A Woman of Fortune (19 page)

“What does all that mean?” her mother asked, bending and letting her dogs jump to the floor.

Claire barely suppressed the emotion welling up inside. “It means my baby is in trouble.”

Only then did she notice one of the Yorkies crouched and peeing on her floor.

25

L
ainie leaned against the back of the plush hotel sofa, one hand holding her cell phone in place. With her other, she picked at berries on the room service tray. “Is Mom okay?”

Max's voice came quick. “Define
okay
.”

“Yeah, I get it. But seriously, Max. How's she taking the news?” Lainie popped a blueberry in her mouth. “It's been on every blasted channel since yesterday.”

“Mom's been trying frantically to reach Garrett. But Superboy's been in hiding and won't take anybody's calls. That attorney Marcy's dad hired has got him scared spitless and he's afraid to talk—even to us.”

“Cut Garrett some slack, Max. You would be too if you'd been working for Dad. Look how they came after Madoff's sons.”

“If that's the case, I should be heading for the hills too, I suppose.”

Lainie reached for a crescent. “Ha, with the car you drive, no one would believe you were stashing money.”

“Look, Lainie, I think you need to come home. Especially now that our grandmother showed up.”

“I will. Just not yet.”

“But Mom's going to need you.”

Lainie wedged the phone with her shoulder and buttered the flaky roll. “She's got you. And Jana Rae.” She took a bite and chewed, not caring that it was rude to talk and eat at the same time. “Have you talked to Dad?”

“Huh-uh. You?”

“Nope.” She set the roll back on the china plate. “Frankly, I don't know what to say to him. I mean, he just ripped life out from under our entire family.”

Several seconds passed. “You there?” Lainie asked, sadness creeping into her voice.

“I'm here.” Max sighed on the other end. “Lainie, where are you anyway?”

“Don't worry about me right now. I'm going to be fine.” She forced a brightness, one that didn't quite feel authentic. “You know me. I always land on my feet.” Lainie moved the tray onto the sofa table. “Look, Max. I—I've got to go.”

“Okay, but stay in touch. And Lainie?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you. So does Mom.”

Lainie slapped her phone shut and tossed it on the table, trying to ignore a twinge of guilt. She was the older sister, but like so often, it was her little brother who sensed her need and filled it.

She had been only three when her mother became pregnant again. Even at that early age, Lainie resented another kid coming on the family scene. Garrett already scooped up much of her parents' attention. Clear through high school and into college, he was the one who did everything they wanted. Student of the month. Thrilled their father with Hail Mary passes and eighty-yard runs to win the game. Her parents had produced the perfect child.

But Max changed everything. He drove all of them crazy with his antics. He wasn't naughty exactly, but Mom called him “the inquisitive one.” He took Dad's computer apart to see how the thing ran. On the internet, he learned how to make a potato gun and shot out all the stable windows with large Idaho russets.

Max never sat still in church, his shirt never stayed tucked in. On his sixteenth birthday, he broke the family rule and got a tattoo. A heart—sliced, with blood dripping.

Garrett would never break a family rule.

And her? Well, she was the pretty one.

Lainie stood and moved to the window. She opened the drapes, revealing a view of Reunion Tower. She'd pictured her life much differently today. If that awful night at the Adolphus had never happened, she would've been knee-deep in wedding plans, worrying about rehearsals, blush-pink tulips, and the society pages. She'd be practicing how she'd stand by Reece on election night, smiling just right for the cameras.

Now all those dreams were gone. Thanks to her father.

Sure, she was sorry for her mother. For all her annoying habits, she was a good person. She didn't deserve any of this. Even though Lainie loved her mother, she had to look out for her own future now. She turned from the window and closed her eyes.

They'd even taken her horse. But she'd have Pride back by the end of the week. She'd made sure of that.

“Lainie, who were you talking to on the phone?” a voice called from the private balcony off the far side of the penthouse suite.

“Uh, just my brother. Nothing important.” Lainie opened her eyes and forced a wide smile, telling herself she'd made the right decision. Everything would turn out okay.

She peeked her head out the sliding doors. “Coming inside for breakfast?”

Sidney McAlvain grinned as he stood and set his cigar in an ashtray. “Not yet. This hot tub is calling my name.”

He dropped the towel from his robust middle, adjusted his trunks, and climbed in.

26

C
laire closed her cell phone, stunned.

“What is it, Claire?” Her mother looked over top her sunglasses, licked a finger, and flipped a glossy magazine page. “You look like you just bit into a sugar-dusted beignet filled with blue cheese and codfish.”

Claire lifted from the chaise lounge and walked to the edge of the portico. She looked out at the pond, where a turtle basked on a slimy green log, soaking up the sun.

