The jinx, p.20
The Jinx, page 20
I couldn’t disagree with that.
“So, tell me, Whit. How did you get involved with the deal?”
“Oh, you know how it is. I have my ear to the ground, darling. And I’m known in certain circles as the man to see when you want to get a deal done.” I couldn’t imagine what circles those might be, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. “Besides, I’ve known Adam since he was just a tyke. His mother was an old flame of mine and we stayed in touch, even after she remarried. Not that she can hold a candle to you, darling.”
Barbara Barnett and the Caped Avenger? Now that was a match made in heaven. Or somewhere. It was nice to have one mystery solved, at least. And I supposed that I should be flattered that Whitaker felt that a former Miss Texas couldn’t hold a candle to me.
“So,” continued Whitaker, “when I was asked to help put this deal together, I could tell my superior experience and know-how would come in handy.” Whitaker’s deep pockets were handier than his experience and know-how, but I knew that there was nothing to gain by saying that out loud.
“When did you get involved?” I asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“Did Barbara call? Or Adam? And when?” Was it before or after Tom Barnett’s death was what I wanted to know. I was still curious as to how long Barbara had been hatching her plot.
“Oh, last week sometime. Or maybe the week before? Time flies, darling, it just flies away. On wings.” He demonstrated the movement of time by fluttering his arms, nearly knocking over the fresh martini our waiter had delivered.
I tried, in vain, to get the Caped Avenger to give me more detail. I didn’t think he was holding out on me; rather, he simply didn’t remember, and the measure of undiluted vodka that he’d downed in two gulps wasn’t helping.
My cheeseburger arrived, and I doused it liberally with ketchup before inhaling it. Whitaker, meanwhile, inhaled a couple more martinis. While the drinks didn’t help him to remember much about when, specifically, he had been brought into the deal, it did loosen his tongue about Adam.
“Frankly,” he told me, smoothing his cravat (yes, he wore a cravat) with a wizened hand, “I think if it weren’t for my involvement young Adam would be in over his head. He’s a bright enough boy, but he really lacks the experience to carry this off. And I do get the sense that he had an ax to grind with his stepfather.”
“Tom wasn’t enthusiastic about Adam being involved in the company,” I explained.
“Well, I’m sure he would have approved if he’d known that I’d be on board, guiding young Adam with a sure hand. You know, in a senior statesman sort of role.” I admired his ability to say “senior statesman” without slurring his words. By my count, he had at least four martinis under his belt.
“Did Barbara or Adam say anything about Sara Grenthaler?” I asked. “She does own more than forty percent of the company, and her father was the founder. Tom always intended for her to take over from him when she was ready.”
“Oh, Barbara mentioned that she has a big stake. But she gave me the sense that the girl was a bit of a dilettante. One of those spoiled trust-fund types. Gracious—I’ve seen enough of them, darling. In fact, I almost was one myself.” The unspoken comparison was there, implicit in his words: he, too, could have been mistaken for a spoiled trust-fund type—that is, before he became a takeover artist and media mogul in his eighth decade of life. “Anyhow, Barbara assured me that she wouldn’t be a problem.”
Once again, Whitaker was vague on the timing of Barbara’s comments about Sara. But I sensed my opening and went for it. “So, Whit, are you financing the entire bid single-handedly?”
“Why, yes, yes, I am,” he answered proudly.
“That’s a pretty big chunk of change to lock up in one deal.”
“Well, yes, it is. And I’m sure my advisors will all act like nervous Nellies and counsel me against it. You know how they are about putting all of one’s eggs in the same basket. But how often does a fabulous opportunity like this come along?” He signaled for yet another martini. I was still on my second Diet Coke, although I’d made short work of the burger and fries.
“Not often,” I agreed. “But, you could be part of the majority ownership consortium without using up all of your eggs.”
This point seemed to reach its mark, although I was starting to feel buzzed just watching the Caped Avenger down his most recent martini.
