A ruling passion : a novel (62 page)

"On the basis of the evidence we have, that's the only conclusion we can draw."

"But he talked about a woman. He said he would have thought she might do... something."

"We included that in the report, but people do call planes and boats 'she,' and we've found no evidence of a woman. The mechanics at the Placid airport didn't see one; neither did anyone in the terminal. These accusations, you know... they were made at a time when you were probably in shock; you may not have heard too clearly. And your husband did admit he lost control. He apologized to you for it. And all the passengers said he was delirious. You did, too."

"I said he was feverish and excited. I hope this report doesn't misquote me."

"I don't think it does. I'm sorry, Mrs. Sterling. We would have liked to answer all your questions, but we aren't always able to do that."

"I'm sorry, too," Valerie said stiffly, and stood where she was while he left.

Rosemary took one look at her face and went into the kitchen. In a moment, Valerie heard the sound of running water, and dishes banging against each other. I wonder how many she'll break, she thought.

Not many, she decided. Mother cares about china. She'll discover, to her great disappointment, that she's very good at doing dishes.

She looked at the report in her hand. I don't know any more now than I did nine months ago. I assumed all those investigators would take care of it for me, but all they did was blame Carlton. How easy to do that; he's dead.

But why shouldn't I do that, too? He wiped me out; why should I defend him?

Because I believed him when he said someone had done something to the plane. And if that was true—if there's the slightest possibility that it's true—that person murdered Carl and almost murdered the rest of us, and I want to know who it was. That isn't idle curiosity; that's a desire for justice.

She glanced at the report again. What could she do that teams of government investigators could not do? She had no idea. But if a woman had been involved, she wanted to know it. Until now, for some reason she hadn't wanted to pursue it; it opened too many awful possibilities. But now she had to know. Carl had been having an affair; she was sure of that. Why not assume tliat was the woman he'd been accusing? And there was the money. No one had found it, but maybe they hadn't looked in the right places. There were those shady characters Sybille said she saw Carl with in New York; maybe they knew something about the money, and maybe that had something to do with the plane crash. I'll have to talk to Sybille, she thought. I should be able to manage that. Now that I don't work for her anymore, we can be civil to each other, as long as we keep it short.

"Valerie?" Rosemary called. "Where does the cream pitcher go?"

'Til show you," Valerie said. Suddenly she was filled with energy. There was so much to do. As soon as she could take some time off work, or organize her weekends so she had some hours to herself, she would do her own investigating. She wouldn't rely on other people anymore; she'd do it herself. And this time she would get the answers she wanted. She wasn't going to stop until she did.

Chapter

22

r/1

I m / ybille stood in the side doorway of the Cathedral

V_^K^ of Joy, watching the congregation stream into the

^1 ^K warmth and brightness from the drizzling No-

^ ^^r vember day. The organ music mingled with the

voices of a thousand people, and Sybille looked at

her watch, picturing, to the minute, what Lily was doing in her small

suite behind the altar. First she would stand quiedy while her maid

slipped over her head one of her ankle-length white silk and lace

dresses she bought with the help of Sybille's personal shopper at Saks

Fifth Avenue, buttoned it up the back, then knelt to put on her white

flat-heeled shoes. Then she would sit at her dressing table while the

cosmetics expert Sybille had hired fastened a huge bib around her and

made up her face. Lily still thought it wrong, but when she saw how

sickly she looked on television without it, she reluaandy agreed that it

had to be done. Her maid would brush her long hair until it flowed

over her shoulders like a silken veil that would reflect the television

lights, while Lily reread her notes from the morning sermon, repeating

phrases to make sure they were what Sybille wanted, spoken in the

way her voice coach had taught her. At one minute to ten she would

leave the suite and walk down the corridor to a heavy door at the side of the altar, and wait there until she received word that everyone was seated. The taping had begun five minutes earlier, to record "The Hour of Grace" for repeat broadcasts around the country.

