Full Circle (15 page)

“Anything you want to see, of course, you’re welcome. I only meant that he especially wanted you to see the workrooms.”

“Did he tell you that I might be crating up some of his paintings?”

She considered the question, then decided to say, “I assumed that would be the case.”

Nodding in his turn, he sat silently, watching her. As the seconds of silence lengthened, she shifted slightly in her chair, but otherwise revealed no suggestion of discomfort. Her eyes were steady. Finally Bernhardt said, “There’re a few things I need to know. And I understand you’re the person to ask.”

She smiled, nodded attentively, but said nothing.

“How long’ve you worked here?” he asked. “How many years?”

“Five years. Five and a half, really.”

“And you run the house—write the checks, hire and fire.”

“I do those things with Mr. DuBois’s approval.”

“Let’s say the cook decides to quit. How would it work?”

“I’d find someone else, and check her references. We’d agree on money. If she sounded all right, she and I would talk to Mr. DuBois.”

“How long would a conversation like that take, normally?”

“Five minutes. No more.”

“And you’d talk—where? In Mr. DuBois’s study?”

“Probably.”

“Not on his deck.”

Her lips twitched in a small, knowing smile. But she said only, “No, not on his deck.”

The understated response, Bernhardt decided, signified that Grace Campbell was a woman who kept her own counsel, observing but not commenting. He couldn’t imagine her ever raising her voice, losing control.

“You worked with Betty Giles, then.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Did she help run the house?”

She shook her head. “No. Betty was a curator. She and Mr. DuBois were constantly buying and selling works of art. It was a full-time job that involved a lot of travel, a lot of negotiation. Betty had her own office. It’s on the fifth level down. Mr. DuBois wants you to see that, too. I gather that’s where you’ll be working.”

“It’s not settled whether I’ll be working here. There’re a few loose ends. We’re meeting again at two o’clock.”

She nodded. “I know. If you need to make any calls, Mr. DuBois would like you to use Betty’s office. It’s fully equipped—private phone line, intercom, computer, copier, fax machine.”

“Did Betty get paid by you?”

“No.”

“How was she paid?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, Mr. Bernhardt.”

But the real message was that she
did
know. Or at least suspected.

Testing the thesis, he said, “I think that, technically, Betty was employed by Powers Associates. I think she was on their payroll.”

Her only response was a cool, impersonal stare.

“How’s the house laid out, Miss Campbell?”

“There’re five levels, stepped down the side of the canyon. The first level—this level—has the main entry hall, which is really an art gallery, as you know. There’s this room, which is actually very seldom used nowadays. It was intended as a kind of reception area. The house was built about twenty-five years ago. In the days when Mr. DuBois gave parties, mostly receptions for prominent artists, this is where the receptions would be held. And, of course, in the old days, a lot of very important people visited him. Oil sheikhs, secretaries of state, even royalty, they all came. And this is where he’d receive them.” She spread her hands to encompass the room.

Bernhardt followed the gesture as he said, “I’m surprised. I mean, this room is informal. Rustic, almost. Wouldn’t the Queen Mum be put off?”

Once more she smiled, this time indulgently. “As it happens, the Queen Mum did visit, years ago. She was disappointed, though. Her taste in paintings seems to run to flower arrangements.”

“Are you kidding?” Once more, marveling, Bernhardt looked around the reception area. “Was the Queen Mother really here?”

“No kidding.”

“Hmmm.”

“One of Mr. DuBois’s great regrets,” she said, “was that he couldn’t get Frank Lloyd Wright to design this place. When you have a chance to see more of it, I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s really quite remarkable. As an engineering feat alone, it was a triumph. And, in fact, that’s why Mr. Wright refused the commission, I believe. He didn’t think the building would stand up to an earthquake. Luckily, he was proven wrong. At least, so far.”

“How’d the Queen Mum like the place?”

“Whatever her opinion was, I don’t think it had much effect on Mr. DuBois. He has no real interest in other people’s opinion of him. In the vernacular, he doesn’t give a shit.”

Bernhardt guffawed, nodding and smiling. He would, he was deciding, enjoy getting to know Grace Campbell.

