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Authors: Nancy Martin

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BOOK: Foxy Roxy
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“I am.” She stopped in the middle of the doorway and made a good show of devastation—stiff and trembling. It was a display of emotion as unnatural to her social class as stripping off her clothes in the middle of a city intersection. She looked up at him tearily. “But I’m angry with Julius, too. That old fool got himself killed, and—and now I’m a pariah!”

“Well, you look wonderful. Have you lost weight since I saw you last?”

With a little sob, she bowed her head. “That’s what catastrophe does to a woman like me. It’s honed me down to bone and sinew.”

Henry gave her his handkerchief.

He had bonded with Monica during several of the marathon weekends Dorothy insisted everyone in the family attend to hear speeches by financial planners. There were dry, tasteless meals, too, and long hours of sitting around listening to Julius—supposedly the male head of the family—wrangle with his mother about The Trust and The Will and The Shares. Then Quentin, the second son, would get in on the act about The Company. While the more vociferous family members argued, Henry managed to find a spot to sit in the background—on the same window seat with Monica, both of them sipping sherry and endeavoring to look interested in the proceedings, but actually stealing small smiles at each other as if sharing witty bon mots but being too wise to say them aloud.

It had been a strategic flirtation.

Today, despite the tears, Monica’s mouth looked juicy—plumper, perhaps—maybe the result of some kind of injection that made Henry squeamish just to think about. But his mind wandered involuntarily to the possibility of sex with the newly minted widow fifteen or more years his senior.

While Monica dabbed her lashes, she surprised the hell out of him by looking up into his eyes and saying with a lot of southern honey, “Somehow I knew you’d be the one to come to my rescue. I need help so desperately.”

Henry took her hand again. Time to get her away and explore the possibilities. He set off leading Monica to the privacy of her office.

He said, “I’m not a litigator, Monica. But I can help you find an expert team. You’ll need someone who can protect you if you’re questioned by the police.”


If
I’m questioned by the police? They practically used rubber hoses last night! They think I killed Julius! They had to let me go while they check my alibi. Can you believe it? I need an alibi! But now I’ve got even bigger problems.”

“Bigger problems than a murder charge?” Not to mention the whole issue of setting fire to her home with her husband inside.

“It’s Samson.”

Henry missed a step. “Who?”

“Julius’s chauffeur thinks he can wrestle custody away from me. He called this morning. He says I’m an unfit mother!”

Henry’s brain sputtered like a faulty lawn mower. “I—I didn’t realize you had children, Monica.”

“He’s not a child, he’s Samson! I raised him from a puppy, brought him home on a plane myself from a Great Dane breeder in Bavaria.”

With another sob, Monica headed for the elevator. A gigantic vase of flowers sat in a niche, lighted from above and scattering pollen on the marble floor. Monica touched the call button. She said, “I know Julius was plotting to steal him away from me in our divorce settlement, but this is too much!”

“Divorce settlement?”

“Well, of course. Long before the fire, Julius and I were preparing to separate. Naturally, I’ve kept that a secret from everyone.”

“A wise decision.”

“But then I caught him with his little paramour, and I could hardly stay married another minute, could I?”

They stepped onto the elevator. Henry adjusted his tie as they wooshed upward. “I’m surprised you were leaving your husband, Monica. The golden goose, so to speak. But then, you’re a woman of high principles.”

She took the compliment like a largemouth bass grabbing bait. “I am. Honestly, Henry, I understand a man’s pursuit of youth, but couldn’t she have a few IQ points more than a tortoise? It’s very insulting.”

Henry wondered if Monica had told the police about her coming divorce. If so, they might rightfully assume that Monica had knocked off her husband before the divorce was final—the better to inherit her prenup-decreed portion of his gargantuan share of the Hyde family fortune as a widow instead of an ex.

“Did the tortoise cause you to lose your self-control last night, too, Monica?”

She gave him a suddenly frosty glance. “Are you inquiring whether or not I killed my husband?”

“Forget I asked. It was rude of me.”

