Death Of A Dream Maker (12 page)

No one spoke as he read and there were no outbursts,
except for an occasional gasp and a harrumph or two from the
lawyers representing members of the Rosenbloom family. When Sam
Ascher was done, he reassembled the file neatly and placed it in
front of him, precisely aligning it with the edge of the table. He
folded his plump pink hands and stared at the crowd. The silence
was profound.

“So you see,” he said pleasantly, not seeming to mind
the silence, “Max was quite clear about his intentions.”

The widow's self-control gave way. “What the hell did
all that mean?” she shrieked as half the attendees jumped at the
sound. “What the hell did all that mumbo jumbo mean? How much money
do I get?”

The reading of endless legalese had restored a sense
of superiority in Sam Ascher. He eyed Max's widow calmly. “It
means, Mrs. Rosenbloom, that you are entitled to the three hundred
thousand dollars stipulated in the prenuptial agreement you signed
three years ago. That's one hundred thousand for each year you were
married, assuming that you upheld the conditions of the agreement,
such as the faithfulness clause. I mention that purely at random,
of course.”

“What about the rest of his money?” she demanded. “He
was worth millions.”

“Yes, he was. However, you only receive three hundred
thousand,” the lawyer repeated.

“He can't leave it to that old bag,” Sabrina
screamed, jabbing a taloned finger Auntie Lil's way.

Auntie Lil faced her. “I will thank you not to speak
to me in that manner,” she said coolly. “Your behavior is
despicable.”

Jacob leaped to his feet. “How dare you call her
despicable,” he shouted, glancing at Sabrina Rosenbloom. His wife's
face went white as she stared at her infuriated husband.

“Sit down!” Sam Ascher roared. They sat. He addressed
his next comment to Max's widow. “Mrs. Rosenbloom, you receive
three hundred thousand dollars and one-fifth ownership in Max Rose
Fashions. I would suggest to you that it's not a bad return
considering what you contributed to the marriage.”

Sabrina Rosenbloom rose again and drew herself up to
her full height as she ripped the black veil from her head. She
threw it in the middle of the table, where it landed on a flower
arrangement. Pushing her lawyer out of the way, she leaned over
three groveling family members until her face was only inches from
Sam Ascher's. “You listen to me, you useless piece of legal
debris,” she spat out in a voice that could have curdled custard.
“This is New York State. I get half. Period. End of discussion. I
know my legal rights.”

The lawyer paused, then rose to his feet and drew
himself up to his full height. “Perhaps your lawyer will explain it
to you very, very slowly once you have left my offices. Mr.
Rosenbloom had no assets to split with you during your marriage.
They were placed in trust three years and three months ago. In
fact, they were placed in a trust one month before your wedding.
And control of that trust was to go to Lillian Hubbert upon your
husband's death, as well as to his nephew, Davy Rosenbloom. If Davy
did not survive Max by at least forty-eight hours, his half of the
trust was to pass to the alternate beneficiary. Who happens to be
Mr. Theodore Stanford Hubbert. I think it seems quite clear to
me.”

“Just how much is this trust worth?” Rebecca
Rosenbloom asked. Her face was chalk white.

Sam Ascher coughed nervously. “Sixty-six million,” he
mumbled. “Give or take a few hundred thousand.”

“Sixty-six million dollars and he left none of it to
his own family?” Jacob demanded.

“I wouldn't say that,” the lawyer protested. “Your
brother and sister received five hundred thousand dollars apiece.
Your aunt Rebecca received a similar sum.”

“But Seth and Karen aren't even here,” Jacob's wife
protested.

“They don't have to be,” Sam Ascher said. “This is
not Off Track Betting. Besides, Max was quite generous with your
husband. He has been left one-fifth of Max Rose Fashions. That
equals a healthy sum.”

“So what?” Jacob demanded. “I can't control the
company. I have to share it with four other people.” He pointed to
Auntie Lil. “She owns one-fifth, too, if I understand you
right.”

“That is correct,” Sam Ascher answered evenly. “Miss
Hubbert now owns one-fifth of Max Rose Fashions.”

