The Jinx (11 page)

C
uriosity and disbelief got the better of me, so I darted across Arlington Street, but I lost precious seconds trying to avoid being run over. By the time I reached the Ritz, the men I'd seen were gone, the taillights of their taxi flashing red as it made the turn onto Boylston.

The hundred yards or so I'd walked and then dashed had sated my need for exercise, so I let the doorman at the Ritz hail me a cab, and I gave the driver the Porters' address. I pulled out my Blackberry and called my office on the way. No, my assistant assured me, the Caped Avenger hadn't called. Maybe he was in Boston—it was possible, after all. But with Scott Epson? And Adam Barnett? It couldn't be. That would be just too weird. I really must be in need of glasses. It was simply the power of suggestion—they'd both been on my mind that morning. And dorky white men all tended to look alike, especially from a distance.

Ten minutes later I was climbing up the stone steps to the front door of the Porters' brick town house in Louisburg Square, one of the more upscale parts of upscale Beacon Hill, a neighborhood that was home to John Kerry, Amos Hofstetter, and a number of characters in Henry James's novels. The walk in front of the house and the steps themselves looked as if they'd not only been swept but polished—the dirty slush and black ice that decorated Boston's streets in January had been exiled from this pristine spot.

I'd scheduled the appointment the previous day, when I was anxious about Barbara's intentions regarding her stock. My conversation with Brian had allayed that anxiety somewhat, but I still wanted to get the Porters' input. Even if Barbara's shares were safe, there was still the concern that an outsider would amass a sufficient stake to become a force to contend with in company matters. I wanted to prepare them for that, and it couldn't hurt to prepare them for Barbara potentially trying to secure the CEO position for her precious Adam, either.

A uniformed maid answered the door and took my coat before ushering me into a well-appointed room facing onto the square. A worn Persian rug in muted shades of blue and gray adorned the floor, and thick velvet drapes framed the oversize windows. The maid went to fetch the Porters, and I wandered over to the fireplace, where a wood fire was laid but not lit. A collection of silver-framed photographs graced the mantel, and I paused to study them. There was a charming picture of the Porters on their wedding day, which must have been at least sixty years ago, and several photos of their daughter, Anna, ranging from baby shots to her college graduation. The black-and-white prints gave way to color when Samuel Grenthaler made his appearance, his arm around Anna, and then there were pictures of Samuel and Anna with their daughter, and more recent ones of Sara alone.

I felt a pang of sympathy for the Porters. Anna had been their only child, and it must have been devastating for them when she and Samuel died. I imagined them getting the news from the police in Vermont, the unfamiliar voice on the other end telling them about the Grenthalers' car skidding off the icy road. And then having to call and give Sara the news—not something that any grandparent should ever have to do.

I heard footsteps coming down the hallway and turned away from the photos. Helene and Edward Porter entered the room together, she leaning slightly on his arm. They were well into their eighties, but I knew from Grenthaler board meetings that they'd lost none of their mental acuity. Although increasingly frail, Helene's excellent posture and good grooming gave testament to her Brahmin roots. She was neatly dressed in a wool skirt and sweater set with a double rope of pearls at her throat, her white hair pulled back into a discreet chignon. She looked as if she were about to attend a meeting of the Daughters of the American Revolution, and she probably was. Edward had a more robust, almost florid look to him, with a significant paunch that even his well-tailored suit couldn't completely disguise. He'd been a senior partner at one of Boston's most prestigious law firms for decades, and he still maintained an office there. He also had a wide range of strange intellectual interests—I still remembered an oddly fascinating discourse he'd treated me to on mollusk breeding habits at a dinner following a Grenthaler board meeting.

They smiled when they saw me, but they looked tired, and I could tell that they were both tense. I didn't blame them. Sara was all they had left, and I couldn't even begin to imagine how distressing the past twenty-four hours had been for them. But they greeted me warmly, and Helene immediately began fussing over me. She seemed so disappointed when I declined her offer of coffee that I changed my mind. What I really wanted was a Diet Coke, but this definitely didn't seem like an appropriate place or time to ask for one. Helene pulled an old-fashioned tassel on the wall, and in moments the maid reappeared with a silver tray bearing an antique porcelain coffee service.

Edward steered me to an upholstered armchair and settled himself next to his wife on a brocade-covered sofa.