Monica softened and took his arm to step off the elevator. Her composure under control again, she steered Henry past the executive offices and the desk of a wan young secretary who was dressed entirely in black, including her nail polish. Monica didn’t acknowledge the girl—who might very well be holding down the same job Monica had before her advantageous marriage—and she pushed open the door to her own office and snapped on the desk lamp—Tiffany school, with dragonflies.

The office overlooked a courtyard with a fountain and sculptures. An expensive view, Henry decided, probably paid for by the Hyde donations. Furniture included a petite lady’s writing desk with a modern chair behind it and a pair of leather armchairs for visitors in front. All of the furniture had probably come from a Hyde house. On the desk stood a promisingly sensuous piece of Venetian art glass, the color of arterial blood.

The surrounded walls were artfully papered with clippings of Monica making donations. The headlines trumpeted her philanthropic largesse—the activities that had bought her way into a level of society she would never have achieved otherwise. Her work had also kept Julius from being completely ostracized for his steadily declining social conduct.

Looking at the collage of her charitable work on her husband’s behalf, Henry said, “You’re a complex person, Monica.”

She sent him a sidelong glance. “And you’re a smoothie with the compliments, Henry. Most women must be putty in your hands. Once they sleep with you, they do your bidding. Am I right?”

He summoned an innocent expression. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I—” She faltered. “I thought you were—never mind. For a moment I forgot my age.”

“What does your age have to do with anything?”

She smiled tentatively. “You’re a dear, Henry. Forgive me for thinking you might have motives unbecoming the gentleman you are. Once anyone joins forces with my mother-in-law, I immediately worry about his motives.”

“Speaking of Mrs. Hyde, I was with her last evening.”

Monica closed the door—perhaps more sharply than she intended. “Was she conscious? Or still napping?”

“Wide awake. And concerned.”

Unwrapping the Hermès scarf from around her neck, Monica asked, “Did you break the news about Julius?”

“Yes.” Henry sat in a leather armchair. He crossed one leg over the other and smoothed the crease in his trousers. “She was dismayed. But it was also the first time Dorothy heard about the fire, and frankly, she became very worried about her property—primarily the artwork.”

“Well, at least she has her priorities straight.”

Henry chose to ignore her tart tone. “Julius’s death, of course, took her by surprise, but their relationship was difficult, as you know. Monica, forgive me for asking an indelicate question when Julius isn’t even—well, help me put Dorothy’s mind at ease concerning the art.”

“Why should I care about her mind?”

“Let me put it a different way. It might be beneficial for some of us to know where her things are. For safekeeping. And for proper distribution … later.” Letting Monica ponder her mother-in-law’s demise, he went on smoothly, “In your predivorce due diligence, I presume you made an inventory of Julius’s assets?”

“You can only chair so many ladies’ luncheons, Henry, before you start thinking about detonating the centerpieces.”

“So you made a complete list? Of the paintings? Antiques? Statuary and whatnot?”

She dropped the scarf into her handbag and perched on the edge of her desk. “What are you asking?”

“If you made a list of valuables, perhaps we could share information. Just you and me.”

“Not Dodo?”

“It’s not necessary for my client to know all the details.”

Monica crossed her legs and made the mental leap to the time when Dorothy’s estate would be divvied up. She seemed to grasp the benefits of cooperating.

Henry said, “I seek nothing more than a relatively accurate inventory of family assets, Monica. Whatever Julius gave you during your marriage, I’m sure you deserved.”

She smoothed one hand down her kneecap. “His brothers might disagree.”

“Good thing they’re not here, then.”

She considered a moment longer, then relented. “When we were first married, it was quite a shock to discover what a short financial leash Dodo kept everyone on. She still does. But then, I suppose you know all about that.”

“I do write all the checks for Mrs. Hyde.”

“Well, would it do any harm to add another zero now and then, Henry? If Dodo were a little more generous, everyone would stop having to be so devious.”

“Julius was devious?”

“The whole family is!” Monica’s voice rose petulantly. “With all that money sitting in stocks and shares? And everyone on allowances? They’re always looking to finagle a little extra cash. I had to be very creative about our donations to the museum.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And Julius was especially hungry for spending money. For his girlfriends, I suppose. And lavish meals with friends. Jaunts to Las Vegas on the jet. A trip to the Super Bowl with his buddies cost nearly forty grand! So, back in January, Julius consulted with some dealers.”