Back in her tour guide’s mode, in a detached monotone, she said, “There’s a large kitchen adjoining this room.” She pointed. Then, pointing again: “At the other end of this level, as you know, there’s Mr. DuBois’s study, where he transacts his business. I have a small office just down the hallway from his study. Normally I’m the only one to deal with Mr. DuBois. Whatever he wants—a personal letter written, something to eat, instructions for the staff, personal hygiene—whatever it is, I get the request, and act on it. If I’m not on the premises, James takes over. He and I are always in touch.” She drew back her beige cardigan sweater to reveal a pager at her waist.

“Do you sleep here, too?”

She nodded. “There’re two apartments on the fourth level. One of them is mine.”

“So you’ve got a full-time job, it sounds like. Twenty-four hours a day.”

“I take time off—several weekends a year, really. The truth is, Mr. DuBois is a very considerate employer, provided the employee is doing a good job. And James is very responsible, very conscientious. Monica, the nurse, lives on the grounds, and James has a bungalow on the grounds. And, of course, there’s always Mr. Powers to make decisions.”

“Do you and Mr. Powers work closely together?”

She thought about it, then said, “We coordinate, I’d say, on certain things. If someone calls for Mr. DuBois on business, for instance, and if it sounds legitimate, I take the number and pass it on to Mr. Powers. If it’s minor, I handle it myself. It’s a judgment call.”

“But no one gets through to Mr. DuBois directly. They have to go through either you or Powers.”

“Mr. Robbins—Albert Robbins, Mr. DuBois’s personal lawyer—he gets through to Mr. DuBois directly, on his private line.”

Bernhardt took out his wallet, extracted the number he’d gotten from DuBois, recited the number. “Is that his private line?”

Amused, she said, “The only answer I can give you is yes and no. Mr. DuBois has three private lines—different levels of security, you might say. That number”—she nodded toward the slip of paper—“that’s the middle number.”

“The top number—who has that?”

She considered the request with obvious deliberation, then decided to say, “Only Mr. Powers, Mr. Robbins, and me, as far as I know. Three people.”

“The number I have—will he always answer that one?”

“About half his calls on any of the three numbers go to his answering machine. That’s because he spends about half his time resting, or being medicated or changed.”

“Changed?”

“He’s incontinent, Mr. Bernhardt. I thought you knew.”

“Jesus, no.” He shook his head. Then: “Mr. DuBois has no relatives.”

She shook her head. “Two ex-wives, that’s all. They’ve both remarried. Rich, and remarried.”

“And he has no children.”

She nodded. “No children.”

“God.” With feeling, Bernhardt shook his head. “All that money—that power. What good is it to him?”

“He has his paintings, his art. They mean a lot to him.” For the first time her voice was warm, her expression compassionate.

Bernhardt decided to probe. “When Betty left, it must’ve been hard for him.”

“Yes,” she answered, “it was.” Once more, quickly, her voice had gone neutral, her manner noncommittal. Had Grace been jealous of Betty, of Betty’s importance to DuBois? Would that account for her reactions?

“You started to tell me about the layout of the house. I’d like to see the grounds, too, the whole layout.”

“Now?” Expectantly she moved forward in her chair.

“Please.”

They were in the workshop, standing beside a head-high band saw. It was the last stop on a tour that had taken more than a half hour, a walk-through of all five levels of the mansion. On at least three occasions Grace Campbell had walked past closed doors, any one of which might have led to the secret gallery. Once, a test, Bernhardt had asked what lay behind one of the closed doors. “A bathroom,” Grace had answered casually, adding, “There’re thirteen bathrooms altogether.”

He gestured to the workbenches, the machinery. “Who operates this stuff?”

“James,” she said. “He’s the only one with a key to the master switch.”

Thinking back on their tour, Bernhardt said, “I’m impressed, obviously. But I guess I expected more opulence. More flash. After all, one of the world’s richest men—I guess I expected more on the scale of Buckingham Palace.”

“As I said earlier, Mr. DuBois isn’t interested in ostentation.”

“The matching Mercedes limos,” Bernhardt suggested. “A
little
display, maybe?”

Her smile was amiably condescending. “Those two cars are bulletproof, designed to deal with kidnappers or assassins. Even the undersides are armored, in case some terrorist rolls a grenade under the car. And Daimler-Benz, as it happens, offers the best deal on that kind of car.”

“I guess that’s my cue to say touché.” He checked the time: almost noon.

“Are you hungry?” Grace asked.

