Breaking the Chain (11 page)

             
           
             
             
                          
19
             

             
Mac Grayersin tapped the edge of his half-smoked cigar against a plastic ashtray while he reviewed the latest stack of incoming jobs. After reading the details, he assigned a curator to each job, then tossed the sheets into an assigned bin that his assistant emptied daily. Every so often his glance strayed across his desk to the completed inventory bin, which was nearly overflowing.
             
Having finished his task, he leaned back in his chair, stuck the cigar back in his mouth, then propped his feet on top of the wastepaper basket. Business had been good, especially since June. For the first time in several years he had more assignments than curators. Not a bad place to be. Maybe this year he'd be able to give his employees a bigger bonus. God knows they deserved one.
             
A soft tap on the door interrupted his quiet contemplation. "What do you want?" he growled, recognizing the knock.
             
The door opened and Belinda Dubart, his assistant for the last fifteen years, stuck her head around the door. "What kind of mood are you in?"
             
"Why?"
             
"Got a rush job from a very wealthy client. Needs to be finished this week."
             
He swiveled his chair around. "So? What's the problem? And don't tell me there isn't one, because the only time you knock on my door is when you don't want to talk to me. What is it?"
             
The petite, gray-headed woman sighed, then covered the short distance between the door and his desk. "Here's the information." She slid a stack of papers across his desk and hurriedly retraced her steps.
             
"Don't even think about leaving," he ordered.
             
She stopped, but didn't turn around. "I have a lot of work to do."
             
"So? It can wait. Get over here." He grabbed the pages and scanned the information.
             
She retraced her steps and perched on the edge of a chair. Mac's lit cigar dangled dangerously between his lips, then rolled from one end of his mouth to the other--a sure sign he wasn't happy. Just when she thought she might sneak back to her desk without a scene, he removed the cigar from his lips and crushed the end of it in the ashtray. Sighing, she leaned back in her chair, waiting for the inevitable. Mac liked his office run smoothly and despised any interruption or problem. Whenever one arose, he lost his temper, ranted and raved for a little while, then calmed down and apologized. She'd been on this particular merry-go-round for several years, and it was beginning to pall.
             
"So, did anybody bother to call this Mr. Charles to find out why Mary's the only person they want?"
             
One finely
penciled
eyebrow rose as she favored him with a sarcastic look. "What do you think? Of course I called him. Unfortunately, his boss, Ms. Phelps, stipulated that either Mary does the job or we don't get the contract. There's no room for negotiation."
             
"Any reason why?"
             
"He didn't volunteer that information and, based on his curt replies, I didn't ask."
             
"Damn. She's done four jobs without a break. How the hell am I going to talk her into this one?"
             
A gleam shone in Belinda's eyes as she rose from her chair. "She ain't gonna be happy. You better make it good or she's liable to quit."
             
"Very funny, Belinda. You can be replaced, you know," he growled.
             
She flashed him a saccharine smile. "Oh, yeah? Like I'm really worried. I was looking for a job when I found this one. Besides, nobody else would put up with your guff, and you know it." Having delivered her parting shot, she turned her back on him and marched from the room.
             
Mac stared at the empty doorway for a few moments, then retrieved his cigar from the ashtray. Damn, damn, damn. He grabbed the order and scanned the pages a second time before tossing them back on the desk. He'd need to handle this one with kid gloves, especially since Mary had been working non-stop for over four weeks.
             
Lacing his fingers behind his head, he propped his feet on his desk and stared at the ceiling. She was his best curator and wasn't going to be happy when he delivered the news that she'd have to take this assignment. Unfortunately, this was a premium rate job he couldn't afford to pass it up. Wealthy customers were the backbone of his company, and frequently lead to other, more lucrative contracts. If they played their cards right, this one job could translate into six or eight additional
months
of
work at three times the normal rate. He pressed the buzzer.
             
"Yes?"
             
"Get Mary on the phone."
             
"What are you going to tell her?"
             
"I haven't decided. Just get her on the phone, will you?"
             
A few minutes later Belinda buzzed Mary through.
             
"Mary, this is Mac."
             
"This better be a social call," she warned.
             
