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“What happened?” he whispered.

“Looks like they came barreling down Mt. Vernon and either skidded into the intersection or ran a red. Who are they?”

“John!” came a breathless cry from a short distance away. He looked over to see Pam running up, her eyes wide and curious. “Cindy’s parents dropped me two blocks down so they could turn off before they hit this. What happened?” She leaned sideways, then stood on her tiptoes in an attempt to see past the police cars and ambulances.

Swallowing hard, John put an arm around her shoulder. It was the first time he had ever touched her in what could have been called a protective way. Turning her away, he began to lead her quickly up the hill.

“Hey, bud,” the policeman called, “we need an ID.”

John ignored him. He held Pam’s shoulder, squeezing tightly each time she tried to look back. He wasn’t sure why he was protecting her; she had to know sooner or later. But later seemed better, when things were cleaned up and he knew who was hurt and how badly.

She tried to look back again, but he forced her forward. He didn’t have to look back to see the crush of that car against the wall; it was a vivid picture etched in his mind. If he could save Pam that, it would go a long way toward easing his guilt.

“What happened there?” she asked, suddenly more frightened than curious.

“An accident. You don’t want to see. I’ll take you up to the house, then go back. I’ll tell you about it later.”

Pam didn’t argue, but she must have known that his behavior was strange. Once more she tried to look back over her shoulder. When he wouldn’t allow it, she asked, “Is my mother home?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Is Daddy?”

“No.”

In a tone that was as unsteady as any he’d ever heard from her, she asked, “Do you know where they are?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll find out.” He quickened his step and hers along with it. Marcy was still at the door, too far away to see the car or its color or, mercifully, its contents. “Take her inside,” he ordered, then jogged back down the street.

He arrived in time to see Patricia’s broken body being put into an ambulance for a short, high-speed ride to the hospital. It was a while before Eugene was freed from the wreck. He too was put into an ambulance, but the ride was less rushed. He had died the instant the car hit the wall.

Chapter 9

New York, May 1990

H
ILLARY GLANCED AT PAM
, who walked at a smart pace beside her along Fifth Avenue. Her hair was tucked up under a floppy hat, she wore a nondescript jersey and jumper, tights and ballet flats, and she carried a canvas bag with I LOVE NY stamped on its front. The effect was supposed to be tacky, but Hillary thought she looked adorable. Large dark glasses shielded her eyes, not so much from the glare of the sun as from recognition. She needed anonymity. They were on a spy mission, one of Pam’s infamous incognito adventures into the world of New York jewelers. It was the first they had taken since Brendan fell ill, and though Pam was hesitant about leaving him, she needed the day away.

Hillary had often accompanied her on these jaunts in the past, simply because Pam was her friend and she enjoyed being with her. This time her motive was more pointed.

They had just left David Webb’s showroom on Fifty-seventh Street and were headed for Tiffany’s. Quite conveniently, Pam liked to talk while she was looking at what the competition had produced. She wanted to appear nonchalant, even a little disinterested. As fate would have it, coming in from the airport on this day she had passed the scene of an automobile accident, and while the particulars were different from the accident twenty-one years before, the blinking lights had stirred memories. They had talked of these memories through lunch at the Polo Lounge at the Westbury and now continued talking as they walked.

“I knew John had the germs of compassion in him,” Hillary commented after Pam had relived the details of those terrible days.

Pam shot her a dry look from behind the dark glasses. “No doubt they’ve all atrophied by now. But he was decent back then. I have to admit it. For about three days—between the time of the accident and the funeral—he was decent. He played the grieving son and the concerned brother. No doubt it was all for show.”

“Give credit where credit is due.”

“Okay. Three days. I’ll give him three days.”

“Generous,” Hillary remarked, but her thoughts were on something Pam had said in the course of another talk they’d had, two weeks before when Hillary had flown to Boston. “Speaking of generosity, what happened to Cutter’s bequest? He’s never said a word to me about it, and the more I think of it, the more odd that seems. When he first came to New York he had his life savings in a bank note in his pocket. He had no intention of ever returning to Timiny Cove.”

Pam didn’t answer. Hillary suspected that she was thinking back to the circumstances preceding Cutter’s arrival in New York. She was sure the memory brought pain.

But Hillary wanted to know about the bequest. “If he had owned Little Lincoln, he wouldn’t have been so down about things. That would have given him confidence—not to mention money. Little Lincoln was developed within a year after Eugene’s death.” She had learned that while moseying around in Timiny Cove the week before.

“He never got Little Lincoln.”

“Why not?”

They stopped at a light, pressed close together in the crowd waiting for it to change. Hillary felt Pam’s shrug.

“Why not?” she repeated.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“What’s your guess?”

The light changed. They moved on. “John changed the will.”

“He couldn’t do that. A will is a legal document.”

“More than one legal document has been tampered with.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

The look that came from beneath the floppy hat and dark glasses was facetious this time.

“He wouldn’t, Pam. That’s illegal. John wouldn’t have risked his career that way, much less his reputation. Changing a will is premeditated. It’s a blatant violation of the law. Are you sure, Pam?”

“I was there when the will was read,” Pam insisted.

“And there was no mention of Cutter?”

“No.”

“Or of Little Lincoln?”

“No.”

Still Hillary resisted. She didn’t want to think of John as a felon. “Maybe that part of the will was handled privately. Maybe Eugene had instructed that the bequest should be between the lawyer and Cutter. Maybe he got Little Lincoln and turned right around and sold it.” The eventual development had been done by St. George Mining. “John must have bought him out.”