“Thank you for seeing me this morning,” I began. “I hope I'm not inconveniencing you.”

“Not at all, dear,” said Helene. “We're going to the hospital to see Sara this morning, but visiting hours don't officially start until ten. We have plenty of time.”

“I'm glad she's all right,” I said.

“Yes,” agreed Helene. “It's a relief.”

“I just hope they find the miscreant who did it to her,” said Edward. “I don't know what the world's coming to these days.”

“Any news from the police?” I asked, although I'd gotten the update from Jonathan the previous evening.

Edward shrugged. “Not yet. And I'm worried they're not giving it their full attention. There's so much crime nowadays, what with the serial killers and drug dealers and lord only knows what else. I've made a few calls to some old friends, and I'm hoping they'll exert some pressure in the right places.” I had every confidence that Edward was sufficiently well connected that no small amount of pressure would be exerted in all of the right places.

“I really wish Sara would stay here with us,” said Helene. “It's so much nicer than those nasty dorms, and it wouldn't be hard to get back and forth from campus. I know she has good friends at school—that Edie Michaels is lovely—but I really don't care for some of those other people. You went there, too, didn't you, dear?”

“To the business school? Yes, but I graduated several years ago.”

“Well, I must say, it does seem to attract a strange mix. That LeFavre woman, for example. She's a little too tightly wound for my tastes. And so pushy. Why, Sara brought them over for dinner one night, and she was practically shoving her résumé in Edward's face over the soup course.”

“It wasn't as bad as that,” protested Edward. “I think she was just hoping I might be able to introduce her to some people in the finance community. She seems very eager to get into your field, Rachel.”

“I know,” I said. “She interviewed with our firm.”

“Well, she certainly doesn't have your polish, dear. And who was that boy we met last month, Edward? At that restaurant on Newbury Street?” Helene turned to me. “Edward thinks trying new places keeps us young, so he drags me to these hip places with loud music.” The word
hip
sounded comical coming from her lips. “Anyhow, Sara was out on a date with a young man, and there was something strange about him. Very stiff and military.” Grant Crocker, I guessed.

“He seemed like a very pleasant chap,” Edward said. I loved that he could use the word
chap
without a trace of irony. And I wasn't surprised by his impression of Grant. Men always liked Grant more than women did.

Helene made a face. “Humph.”

“What I'm worried about,” interjected Edward, “are these letters Sara's been getting.”

“You know about the letters?” I asked.

“Edie told us when we were at the hospital yesterday,” said Helene. “Edward's very worked up about it.”

“I'm not worked up. But our granddaughter was attacked, and meanwhile somebody's been sending her anonymous love letters. It smells fishy to me.”

“I seem to remember a certain someone sending
me
love letters at one point in time.”

“Yes, but I signed my name,” her husband pointed out.

“Nobody who was in love with Sara would try to hurt her,” said Helene. She clearly hadn't spent much time watching Lifetime Television for Women. “I can't believe that has anything to do with the attack.”

“Well,” I said, “I'm just glad that Sara's all right. I'm sure the police will figure it out.”

“I certainly hope so,” said Edward with a sigh.

“But you haven't come all this way to listen to us squabble,” said Helene. “What is it you wanted to discuss, dear? Pass me Rachel's cup, Edward, so I can pour her some more coffee.”

“I was talking to Sara on Wednesday night, and she was concerned about some unusual movement in Grenthaler's stock. And apparently Tom was also concerned before his death. I'm looking into it.”

“Grenthaler can't be taken over if that's what you're thinking,” said Edward. “Somebody would have to buy up all of the stock in the market plus acquire shares from Sara or from Barbara Barnett to get majority control.”

“True. But the movement in the stock does suggest that someone's buying, and it would be good to know who and what his intentions are. One of the reasons I'm here is that I wanted to see if you had any sense of what Barbara Barnett might do with her shares.”

Helene sniffed. “Who knows what that idiot might do.”

“Helene!” said her husband, but he laughed. He clearly shared his wife's opinion.

“Well, she is an idiot, Edward. Miss Texas of all things. I have no idea what Tom saw in her.” The way she said “Miss Texas” made Helene's feelings on the subject clear. “And that creepy boy of hers. He gives me the willies.”

Edward laughed again. “Adam is a strange one,” he acknowledged.