"Can't I call to see how my best curator's doing?" he asked innocently.
             
"Cut the crap, Mac. You never call to 'socialize.' What do you want?"
             
He ignored her jibe. "Finished the paperwork on the Kansas job yet?"
             
Silence.
             
"You there?"
             
"I'm here, and it will be finished in a couple of hours," she responded in a disgusted voice. "What is it, Mac? Another job nobody else will do?"
             
He cleared his throat. "Okay, so this isn't a social call, but it's not as bad as you're making out."
             
"So how come I don't believe you?"
             
"Don't get huffy, Mary. This one's a lot better than the last couple you've had, a 'gravy' job. The house belongs to a multi-millionaire. It's in Aspen, Colorado."
             
"If it's such a 'gravy' job, why can't one of the other curators do it?" she asked sarcastically.
             
"There's a catch," he began.
             
"What? Somebody get murdered in the living room? Bats in the belfry?"
             
"Don't push it, Mary. I'm still your boss. They want you to do the job. If you don't, we lose the contract. Sorry."
             
Silence.
             
"When does it have to be finished?"
             
"End of this week."
             
"The end of the week?" she asked incredulously. "That's only three days away. You know, Mac, this is getting old. This is what, the fourth, fifth job you've given me back to back?"
             
"I know, Mary. I'll make it up to you, promise."
             
"You bet you will. I want three weeks paid leave when I finish the job."
             
"That's a little excessive. I'll spring for one."
             
"Two. You owe me, Mac. Big time."
             
"One."
             
"Two. I've been working non-stop for four weeks, Mac. I need a break."
             
"One week, two days."
             
"How 'bout one week, three days? That way I can leave town, enjoy my time off, and come back sane."
             
"All right, Mary. One week, three days. Take it or leave it."
             
"Fine," she said, sighing heavily into the phone. "A week and three days it is. I'll start my leave as soon as I finish the report."
             
"Just don't tell anybody else you're getting it. Nobody else is getting time off."
             
"Don't worry, I won't say a word."
             
"Humph. I'll have Belinda fax the paperwork over."
             
"Okay. Is that it?"
             
"Mary, you know I'd send somebody else on this job if I could."
             
"I know, Mac. I'm sorry I'm so grouchy," she apologized. "I'm just tired, that's all."
             
"Well, get some rest. You'll need to leave in the morning."
             
"Yeah, right."
             
"Let me know if you have any problems. I want this job handled with kid gloves so Mrs. Phelps will recommend our firm to her friends."
             
She gasped, not sure if she'd heard him correctly. "Who did you say?"
             
"Elizavon Phelps. Why?"
             
"Oh my God."
             
"What's wrong?"
             
"She's my aunt. No wonder she wanted me to do the job."
             
"You never told me you had a rich aunt." His mood lightened considerably. "This is working out better than I'd hoped. Be sure you talk her into recommending us to her friends."
             
Elizavon's friends? She snorted derisively. "Sorry to burst your bubble, Mac, but she doesn't have any friends. Elizavon isn't a very nice woman, and that's putting it mildly. In fact, if there was a 'most despised woman in Boston' contest, she'd win, hands down. DeeDee and I are her only living relatives, and she doesn't even like us."
             
"Well, she must like you because she wants you to inventory her house. Do the best you can, and make sure you fax me a copy of the report," Mac ordered.
             
Before she could reply, he rang off. Stunned, she stood in the hallway, receiver in hand. Why would Elizavon contract her firm to do an inventory when she had a staff of attorneys and business managers on retainer? Surely they had an up-to-date inventory listing. Elizavon was no fool, especially when it came to money. Knowing her, she had every single object in her home insured to the hilt. Probably over-insured. So...why the inventory contract?
 

             
            
             
             
                          
20
 

             
             
Ignoring the constant rumbling in her stomach, Mary forced weary fingers to type the last of the inventory data into her file. Knowing her aunt's insistence on getting her money's worth, she'd added extra detail to the descriptive narratives, which made the time-consuming job all the more tedious. A couple more hours polishing the narrative and she'd be ready to fax, then e-mail the file.
             
