The Jinx (8 page)

I
made it up to my room without any more unpleasant run-ins with manic aspiring bankers, closing the door safely behind me and giving thanks that I wouldn't have to spend the rest of the afternoon interviewing more hypercompetitive stress cases. My conversation with Gabrielle had planted the seed of an idea in my head that I wasn't happy about. I wanted to believe that Sara had fallen prey to a random attack. But if that weren't the case, I'd just identified a person in Sara's immediate circle who seemed to wish her ill. It was hard to imagine that Gabrielle's jealousy and resentment could cause her to lash out violently, and I was hardly a mental health professional, but the woman I'd just met seemed less than sane. If the police determined that the prostitute killer wasn't responsible for the attack on Sara, they would do well to add the Psycho Roommate to the Creepy Violent Stalker on the list of suspects.

The room was clean and quiet, and I slipped off my shoes, curling and uncurling my cramped toes in the plush pile of the carpet. I was grateful for the downtime; while the police tried to track down Sara's attacker, the least I could do was track down what, if anything, might be happening to Sara's company. My laptop was in my briefcase, and I took it out and set it on the desk. While it was booting up, I checked my Blackberry for messages. I hadn't heard the phone ring, but there was a voice mail from Edie Michaels. Sara was awake and doing well, but the doctors intended to keep her at UHS for a day or two more. I left a message back, letting her know that Professor Beasley had promised to share the letters with the police.

There were a bunch of work-related calls I had to return, but as soon as I finished I plugged the hotel's Ethernet cord into the computer and opened up my Web browser. I wanted to see what was going on with Grenthaler Media's stock.

I logged on to Bloomberg.com and typed in the Grenthaler stock symbol. Its price was up since I'd checked it a few days before. Then it had been at $250. It was now trading at $262, a five-percent bump while the market overall was flat, and it was up a full ten percent from a few weeks ago. I then turned my attention to the volume of trading. Of the two million shares held by the public, approximately one percent—or twenty thousand shares—traded hands on the average day. However, the average daily trading volume during the past two weeks was significantly higher—closer to fifty thousand a day.

Of course, some of that could be explained by Tom's death. Undoubtedly, investors were speculating as to who would be appointed as the new CEO and what it would mean for the company's future. But usually that sort of speculation wasn't good for a stock price. Tom had been well respected, and now the company's leadership was uncertain—if anything, that should send the stock down, not up. And it was odd that the increase in both the stock price and the trading volume had begun prior to Tom's death.

Perhaps Tom had been right to be concerned. It did look as if there was a player—or several—in the market steadily buying up shares. I checked out the list of headlines from the Associated Press and Reuters. There were reports from the previous week of Tom's death, and even an item about this morning's memorial service. I was glad to see that the wire services hadn't seemed to pick up the news about the attack on Sara. That was the last thing she—or the company—needed right now.

I closed out of Bloomberg and headed over to Yahoo!'s finance portal, typing in the Grenthaler stock symbol again and then clicking on the link to the message board. As a general rule, the message board was not the place for financial wisdom or disciplined technical analysis of a stock's performance. It was frequented by day traders, many of whom were lunatics and more likely to use a Ouija board to dictate their investment strategies than careful study of a company and its prospects. Still, I was curious as to what rumors might be flying about. The message board would be rumor central.

Here, too, there had been an unusual amount of activity. I scrolled through the postings. While in December there had been only a dozen or so posts each day, in the last couple of weeks it looked like there had been several each hour. I opened up some of the more recent ones at random, mostly incoherent rantings from people with screen names like VivaLasVegas and KermitLuvsGonzo about their esoteric investment philosophies, rife with misspellings and puerile insults for others on the board.

Then a message posted by one CuriousGeorge caught my eye: “Takeover in the works?” read the headline. I clicked it open.

 

Has anyone else noticed that there seems to be a lot of activity in this stock for no apparent reason? Is a buyout on the horizon? Hard to imagine since Grenthaler's privately controlled but maybe Barnett's shares will be up for sale? Anybody know anything on this?