“Sorry, Hillary.”

“Are you sure?”

“Cutter didn’t get anything. I know.”

“Maybe there wasn’t a bequest to begin with.”

“I heard them talking. Clear as day that time in Maine, I heard it. Daddy was firm. It wasn’t something they were discussing for discussion’s sake. It was a fait accompli, and nothing happened after that that would have changed Daddy’s mind. He and Cutter were on the best of terms right to the end.”

They walked on in silence for several minutes before Hillary murmured, “The bastard.”

“Uh-huh.”

Several days later, Hillary went to see Arlan McGregor. He was her editor, the man she had worked with on two previous books, and a friend. Looking up to find her at the door of his office, he flipped the glasses from his nose, sat back in his chair, folded his hands over a middle that had grown some of late, and grinned.

“Glad to see me?” she asked with a grin of her own. She had forgotten how much Arlan liked her, but the reminder was spreading from his grin to his eyes. No look could have been more welcome.

“Damn glad. I was beginning to think you’d dropped off the face of the earth. Or moved from New York. I’ve missed you something fierce.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I have. But a guy can only deal with unrequited love for so long.” He gave her an appreciative once-over. “You’re looking good, Hillie.”

If there was one thing John had taught her, it was to project herself as she wanted to be perceived. She was wearing a chic, man-tailored suit that was all business. She wanted to look competent, confident, and in control.

“Thanks, friend,” she said, then paused. Something was different. Something smelled different. Then it hit her. “No smoke?”

“Gave it up.”

“Good for you, Arlan! I’m proud of you!”

“I miss it like hell.”

“You’ll get over that. You’re looking good.” In a more professional tone, she asked, “How’ve you been?”

He shrugged. “Pretty good.” He glanced at the manuscript he had been reading. “Busy.” After a few seconds he rocked forward and put his elbows hard on the desk. “Bored. I’ve been doing all kinds of fascinating stuff—a biography of the guy who invented sneaker deodorants, a collection of short stories written by gays about their mothers, a how-to book on keeping raccoons away from bird feeders, and self-help books on everything from peace of mind to gas pains. We’re talking dry, here. Real dry.” He widened his eyes. “I need something good, Hillie. My mind is shriveling. I need something with meat, something I can sink my teeth into. When are you going to give it to me?”

Smugly, she patted the briefcase that hung from her shoulder.

His eyes widened even more. “Are you serious?”

“Very.”

“You’ve done something more than those crap magazine pieces?”

She didn’t take offense. He was too good a friend, and besides, the excitement in his voice was what she had come for. “Those crap magazine pieces have been my bread and butter for the past few years, since nothing I’ve written for you has set the world on fire yet. But this could do it.” She took a breath. “I only have the first few chapters, and they’re in pretty raw form, but they’re yours to see.”

Arlan snatched up his pencil and jabbed it toward the chair. “And close the door. No one hears this but me.”

Hillary closed the door and, in a cloud of composure, took a seat. “In March, there was a
20/20
piece on John St. George. Did you catch it?”

Arlan shook his head.

“It was interesting,” she told him. “Highly favorable. Glowing, actually. It portrayed John as a pillar of the community, a philanthropist, an entrepreneurial genius.”

Arlan rolled the pencil back and forth. “From what I hear, the genius part might fit. His stores are hot. How many are there now?”

“Five. The newest are in L.A. and London.”

“Some pretty heavy names buy his stuff.”

“Heavy names have heavy money, and what better way to spend it than on jewels? They’re the ultimate luxury. Not that John buys jewels with the money he makes. He buys plaques on the sides of buildings, recognition for his name, and goodwill. He buys favors.”

“Sounds political. Next thing you know, he’ll be running for office.”

Hillary went very still. “Not if I have any say in it. I know him, Arlan. I know the man; I know his family. I know his fears and his obsessions, and I know of things he’s done over the years that would put that
20/20
piece to shame. There’s a whole other side to John that no one knows, a whole other story. You want a hot book, that’s it. And I can write it.”

Arlan sat just as still as she for a minute. Then, in a flurry of movement, he opened a drawer, took a handful of something, and palmed it into his mouth. “Sunflower seeds,” he mumbled, brushing several from his shirt. As an afterthought, he raised his brows and lifted the bag from the drawer.

She shook her head.

He helped himself to a few more, then closed the drawer. “You’ve been personally involved with the man.”

“Some of the best things are done by writers who are personally involved. The bestseller lists are loaded with books by a son or a daughter or a spouse, ex-spouse, or mistress.”

“That makes for pretty strong biases.”

“And pretty strong reading. For years you’ve been telling me that my work lacks fire. This won’t. Believe me.”

Arlan hesitated. He was rolling the pencil again. “I believe you. But this smells commercial. Your other work has been intellectual.”

She tossed a glance at the ceiling. “So you say.”

“The critics said it too.”

“And what good did it do me? How many copies did we sell?”

“It takes time to build a reputation. Those books were a beginning. They were intellectually exciting.”

“This one will be, too.” She leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the arms of the chair. “Don’t you see? That’s my skill—to pull deeper meaning out of something seemingly shallow. That was what my biography of Dorothea DeBlois was all about. Her name meant nothing. She was a newspaper colunmist whose work had been buried. But she wrote things before 1910 that are right on the mark today. And there were good reasons why she saw things the way she did, reasons that had to do with the times and her family and where she lived. That was what I was able to bring out in the book. That was where the excitement came from.”