Jacob glared at Auntie Lil and continued: “Then
there's Karen and Seth. They don't know the first thing about
running a business and they each get a fifth? That's not fair. I
spent my life working for him.”

“You can control my fifth,” the widow offered sourly.
“So long as you keep the profits coming.”

“God forbid you be left without your customary cash
flow,” Jacob's wife spat out.

“My, aren't we talking like we know one end of a
balance sheet from the other?” Sabrina retorted.

“Ladies, please,” a lawyer interrupted. He held up a
hand for silence, but it had no effect. This time it was Max’s
sister-in-law, Abby, who spoke.

“What about the other will?” she asked plaintively,
her voice high and hesitant. “I know he left money to Davy in that
will. And to Jacob. And... and to all of us.”

“The content of any prior will is immaterial,” Sam
Ascher explained. “Max was quite clear about changing his mind.
After bequests to Seth, Karen, and his sister, Miss Hubbert was to
receive the remaining cash in addition to her half of the
trust.”

“What about our houses?” Jake demanded. “Who gets
those? He owned my house and Mom and Dad's. And what about his own
house? Does she get it or not?” He jerked his thumb at a suddenly
even-more-alarmed widow.

“Yeah,” Sabrina Rosenbloom demanded, “what about my
house?”

Sam Ascher coughed nervously. “Max was not, in fact,
the owner of your homes. Ownership was transferred to a third party
several years ago, whose identity I am not at liberty to
reveal.”

Most of the Rosenblooms turned to the group huddled
at the far end of the table and a low and angry murmuring erupted.
As one, Auntie Lil, T.S., Herbert, and Casey shrank from the
hostility radiating their way.

“Don't look at us!” T.S. protested. 'Tm not your
landlord.” His companions murmured similar disclaimers.

“That trust is illegal!” Rebecca Rosenbloom suddenly
cried. During the arguments, her face had changed color from pale
white to vivid red. It was now as mottled as a strawberry. She
pointed a bony finger at Auntie Lil. “You did this,” she accused in
a slow and angry voice. She stood and banged her fists on the
table, hissing at Auntie Lil in her fury. “You planned this all. I
know you had something to do with it. Admit it now, Lillian
Hubbert! Max would have told me about the trust. Why didn't he tell
me? I'll have my lawyers comb over that will every day and every
night until we find a way to invalidate it.”

A discreet cough from a nondescript man leaning
against the wall drew their attention. The speaker's voice was soft
but absolutely self-assured. “You may review the paperwork all you
wish, Miss Rosenbloom,” said the lawyer who had offered Sam Ascher
his seat. “But as legal counsel to Sterling and Sterling— trustees
to the late Max Rosenbloom—I can assure you that his actions are
perfectly and completely legal. You will not overturn this will,
and you will not be able to negate the trust. I will stake my
professional reputation on that fact. We do not make mistakes at
Sterling and Sterling, particularly when sixty-six million dollars
is involved.” He blinked once and crossed his arms as if the matter
had been settled, at least for him.

Rebecca Rosenbloom was not through. Her elongated
features trembled with rage and the droopy eye quivered as if it
were about to explode. She turned to the policeman sitting—no
longer bored—in one corner of the room.

“She did it!” the old woman screamed as she pointed a
long, bony finger at Auntie Lil. “She killed my brother. She's been
after his money from the start. I can lead you to the proof!”

Auntie Lil was not one to hesitate when she smelted
trouble on the way. Once she realized that her fingerprints would
be found throughout two Rosenbloom homes, she spent the better part
of the evening on the telephone discussing the situation with her
lawyer, Hamilton Prescott. He was every bit as old-line and
respectable as his name—if one was able to ignore the fact that he
had recently dumped the youngest daughter of a railroad magnate and
was currently holed up in America's trendiest ski spot with his
very own snow bunny. Auntie Lil was of the opinion that this single
indiscreet escapade on his part was simply a manifestation of the
temporary insanity that sometimes gripped men once they passed the
age of sixty.

