But He Was Already Dead When I Got There (2 page)

“So Gretchen doesn't know either,” said Nicole, cutting through the verbiage. “It must have something to do with Ellandy's. You've already requested an extension of the loan, haven't you?”

“Over a week ago. So far, Uncle Vincent has not seen fit to respond. But he wouldn't summon us all there just to announce he's going to extend. That's a simple legal matter I could take care of in fifteen minutes.” Malcolm sat down and put on his shoes. He still nourished a faint hope that Vincent Farwell would turn over his legal affairs to him, but Uncle Vincent wouldn't require all the Ellandy people in his house merely to announce that.

“I can't understand why I was included in the summons,” Nicole was saying. “I don't make the decisions at Ellandy's.”

“Not yet,” Malcolm said encouragingly, “but Dorrie will make you a partner, you'll see.”

“Oh, Dorrie's not the problem—it's Lionel who's dragging his feet.”

“Lionel loves your designs. I've heard him say so on a number of occasions. Without being asked, I might add. He wouldn't volunteer such an endorsement unless it were sincerely meant, I'm sure of it. I don't see that he has any reason—”

“Lionel's worried about the money.
All
Lionel worries about is money.”

“But if Dorrie is right and Uncle Vincent does cancel the loan …?”

“Then my chances improve,” Nicole admitted happily. She sat in front of her dressing table and attached two heavy emerald pendant earrings to her rather large lobes; her only other article of adornment was a multicolored scarf tied around her waist. Malcolm loved watching her do things with her hands; every movement was deliberate and precise—no waste motion at all. “Dorrie is going to wear the Maltese cross tonight,” Nicole said in a voice that made clear her disapproval. “I wish she wouldn't do that. It's unprofessional.”

Malcolm was wise enough to steer clear of that particular bone of contention. His sister always liked to wear every piece of jewelry she'd designed
once
before turning it over to the customer who'd commissioned it. It was a point of pride with her and a source of irritation to Nicole, who wouldn't dream of wearing any of her own designs that she'd created specifically for someone else. Nicole Lattimer wore no jewelry except that which she designed for herself, such as the emerald pendant earrings now firmly in place.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

Malcolm hesitated. “Before we go—did you find time to read the agreement?” He'd drawn up a prenuptial agreement heavily slanted to her benefit in the hope that it might prove the bit of persuasion Nicole needed.

Their eyes locked in Nicole's dressing table mirror; then she turned and faced him directly. “There's no clause saying I keep my own name.”

Malcolm looked mildly surprised. “I thought you'd decided ‘Conner' wasn't such a bad name.”

“What I said was that ‘Nicole Conner' had a nice alliterative ring to it. I didn't say I was going to use the name.”

Malcolm thought back, and his innate fair-mindedness forced him to admit that that was exactly what she'd said. “You're right. And I can understand your wanting to keep your own name, Nicole—I truly can. Although it's not really yours, you know. To be precise, it's your father's name. A woman has the use of two men's names during her lifetime—her father's and her husband's. It's grossly unfair, of course, a woman never having a name of her own …”

“Don't rub it in,” Nicole said dryly.

Malcolm didn't hear, intrigued by his new line of thought. “It's one of the vestiges of a patriarchal society I wonder if we'll ever completely rid ourselves of. The only solution I can see is for both husband and wife to change their last names when they marry—thus enabling any issue of the marriage to inherit equally from both parents. Or, alternately, the husband and wife could both keep their own surnames and choose a different one for the child. But think of the problems in records-keeping that would create! Tax reports, credit ratings—”

“Oh, Malcolm, what
are
you rambling on about?” Nicole interrupted. “All I meant was that ‘Nicole Lattimer' is the name I've had all my life and I'm used to it and I want to keep it. That's all.”

Malcolm blinked at her. “You don't have to explain yourself, Nicole. I'll add the clause tomorrow.”

“
Thank you
,” she said heavily.

“Does that mean you find the agreement satisfactory?”

“It's a very good agreement. I see nothing wrong with it.”

“Then …?”