At precisely 10 a.m., as the organ rose to a crescendo, the heavy door swung open and Lily appeared, small and fragile against the background of solid oak. The worshipers who sat in front saw her first; they craned for a better view, and that alerted those behind them, so that they were ready, some of them even standing on their toes for a clearer look, when Lily walked slowly, pensively, up the marble steps to the marble altar and then to the marble pulpit etched with tall graceful lilies reaching up as if to embrace her as she stood there, head lowered, eyes closed in prayer, waiting for everyone to be seated again and the music to die away.

Unseen by the audience and the camera, Sybille nodded as everything was done to the minute. It was her best production: pure, un-subtle drama with nothing to distract the audience from its concentration on Lily Grace. It was the kind that played best anywhere, and especially on a small screen. It was one of the reasons that "The Hour of Grace" was a goldmine.

"Such a dear girl," Floyd Bassington said, coming up beside Sybille. "I never saw anyone do God's work more sublimely."

My work, Sybille thought. She looked up at the vast height of her cathedral, its stained glass lit from behind, making it seem that the sun always shone on Lily Grace. She looked at Lily, gesturing carefully for the cameras and the congregation as all one thousand of them leaned forward, toward her high, sweet voice. She looked behind her, at the town of Graceville, rising firom the rich Virginia soil. Mine, she exulted. Mine.

For a fleeting moment, she felt satisfied. It was all because of her. She did it all, from behind the scenes. Once she had wanted everyone to know she was there. Now she wanted them to be unaware of her, to have no idea who had power over them, or how it was being used, or how they were being manipulated. No one knew. But everything here —and much that was not visible—was here because of her, and no one else. It was all hers.

"Arch and Monte are here," Bassington said. His hand was kneading her arm above her elbow, and Sybille moved away.

"Let's not keep them waiting," she said, and walked ahead of him across the trampled grass behind the church to a two-story white house with a broad firont porch. It had been there when the board

bought the land with Carlton's thirteen million dollars, and, rather than tear it down, they had made it the headquarters of the Hour of Grace Foundation. Bassington had converted the living room to a luxurious office in black puka wood and nail-studded suede; the other rooms were used by secretaries, clerks and bookkeepers, twelve in all. The renovation had been completed in September, and the operations that had been spread between Fairfax and Culpeper were now centralized in Graceville.

Sybille found the others waiting in Bassington's office. Monte James, treasurer of the Hour of Grace Foundation, and president of James Trust and Savings, was tall and slouching, with pouches beneath his eyes, flaring nostrils above full lips, and a protruding stomach bisected by a cowboy belt. He wore embossed cowboy boots with high heels, whether he was in a tuxedo or bluejeans. He was taller than Arch Warman, vice president and secretary of the Hour of Grace Foundation and president of Warman Developers and Contractors, but Arch was wider: egg-shaped from his sloping shoulders to his ample hips, with small feet and hands, twinkling eyes behind square, black-rimmed glasses, and dyed black hair left gray at the temples, because he thought it was dignified. The two of them sat on a suede sofa, a bottle of Scotch, a pitcher of water, a plate of doughnuts and a thermos of coffee on the black coffee table before them.

"Ah, breakfast," Bassington said with satisfaction. "Sybille?"

"Coffee." She put her briefcase on the table, beside the doughnuts, but did not open it. "Begin," she said to Bassington.

He handed her a cup of coffee. "Jim and Tammy Bakker. The newscasts are having a field day with them. Why doesn't that damn story die out? Most stories do; this one just gets bigger."

"Greed, sex and money," said Arch Warman. "Why should it go away? Ifs what everybody wants to hear about."

'*Well, they don't want to hear about us," Monte James said. "I've been thinking about it; we're too dull for the press. No greed and no sex; just straight business."

"Straight," said Warman with a laugh.

Bassington studied his fingernails.

"You've been careftil," Sybille said. "I don't see a trail leading to you, even if the networks send out their dogs."

"Might get rid of a few perks, though," Warman said thoughtfiilly. 'T mean, one of those smart-ass lady tv reporters checks into us and finds we're flying a Citation, and driving pretty cars like Monte's

Porsche and my BMW and Floyd's Mercedes, shit, she might get to wondering about what a religious board needs with all that high living and where we get the moola for it."

