Lost and Found (15 page)

It had also required several thousand dollars of Vesta’s money to buy Leandra out of the foolish marriage to the self-proclaimed artist, but he decided not to mention that small fact. It wasn’t as if Sylvia wasn’t well aware of it. If
he brought it up, however, she would become defensive on her cousin’s behalf. The Briggs family stuck together. For the most part he considered it an endearing trait. The only time it became irritating was when the clan extended their definition of family to include Randall Post.

“Getting back to this situation with Cady,” Sylvia said, “the thing is, her biological clock is ticking. That kind of loud noise can be extremely distracting to a woman, regardless of how smart she happens to be. It makes her vulnerable.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Sylvia opened her menu. “Also, don’t forget that she can be impulsive. Remember how she walked away from Chatelaine’s a few years ago? And then there was that farce of a marriage to Randall.”

“Okay, I’ll grant you that she’s got a bit of a wild streak. I still don’t think you should leap to any conclusions about Easton until you’ve got more information.”

Sylvia tapped the corner of the menu against the table and looked thoughtful. “You’re right. We need to find out more about him.”

“Cady and her Mr. Easton are due to arrive tomorrow. You’ll meet him soon enough.”

“This is such a mess.” Sylvia sighed in frustration. “What on earth did Vesta think she was doing? Why did she change her mind about those shares?”

“We’ll probably never know the answer to that.” Gardner smiled humorlessly. “Unless, of course, you can persuade that psychic she was seeing to hold a séance, or whatever they call those sessions with the dearly departed.”

“And that’s another thing,” Sylvia muttered. “Why was Vesta seeing that phony, Arden? She hated charlatans and frauds. She must have been losing it there at the end. Some sort of subtle dementia, probably.”

“Had to be pretty subtle. She seemed her usual self to me.”

In his private opinion, the old tyrant had remained true to form right to the end. It was just like Vesta to throw the family into an uproar one last time before departing for the next world. Little wonder that there had been few tears shed at the funeral, he thought.

“I’ve talked to Stanford and Randall,” Sylvia said. “Told them both what was going on. Explained that we now have to get Cady’s approval for the merger to take place.”

“There’s no reason why she shouldn’t be in favor of it.”

“Don’t count on it. A merger would mean some big changes for us. Overnight the company would start operating on a much larger scale. The board of directors would be expanded. There would be several new partners added. Cady doesn’t like big business. She prefers to run her own show single-handedly.”

“So do you,” he said before he stopped to think.

Sylvia’s gaze sharpened and then, to his chagrin, something that might have been uncertainty flickered in the depths of her blue eyes. He put out his hand and touched her fingers.

“That’s what makes you a natural for the CEO’s chair in the new Chatelaine-Post,” he said quickly.

“Being able to run a business is fine as far as it goes. But Cady’s the one with the eye. Remember how she picked out that genuine Riesener cabinet from the pile of reproductions in the Guthrie consignment? And those French clock cases she found at an estate sale? Those English panels that turned up at auction?”

“Having a good eye for art and antiques does not make her a terrific choice for running a business. You know that, and I think Vesta did too. It takes sound management skills and a corporate vision to make the gallery turn a profit. Hell, you can
buy
all the expert eyes you need on your staff. Cady couldn’t possibly replace you in the CEO’s office.”

“Well, that is no longer a sure thing, is it?” Sylvia said quietly. “Cady inherited enough shares not only to block the merger but to determine who becomes the next CEO.”

“Maybe she’ll decide that she doesn’t want to return to an active role in Chatelaine’s,” Gardner said.

“If that was the case, she would have turned her shares over to me or someone else in the family. No, she’s coming back for a reason. I think Mack Easton may be it.”

“You believe that he’s the one who convinced her to hang onto those shares she inherited from Vesta?”

“Yes,” Sylvia said. “Think about it. His presence in her life is the only thing that has altered since she decided she did not want to be a part of Chatelaine’s. There’s no other explanation for her decision to come back. Easton is angling for a piece of the action, trust me.”

