Death by Surprise (Carolyn Hart Classics) (6 page)

She turned around but stayed at the bar, leaning against it.

“If I tell you, then will you promise to vote to dissolve the trust?”

Priscilla was right on one count. It didn’t matter a damn to me whether the trust ended or continued. But I had enough experience to know that great sums of money change life. Whether you wish it or not. The Mercedes salesmen would come. Brokers would call. Slick, hungry-eyed predators would always be near, waiting their chance.

But I was a big girl.

It would be a challenge, too, to make something useful and satisfying of life even though you knew that whatever you wanted, if it were for sale, could be bought.

“K.C.,” and the appeal in her voice was unmasked, “please help me. I have to have the money. I have to.”

It was the most direct real emotion I had ever heard from Priscilla.

I almost said yes without another word because it was so painful to see, like a fluffy plastic doll suddenly come to life. But I knew I would never again come so close to discovering what lay behind her distress.

I tried a different tack.

“Is it a man, Priscilla?”

I hated to think of unleashing Priscilla with several million dollars. I could imagine how she would be ripped off, monetarily and emotionally.

She stared at me for a long moment. Behind her china blue eyes, she was thinking furiously. Abruptly, she nodded.

“That’s it, K.C. Oh, I didn’t want anyone ever to know and that awful Miss Boutelle, she threatened to put it all in that magazine and then I would lose him.”

“Threatened to put what?”

“All about me and him.”

I gave a little shrug. “I can’t see breaking the trust on that account, Priscilla. I mean, for God’s sake, nobody cares who you are sleeping with. Certainly it’s not worth fifty thousand to hide.”

Panic flared in her face again. “You don’t understand. He’s married. His wife is an invalid. And besides,” she said triumphantly, “he’s Catholic.”

I suppose I must have underestimated Priscilla. She had obviously been reading Ann Landers all these years.

“Hmm, that’s a problem,” I agreed. Of course, it was possible, with Priscilla’s mind and body, that she might fall for the oldest line of all, but, somehow, circa 1980, I didn’t think so.

“Who is he?”

She stared down at the fluffy white carpet, then said abruptly, “Hamilton Fisher,” then looked up to see how I reacted.

I’ve been in enough trials where the witnesses shock and surprise you, to learn not to change expression. So Priscilla didn’t get any reaction from me.

I knew Ham Fisher, of course. Big, rawboned, and cheerful, he had the Cadillac franchise. He also had an invalid wife. But Priscilla couldn’t know that I knew even more about Ham Fisher. I knew that for years he had quietly taken out to dinner, when he was in Los Angeles, a sorority sister of mine who was a film editor at Columbia.

It was a brilliant piece of improvisation on Priscilla’s part. And it showed how far she was willing to go to hide whatever dreadful specter Francine Boutelle threatened to expose. Of course, it didn’t show too much concern for Ham Fisher.

Priscilla crossed the room and leaned down to clutch my arm. “Please, K.C.” Her soft whisky-laden breath engulfed me. “Please vote yes. If you don’t—oh, it could ruin my life.”

She was lying about Ham Fisher. Lying, too, I thought, that her secret concerned a man. But there was something there, something that terrified Priscilla. The hand on my hand was damp with sweat.

I hesitated for another moment. After all, if I could wring the truth out of her, maybe there would be some way for me to quell Boutelle. But maybe not.

Maybe Priscilla’s secret was truly appalling.

“All right,” I said abruptly. I couldn’t bear to hear her beg. It wouldn’t hurt me to vote to dissolve although I might be doing Prissy a disservice in the long run, opening her up to more grief by making her vulnerable to the greedy and unprincipled people who cluster near great wealth. But I had decided. “All right, Prissy, I’ll vote yes. But look at me.”

She stared down at me with wide and fuzzy blue eyes.

“Why don’t you let me handle this thing with Boutelle? If you’ll tell me all the details, exactly what she plans to publish, maybe I can head her off.”

She was tempted. For a moment, she wavered, then, wearily, hopelessly, she shook her head. “No. There’s nothing anyone can do. Nothing.”

