Fatal Trust (2 page)

Catherine hid her surprise behind her water bottle. “How did
you meet her?” she asked after swallowing.

“At a wedding.” He shoved some papers out of the way, then
set his Coke on the blotter. “What you’re really wondering is why a woman like
that would marry someone like me, right?”

“Of course not.”

“Of course you are.” A corner of his mouth quirked,
crinkling an oil splotch. “It’s because I’m unbelievable in bed.”

Even assuming Ben’s claim wasn’t macho egotism, Catherine
couldn’t believe any sex would be good enough to motivate a successful woman to
marry an arrogant, small-town mechanic, especially one who lived where it
snowed in June. Then again, it had been a while since she’d had sex. She also
knew firsthand why that book about smart women and stupid choices had been a
bestseller.

“Well, my ex-husband taught me men are all too damn much
trouble. I’ve sworn off the lot of them, which is another reason your plan
won’t work.”

“You can still
pretend
to be crazy about me. Lawyers
lie for a living, after all.”

That too-familiar gibe sparked Catherine’s temper, and she
narrowed her eyes at him. “This is from an auto mechanic?”

“An
honest
auto mechanic.”

“There’s an oxymoron to end all oxymorons.”

Ben’s lips quirked again. “Guess I deserved that. Though
you’ve got to watch it. If you go using words like ‘oxymoron,’ people will
think you’re too intellectual to be my type.”

“You expect me to limit myself to one- and two-syllable
words?” Catherine had no idea why she was even discussing this since it was not
happening.

“Like a lawyer could manage that.” Ben studied her for a
moment, rubbing his chin, then nodded. “You can be a college dropout. That’s
why you came to Lexington from Illinois or Indiana or some other northern
place, to go to the university.”

“I dropped out of college.”

“After one year, because it was too much work. Now you’re a
cocktail waitress.”

“Which everyone knows is the easiest job on the planet.”

“No, it’s damn hard work, too,” Ben said. “But you like it
more than studying, and it’s got fringe benefits.” He leaned sideways and
wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Like meeting me when I stopped in for a
drink after the wedding.”

Catherine slipped out from under his arm and turned to face
him. “Even if I were willing to go along with your plan, it has a fatal flaw.”

“You don’t drink?”

“Your grandfather probably mentioned my name and that I’m
his lawyer.”

“I doubt it. He was pretty secretive about his legal and
financial affairs,” Ben said. “The letter about the two-week requirement that I
got after Grandfather died was signed by some guy at First Trust in
Minneapolis, not you.”

“Trey sent me things fairly frequently.” Thomas J. Donaldson
III—nicknamed Trey—was Max’s full-time accountant and had an office at
Nevermore.

“Trey’s off the suspect list since he just gets a year’s
severance pay,” Ben said. “But he’s been Grandfather’s best friend for so long
he’s almost family and will be around Nevermore. If he knows who you are, he
might slip up and give us away. You’ll have to change your name.” He folded his
hands on what looked like six-pack abs, rocking back in his chair. “What about
Cat? Or better yet, Tiger.” He smirked. “Sounds like major fantasy material to
me.”

Catherine responded with the withering look that was one of
the few useful skills she’d picked up from her mother.

His smirk morphed into a chuckle. “Spoilsport.”

“I don’t suppose you’d consider hiring a private
investigator.”

“Grandfather’s letter said he didn’t want anyone besides you
and me looking into this and maybe uncovering family secrets not related to the
murder. I wouldn’t feel right disrespecting his wishes.” Ben righted his chair.
“If you aren’t willing to help me, I’ll go it alone.”

Max had made the same request in her letter. She’d hoped Ben
would be willing to disregard it, but no such luck.

Catherine thought for a moment, chewing her bottom lip. She
had other work, but nothing that couldn’t wait, and Max had insisted she be
paid her regular rate so her firm wouldn’t be losing billable hours. It wasn’t
as if Ben were proposing she do something unethical, either. If Max
had
been murdered, she needed to make sure her current client First Trust, which
had taken over as trustee when Max died, didn’t distribute any of the trust to
his murderer. In fact, when she’d told the trust officer now handling the trust
about Max’s letter, he’d requested she do what Max had asked.

She also owed it to Max to make sure his murderer was
punished. He’d been a good client, and getting his business had jump-started
her career. And most important, her Aunt Jessica would have wanted her to do
it.

She was only giving it a couple of days, though, just long
enough to satisfy her conscience that she’d respected Max’s wishes and her
brain that this whole thing wasn’t a hoax. If she hadn’t identified the killer
by then, the trustee was hiring a P.I.