Taking a break, she rested her head against the back of her chair, and wondered, not for the first time, why Elizavon bought this house. Although tastefully decorated, it had none of the opulence of her mansion in Boston. Built to resemble a ski chalet, it was utterly charming, but totally out of character for her aunt. In fact, when she first arrived, she'd been tempted to ask the taxi driver if he'd taken her to the wrong address.
             
The exterior of the house fitted perfectly in the hole in the side of the mountain carved out for it, and the landscaping was cleverly constructed to blend in with the rugged terrain. It was such a 'natural fit' that she had to remind herself that she was in Aspen, not the Alps of Europe, and had half-expected the staff to be dressed in mountaineer clothing. Fortunately, her expectations, at least in that respect, had been wrong. The resident staff members were well mannered and courteous and had gone out of their way to make her stay pleasant.
             
A little niggle of doubt crept into her mind because of the way two of them had hovered nearby while she'd been working. It was almost as if they were watching to see if she noticed anything amiss. And, unlike other staff she'd interfaced with over the years, they'd asked a lot of questions about her technical expertise. It wasn't unusual for household members to ask about her work, but the questions from these two were a trifle too specific, which had made her uneasy.
             
That wasn't the only thing about this house that had bothered her. Although there were many antiques interspersed throughout the house, she'd stumbled upon one or two unbelievably good reproductions. So good, in fact, that she'd had a hard time identifying them as fakes. Again, totally out of character for her aunt. As far as she knew, Elizavon never bought reproductions; she felt they were a waste of time and money. If you couldn't afford the real thing, why bother? Was that why Elizavon suddenly requested the inventory? Had she suspected that one or more of her staff was switching the fakes for the real antiques?
             
Thank goodness she hadn't said anything about her discovery. She decided to password protect her file, just to keep prying eyes out. Once she'd done that, it dawned on her that someone might realize she'd discovered the fakes if they found she'd coded the file, so she removed the password protection, then cut and pasted the section that identified the reproductions into a separate file with an innocuous name. That way, if someone did check her computer while she was out of the room, they wouldn't uncover her discovery. She could recombine the data once she was away from the house.
             
What about her handwritten notes? Surely that would be the first thing they'd check. She grabbed the section with the notes about the fakes, double-checked them against her file, then tore the pages into strips and flushed them down the toilet. As she watched them disappear, she suddenly felt very foolish. Was she just being paranoid? Did she really have any reason to suspect the butler and housekeeper of being thieves? Worse yet, was she becoming like her Aunt Elizavon, suspecting anyone and everyone of harboring a hidden agenda?
             
A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, causing her to start nervously. "Who is it?"
             
"Mrs. Blanchard, the housekeeper. I brought you a nice cup of tea and a snack. May I come in?"
             
Mary rushed back to her desk, flipped the file back a couple pages to hide the gaps created by her handiwork, then settled in her chair. "Come in."
             
The housekeeper carried the tray over and set it down next to her laptop. "And how are you doing, my dear?" she asked. "Are you nearly done?"
             
Mary nodded. "Fine, thanks. I just have to input the section I worked on today, tweak the file a little, and I'm through."
             
The woman's gaze shifted to her computer screen. "Is that the inventory list?"
             
Mary twisted uncomfortably in her chair and stayed the hand that itched to close the file. Why was the woman being so nosey? Had her suspicions been correct after all? She tried to think of an appropriate response. "Yes. There's a master template we use that's already set up. Saves time and effort, and forces every curator to use the same file format. That way, if something happens and a curator has to be replaced in the middle of an inventory, another one can step in and continue the work with minimal problems. We fill in the appropriate blanks, then transmit the file to our home office. Once it's received, the information on the file is fed into our database, which calculates the object's estimated value, based on detailed information given for each piece. That report is given back to the curator, who checks it against the current market value, and any adjustments or corrections are made before the customer gets the final report. Most estate and insurance companies work that way."
             
"Oh, I see." The woman leaned closer to peer at the screen for a few moments, then stepped back. "It all sounds very complicated to me. Well, enjoy your tea, my dear. Dinner will be served at seven. We're having lamb with rosemary dressing, and I've made Baked Alaska for dessert. It's my specialty. I hope you like it."
             
