and Nick was fidgeting uncomfortably. It was time to get down to business. She cleared her throat. “Why don’t we start the meeting without Mr. Holcomb?”

Hutch leaned back in his chair. “Good idea. Tell us why you’re here today, Cara.”

“According to my grandfather’s will, the estate passes to his grandchildren on their twenty-seventh birthdays.”

“I wasn’t aware of that,” said Hutch.

“I am his only living grandchild.” She looked around the table again, trying to anticipate their reaction. “And today is my twenty-seventh birthday.”

A hush fell over the room, and then Hutch, who seemed to have appointed himself spokesman for the group, leaned forward and smiled. “Happy birthday, Cara.”