“She's such a stage mother—trying to maneuver that boy into the spotlight at every opportunity. And talk about pushy!” continued Helene. “That woman! She's always trying to worm her way into things. She came right out and asked me to put her up for the Chilton Club. That's not how these things are done. And she just wouldn't fit in. This isn't New York, you know. All of that plastic surgery and the ridiculous clothes. She's very showy.”

“Still,” said Edward, “I don't think you have to worry about Barbara needing to sell her shares. She's very well situated. Tom left her quite comfortably off.”

“That's good to know,” I said. “Although, Brian Mulcahey's concerned, and I am, too, that if Barbara's not selling, she may actually seek to become more involved in the company, which brings with it its own set of problems.” I related to them the highlights of my conversation with Mulcahey, which they reacted to with mild alarm, tempered by amusement.

Edward chortled. “Adam? As CEO? I think not!”

“You have no need to worry, dear,” said Helene. “Barbara will meet with some stiff opposition if she tries to foist her son upon the company in such a way. Edward and I will be sure of that.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

“We know everyone on that board, and they'll listen to reason,” added Edward.

“I'm actually supposed to go to the board meeting tomorrow. Brian Mulcahey asked me to sit in.”

“Excellent. It will be good to have another voice of reason in the room if Barbara does indeed intend to make such a preposterous proposal.”

A grandfather clock wheezed into action from the depths of the house, striking the half hour. Helene jumped up. “I hadn't realized the time. Edward, we should leave now if we want to be at the hospital by ten. You know how hard it is to find parking.”

They offered me a ride to Harvard Square, and I accepted it, climbing into the back of their ancient Mercedes sedan. Twenty minutes later I was back at the hotel.

M
y cell phone rang as I pushed through the revolving door into the hotel lobby. I managed to drop my bag and spill its contents as I was digging for the device, but I caught the call just before it could go into voice mail.

“Rachel Benjamin,” I answered, cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder as I knelt to collect the items that had scattered on the rug.

“Rachel. It's Jonathan Beasley.”

I'd somehow pushed all thoughts about Jonathan and the quasikiss incident aside for the past two hours, but the warm, deep timbre of his voice made the imaginary scarlet
A
begin pulsing on my forehead all over again. “Hi,” I said lamely. The phone promptly slipped off my shoulder and fell to the floor. “Drat.” I grabbed the phone back up, trying to politely wave away the bellman who'd come to my aid.

“You still there?” he was asking.

“Yes, sorry about that. Dropped the phone.” Just in case Jonathan hadn't already realized I was a total klutz. I felt my cheeks turning red, the better to match my scarlet
A.

“Slippery little devils, aren't they.”

“Absolutely.”

“Anyhow, I wanted to thank you again for dinner last night. I had a great time.”

“No, I should be thanking you. It was fun to catch up on the last decade.” And sleazy of me to leave out salient facts. Like the one about my boyfriend. Assuming he was still my boyfriend instead of Abigail's.

“We'll have to do it again soon.” I was struggling to answer that when he continued, “but I'm actually calling on business.”

“Oh?” My refilled bag was back on my shoulder and, with the help of the persistent bellman, I'd returned to a standing position, brushing off the knees of my pantsuit with my free hand.

“I told the police what you told me about Grenthaler Media, and they would like to talk to you.”

“Sure. I can't imagine that it will be of much help, but I'm happy to do it.”

“Well, between the two of us, I think some pressure's being brought to bear from some important people, and the police want to be able to show they're covering every base.” I wondered if the pressure was related to the calls Edward Porter had been making. I had the feeling he knew the home phone numbers of some very important people.

“Whatever I can do.”

“They've set up temporary operations in a conference room down the hall from my office. Could you come by this afternoon?”

I did some mental calculations. “I think so. Maybe a little after four?” The interviewing was scheduled to finish at one, followed by a final roundup session. With any luck, we'd be done by three. I could run up to UHS to see Sara and then head over to the business school. If all went well, I'd be back in plenty of time to clean up e-mail and voice mails before the cocktail party Winslow, Brown was hosting that evening.

“That should be fine. I'll see you then.”

I got to the elevator without dropping anything else and even pushed the correct button for where I was going. I reached the Winslow, Brown suite just in time for Cecelia to pair me up with another banker and send me off to actually do some interviews. I was glad to squeeze a few in—at least I wasn't completely neglecting my job.

