The Golden Chance (23 page)

“Soon,” Nick promised as the elevator doors closed. “Very soon.”

He stepped out of the elevator on the second floor and found himself facing another woman seated behind a desk. But this face was familiar.

“Mr. Lightfoot! So good to see you again, sir.”

“Hello, Mrs. Gilford. How are you doing these days?”

“Just fine, just fine. But we've missed you around here, sir. Are you here to see your, uh, wife…I mean Mr. Lightfoot's wife?” Mrs Gilford's competent, middle-aged face flushed with embarrassment. “I mean, are you here to see Mrs. Lightfoot?” she finally got out.

“It's confusing, isn't it?” Nick said. “The answer is no.”

“Oh, good. Because she, I mean they, I mean everyone's at the place on the coast. Port Claxton, you know.” She flushed a darker red. “Good grief, listen to me, as if you don't know where Port Claxton is.”

“Don't worry about it, Mrs. Gilford,” Nick said gently. “I'm here to do a little work while the families are off enjoying a hard-earned vacation.”

“Work?” She stared at him in confusion. “You're coming back to work here at Castleton & Lightfoot?”

“That's right, Mrs. Gilford.”

She smiled broadly. “That's wonderful, sir. But what about Mrs. Lightfoot? Excuse me, I didn't mean to pry. I was just wondering if there had been an official change in duties?”

“The change will occur officially in August at the annual meeting. But I thought I'd come in today and look things over. Sort of get the feel of the place again, if you know what I mean.”

“Certainly, sir. Go right on in. If you have any questions, I might be able to contact Mr. Vellacott and have him return to the office. He left a little early but I'm sure I can reach him.”

“Don't bother, Mrs. Gilford. I won't be needing Vellacott.”

“Fine, sir. Uh, Mrs. Lightfoot has made a few changes in the office,” Mrs. Gilford added on a note of warning.

“I'm not surprised.”

Nor was he, but Nick winced anyway when he opened the door of the inner office. This had been his private kingdom when he had been the chief executive officer of Castleton & Lightfoot. The style he had maintained it in had been in keeping with the rest of the firm's physical plant: functional, unfussy and austere.

Now it was filled with exotic plants, lustrously polished Queen Anne-style furniture and an Oriental carpet on the floor. Hilary had moved right in and made herself at home. Probably with Eleanor's expert help.

Nick walked slowly around the office, opening desk drawers and examining the paintings on the wall. As far as he could tell, there was not a single Northwest artist represented in the collection of muted abstract works. Hilary had never really liked the Northwest, much less its art.

Nick paused beside the walnut desk, frowning at its delicate lines and curved, mincing little legs. Then he leaned forward and punched the button on the intercom. Time for another calculated risk.

“Mrs. Gilford, would you please bring me the Traynor file?”

“Certainly, sir. Just a minute.”

Nick sat down at the desk and waited. Time passed.

Five minutes later, Mrs. Gilford's voice came over the intercom. She sounded worried. “I'm sorry, Mr. Lightfoot. Did you say Traynor?”

“That's right.” He spelled it out for her, but he was already accepting the fact that this particular shot in the dark was not going to pan out. Hardly surprising. That would have been a little too easy.

“I can't seem to locate a file with that name on it. I'll take another look. Perhaps it's been misplaced.”

“Don't worry about it, Mrs. Gilford. I think I know where it is.”

“Very well, sir. Let me know if you want me to initiate a search.”

“Thanks.” He sat back and surveyed the room. Hilary had hung a subtly colored painting done in shades of mauve over the old wall safe. His father had always kept a portrait of a springer spaniel there. When Nick had moved in, he had left the spaniel in place. Something about the patient, mournful gaze had amused him.

He got up, went over to the painting and lifted it down from the wall. If Hilary had changed the combination on the safe, he would have to call in a professional locksmith. That would take time, but he didn't have much choice. He tried the old combination on the off chance that she had left it alone. Funny how he could still remember the numbers after three years.