“What do you mean?” he asked. The Caped Avenger was too rich to have missed out on the cheap gene that seemed to accompany so many great fortunes. He’d bragged to me on several occasions about having his capes made by a Hong Kong tailor for a mere fraction of what he’d have to pay in New York or London. And I’d just suggested to him that he could get something he wanted for less than he thought he’d have to pay for it. Whitaker Jamieson might not be the sort of white knight found in fairy tales, but if I could convince him to withdraw his support and partner with Sara instead to finance her acquisition of an additional ten percent stake, the company would be safe from a potential takeover, even if the Barnetts did manage to scramble up another source of backing.
The Caped Avenger was intrigued, or at least he seemed to be intrigued through his vodka-induced haze. He assured me he’d give it some thought. And then he blinked. But his eyes stayed shut. A moment later, he was snoring gently, seated upright on the banquette.
I picked up the tab, including a generous tip. The bar had cleared out, and the waiter said he’d keep an eye on Whitaker. I took one last look at him before I left. I hoped that somewhere in his drunken snooze he was thinking about my pitch and debating its merits. He probably hadn’t noticed that I’d essentially thrown myself on his mercy, but that was pretty much what I’d done. If he didn’t switch sides, my side’s goose was well on its way to being cooked.
The doorman flagged down a cab for me, and I asked the driver to take me to Harvard Square. My wallet was stuffed with cab receipts already, and I hadn’t even been in Boston for seventy-two hours. My trip was turning out far differently than I’d imagined, I thought, remembering how contentedly I’d anticipated the weekend when I’d been on the shuttle up from New York. Instead of romantic room-service meals, I’d been in one taxi after another going from one frustrating encounter to another. And here I was, off to have yet another unpleasant discussion. It was all my fault, really. I should have known better than to anticipate a trip with such pleasure. It was a guaranteed way to screw up even the most carefully laid plans. At least I’d ensured that the police were investigating the Barnetts and tracking down Jonathan Beasley.
Still, I wasn’t looking forward to updating Sara about the takeover attempt, but I’d told the Porters and Brian Mulcahey I’d take care of it—in fact, I’d insisted on it. I was determined not to let her panic, and even though I was panicking, I felt that I stood a better chance of reassuring her on this front than they did. Sara had enough to worry about, just getting well. A thwack on the head and cardiac arrest in less than two days couldn’t be good for a person.
Although, at the rate I was going, enforced bed rest didn’t sound so bad.
Twenty-Five
I used the downtime in the cab to make a phone call. I knew it was probably futile, but I owed it to Sara to explore every option, and that included Barbara Barnett. Just because I suspected she was a frustrated murderer didn’t preclude my making an attempt, however vain, to try to talk her out of launching a takeover and into respecting the wishes of her late husband instead. And it wasn’t like she had any reason to try to kill me.
Barbara answered the phone herself, which surprised me. She didn’t seem like the type to give the maid weekends off. She greeted me warmly, as if there were no sides in this struggle but we were instead one big happy family. I’d barely identified myself before I was treated to a breathless spiel about how exciting it all was and wasn’t Adam impressive this morning? I made noncommittal noises until her words finally slowed to a trickle, at which point I asked if it would be possible to get together and talk.
“Why, I’d love to, honey, but I’m just booked today,” she drawled. “I’ve got a hair appointment and then the yoga instructor comes by and then I’m due at a drinks party.” One would never have guessed that her husband had died only eight days ago. She seemed to be taking the term “Merry Widow” to heart. As if reading my thoughts, she continued on. “You know, Tom’s death has been so hard on me. I miss him every minute of the day, but I’ve been trying to keep myself busy. And all of this excitement with the company has really given me a new lease on life. It’s so wonderful to have something to look forward to, honey.”