Nicole took a deep breath and said what was on her mind. “Malcolm, we've been living together for almost a year, and you've never pressured me about marriage until just recently. Not until Uncle Vincent started making his snide little remarks about our living in sin.”

“He's never said that!”

“He's implied it. Every time he sees us together, he says, ‘You two get married yet?' And then he snickers. Malcolm, I'd hate to think your new-found eagerness for matrimony springs from some sort of desire to make points with Vincent Farwell.”

Malcolm was shocked. “Nicole! How could you think such a thing! That doesn't speak very well for me, does it? Do you really think I'm so shallow that I'd marry just to impress a man whose business I want? Why, it's not even practical! Uncle Vincent wouldn't change attorneys simply because you and I got married. True, he likes having his own way, even in matters that don't really concern him—look at the way he's always telling Lionel and Gretchen how to live. Our marrying might soften his attitude toward us, but it's not enough to persuade him to discharge an attorney who's served him for twenty-five years. Or more—I'm sure it's been more than twenty-five years. I'm not so foolish as to think he'd break a connection like that over a personal matter such as our marriage. No, it would take a lot more than that, and I'm surprised you'd think it would be enough or even that I would seriously consider such a possibility. You must surely understand that I—”

“We're going to be late,” Nicole said patiently.

“I hate eating dinner this early,” Lionel Knox growled.

“Then don't eat lunch so late,” Gretchen Knox said indifferently. “You'd better hurry or you won't have time to change.”

“I'm not going to change.”

“At least your shirt. You look
wilted
, Lionel.”

“I
am
wilted, damn it.”

“Then wouldn't a shower and a change make you feel better?”

God, how he hated it when she was right. Lionel Knox admitted that he was indulging in childish stratagems to postpone an undesirable encounter.
If I don't get dressed, then maybe I won't have to go, etc
. Lionel didn't like Vincent Farwell; he didn't like dealing with the man and he certainly didn't like being in debt to him. Most of all he didn't like knowing that the only thing that had saved Ellandy Jewels from almost certain failure was the fact that his wife had a rich uncle.

“You're right,” he said more calmly, and pushed back from the table.

Gretchen smiled sweetly at him as he left. It was a good thing she was so sensitive to his moods; Lionel
could
be difficult to live with. She called the maid to clear the table, and then went upstairs to brush her teeth and finish getting ready.

Lionel was out of the shower and dressed in under fifteen minutes. He hadn't shaved. Gretchen wistfully wished he'd take as much care with his appearance as Dorrie's husband did—especially now that he was beginning to get a little thick around the middle. Lionel didn't exercise; that was his problem. Simon Murdoch was as slim as an athlete, and everything he did seemed so effortless. Lionel sweated.

Gretchen looped a long string of pearls around her neck and admired the effect. Lionel was less enthusiastic. “The only time you wear those,” he said, “is when you know you're going to see Nicole Lattimer.”

“Is it? I hadn't noticed.”

“You know she doesn't like pearls.”

“That's her problem.”

Lionel caught his wife's hand and sat her down beside him on the bed. “Gretchen, listen. Make an effort to be nice to Nicole tonight—please.”

“Whatever for?”

“For one thing, she's been carrying more than her share of the workload lately. Dorrie takes a lot of time off, to go the hairdresser or the gym or whatever else is needed to maintain the body beautiful. And since we're not in a financial position to offer Nicole a partnership just now—well, I'm afraid we might lose her.”

“And that's
your
problem. If Nicole is all that wonderful, maybe you should have gone into partnership with her instead of Dorrie.”

“No, Dorrie's a good partner—she's just been goofing off a little lately, that's all. Please, Gretchen? Is it all that hard to be nice for just one evening?”

Gretchen pouted. “You make me sound like a monster. I tell you what. I'll be nice to Nicole if you'll be nice to Uncle Vincent.”

Lionel was astonished. “I'm always nice to Uncle Vincent.”

“You're
never
nice to Uncle Vincent. You never show him any respect at all.”

“Possibly because I don't feel any respect at all. But I'm always polite to him, which is more than you can say about the way you treat Nicole. Can you honestly say you're polite to Nicole?”