There was stark despair in her voice.

Travis’s call came Sunday afternoon.

It was typical that it was person-to-person, not direct dialed. Travis had never been careful about pennies. Not about dollars, either.

“K.C., it’s swell to hear your voice.”

“It’s nice to hear yours, Travis.”

After that insincere exchange, he got down to business.

“I wanted to have a word with you. Have you talked to Edmond?”

“Not since last Christmas,” I said drily. “Have you?”

“No, I haven’t, as a matter of fact. Thing about it is, I have a little note here from Kenneth about a meeting to dissolve the trust.”

“I received one, too.”

“Good-oh.” Travis had spent a year in Australia during his college days. He had come home with several Aussie expressions and a full red beard which was just now becoming fashionable. “Well, no point in talking to Edmond. You know how he is, the long view instead of the short. But I’ve got my heart set on a rather special artifact, K.C. It’s a private sale, a once-in-a-lifetime chance.” He paused, said dramatically. “A Ming vase, absolutely beautiful. I didn’t think there was any way I could manage it. I don’t want to be specific but prices in the art world have gone ‘round the bend, right ‘round the bend. If we dissolve the trust, I can do it. Hell, if we dissolve the trust . . .” I suppose his mind was so flooded with the glories of what he could buy that he was rendered speechless for a moment. Then, in a rush, “So the thing is, old top, I wondered if you could see your way clear to voting to dissolve. I mean, there must be some things you’d like to do if you had some extra money, a condo in Aspen, maybe, or a little cottage in Carmel?”

Travis might not be a soulmate of a brother but he had remembered, obviously, how much I liked to ski and my fondness for that little jewel of a seaside city. To have put that much effort into thinking of the other guy indicated an overwhelming need on his part to be persuasive.

I decided not to prolong the suspense. “I’m voting to dissolve, Travis.”

I heard his sigh of relief, all the way from Chicago. That was as revealing in its way as the entire conversation.

“Excellent,” he boomed. “Absolutely excellent. Hold to it, K.C. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I had intended to tell him we would all be dining at Mother’s, but, his objective secured, he was off the phone.

I almost laughed, but, somehow, none of it was funny.

I half expected Edmond to call. He was an astute businessman. One secret of astuteness is never to go into a meeting until you have your ducks lined up. So, it wasn’t a surprise when Pat told me Edmond was on the line Monday morning. I had to file a brief by noon and I was still working on the last few pages, but I took the call.

“K.C.?”

“Yes, Edmond.”

“I wondered if you might be free for lunch. At the Atheneum Club.”

“I’m sorry, Edmond, I can’t make it today. I have another engagement. But would another day do?”

He paused. “Actually, K.C., I had hoped to talk to you before we attend the meeting scheduled at Kenneth’s office this afternoon.”

“Oh?” I replied noncommittally. I saw no reason to make it easy for Edmond.

“Yes.” He paused again and I could picture him, mouth pursed, eyebrows drawn in a dark frown. “It is difficult to explain financial matters adequately over the telephone, but I am hoping to gain your agreement, K.C. Normally, I would oppose dissolution of the trust. After all, the taxes . . .” he took a deep breath, “. . . the taxes on my portion of the undistributed income will, as you appreciate, be devastating. For this reason, I would be much more prudent to vote against dissolution but, the fact of the matter is, I have an opportunity of a kind that could result in tremendous profitability. You will understand if I am somewhat vague about the matter. I do, after all, have to protect my fellow investors, but it is an opportunity to join in a drilling venture in the Gulf that has high prospects of success.”

“I see. In that event, Edmond, I imagine you will be pleased to know that I do intend to vote to dissolve the trust.”

He managed to disguise better than Travis his quick intake of breath but his tone told me so much more than he intended.

“Good. That will be . . . very helpful to me. I appreciate your frankness, K.C. I will see you this afternoon, then.”