Henry decided not to remark upon Monica’s idea of restrained spending. “Art dealers?”

She nodded. “I caught him, of course. He had the discretion of a marching band. I thought maybe he was buying that adorable little beach shack in Costa Rica for me, so like an idiot I told him that if he wanted to sell off his mother’s pictures while she was comatose, he ought to at least get top dollar.”

“Did he?”

“I put him in touch with a lot of contacts. Why should he do business with the small-time dealers when there was big money to be made?”

The idea that Julius might have been selling off his mother’s property had occurred to Henry, but here was Monica throwing prudence to the wind and saying he’d done just that. Henry said, “Now that the house and contents have burned up, we’ll never know exactly what he sold, will we? Except by your list.”

Monica recrossed her legs demurely. This time Henry couldn’t stop himself from looking. She wore her tweed skirt with no stockings. Her legs were smooth—no blue veins, either. He began to think a fifteen-year difference in their ages meant very little these days.

Perhaps guessing the direction of his thoughts, Monica smiled at him. “Truth be told, I might have sold off some silverware myself, for pin money. Who needs four sets?”

He smiled, too. “Who, indeed? Did you mention your pin money to the fire insurance people?”

“Maybe I forgot. They were very rude to me, Henry.”

No doubt they’d wanted to strangle her. She’d burned up millions they’d never see again, Henry knew, if the family decided to close ranks against her. Or the family could help Monica by somehow helping her duck responsibility for the blaze. Of course, insurance issues were going to drag on for years, no matter what. With luck, Henry would be long gone to his new life by the time the final checks were cut.

But killing her husband before he could divorce her? Smart move. Now she might gain a significantly larger share of the Hyde pie. Hundreds of millions larger.

“You were very wise to keep your own counsel, Monica.” Now that they were cozy conspirators, he asked, “Did you send Julius to any dealer in particular? One of the New York auction houses, perhaps?”

Monica ticktocked her forefinger at him. “They’re too fussy about the rules for Julius. Reporting to the IRS—that kind of thing. No, he went the other route—using people with few scruples about where their art comes from.”

“Care to share any names?”

“What will you give me in return, Henry?”

Matching her light tone, he said, “Name your price.”

The luscious tears suddenly returned to her eyes. “Help me get my dog back,” Monica said in a broken whisper.

Henry took her hands and said he’d do anything in the world to help her. He could have kissed her, he supposed later, but that might have scotched the deal.

Monica rattled some keys on her BlackBerry, and they were soon bending their heads close together over a list of art dealers on the small screen.

Then a commotion erupted in the outer office. At the same moment, the door burst open and a large, red-faced man thrust himself into the room.

“Quentin!” Monica jumped away from Henry and managed to avoid looking guilty.

“Damn it, Monica, why can’t you answer your cell phone once in a while?”

Her Texas vowels returned. “Reporters kept calling me, Quen. So I shut off the ringer. Would you rather I talk to them?”

“Of course not,” Quentin snapped. “We had enough bad press after the fire. It drove the company stock price down to an all-time low.” He gave a shudder at the catastrophic financial memory. “We don’t need another downward spiral, especially now. Hello, Paxton. What the hell are you doing here?”

Quentin Hyde, Julius’s younger brother, had inherited all of his mother’s smarts, but none of her gentility. Which probably explained why he was the one who wrested Hyde Communications from the more ineffectual family member and rolled the company from a small venture in cable television into a conglomerate that fed television, Internet, and phone access into most North American households. Word was, he had his eye on Europe and Asia now.

Glaring at Henry as if challenging his right to be anywhere but his mother’s bedside, Quentin said, “Is something wrong with Dodo?”

“Not a thing,” Henry replied. “Except she’s grief-stricken about your brother.” A little hyperbole didn’t hurt every now and then. Gravely, he added, “My condolences, Quentin.”

“Right.” Quentin couldn’t hide a nervous twitch. “She’s awake?”

BOOK: Foxy Roxy
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