“Are you seriously suggesting that some man has a hold on Cady that is strong enough to allow him to manipulate her? This is your cousin we’re talking about.”

Sylvia hesitated. “It does sound a little far-fetched, doesn’t it?”

“Very.”

“You think I’m overreacting?”

“Let’s just say that I think you’re heavily into a worst-case scenario here. Then again, that’s what CEOs are paid to assess.”

“What do you believe is going on?” she shot back in obvious exasperation. “Your instincts are very good when it comes to judging people. Where do you think Easton fits into this picture?”

“Maybe it’s all very simple.” Gardner put down his menu and picked up his coffee cup. “Maybe the guy’s in love with her.”

Sylvia looked briefly startled by that possibility. Then she frowned and shook her head. “I don’t buy it. The timing of this announcement about an impending engagement is just too coincidental.”

“If you’re right,” Gardner said slowly, “you’ve got a big problem.”

She gripped the menu. “Not as big a problem as Cady will have if she marries an opportunist thinking that he’s the man she’s been waiting for all of her life.”

T
he phone rang just as Leandra was finishing
chapter five
of
Breaking the Bad-Boy Habit: The Thinking Woman’s Guide to Finding and Appreciating Nice Guys
. She put the book down on top of the large pile of similarly titled self-help books that cluttered her coffee table and scooped up the phone.

“Hello, Parker,” she said without preamble. “I was hoping you would get home early. I was thinking about drinks and dinner at one of the marina restaurants. How does that sound?”

There was a short, terse silence on the other end of the line.

“It’s me,” Dillon said.

Oh, damn. At the sound of her ex-husband’s voice, she tightened her grip on the phone. “What do you want, Dillon?”

“I was just calling to see if you might be interested in spending the weekend here in the city.”

“With you?”

“That was the plan.”

“The answer is no. Dillon, listen to me. I want you to stop calling, do you understand? This is the third time since the funeral.”

“Damn it, you won’t even give me a chance.”

“I gave you a lot of chances while we were married and you blew off all of them, remember?”

“That was a long time ago.”

“The last incident was eighteen months ago, as I recall.”

“Things have changed.
I’ve
changed. I tried to tell you that when I saw you at your great-aunt’s funeral.”

Her gaze fell on the cover of the book she had been reading. She recalled the advice in
chapter five
….
Falling for bad boys is a bad habit. As with all bad habits, it takes willpower and practice to break the pattern. Remember: the key word in the phrase
bad boy
is
boy.
When he calls and tries to whine his way back into your life say to yourself, “I am a mature woman. I don’t date immature boys.”
…

“Why did you bother to come to the funeral, anyway?” she asked aloud. “You never cared for Aunt Vesta.”

“Give me a break, you can’t hold that against me,” he muttered. “A lot of people didn’t care for your aunt. Hell, most folks didn’t even like her very much. But I noticed that a whole lot of them showed up at the funeral.”

She could not deny that. The church had been filled to overflowing. Vesta had wielded power and influence in her corner of the art world. She had also been a pillar of the community here in Phantom Point. Still, it had been a shock to see Dillon in the large crowd pretending to mourn the passing of Vesta Briggs.

“Dillon—”

“You want to know why I came to the funeral?” His voice took on that earnest, husky tone that had always sent shivers down her spine. “I wanted to see you, that’s why. I wanted to talk to you. Explain things.”

“I don’t know where you’re going with this, Dillon.”

“I want to try again.”

“Try what?”

“Our marriage.”

I am a mature woman. I don’t date immature boys
.

“I’m sorry, Dillon,” she said. “But I don’t think this is good for either of us. We both need to get on with our lives.”

“I have gotten on with my life. Leandra, listen, a major gallery has taken an interest in my work. I’m going to have my first big show in a few months. I’m on my way.”