In the background, her mother chattered. “‘Is There Life after Fifty?' What kind of article is that? I should have moved to Europe, where they appreciate women of age and what we have to offer.” She paused. “Claire, what are you doing?”

She slowly turned. “That was Tuck's attorney. I've been subpoenaed to testify before the grand jury. So has Max.”

“Tell that attorney to get you out of it. Isn't that what you pay him for?”

“Doesn't work like that, Mama.” Claire moved for the French doors and headed inside.

How had her life become such a sinkhole? Seemed she'd been sucked into a hole filled with media innuendo and legal threats that felt endless, leaving her drawn down, left to talk to her children on
the phone with snippets of cheer, masking the pain of knowing she couldn't scoop them all back home and nestle them under her protective feathers.

She was a captive to a life she never planned with no way to escape, sorting and packing while her fluffy-slippered warden read magazines.

In her bedroom, she opened the bedside table drawer and retrieved a manila envelope filled with the papers Ranger's secretary gave her when Tuck left. “This is the family packet,” she'd explained.

Claire opened the clasp and slid out the contents, which contained a booklet from the Bureau of Prisons. She thumbed to the section titled “Telephone Calls.”

The bedside clock indicated she'd hit the window of time allowed for contact just right. With shaking fingers, she dialed the appropriate number and pulled the phone to her ear.

After three rings, the phone clicked and someone picked up. “Bureau of Prisons. FCI Bastrop.” The abrupt voice startled Claire. “Inmate number?”

“What?” Her hand riffled through the papers. She lifted what appeared to be an information sheet that contained Tuck's number. She recited his eight-digit identifier into the phone.

“Name?”

“Tuck—er, I mean, Theodore Massey.”

“Hold.”

Several minutes passed before another click. “Hello?”

Claire heard Tuck's familiar voice. Her breath caught in her chest. “Tuck? It's me, Claire.”

“Hey, baby.”

Tuck had been away nearly six weeks. In that time, they'd only talked one other time, and then briefly. In the recesses of her mind, she found it easier to pretend he was out of the country instead of behind bars. Calling made the horrible situation more real.

And if Claire was honest—a part of her felt like punishing him.

“Tuck, Ranger called and—”

“Claire, these calls are monitored. Don't tell me about your conversation with Ranger,” he said.

She drew back. Of course, what had she been thinking?

“Uh, a
situation
has developed,” she explained, talking in code.

“I'm aware. Ranger was here yesterday. I'm allowed private meetings. Attorney-client privilege and all.”

“Oh.” Claire rubbed her chin. “Then you know what I'm facing.”

“Don't worry. Just tell the truth. Everything is being taken care of.” Tuck's voice was gentle and reassuring. “How are the kids?”

He'd changed the subject. Her cue to move on.

She brought him up to speed on everyone and told him she was deep in the process of packing. “Oh, and Mama is now living with me.”

Silence.

“Tuck, why? Why my mother?” No matter what Claire did to mentally reconcile Tuck's actions with the man she'd known, she came up short.

“I'm sorry, Claire. In the end, I was desperate. I don't know what else to say.”

Claire examined the drapes. The intricate way the swirls of color blended to create a perfect pattern.

She took a deep breath and bent her head. Yes, Tuck had been under pressure. But that was no excuse.

In the aftermath, she'd hoped to move past what he'd done. She wanted to find a place in her mind where she could safely store what had damaged her soul. But she could no long obscure the lines between right and wrong. Nothing could justify many of his decisions.

She thought of television footage she'd seen of First Lady Pat Nixon. In front of the cameras, the sad-faced blonde stood by her husband, the president. But, like Claire, did she find affection slipping with each new revelation of wrongdoing?

Claire loved Tuck—and always would. But could she stay
in
love
with a man who held others in such disregard, despite the pressure he claimed he'd been under? Every time she hoped things had settled down, another telephone call or newscast filled her with dread, or another family member's well-being was threatened with a subpoena.

She was human, after all. Claire tired of her cheerleader role, trying to keep everyone rallied around a man who had walked right over a line others would never dare cross. Every new layer of deceit tarnished her affection. How much more could she take before tossing down her pom-poms?

It'd only been weeks since their goodbye, and it already seemed a lifetime ago.

She wound a lock of hair around her finger. “Look, it was good talking with you. But I've got to go.”

“I love you, babe.” Tuck's voice sounded desperate.

Claire stared out the window. “Yeah, me too.”

Was there anyone in America who hadn't watched hours of courtroom proceedings on television or the big screen and hadn't thought the legal world was fascinating?

As of today, Claire would not be one of them.