The safe did not yield. Nick was about to get out the phone book to find a locksmith, when it occurred to him that Hilary had no talent for memorizing numbers. You couldn't help learning a few things about someone when you lived with her for eighteen months. Hilary could not even remember a telephone number. She always wrote down addresses, phone numbers and bank-card codes. She was very meticulous about that kind of thing.

Nick started going through the small drawers of the old desk, looking for a string of digits that might have been jotted down in a convenient location. Eventually he gave up on the desk and tried other places in the room. He finally got around to turning over the abstract painting that had covered the wall safe. He found the combination neatly lettered in Hilary's precise handwriting on the back. Very convenient.

Three minutes later he reached inside the safe and removed two thin files. Neither of them carried labels, but it did not take long to figure out which one was the Traynor file.

There was probably little new to be learned from the file, but the fact that it even existed confirmed what Nick had already concluded. The rumors he'd picked up in California had been true. Hilary was working a deal with Traynor. C&L was about to be slowly and quietly drawn and quartered. By the time the families realized what was happening, it would be too late.

Half an hour later Nick put the files back in the wall safe and rehung the painting. He had been right, there wasn't much in the folder that was new but it had made fascinating reading, nevertheless.

He shook his head as he stepped back to be certain the painting was hung straight. He knew, because Eleanor had assured him of the fact, that Hilary had great taste. But there was no way he was ever going to learn to like mauve. He thought of Philadelphia in her bright plumage and smiled. Then he turned and walked out the door.

“Mrs. Gilford, I have one other project for you this afternoon.”

“Of course.”

“Would you contact whatever newspaper is published in Holloway and see if they've got anything in their files on the conviction or sentencing of an Elijah Spalding?”

Mrs. Gilford frowned as she jotted down the name. “Spalding?”

“That's right.”

“I believe there's a Holloway in eastern Washington; is that the town you mean?”

“Yeah. If you turn up anything, see if they'll fax us a copy of the article. Thank you, Mrs. Gilford.”

“Not at all.” She smiled expectantly. “Will you be back on a permanent basis soon, Mr. Lightfoot?” Mrs. Gilford asked.

“Soon,” Nick promised.

Out in the parking lot, he eased the Porsche from its slot and headed downtown. The cluster of high-rise buildings that dominated Seattle's central business area stretched upward into a cloudless July sky.

Elliott Bay looked like a blue mirror on which someone had artfully arranged a variety of long cargo ships and bright white ferryboats. There were very few pleasure craft on this part of the bay, however. This was a working port, and there was little room for frivolous vessels. The yachts and sailing boats stuck to Lake Union or Lake Washington or ventured out into Puget Sound to go island-hopping.

Nick took 99 into town, traveling the elevated viaduct along the waterfront. He glanced down once and saw the ferry from Bainbridge Island docking. The sight gave him an odd feeling. Bainbridge was where the Castletons and Lightfoots had built their main residences.

Nick turned off the viaduct on Seneca Street. He went left on First Avenue and drove past Pike Place Market to a concrete-and-glass condominium building that overlooked the bay.

He hadn't been in the condo for three years. On occasion he'd toyed with the idea of renting it out or even selling it, but he had always changed his mind at the last minute. Instead, he'd kept paying a cleaning and maintenance service to keep it in good condition even though he had not been certain until recently that he would ever come back to it.

Set near the year-round street fair that was the Market and equipped with a wall-to-wall view of Elliott Bay and the Olympics, the condo had been the one place he could be sure of being alone when he wished. Hilary hadn't liked the place. She preferred the Bainbridge Island home.

Even though she had not cared for downtown living, Hilary had managed to leave her mark on the condo. He had brought her here in the early days of their marriage, hoping that being away from the family home might help solve their problems.