“I’ve heard that before, Dillon. Please, I really can’t talk to you. I’m dating a very nice man these days.”

“That guy I saw you with at the funeral?” Dillon’s voice rose on a scathing note. “He’s old enough to be your father.”

“That’s not true. Parker’s only forty-two.”

“Probably needs medication to get it up in bed.”

“Stop it. Stop it right now, do you hear me? Parker is a wonderful, thoughtful man. He takes me to nice places. We went to Hawaii a couple of months ago.”

“I still say he’s too old for you.”

“So what? You’re too
young
for me.”

“What are you talking about?” Dillon demanded. “You and I are the same age.”

“Chronologically speaking, yes,” she said primly. “But not in terms of emotional development. I am a mature woman. I don’t date immature boys.”

“Where in hell did you learn to talk like that? You reading those dumb self-help books again?”

She did not respond. Instead, very gently she replaced the receiver. When the phone rang again she did not answer. She sat for a while thinking about past mistakes and how hard it was to break bad habits.

C
ady stood in the center of the two-story vault, the small gold key in her hand, and turned slowly on her heel. She surveyed the tiers of exquisite boxes, chests and small cabinets that lined every shelf of every wall.

There were hundreds of them, large and small, each one a work of art and an example of brilliant craftsmanship. They spanned the centuries and the millennia. One shelf held a selection of elaborately decorated medieval boxes, some designed as reliquaries, others made to hold the simple necessities of daily life such as needles and thread. Another case displayed gleaming sixteenth-century boxes made of chiseled steel damascened with gold. They had been produced by the same master craftsmen who had forged swords and armor. Jewelry boxes etched and nielloed in impossibly convoluted motifs and studded with semiprecious stones were arranged on the shelves above the balcony level.

Renaissance-era boxes that had been gilded and enameled until they glowed with a light of their own stood behind glass panels on the rear wall. Breathtaking little boxes fashioned out of rock crystal and jaspar and onyx in
the seventeenth century filled another section of shelving. Ancient boxes crafted of carved alabaster and jade occupied a case near the steel door that secured the vault room.

Mack halted in the opening and glanced around the windowless vault. “So this is where you disappeared while I was unpacking.”

“Yes.”

He studied the heavy steel door. “I assume there is a way out if this thing were to accidentally swing shut.”

“The lock is computer coded on the outside but there’s a manual latch inside.”

“That’s good to know.” He studied a small ebony and gold box in the case that was nearest to him. “Quite a collection.”

“Aunt Vesta collected boxes for five decades. She used to say that there was something about them that reflected the most fundamental aspects of human nature.”

Mack took his attention off the ebony box and looked at her. “That would be?”

“Our need to keep secrets.” She glanced at an early seventeenth-century enameled box. The lid and sides of the delicately gilded chest were decorated with scenes of an obviously illicit love affair. “The wish to bury our mistakes. The urge to hide the unpleasant parts of ourselves and our pasts. Our desire for privacy.”

“Could be.” He did not move from the doorway. “Or maybe these fancy boxes just symbolized those things for your aunt.”

“Maybe.”

“Did Vesta Briggs have a lot of secrets?”

She stroked the lid of the gilded chest. “She was eighty-six years old when she died. I have a hunch that by that age most people have acquired a lot of secrets. I think they’re entitled to keep them.”

“I won’t argue with that.”

She opened her fingers. Gold glinted in the palm of her
hand. “The lawyer gave me a sealed envelope after the funeral. Inside was a note and this key.”

He nodded as if he already knew about both. Then she recalled that Vesta’s letter and the key had been on the coffee table in her condo the day he had arrived, unannounced, at her door. So the man was observant. So what? Wasn’t that why she had hired him?

“What was in the note?” he asked.

Without a word she removed it from the pocket of her trousers and handed it to him.

Mack took the single sheet of paper from her hand. He searched her face briefly and then read the note aloud. She knew the words by heart.