She shifted in her chair, knotted her hands in her lap, and stared around the tight hearing room, so unlike the courtroom where Tuck had been arraigned. The grand jury hearing room was small, with chairs upholstered in earthy tweed fabric and walls covered in outdated wallpaper spattered with tasteless art prints framed in cheap wood.

The court reporter sat near the window next to a tiny table on rollers, which held carafes of coffee, Styrofoam cups, and a little basket filled with packets of sweeteners, creamers, and red swizzle stirrers. The woman looked to be in her fifties and had a pinched face and sausage-like fingers that plunked the machine in front of her, taking down every word uttered. She looked bored.

The sixteen jurors, men and women sitting stiffly at oblong tables arranged in a U-shape, didn't lead Claire to believe they were having fun either.

The only person in the room who seemed eager was Charles Jordan, the lead prosecutor—the one who had appeared at Tuck's arraignment.

Directly across from where Claire sat in the cramped witness box, Mr. Jordan leaned forward as if she were about to serve up his favorite sirloin. “Please state your full name for the record.”

“Della Claire Massey. I go by Claire.”

“Ms. Massey, are you married?”

She looked at him. Was he serious?

“Are you married?” Mr. Jordan repeated.

“Yes. I'm married to Theodore Massey.”

He looked over top his reading glasses in her direction. “Also known as Tuck Massey?”

Claire nodded.

The court reporter frowned. “I need an audible response. For the record.”

“Oh, sorry.” Claire reached for the water carafe and filled her Styrofoam cup. “Yes. Theodore is also known as Tuck.” She took a quick sip, wetting her dry throat. She wondered where they had Max waiting, then mentally scolded herself and remembered she needed to pay attention.

“Listen to the questions carefully before you answer,” Ranger had said earlier. Unlike a courtroom proceeding, there would be no attorneys present during a grand jury proceeding. Only jurors and the prosecutors. And, of course, testifying witnesses. “Respond only to what is asked, nothing more. Don't expound,” he'd said. “That can get you in trouble.”

Mr. Jordan asked how long they'd been married and how many children they had, and went through the history of Legacy Ranch. Then his questioning turned. “Ms. Massey, in your own words, describe your husband's business.”

Claire looked at him, confused.

Mr. Jordan scribbled on his yellow pad, then glanced at the jurors. “For the record, Claire Massey is listed as a corporate officer on the records at the Secretary of State office.” He looked back at her. “Do you need the question repeated?”

“No,” Claire said, her stomach rumbling with nerves. “My involvement in Tuck's business was extremely limited. But as I understood things, Tuck primarily ran our ranch located northwest of Dallas—Legacy Ranch,” she clarified. “We owned livestock, cattle, and horses, mainly. The ranch is approximately four thousand acres, including over six miles of river frontage.”

She took another sip of water before continuing. “The ranch includes our main house, two duplexes, a manager's house, an indoor arena, a round pen, a hay barn, an equipment shed, stables, and fifty acres of irrigated hay field. Oh, and a helipad.”

“And the receiver appointed by the court has confiscated all the cattle and horses?”

“I believe so, yes.” Against Ranger's warning, Claire added, “We turned everything over according to the terms of the plea agreement. Even my daughter's personal mare.”

“Yes. Now, let's talk about the brokerage end of things.” Charles Jordan leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers. He drilled his gaze at Claire. “To clarify, do you have an understanding of your husband's brokerage business?”

Glancing at the jurors, she slowly responded, “Yes. A very basic understanding.”

Mr. Jordan pulled at the bottom of his jacket sleeve. “And what is it? Your understanding, I mean.”

“He bought and sold cattle,” Claire said into the record.

Mr. Jordan whispered to a lady sitting next to him. She reached into a folder and brought out a set of stapled documents and handed them to him. He quickly glanced over the documents and presented a second set to Claire. He waited until his associate had passed duplicates to the jurors. “I'll represent to you that this is a
set of the year-end financials we obtained for Massey Enterprises. The second page is an income statement that shows a substantial profit. Could you tell me how the corporation made that profit?”

“Not exactly. But like I said, it's my understanding Tuck bought and sold cattle for people. For investors.”

“So, if Investor A had cattle to sell and Investor B wanted to purchase cattle, your husband would broker the deal and take a commission?”

Claire nodded, feeling the jurors staring at her. One woman's pen scribbled furiously on the yellow pad on the table before her.

“Audible response, please,” the court reporter reminded, jerking Claire's attention back.

She apologized. “Yes, that was one way. Another was for Tuck to purchase cattle at one price, hold them, and them sell to another party at a later time for a profit. Beyond that simple explanation, I don't know details.”