 

Of course, this set of reasonable questions had been completely ignored by the likes of ExcaliburNYC and XBox-Roolz. I checked out CuriousGeorge's profile. Apparently he was a one-hundred-and-sixty-eight-year-old male living in Area 51 in Nevada. Needless to say, he hadn't included a photo in his profile.

While his profile may not have lent his posting much credibility, he raised a good point. Everything I'd seen made me wonder if he was right. Was a takeover in the works? It seemed unlikely, at best, given that only forty-nine percent of the company was publicly traded. Unless, of course, Barbara Barnett made her shares available.

I heard Sara's anxious voice in my head, her determination not to let control of the company get away from her. “I won't let that happen,” I had promised her. And I had meant it.

With Sara laid up at UHS, it looked like it was up to me to figure out what was going on.

 

I called Jessica and asked her to dig up Grenthaler's company charter and e-mail it to me. Given that Grenthaler was privately controlled, Tom and I had never worried too much about setting up antitakeover clauses for the company. Of course, if a takeover was being launched against the company, it was too late to do anything about that now. But I at least needed to understand what we had to work with. I also asked her to run a Carson Group check for the names of institutions and individuals who had been major purchasers of the stock over the last few weeks. I then left a message for Brian Mulcahey at Grenthaler's Kendall Square headquarters, asking if he could meet me for breakfast the next day. Brian was Grenthaler's chief operating officer, and he was temporarily in charge until the board of directors appointed a new CEO.

Most importantly, however, I had to find out what Barbara Barnett planned to do with her ten percent of Grenthaler's stock. Without Barbara's shares, nobody could gain majority control of the company. I checked my watch. It was past three. Surely the reception after the memorial service would be long over by now. I needed to talk to Barbara and get a sense of her intentions.

I found the Barnetts' home phone number on Beacon Hill in my Blackberry, took a deep breath and dialed. A maid answered.

“May I speak to Mrs. Barnett, please?” I inquired.

“Mrs. Barnett is unavailable. Can I take a message?”

I thought for a moment. I wanted to make an appointment to see Barbara in person, but I could only begin to imagine how many people must have left messages of various sorts during the past few days. I doubted that she'd remember who I was in the sea of names and numbers. And I was sure that a good many of those names were from various investment houses, eager to help a new widow manage her wealth. Saying I was from Winslow, Brown wouldn't get her attention.

“Ma'am?” the maid prompted.

What was going on with me and the ma'am thing today? Had I suddenly become a senior citizen without even noticing?

“No message,” I said. “Do you know when I can try to reach her?”

“I'm not sure. I believe she's at the gym.”

Even grief couldn't get in the way of Barbara's strict workout schedule. “I'll try back,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Good day, ma'am.” The maid hung up the phone. That was two ma'ams in one short phone call. A complex was beginning to take root.

Well, I knew one phone call I could make where I wasn't in danger of being on the wrong side of a ma'am. Edward and Helene Porter weren't in my Blackberry, but their number in Louisburg Square was listed. They were both members of Grenthaler's board of directors, and they might have some insight as to what Barbara was planning to do with her shares. Furthermore, if a takeover was, in fact, in the works, I could trust that they would be firmly aligned with Sara, and I wanted to prepare them for the remote possibility that we would need to mount a defense. Especially since I didn't want Sara worrying about it in her current position. Mrs. Porter answered the phone on the third ring.

“I don't know if you remember me, Mrs. Porter. This is Rachel Benjamin from Winslow, Brown. We met at a Grenthaler Media board meeting last year when I gave a presentation about the company's acquisition strategy.”

“Certainly, dear. The redheaded girl.” That was more like it. Of course, Helene Porter must have been pushing ninety, so a girl in her book was probably anyone not eligible for Social Security, but I'd take it.

“I'm glad you remember me.”

“You were very memorable. Edward and I were both impressed by you.”

“Well, thank you. And I'm sorry about what happened to Sara this morning.”