“I bet,” I said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. Tom would be rolling over in his grave if he knew what was happening. Although, if he’d been cremated then I guessed he didn’t have a grave. And, so soon after lunch, I didn’t want to imagine how his ashes might be reacting. “How about tomorrow morning?” I suggested. After all, it wasn’t like I’d be spending the time snuggling in bed with Peter, assuming he was even there. And I’d make sure that plenty of people knew where I was going, just in case Barbara did decide that there was a reason she wanted me dead.
She agreed that tomorrow morning would be fine before launching into a reprisal of her favorite song, titled “My Son the Tycoon.” Its various verses and repeated chorus kept me on the phone until the cab reached Harvard Square.
The elevator ride to the fifth-floor infirmary was beginning to give me a feeling of déjà vu, and the nurse at reception gave me a familiar wave, as if we were old friends. This really wasn’t turning into the weekend I’d planned.
O’Connell was as good as his word, and there was a uniformed police officer posted outside Sara’s door. He had a clipboard with a list of names. Fortunately, mine was on it, but he insisted on seeing a photo ID. I showed him my New York State driver’s license, and he carefully checked my face against the thumbnail-size picture, ultimately deciding that there was enough of a resemblance to risk sending me into the room. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, handing back my license.
This “ma’am” really hurt, given that it took into account both my looks and my date of birth, which was plainly marked on my license. On any other day, I might have taken him aside and let him know that recklessly ma’am-ing people was not a recipe for success. In fact, if anything it was likely to slow one’s pace of advancement through life. But today I had too much else on my agenda to show the guy the error of his ways. Instead, I gave the door a gentle knock and let myself in.
“Hi, Rachel.” Sara was sitting up in bed, and, all things considered, she looked well. Still, there were more tubes and wires attached to her than there had been the day before. I guessed that the hospital was monitoring her condition carefully after the events of the previous evening.
Edie was there, too, as promised. It was fortunate that she wasn’t going through recruiting, because she’d definitely been putting in the hours here by Sara’s side. “You just missed Professor Beasley,” she told me.
Sara gave me a look that was almost conspiratorial. “If I’d known you’d be here so soon, we would have tried to make him stay longer.”
I felt myself blanch at the suggestion.
“Did he say where he was going?” I asked. If he did, I could call O’Connell so he could track him down.
“No,” said Edie. “He just said he had an appointment. He left right after we showed him the letter. He didn’t seem too worried about it.”
Probably because he was too busy thinking about where he was going to find his next prostitute or other Boston-area “lowlife” to strangle and dump. Or perhaps he was still figuring out where to dispose of the body he had stashed in the trunk of his car. I didn’t want to be the one to tell Sara and Edie that their revered professor was a serial killer, and if Beasley had come and gone without incident, there was probably no compelling need to do so. Besides, it would be breaking from pattern for him to try and kill a student. According to Hilary, who, sad to say, was the closest thing to an expert I had, serial killers tended to stick to a pattern, choosing the same type of victim for each repeated crime.
“He brought me a book and those flowers,” Sara said, pointing out a colorful arrangement. “I don’t know when he thinks I’m going to be reading poetry, though. I’m already days behind on my class work.”
“Speaking of which, any word from Gabrielle?” I asked.
Edie shook her head. “Nope. She’s still MIA. We were actually just talking to Professor Beasley about it.”
“It’s very weird,” commented Sara.
“Has she ever disappeared like this before?”
“No,” said Edie. “Never. And she’s not one to step aside when anything of significance is going on. Usually she likes to be in the middle of any action.”
“Odd,” I said. But now that I thought I knew who was behind the attacks on Sara, I couldn’t work up much interest in her Psycho Roommate. Nor was I terribly interested in the Creepy Stalker, but I asked anyhow. “So, tell me about the most recent letter.”
“It’s not a big deal,” said Sara.
“It is too a big deal,” protested her friend. “See that copy of US?” She pointed to the popular weekly on the bedside table. I nodded. “I bought it at Out of Town News yesterday afternoon before stopping by. Sara and I were actually looking at it together while I was here. If there’d been a letter in it then we would have seen it. But the letter would have had to have been in it when I bought it, which would be hard to pull off, or I would have had to put it in myself.”