No problems had been solved, but Hilary had immediately dedicated herself to redecorating the condo, and Nick walked in the door now to find things exactly as she had left them. The rooms were filled with dark mahogany, pine and walnut furnishings that could have come straight out of a New England colonial home.

Lightfoots, Nick reflected, appeared to be doomed to live in the past even though their business was strictly high-tech.

As he poured himself a glass of scotch from the bottle he'd left behind three years ago, Nick speculated idly on what Phila would do with the condo if she were given free rein. He'd probably wind up with fuschia walls and a lime-green carpet. He grinned at the thought.

The phone rang just as he was wondering where in the Market he would go for dinner.

“Mr. Lightfoot, I'm glad I caught you. We just got the article from the
Holloway Reporter
,” Mrs. Gilford announced. “Will there be anything else?”

“No, thanks, Mrs. Gilford. You've been a great help. I'll pick up the fax sheet in the morning before I leave town.”

His father had been right. It was time he checked into the story surrounding the trial that had put Elijah Spalding in jail. Nick realized he was beginning to feel a strong sense of responsibility toward one Philadelphia Fox.

On the morning after Nick had left to fly down to Santa Barbara, Phila found a pay phone at a gas station on the outskirts of Port Claxton. Her conversation was brief, and after she replaced the receiver she stood for a moment watching the gas-station attendant wash the windows of her car.

The words of Nick's secretary at Lightfoot Consulting Services in Santa Barbara rang in her ears.

“I'm sorry, but Mr. Lightfoot is not in the office and is not expected for some time. He's on vacation. Mr. Plummer is in charge. He'll be glad to talk to you. Whom shall I say is calling?”

Phila's response had been short and to the point. “Nobody.”

She studied the gas-station attendant more closely as she stood mulling over what she had just learned. The grizzled, middle-aged man was on the scrawny side. He was wearing grease-stained coveralls and a cap that looked as if it had been run over by a car. He appeared to have made a career out of this line of work. Phila eased away from the pay phone and started toward her car.

So Nick had not flown down to California, or if he had, he hadn't bothered to check in with his office. That was nothing short of upsetting—even alarming—given the fact that he had said he was going down there on business.

No matter how you looked at it, Nick had lied to her.

She did not know precisely what had made her call. She had told herself she certainly was not checking up on him, but when you got right down to it that was just what she had done. She'd checked up, and Nick had not checked out. She wished she knew what to do with the unsettling information.

“Thanks for doing the windows,” Phila said to the attendant as she climbed into the car. There was a twinge in her shoulder as she got behind the wheel. That heavy, ugly revolver she had been forced to practice with for two solid hours under the watchful eyes of Nick, his father, Darren and Tec Sherman yesterday had made itself felt. Her arms and shoulders were aching as if she'd been doing a lot of push-ups. She wrinkled her nose as she recalled that she was scheduled for another workout with Tec later in the afternoon.

“You're that lady who's stayin' out at the old Gilmarten place, ain't ya? The one who's shacked up—I mean, the one's who's here with Nick Lightfoot?” The attendant peered at Phila as he took the cash from her hand.

“Yes, I am staying at the Gilmarten place,” Phila confirmed with a well-chilled smile. Small towns were all the same. Everyone felt a proprietorial interest in everyone else's business. “No, I am not with Nick Lightfoot. I am on my own.”

The attendant did not seem to understand that he was displaying bad manners. He just looked puzzled. “But he's stayin' there with you, ain't he? I heard you and him were there together. Everyone wondered when he'd come back. Can't blame him for staying away so long, though. Not after his wife up and married his father. Kinda weird, you know? Maybe Nick thought it'd be easier to come back if he had another woman in tow. A man's got his pride.”

Phila refused to respond to that. She turned on the compact's ignition and whipped the steering wheel to the right. Without more than a cursory glance to the left, she swung the little red car out onto the main street and headed back toward the Gilmarten place. The two-lane highway that followed the beach was clogged with campers, trailers and motor homes.