She released her lip, along with a resigned breath. “My
middle name is Alexandra, so I could be Alex. Or Aly.”

“How about Lexie?” Ben asked.

“Lexie from Lexington?”

“It’s easy to remember.”

Did it matter? “Fine. Lexie it is.”

Ben got to his feet. “Now we might as well go meet the
family.”

“First let me make sure I’ve got the names and relationships
right.” Catherine paged backward in her legal pad until she reached the
relevant notes. “Max’s sister Muriel gets five percent of the trust. Since
Max’s children all predeceased him, the remainder goes one-third to Edgar’s
sons Seth and Jeremy, one-third to Allen’s children Cecilia and Dylan, and
one-third to Rebecca’s son. Max said your mother was named after Daphne du
Maurier’s masterpiece.”

“Yep. She’s lucky she wasn’t a boy, or she’d probably have
ended up named Poe.” He picked a key ring off the corner of his desk. “Let’s
go. Unless you’re scared.”

“Of meeting Max’s family?” Catherine smiled faintly. “He did
say some members … have issues.”

“Talk about rephrasing for politeness. I meant scared of
staying at Nevermore. It’s haunted, you know.”

Catherine stuffed her pen and legal pad into her briefcase,
and then stood. “Your grandfather made a fortune writing books that probably
terrify Stephen King. Max would never own a house that wasn’t supposedly
haunted. Luckily I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Neither do I.” Ben’s keys jangled against the blotter. “You
need to dress more like my girlfriend would. Do you have any clothes that don’t
look quite so lawyer-like, or should we pick something up at The Clothes
Garden?”

Catherine suppressed a sigh. Looking like the girlfriend of
a man with Ben’s admittedly Neanderthal taste in women was at the top of her
Never to Do list, but she’d signed on to this. “Give me a couple of minutes,”
she said. “Where’s the restroom?”

Ben pointed her to it, and she was glad to find that the
restroom was warm but clean and had decent lighting and a large mirror.
Catherine set her jacket on the toilet lid and pulled her turquoise silk shirt
out of her black skirt. A few rolls of the waistband and the skirt was four
inches above her knees, not exactly a mini, but she was closing in on
thirty-five, after all. She tied the hem of the shirt so it covered the rolled
waistband, then checked the mirror. The shirt had a few wrinkles, but the sauna
outside should steam those out before she reached her car. Then she undid
enough buttons to expose the top of the black cotton-and-lace camisole she’d
worn underneath. The cotton hadn’t prevented her shirt from resembling a
saturated silk towel, but at least it was proving good for something.

Finally, she took out the pins securing her French twist,
releasing hair she paid a fortune to keep what used to be its natural golden
hue. She finger-combed it, reapplied her lipstick, and then studied herself.
She probably still didn’t look the part, but she was not buying anything at The
Clothes Garden. With a name like that, she’d bet every item sold there featured
flowers or ruffles, and she detested flowers and ruffles. She’d been raised in
a world of solid colors and clean, elegant lines, and old habits were hard to
break. Besides, her ex-husband Neil’s new wife Deidre was a ruffly, flowery
person.

Catherine opened the restroom door just as a redhead in
cutoffs so short they were likely illegal in several states flip-flopped up to
Ben, stopping right where he had a prime view of her cleavage above her gold
halter top. “Hey, Ben. I heard my car’s ready.”

“It’s parked outside. Trudy’s got the key.”

“I know, but I wanted to thank you personally for fixing it.
You’re so talented.” The woman rested her hand on Ben’s arm. Her glittering
gold nails had to be more than an inch long.

“It just needed a new muffler.”

The woman moved closer to Ben. “If you hadn’t figured it
out, the muffler might have gone out totally while I was driving and made my
car crash. I could have been killed.” She stroked his arm. “Let me know how I
can repay you for saving my life.”

“Trudy has the bill.”

She touched a nail to his lips. “I wasn’t only talking about
cash.”

“I’ll remember that, babe. Call if you’ve got any problems
with the car.”

“I’ll do that. Keep in touch.” She turned and wiggled her
way out of the garage.

Rule Number 148: Never get involved with a man who calls any
woman “babe.” Catherine pressed her lips together. Two new rules in one day.
Definitely a bad sign.

At least her involvement with Ben was as fictitious as one
of Max’s bestsellers. She stepped out of the restroom. “I assume she’s just
your type.”

Ben tore his gaze from the door the woman had exited through
and looked at Catherine. “Absolutely. Although I’ll have to wait to take her up
on her offer until my girlfriend from Lexington’s gone.”

“I’ve changed my mind about that plan. I’m not up to acting
like a Playmate of the Month wannabe.”