“Yes, it was quite a shock for us. Fortunately, the doctor thinks she'll be as good as new in a couple of days. We just got back from the hospital, and she definitely seems to be recovering nicely. Now we just have to find out who did this to her.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “You must be very concerned.”

“Well, she's only a child, and Cambridge's gotten so dangerous. We wish that she would live with us, but she insists on staying in the dorms.”

“Still, it must be nice for her to have you so close by.”

“I think we're more of a nuisance than anything else, but that's sweet of you to say.”

“Mrs. Porter, if it's not too much trouble, I was hoping that I could pay you and your husband a visit. There's some company business I'd like to discuss, and I don't want to bother Sara right now.”

“We would love to see you, dear. Perhaps you could come by tomorrow morning?”

I would have to get out of interviewing again, but Cecelia would cover for me. “That would be great,” I agreed. We set a time and she gave me their address.

My Blackberry buzzed on the desk as we were saying goodbye. I checked it, wondering if Jessica had already managed to dig up the Grenthaler charter. But it was an e-mail from Peter.

 

Locked in a meeting right now, and it looks like it's going to go long. Really long, unfortunately. I think I'm going to have to take a rain check on tonight. I'll make it up to you, I promise. So so sorry. PF

 

Disappointment flooded through me. I'd been looking forward to a quiet romantic dinner for two, especially after the day I was having. I wanted to tell Peter about everything that had happened. More than that, I wanted to see him, to be reassured that all of my concerns about him and Abigail were in my head. That, as Luisa had said, I was creating problems where none existed.

I read the message again, trying to decipher any hidden meaning it might contain. And the more I read it, the more I realized that I was feeling something other than disappointment and concern. I was annoyed, too. Unfairly, probably. But would it have been that much harder for Peter to call me? He knew I'd be upset, and e-mailing me to cancel seemed like a cop-out. Sure, he was trapped in a meeting, but he could have stepped out for a minute to make a quick call and talk to me in person, couldn't he?

I was composing a reply when the phone rang. I picked it up with happy relief. It hadn't taken Peter long to recognize the error of his ways.

But it wasn't Peter.

“Rachel? It's Jonathan Beasley.”

I was in a vulnerable state from Peter's e-mail, but that wasn't enough to explain the effect Jonathan's voice had on me. Parts of my body tingled. Tingled! That shouldn't happen with anyone but Peter.

I feigned calmness. “Oh. Hi. Any news?”

“No, not really. I spoke to UHS a few minutes ago, and Sara's doing well. Nothing much from the police yet.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks for keeping me posted.”

“I thought you'd want to be kept in the loop.”

“I do. Thank you.”

He paused. “Listen, you're probably booked, but—”

“Aagghh!”

“Rachel, what happened? Are you all right?”

I'd gotten up to retrieve a Diet Coke from the minibar and promptly stubbed my toe on the coffee-table leg. Now I was hopping around the room, waiting for the agony to recede.

“Uh-huh,” I gasped, my teeth clenched against the pain. “Just bumped into something, that's all.”

“You're sure you're all right?”

“I'm sure,” I responded, struggling to keep my voice steady.

“Well, as I was saying, I thought maybe we could have dinner tonight.”

I forgot about my toe. “Dinner? Tonight?”

“Sure. There's a little Indian place I know in Central Square. They do a mean vindaloo.”

I'd been thinking that I'd call Jane and go over there, now that I had no plans, but I'd be seeing all my friends the next night. In fact, we'd be seeing each other all weekend. And I loved spicy food.

“I can do that,” I said.

“Really?”

“Sounds good. Where should I meet you and when?”

He gave me directions. “Eight o'clock work for you?”

“Eight is fine,” I affirmed.

“Great. Then I'll see you there. I'm looking forward to it.”

I hung up the phone and limped into the bedroom. Housekeeping had been there, and the bed was now freshly made. Which reminded me that yet again I'd managed not to mention Peter to Jonathan.