If there had been a fabulous investment opportunity awaiting him, he would have been happy at my agreement, but his voice was tired and strained. He didn’t want to dissolve the trust, but, for some dark and urgent reason, it was imperative to Edmond that he have access to a very great deal of money.

I stared at the phone for a long moment after he hung up. I had, earlier in the morning, considered sending Pat to pick up the report on Francine Boutelle. I would take a look at it, snatch a few minutes after the meeting at Kenneth’s and before the dinner at Mother’s. I changed my mind. I yanked my legal pad to me and began swiftly one word, one sentence, one paragraph after another, to finish the brief for Amundsen vs. The City of La Luz. It would be good enough, had to be good enough. It was, abruptly, very important to me to find out now, as soon as possible, every last thing I could about Francine Boutelle. I didn’t like the way she was leaning on the Carlisles. I didn’t like what was happening to Priscilla and Travis and Edmond. And me.

Priscilla was scared silly. Travis, foolish, foppish, good-natured Travis, was desperately worried. Edmond was a cornered man. And I had my own fears.

I met Pamela Reeves in a back booth at the Blue Grotto. As the cocktail waitress brought our Margaritas, Pamela handed me a yellow file folder and sat back with a tired sigh.

“If you weren’t such a good customer, I wouldn’t have managed it. I’m going to go home now and sleep for three days.”

I scanned the dossier.

BOUTELLE, FRANCINE EMILY. B. Feb. 3, 1954, Venice, Ca. Parents, John Edward and Katharine Celeste Boutelle. Parents divorced (date as yet not obtained). Reared by mother who worked in a VandeKamp’s Bakery. Graduated Venice High School, June 18, 1971. Waitress at Forsby’s in Hollywood, 1972–75. Graduated UCLA, BA in journalism, 1975. Aspiring starlet. Francine worked on a Long Beach paper for three years, joined an LA paper in 1978. In February of 1980, she started to work as a cocktail waitress at the Cocoa Butter in downtown LA.

“That’s odd,” I murmured. “Hey, Pamela, why the switch from a newspaper to a cocktail joint?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m still trying to find out.”

“She told me she was working for
Inside Out.
What’s the deal?”

“She is, sort of. I called
Inside Out,
pretended I was looking for a job. They didn’t have any openings. Then I asked about my old friend, Francine Boutelle. This editor was a little snippy about it, said Boutelle was doing an article on assignment but she was not a regular staff member.”

So Boutelle was using the Carlisles to get started with
Inside Out.

“How about men?”

Pamela shrugged. “Here in La Luz or earlier?”

“Both.”

“There are only so many hours in the day.”

“Start with La Luz.”

“So far, that’s all I’ve had a chance to really check out. She has a nosy neighbor, a Mrs. Collins. She allows that Francine has a beau, but she’s never really seen him. Just glimpses of a dark topcoat and the sounds of a man talking.”

“That’s interesting,” I said quickly. “Find out more, if you can. Francine’s only been in town six weeks. Is it someone she’s met in that time or did she know somebody here before she came?”

Pamela frowned. “It’s tough, looking here, K.C. She doesn’t have friends or co-workers I can get close to and pump.”

“Do the best you can.”

“I’m pretty sure of one thing, she’s never been married and nobody mentions a particular man when I ask about her.”

I frowned. “Maybe she’s a lesbian.”

Pamela looked at me thoughtfully. “Maybe, but I don’t think so. I spent five hours with her in the bar at Nightingale’s Saturday night and I never got a hint of anything like that.”

I tapped the dossier. “Is that how you found out most of this?”

“Mostly from talking to her.”

“Five hours?” I repeated.

Pamela smiled wryly. “She likes to drink. I thought maybe I could really get her started the way she was lapping up the Scotch, but I would guess she’s been drinking a lot for a long time. She talked, yeah, but there was nothing maudlin, nothing to really give her away.”

I looked down at the folder. I had her birth date and where she had gone to school. Swell. I needed more than that. A lot more.

“How do you size her up?”

The answer came back like a ball off the wall. “Smart. Tough. Absolutely ruthless.”

That was my appraisal, too. Unfortunately.