Ben raised his eyebrows. “You’ve got a problem with puppies,
bubble baths, and world peace? Those are Miss June’s favorite things.”

Naturally he’d know. “I’ve got a problem pretending to be dumb
enough to think a broken muffler could make a car crash. The apparent double-D
requirement is also way beyond me.”

“I didn’t say you had to be dumb, just not intellectual.” He
winked. “As to the other, I’m willing to make allowances for blondes. Follow my
truck.”

Ben drove his pickup down Main Street, Catherine’s rented
Taurus trailing behind him, resisting the urge to floor it and try to lose her.
Jesus, what had Grandfather gotten him into? From what little he’d said about
his lawyer—and all he’d left unsaid—Ben had always pegged her as a clone of his
ex-wife Olivia. But now that he was expected to work with her, he’d hoped he’d
read between the wrong lines.

No such luck. Catherine’s entrance into the garage had
confirmed that, the way she’d tiptoed as if stepping on a year-old spot of oil
would ruin her expensive shoes. And when it came to shooting condescending
looks, Catherine had Olivia beat.

He hadn’t realized he’d given her a once-over when he’d been
trying to figure out whether she could carry off the girlfriend role, but at
least he’d apologized. Not that she’d believed he’d meant it. She probably
assumed a small-town mechanic like him spent his free time parked in his
La-Z-Boy recliner in a room with deer and moose heads covering nearly every
inch of wall space, chugging beer and watching reruns of the Miss Hooters
pageant—at least when he wasn’t out killing yet another defenseless animal to
add to his décor. Okay, so maybe he’d encouraged that impression, but her
attitude had pissed him off.

On the other hand, he could use her help. Ben’s gut twisted,
and he gritted his teeth. This thing with Grandfather really sucked. Knowing
his great-aunt or one of his cousins was responsible made it even harder to
take.

He owed Grandfather more than he could ever repay. He could
put up with Catherine Barrington and this charade for a little while.

Photographs of Nevermore didn’t do it justice. After driving
eight hilly miles northwest from Lake Superior—the last two on a road cut
through a thick forest of pines and birch trees—the massive house appeared, set
on an island of grass in an ocean of trees. Built of rose-colored stone with
enough gray overtones to eliminate any hint of warmth, it featured a black roof
and trim, three circular towers, dozens of wrought iron stakes, and several
gargoyles.

Although it looked as if it had housed Nathaniel Hawthorne’s
contemporaries, Max had built Nevermore himself more than forty years ago. He’d
claimed the place had cost him a fortune—especially the ghosts he swore he’d
bought to haunt it.

After parking in the circular drive and popping the trunk,
Catherine stepped out of her car. The relative silence, broken only by trees
rustling and creaking in the slight breeze, provided an ominous sound track. She
hugged herself against a chill that had little to do with a temperature at
least ten degrees cooler than in Lakeview.

“It looks like something out of a gothic novel,” she said.
“It’s spooky even during the day.”

“You should see it at night when the spotlights are on,” Ben
said, referring to a half dozen lights scattered around the front lawn.
“Grandfather claimed he had them installed to illuminate the driveway for late
arrivals, but the way the light’s filtered, I guarantee his real motive was to
make the place even eerier.” He walked over to the open trunk of Catherine’s
car.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Getting your bags.” He grabbed the handle of her suitcase.

“I can certainly carry my own bags.”

“My girlfriend wouldn’t.”

Catherine stepped away from the trunk. If he wanted to play
Mr. Macho, fine. Her suitcase was so heavy she’d paid a surcharge at the
airport.

Ben pulled the bag out of the trunk without grunting, but
immediately dropped it onto the ground and flexed and unflexed his fingers a
couple of times. Then he reached back in for a stuffed garment bag. “How long
are you planning on staying? Six months?”

“Don’t tell me that’s all you need for two weeks,” Catherine
said, her gaze on the navy gym bag slung over his shoulder.

“I left some things here earlier,” he said. “If I need
anything else, I can stop by my house, since I’ll be going into Lakeview every
day to work. But everyone else will mostly stick around Nevermore, so you don’t
have to worry about getting lonely.”

“Whoopee.”

Ben slipped the garment bag strap over his shoulder. “Your
sarcasm is definitely warranted.”

“What’s sarcasm?”

He looked at her blankly. “What?”

“I asked what sarcasm is,” Catherine said. “Don’t bother
answering, because I’m just practicing. I assumed it was like ‘oxymoron,’
something one of your girlfriends wouldn’t understand.”

“Actually, even though you don’t understand it, you
shouldn’t care enough to ask the definition.”