Gretchen's eyes were wide and innocent. “I'm every bit as polite to her as she is to me. But after tonight you'll be able to offer her a partnership—and then I won't have to be nice to her at all!” Gretchen's whole face lit up at the thought.

“Oh, great,” Lionel groaned. “I wish I had your faith in dear old Uncle Vincent. Tonight isn't going to make any difference—Uncle Vincent isn't going to solve our problems for us. He doesn't like us any more than we like him.”

“I hope you're not including me in that ‘we'.
I
like him.”

“Come off it, Gretchen—you couldn't wait to get away from him. That's why you married me, wasn't it? To get away from Uncle Vincent?”

Gretchen batted her eyelashes. “My knight in shining armor.”

“Now stop that!”

“On a white horse.”

“I don't like horses. They scare me.”

“Fighting the dragon.”

“There—you called Uncle Vincent a dragon. Ha!”

“Ha yourself.
I'm
not afraid of Uncle Vincent.”

“You saying I am?”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that. But I can't help but wonder why you start fidgeting like a little boy waiting for school to let out every time we go over there.”

“He makes me itch, that's why. Every time I see that man, I start to itch. Uncle Vincent's too petty to frighten anyone, Gretchen. The effect he has on people is more like an advanced case of poison ivy.”

“Charming. So scratch.”

“And as far as that goes, did you know your voice goes up an octave whenever you talk to him?”

Annoyed, Gretchen went back to her dressing table and added a pair of pearl earrings to her ensemble. “You're imagining things.”

“Like hell I am. Your voice changes, your personality changes, even your way of moving changes when you're with Uncle Vincent. You turn into Lou Ann Poovey.”

“Lou Ann
who?
”

“Poovey. Poo, vee. Gomer Pyle's girlfriend—remember her? Every time she set out to be charming, she'd hunch one shoulder forward and talk over it, looking up from under her eyelashes. Her voice would get higher and softer until the honey was positively dripping down the TV screen. Well, that's exactly what you do when you're with Uncle Vincent. Except the accent—you don't have a southern accent. Other than that, you've got Lou Ann Poovey down pat.”

Gretchen ground her teeth and slipped on a pearl bracelet. “Honestly, Lionel, sometimes you can be so insensitive I could scream! Where do you get off, making fun of me because I try to be nice to Uncle Vincent? What else should I do?”

“You could work on your southern accent,” Lionel said dryly.

“You know what your problem is? You're jealous of Uncle Vincent. He's the success you only want to be.
You
want to be in a position to say yes or no and control other people's lives but you aren't and you can't!”

“I'd like to have Uncle Vincent's
money
, yes—but that's the only thing about him I like. Gretchen, I don't want to control anybody's life but my own—and you're not helping.”

Gretchen scrunched up her eyes, not quite crying. “That's right, blame me. Every time something goes wrong, you come home and blame me!”

“Oh, I don't either.” Lionel ran a hand through his hair. “But every time I try to talk to you anymore, this happens. I get mad and say things I don't mean to say. And you look for things to get mad about. Don't be so damned touchy.”

“I'm not touchy. I'm sensitive.”

“Uh-huh. Well, this is getting us nowhere and we ought to be leaving anyway. It's a quarter 'til—oh, for Christ's sake, Gretchen!
Six
pearl rings? Don't you think you're overdoing it?”

By the time the Knoxes left for Uncle Vincent's, they were barely speaking to each other.

2

Bjarne Pedersen stepped into the hall closet for a nip out of the bottle hidden on the shelf. Tonight he was going to need all the fortification he could get.

He heard the elevator start; Mr. Vincent was on his way down. When it was just the old man and the housekeeper and himself, things were fine. But with that crowd coming tonight—Miss Gretchen and Mr. Lionel and that bony-faced woman who walked with her toes pointed outward and the long-winded lawyer she lived with and the two lovebirds named Murdoch, well, any one of them was enough to upset Mr. Vincent. But with all six of them at once? Bjarne took another swallow from the bottle.