"I'm sure I will," Mary said, smiling at the woman. "Thank you for going to such trouble."
             
"It's no trouble at all, my dear. I enjoy having someone to cook for."
             
A feeling of shame washed over Mary as she watched the housekeeper leave. Surely she'd misjudged the woman, whose questions were probably the result of her interest in antiques, nothing more. Lord knows there were enough paintings and statues in this house to fill a museum. The staff members were probably just curious about what she did for a living, that's all.
             
Maybe being in Elizavon's house was making her paranoid. Hopefully the feeling would disappear as soon as she left. She turned back to her computer, then decided to check in with the office instead. It didn't take long to be patched through to her boss.
             
"Mac? It's Mary. Just thought I'd check in. I'm nearly finished. I'll send you the file in the morning, before I leave."
             
"Good. Any problems?"
             
"No, and no ghosts, either, thank you." She chuckled. "It certainly makes a nice change."
             
"Yeah, well, don't get too comfortable. I'm thinking about advertising you as my resident 'spook specialist' to get more business," Mac teased.
             
"You do that and you can find yourself another curator," Mary replied tartly. "That's not even funny."
             
"I'm only kidding, Mary. Don't get huffy."
             
"Well, it's nothing to joke about. Don't forget I start my vacation as soon as I get home. I'll be out of pocket, so you won't be able to reach me. I'm even turning off my cell phone."
             
"Fair enough," he agreed. "I promise not to bother you. By the way, do you know a Mr. Taft? Somebody by that name's been trying to reach you. Called twice. I would've told you about the messages sooner, but that stupid temp we had filling in for our receptionist shoved some of the messages she took into a drawer and we just found them. Needless to say, she'll never work here again."
             
"Taft? No, the name doesn't ring a bell. Did he leave a number?"
             
"Nope, just said he'd call back. No message."
             
"That's odd. Well, if he didn't leave a number, I guess I can't call him back, can I?"
             
"Probably wants to sell you something. You know what those telemarketers are like."
             
"I'll bet he wanted to sell magazines; that's why he didn't leave a number or a message. Some of those guys are pretty slick. Is there anything else I need to know before I go on vacation?"
             
"Nope. Just don't forget to e-mail me the file. Might be a good idea to fax the hard copy, too, in case there's any problem opening it up."
             
"I'll fax the sheets over before I leave. Anything else?"
             
"Nope. Once you fax the report, you're done." He cleared his throat. "And Mary, uh, thanks for helping us out. I appreciate it," he muttered in a gruff voice.
             
She smiled. Poor Mac. He really was a sweetie underneath his grumpy exterior. "For you, Mac, no problem. Just don't schedule me for back-to-back jobs anytime soon. I've only been home two nights in the past twelve days."
             
"I know, Mary. That's why I agreed to give you some extra time off. Have a good vacation. Going anywhere special?" he finished in an innocent voice.
             
She burst out laughing. "Nice try, Mac. I have no intention of telling you where I'm going, and I'm not taking my cell phone with me, either. I'll check in after my ten days are up."
             
"Well, you can't blame me for trying. Have a good trip."
             
"Thanks, I plan to." Smiling, she switched off her cell phone and turned her attention back to her computer. All she had to do was finish this file and she'd have ten whole days to relax and unwind.
             
As she typed in changes, her mind drifted back to her conversation with Mac, and she wondered about the mysterious Mr. Taft, who'd called twice but hadn't bothered to leave a number or message. Had it been important? Obviously not; otherwise he'd have left a way for her to return his call. She turned her attention to more important things, like her inventory file.
             
The next morning she tried to call her aunt from the airport, but was told that Elizavon was unavailable; she'd have to call back later. So much for letting her aunt know she'd finished the inventory. Typical Elizavon. Whenever she wanted something, it had to be done "yesterday," but when you needed to talk to her, you had to wait and do it at her convenience. Well, if that was the way Elizavon wanted it, then that's the way she'd play the game, too. Elizavon could wait until she got home to find out the inventory had been completed and learn about the reproduction pieces she'd discovered.