 

We wrapped up the last set of interviews nearly on schedule, and my colleagues and I gathered in the suite for a buffet lunch and to complete the list of candidates to be asked to New York for the final round. The meeting went smoothly enough, probably because everybody was so impatient to be finished that they'd lost their appetite for debate. Scott Epson was unusually well-behaved, for once. Rather than nitpicking obscure line items on students' résumés, he was silent for the most part and even excused himself a couple of times to take calls that seemed to be genuinely important. I wanted to ask him if he'd been at the Ritz that morning, but I couldn't figure out how to do it without betraying that I'd been playing hooky from recruiting. Nor did I trust my eyesight sufficiently to think it really had been him with the Caped Avenger.

We finished before three, and Cecelia reminded us that we were expected to stick around for the cocktail party that evening. She met the chorus of groans with assurances that she'd have them all on the eight o'clock shuttle back to New York with plenty of time to spare. I thanked her yet again and hurried off to UHS, making a quick stop at a florist to pick up some flowers.

Sara looked much better this afternoon than she had the previous day. Her head was still wrapped up in white bandages, and there was a tube dripping clear liquid into her arm, but she was sitting up in bed and some color had returned to her face. Her friend Edie Michaels was with her, and they were in animated discussion when I arrived. Sara thanked me effusively for the flowers, which really didn't merit such gratitude, especially when a quick glance around the room showed me that she was already well stocked on the floral front.

“I'm sorry,” I apologized. “I should have brought magazines or something.”

“No, these are beautiful,” she assured me as I settled into one of the guest chairs. “Besides, I have plenty of reading material. Edie brought me all of my class work for next week.” She gestured to a pile on the bedside table and grimaced.

“Hey, you asked me to,” protested Edie. She turned to me. “I told her that if there was ever an excuse to be unprepared for class, she had it, but she wouldn't listen. She's such a workaholic. It makes everyone else look bad.”

I laughed, but the word
workaholic
reminded me of something. “Have either of you spoken to Gabrielle?”

Sara shook her head.

“Not since yesterday morning,” said Edie. “I got her on her cell and told her what had happened to Sara. But we haven't heard from her since. We're not sure where she is. There's been no sign of her in the dorm. I don't think she came back last night.”

“Really? I saw her yesterday afternoon.” I explained about Gabrielle's visit to the recruiting suite the previous day, leaving out the details of our conversation.

“It's weird,” said Sara. “I mean, for Gabrielle of all people, who's so gung ho on the recruiting thing, to just disappear during the middle of Hell Week.”

“She's been so stressed-out,” added Edie. “I'm hoping she didn't just completely lose it.”

“Is she really that tightly wound?” I asked. That had been my impression, but Sara and Edie lived with her, and they knew her better.

Sara and Edie looked at each other for a moment. “She's fairly—” began Sara diplomatically.

“Neurotic,” interjected Edie. “I mean, you went to HBS, Rachel. You know the type. She studies maniacally, networks frantically, and she's jealous of anyone who seems to be doing well. As if other people's successes detract from hers. She's just completely out for herself. Frankly, I'm sort of pissed that she hasn't at least called, much less come to see Sara. Although, she's so competitive with Sara that she probably wouldn't be much of a help right now. Sometimes I wonder if maybe she's a little unstable.”

“She means well,” said Sara. “She's just had a rough time of it.” Edie shrugged in response.

Judging from their comments, neither of them were overly fond of their roommate, but neither seemed suspicious of her, either. I was probably overreacting. I'd seen Gabrielle at a particularly bad moment. But Gabrielle knew Sara's schedule. She had the opportunity. And yesterday, when I'd come into the room and Gabrielle had her back to me, I almost thought she was a man at first. The homeless man who'd witnessed the attack could have thought the same thing. And there'd been a hood on her long dark coat.

No, I was being stupid. There'd been plenty of high-strung, intensely competitive women in my business school class, but I was hard-pressed to imagine any of them actually physically attacking anyone else. Dreaming about it, yes. But actually doing it?

Edie interrupted my train of thought, looking at her watch and jumping up. “I need to go,” she said. “I've got a team meeting to get to.” She turned to me. “Did they make you do all of these annoying group projects when you were in business school?”

I smiled. “You mean the ones that are supposed to teach teamwork?”

“Uh-huh. They're a total drag, and everyone always thinks he could do a better job on his own. Too many Type A personalities in one room.”