“I knew it,” joked Sara. “You’re the one. Why didn’t you just tell me how you felt?” she asked with mock seriousness. She handed me the letter.
It was a good thing that I’d had the cab ride to digest my cheeseburger. This newest installment definitely scored high on the upchuck meter.
My love—
My fury knows no bounds. What degenerate would dare to bring you harm? Never fear, my darling. I am doing everything possible to ensure you remain safe, as befits your rarified beauty.
“Yuck,” I said.
“I know. It’s pretty awful,” Sara agreed. “But at least it’s short.”
“Nice way to find the silver lining,” I said.
She gave a modest shrug. “I try.”
“So,” I summarized, “somebody slipped the letter into the magazine between when you two were reading it yesterday afternoon and this morning. Who’s been here between then and now?”
Sara grimaced. “I’ve been over that already with the police. Although, they’re more worried about whatever was put in my IV last night than the letter. But the list is pretty short, assuming somebody didn’t sneak in while I was asleep, which is entirely possible. Just Edie, you, Professor Beasley, my grandparents, Barbara and Adam Barnett, and Grant Crocker.”
She reeled the names off casually. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that by my count there were as many as two evildoers and one Creepy Stalker on that list alone. The good news, I guessed, was that they’d all been flagged as such to the police.
The nurse came in to give Sara some painkillers while we were talking, and Edie headed out shortly thereafter, leaving me alone with Sara. I couldn’t procrastinate any longer, but the nurse’s timing had been superb. I’d been worried about Sara’s reaction to the news about the takeover, but having her sedated in advance was helpful.
“I’ve got something to tell you,” I said, “and before I do I want you to promise that you won’t worry.” I should have known that was a bad way to start. Her shoulders seemed to rise up a couple of inches, assuming a stressed-out position around her ears. I hoped that the medicine wouldn’t take long to begin working its magic.
“What is it?” she asked, her voice grave with foreboding.
In as few words as possible, I laid out what had transpired at that morning’s board meeting.
She was quiet for a moment, thinking over what I’d told her. “I didn’t know Barbara had it in her,” she said eventually. “I mean, I always knew she wanted Adam in on the company, and it was pretty clear that neither Tom nor I were going to let it happen. But she’s found another way. And I’m sure she’s ecstatic, isn’t she?”
“Pretty much,” I agreed. Ecstatic was a fairly accurate way to describe Barbara’s reaction.
“More importantly, what do we do now?” She’d swung her legs out from under the covers and seemed to be getting ready to leave. She began examining the ways in which the various tubes and wires were attached to her, figuring out how to detach them.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” I told her. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re not going to help anyone by leaving here before you’re ready.” And with the guard posted by her door and Barbara Barnett still at liberty, this seemed to be the safest possible place for Sara right now.
“I’m ready,” she said. “Besides, I can’t just sit here while this is going on.” But she had to stifle a yawn while she said it.
“Yes, you can. First of all, you’re on medication and will probably be asleep in a few minutes. And second, I’m doing everything there is to be done.” I sketched out for her my assessment of our options, and then I related my discussion with the Caped Avenger, as well as my planned meeting with Barbara the next day.
“This guy, Whitaker Jamieson—do you really think he’ll change his mind?” she asked me.
“It’s a strong possibility,” I said. I hadn’t included the part about the Caped Avenger downing a quart of vodka and passing out on the banquette at the Ritz in my narrative. It didn’t seem like it would instill much confidence. Still, I held out a faint desperate hope that if I nagged him enough he would withdraw his support from the Barnetts. Or, even more faintly and more desperately, that Barbara would be arrested for attacking Sara and the entire takeover attempt would fall apart. It would be hard to implement a takeover from jail.
“Even if he does, do I want him as such a significant stakeholder in the company?”