“No, thanks. But if you’ve got time, I’d like to run a few things by you, see what you think.”

Once more the small subtle smile twitched at her mouth and eyes. Yes, Bernhardt decided, the longer his exposure to Grace Campbell, the more substance he was discovering.

“Whether or not I’ve got the time, my orders are to accommodate you.”

“Okay, then—how about Betty’s office?”

“Fine.” She led the way to the office and sat on the couch, leaving Bernhardt to sit behind the desk.

“You probably know,” Bernhardt began, “that I’m here as a substitute for Betty Giles, who’s out of the country. Mr. DuBois is going to sell some of his paintings, and he wants me to handle the transaction—crate up the paintings, and make sure they get to where they’re going safely.”

She made no response, either by word or shift in body language. Perfectly composed, she simply waited for him to go on.

“I know James handles security for Mr. DuBois, so I’m going to have to work with him, especially when it comes time to actually move the paintings. However, I don’t find James very forthcoming.” He decided to break off, wait until she answered:

“James is waiting to get instructions from Mr. DuBois. He is very closemouthed. In a security man that’s a plus, I’d say.”

“I’d say so, too. But if I take this job on, I’ve got to know that I’m getting access to all the information I need. And the truth is—” He looked at her squarely, dropped his voice. “The truth is, the deeper I get into all this, the more I get the feeling that people aren’t telling me what I need to know—what I’ve
got
to know—if I’m going to get this job done.”

“When you say ‘people,’ are you including me?” She spoke evenly; her manner had acquired a certain brittleness, an edge. She was eyeing him steadily, making up her mind about him. Could she trust him? How far? For how long? Finally she gestured to an outside door. “There’s a rock grotto just down the hill. It’s very nice.” Without waiting for a response she rose, went to the door, punched a series of numbers on a small panel beside it. When a green light glowed, she stepped outside. Careful to close the door behind him, Bernhardt followed her down a slope to a wonderfully fashioned grotto, rocks and pools and ferns bowered over by low-growing branches. There were two benches made of natural rock and slabs of slate. As they sat facing each other, Bernhardt said, “Is Betty’s office bugged?”

“The whole house is wired,” she answered. “It’s security.”

“This grotto could be bugged, too.”

She shrugged. “Possibly.”

In her eyes he saw something stirring as she let her glance linger meaningfully with his. Did Grace Campbell have her own agenda?

“You don’t care whether we’re bugged?” Bernhardt asked.

Once more she shrugged. Her eyes were bolder now as she answered, “Life is a gamble, Mr. Bernhardt. Don’t you think so?”

“Of course. But it’s always smart to get the best odds available.” His smile was a carefully calculated invitation.

After a final search of his face, she began speaking in a crisp, clipped voice. This, Bernhardt realized, could be the real Grace Campbell.

“All through school,” she began, “I consistently scored about a hundred twenty-five or more on IQ tests. Which is to say that I’m no dummy.”

Bernhardt smiled, nodded appreciatively.

“When I was a little girl,” she continued, “my father had a lot of money. He made a couple of fortunes speculating in California real estate, mostly in the San Joaquin Valley. But he also lost a couple of fortunes. He also drank. When I was in high school—a private school—my father went broke. Then he died—cirrhosis of the liver. Then, surprise, my mother started to drink. So by the time I got out of Stanford, thirty years ago, all I had was the future.”

In sympathy, Bernhardt’s answering nod pantomimed heartfelt regret. They were orphans, both of them: orphans in their mid-forties. They shared the same pain, however dulled by time.

“Of course,” she said, “I married a man who was my father reincarnated. Except that my husband went to Stanford, and my father didn’t finish high school. Still—” She smiled, a rueful up-curving of her small, firm mouth. “Still, I had a daughter, and that helped. But then, about a year after my husband finally packed his bags and left, one jump ahead of his creditors, my daughter was killed. It was her senior prom night, from high school. Her date had just gotten his driver’s license, and he—” Suddenly she broke off, began to blink. From the waistband of her skirt she took a handkerchief, which she pressed to her mouth. She held herself rigidly, giving herself no quarter. Finally, in a low, deadened monotone, she said, “You seem to be a very perceptive man, Mr. Bernhardt. I’m sure you know that I’m not in the habit of baring my soul to someone I just met.”