“I hate to break it to you, but it's not that much better in the corporate world.”

“That's depressing. Listen, Sara, I'll stop by later, okay?”

“There's no need, really,” protested Sara. “You've done enough already.”

“I'll come by, anyhow. I'll pick up some food and we can have a picnic dinner?”

“Well, I wouldn't object to Pinnochio's,” suggested Sara hopefully, referring to the small storefront a couple of blocks from UHS that was widely considered to make the best pizza in the Square.

“They haven't turned it into a Starbucks yet?” I asked.

Edie laughed. “No, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time.” She gathered up her coat and bag, gave Sara a hug and was out the door.

When I turned back to Sara, she was looking at me intently. “My grandparents told me about their conversation with you. Do you think Barbara's really going to try to get Adam named CEO?”

“I hope not. Although, it would be good news in a way. If Barbara's intent on getting Adam more involved with the company, she's unlikely to sell her shares. But it does look like tomorrow morning's board meeting is going to be a bit of a battle.”

Sara laughed. “I know. My grandparents are already gearing up for combat. I think they're looking forward to it. Especially Gran.”

Combat with Helene Porter was not something I'd want to face. Mrs. Porter may have had the entire frail, ladylike image down pat, but our conversation that morning had made it clear that you wouldn't want to get on her bad side.

“There might be some debate, but Barbara doesn't own enough stock to wield as much power as it would take to get Adam appointed CEO. I don't think you have anything to worry about on that front.”

“Were you able to find out anything about the movements in the stock price?”

“Are you sure you want to be worrying about any of this right now?”

“Well, it's either worrying about this or worrying about why somebody wanted to hit me over the head with an oar.”

“Not much of a choice, is it?”

She smiled, but the smile didn't reach her eyes.

“I looked into it,” I said, giving her a quick debrief on the research I'd done the previous afternoon but leaving out my visit to the Yahoo! message board. “There are definitely signs that somebody's been buying up stock. Nobody's reached the five-percent mark as yet, or he would have had to file a statement with the Securities and Exchange Commission. I put in a request to get the names of the institutions and individuals who have been buying and selling. I should have it by the end of the day or first thing Monday.”

“Good.”

“And, as you well know, it would be hard for anybody to launch a real takeover without some assurance that they could obtain stock from you or Barbara. And we'll figure out if any outsiders are accumulating stock and what their intentions are.”

“I'm looking forward to getting this resolved. I just wish I could be at the board meeting tomorrow. The doctors are being ridiculous about my staying here.”

“I'm sure they would rather be safe than sorry. You should relax. Rest. Focus on getting better.”

“Right, like I can do that with everything that's going on,” she replied, with a rare show of sarcasm that I interpreted as a sign of returning strength.

I sighed. “Give it a try. I'm keeping an eye on things, and so are your grandparents and Brian Mulcahey. We'll figure it out.” I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt.

She was quiet for a moment. Then she turned to me, a gleam in her eye, and changed the subject. “Tell me about dinner with Professor Beasley. He's pretty cute, isn't he?”

“What?” I felt my cheeks burst into flames. I wondered if blushing burned calories. At the rate I was going, I'd be down a dress size in no time.

“I've had a lot of phone calls today. One was from Professor Beasley, and he told me he had dinner with you last night.”

“Oh?” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral. The way my cheeks felt, the chances of pulling off a poker face were remote.

“I didn't realize you two knew each other from college.”

“Neither did I,” I admitted. “Not until I ran into him. When Edie sent me off to see Professor Beasley, he wasn't what I expected to find.”

Sara smiled. “You were probably imagining the old guy from
The Paper Chase.
”

“Wouldn't you? With a name like Professor Beasley?”

“Half the women on campus have a crush on him.”

“That's not hard to imagine. They did in college, too.”

“He seemed very curious about you.”

“Really?” I asked before I could think better of it.

She nodded her confirmation. “Don't worry. I sang your praises.”

I hesitated. “Did you mention anything about—”

“Your boyfriend? No. It didn't really seem like any of my business. However, if things with Peter go belly-up, I think you have someone else waiting in line.”

“Good to know,” I said, feeling flattered, skanky and anxious all at once. Sara couldn't be aware just how precarious things with Peter seemed to be right now. Belly-up was hardly out of the question.