Hamilton Prescott was competent, sympathetic, and
apologetic: if they arrived with a warrant, Auntie Lil had no
choice. She would have to let the police in. But if they also
wanted to question her, it meant they were taking the Rosenbloom
family's charges very seriously. She was to cooperate but to say
nothing except that her lawyer was on the way. As for him, he was
bored with his companion, could not understand what had possessed
him to come to Aspen in the first place, and was taking the first
plane back to New York. She would not have to go through it alone,
he assured her.

Auntie Lil knew it was not her newfound wealth that
was causing Hamilton Prescott to fly to her side. He was family
lawyer to many billionaires, never mind millionaires, and sixty-six
million would not even make him blink. It was his desire to protect
her.

Apparently, this was a desire shared by everyone else
in her life. She had vigorously fought to keep T.S., Casey, and
Herbert from spending the night at her apartment. They were of the
mind that she might be dragged from her bed at the witching hour.
None of them doubted that the Rosenblooms would be calling for her
blood.

She had only wanted to be alone. Alone with her
memories of Max and time to puzzle out what it was that he wanted
his legacy to mean.

She had discouraged Herbert Wong even more than the
others, warning him not to phone unless she made contact first. She
had also thoroughly scrubbed any surfaces he might have touched in
her apartment. She did not want him connected with their searches
of the Rosenbloom homes. Let the police wonder who her mysterious
accomplice had been. There was no reason why Herbert should be
damaged in the resumption of a feud that had simmered for decades
without him. Besides, the police would suspect that the extra
fingerprints belonged to T.S., and he, of course, would not come up
as a match since he had remained in the car (or behind in bed).

They came early the next afternoon. The police
officers were visibly skeptical once they realized that their
target was an eighty-four-year-old woman. The female detective eyed
Auntie Lil with something akin to amazement as she produced rubber
gloves and different-size pouches to hold potential evidence. The
two older detectives contented themselves with skeptical smiles
before they thrust the proper paperwork at her and went to work.
The younger man produced a fingerprint kit and dusted several
surfaces, in pursuit of evidence that Max had been there. Finding
no prints at all, he gave Auntie Lil an odd glance and abandoned
his task to aid the others in searching.

While they roamed through her apartment Auntie Lil
read the warrant carefully. It was five pages long and authorized
the potential uncovering of virtually any scrap of contact between
her and Max Rosenbloom.

She had never felt so violated in all the eighty-four
years of her life. The invasion of her apartment hurt much more
than the Rosenblooms' suspicions that she might have killed Max.
Max was the most secret part of her heart. He represented those
years of her life that had meant so much more than all the years
before and all the years since. To have the sacredness of her
memories exposed to the probings of three bored strangers hurt her
beyond measure. She sat at the dining room table holding the photo
album tightly to her chest. She would give it up last and protect
it until that time came.

She derived some comfort from the chaos confronting
the search team. T.S. had used the stash-and-hide method of
housecleaning during his whirlwind visit several days before. His
haste was becoming increasingly obvious as the detectives opened
crammed closets and overflowing drawers. The woman officer flung
open the hall closet and discovered a mannequin draped in purple
satin wearing an Elizabethan crushed-velvet hat. The hat's feather
popped free and smacked the detective in one eye, triggering an
involuntary scream. One of the officers was forced to crawl beneath
Auntie Lil's bed and pull out bolt after bolt of wedged-in cloth,
covered with dust and trailing various pieces of jewelry caught in
the fabric.

If the fact that the bathroom cabinet was filled with
art supplies surprised the third detective, he did not show it. He
merely poked through the brushes and squeezed tubes with a careful
eye, then turned to examining the books piled high in the hallway.
He did not hurry. They were probably on overtime and racking up
thirty dollars an hour.

T.S. arrived just as the detectives were speculating
that the face in the portrait of the mutant Othello might be Max
Rosenbloom's. He took one look at the surrounding chaos and thanked
his maker that he had dragged the detective magazines down to the
basement earlier that week. Lurid headlines of lovers run amok
would have gone over big with this crowd, he was sure.

“How long have they been here?” he asked Auntie Lil,
joining her at the dining room table. He moved her pink bunny
slippers off the chair so he could sit down.

“I called you right away,” she said woodenly, the
album clutched tightly to her heart.