"You don't get rid of anything," Sybille said. "Those are legitimate expenses. Are they looking at all the tv ministries?"

"I imagine they'll get to all of 'em sooner or later," Warman said. "Most of'em are red meat to a hungry lion. But we're okay, you know. You're right, Syb: we've been very good. Very careful, very clever, almost invisible. We don't leave a trail like the Bakkers."

"Don't get smug," she said. "Lily hates smugness."

There was heavy silence. There was always a heavy silence when Sybille let drop Lily's name in that way, a casual reminder that there would be nothing without Lily, and there would be no Lily without Sybille.

"Monte," said Sybille, and felt the brief flush of pleasure it gave her every time she snapped out their names and watched them leap to respond.

"Donations this year will top seventy-five mill," Monte said prompdy. He sat back, speaking without notes, reviewing the finances for the year that was drawing to a close. From the seventy-five million dollars, Monte and Warman and Bassington would pay for the Foundation jet, their cars and their travels. They would skim ten percent of the cash that came in the mail and divide it among the three of them and Sybille, with Sybille taking the largest share. They would pay the highly inflated charges from Sybille Morgen Productions for producing Lily Grace's Sunday-morning service and Wednesday night's "At Home with Reverend Grace." And they would pay the legitimate administrative costs of the Hour of Grace Foundation: postage, equipment, supplies, office maintenance, the salaries of secretaries, clerks and bookkeepers.

"Graceville," Monte said pleasantly, and reviewed those figures. The initial phase for building the town would take one hundred and fifty million dollars. By borrowing the money they could complete construction in two years. That was made possible by the fact that James Trust and Savings made regular construction loans to the Foundation as they were needed. The loans were made at thirteen percent interest at a time when most construction loans were at eleven percent. The extra two percent was distributed to Monte, Warman, Bassington, and Sybille, who took the largest share.

There was a brief silence when Monte finished. "Arch," said Sybille.

Arch Warman's black eyes twinkled. "Marrach Construction is right on schedule. The retail stores, restaurants, what have you, will be finished as scheduled, in early June; they'll open when the first wing of the hotel does, at the end of July. Recreation facilities moving right along; the}^ll open between July and the end of the year. The town homes will be last; we're scheduling them after the hotel is finished, which won't be until a year from now, but we'll sell them early at pre-construaion prices from plans, drawings and a model home. So far I don't foresee any cost overruns; everything is coming in on budget." He beamed at them. There was no need to mention the prices charged to the Foundation by Marrach Construction, Inc., wholly owned by Arch Warman and created solely for the purpose of building Graceville. All prices, for materials and labor, were twenty percent above the prices that other construction companies would have charged, and the extra money was returned to Monte, Warman, Bas-sington, and Svbille, who took the largest share.

"Floyd," Sybille said.

Bassington put down his doughnut and read from his notes. "The ftill board of directors of the Foundation will meet on Thursday of this week; I'll be proposing Lars Olssen as a new direaor. He's a minister, teaches religion at Fletcher School for Girls; married, four kids, a good, solid reputation. Exactly what we need."

"That gives us seven," Warman said. "Four besides the three of us. Sounds like too many to me,"

"It's the upper limit," Bassington responded. "But I'd hate to lose Olssen; he's so damn respectable..."

Monte frowned. "It's too heavy on the other side. Syb, if you'd be a director, I'd feel better about it."

"No," she said. Her muscles had tightened; she did not like surprises. "I don't intend to be up front."

"I think maybe you should," Monte insisted. "I'd feel a whole lot better if we were all the same level, right up front."

"Up front," Warman said and laughed.

"Is that your ftill report."" Sybille asked Bassington.

"I raised a question," Monte snapped. "I want you on the board. This whole Foundation is your baby, you had it all on paper before we came on board, and you did a nice job, we like what you did, but that was a while ago and we're overdue for a few changes."