She almost smiled until his serious expression made her
realize he wasn’t kidding.

Ben closed the trunk, picked up her suitcase, and headed up
the stone steps to the massive front door. Before he could lift the gargoyle
door knocker, the door opened.

A nun in a black and white habit stepped out. She had Max’s brown eyes
and wore bright red lipstick.

Ben dropped the suitcase and hugged her around the gym and
garment bags. “How are you holding up, Aunt Muriel?”

“With God’s help, I’m coping.”

Max’s sister was a nun. Catherine hadn’t known that. Given
his lifestyle, it must have been a difficult relationship for both of them.

“This is Lexie,” Ben said, wrapping an arm around
Catherine’s shoulders. “When she heard about Grandfather’s death, she insisted
on coming all the way from Kentucky to comfort me. My Aunt Muriel,
Lexie
.”
He squeezed her shoulder.

Catherine started. That’s right, her name was supposed to be
Lexie. She’d better begin thinking of herself that way or she was going to
screw this up. “Please accept my sympathy on the loss of your brother,” she
told Muriel.

“My brother’s in a far better place,” Muriel said, fingering
the cross she wore around her neck. “At least I’m praying he is.”

“Let’s go inside.” Ben picked up the suitcase again and
carried it into a foyer decorated with a Persian carpet, dark wood paneling,
and a stuffed grizzly bear.

“The bear starred in
See All Evil
,”
Ben said, referring to one of Max’s books that had been made into a Hollywood
blockbuster featuring a grizzly on a rampage in Vail. “Although Grandfather
waited until the bear died of old age to have him stuffed.”

“That movie terrified me.” Lexie stepped up to the bear and
forced herself to touch the fur. The hairs on the back of her neck rose.

“Igor, take our things to my room,” Ben said.

At Ben’s words, Lexie turned her attention from the menacing-even-when-stuffed
bear to a thirty-something man in full butler garb who was approaching them.
Ben apparently assumed they’d be sharing a room.

“You and your friend are not sharing a room,” Muriel said
before Lexie could figure out a logical reason to object. “Think of your
grandfather.” She twisted her cross.

“Grandfather wouldn’t give a damn.”

“Ben, it’s okay,” Lexie said, resting her hand on his bare
forearm. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable sharing a room with you under these
circumstances.” She curled her hand slightly, fingernails poised to press her
point if he disagreed.

Ben was silent for a moment, and then shrugged. “Having two
rooms will give us more space. Put her next door to me, Igor.”

The man strapped Ben’s gym bag and Lexie’s garment bag over
the same shoulder, then picked up Lexie’s suitcase as easily as if she’d filled
it with a single down jacket, instead of jamming it with clothing, hair
products, makeup, and four pairs of shoes.

“His name is Igor?” Lexie asked when he’d headed up the spiral
staircase at the end of the foyer.

“I doubt it,” Ben said. “Grandfather’s butlers are always
called Igor. This one’s the seventh.”

“Actually he’s the eighth,” Muriel corrected. “The seventh
was the one who left for Disneyland.”

“He got a job playing Goofy,” Ben told Lexie. “I forgot him
since he was only here a few weeks. Grandfather thought the name was
appropriate for a butler at Nevermore, and with what he paid, he could probably
have called them all Tinker Bell if he wanted.” He shifted his gaze to Muriel.
“We could let number eight use his real name now.”

“Why bother? He seems perfectly happy being Igor.” Muriel
lifted the skirt of her habit. “Please excuse me while I retire to say some
rosaries for my dear brother. Although the way he lived, I’m afraid he may not
have made it to purgatory.”

“Sharing a room is not part of our deal,” Lexie murmured
when Muriel was out of earshot.

“It would have looked suspicious if I hadn’t tried,” Ben
said. “I knew Aunt Muriel would object.”

“Max never mentioned that his sister’s a nun.”

“That’s because she isn’t one,” Ben said. “She was married
for more than fifty years, but when her husband died, she decided to join a
convent. Unfortunately she couldn’t find one willing to accept her.”

“Because she’d been married?”

“That she’s Lutheran and didn’t think she should have to
convert was a bigger impediment,” he said dryly. “She also discovered she’d
have to give up her little cigars, Jack Daniel’s on the rocks, and satellite
TV, and reconsidered. So she bought a habit and wears it when she’s in the mood
to be Catholic. She’s got a house in Lakeview.”

Ben put his hand on the small of Lexie’s back. “Let’s check
out the living room.”

“Am I going to encounter a couple of Munchkins in there?”
Lexie asked. “Or maybe the White Rabbit?” Between Nevermore, a fake nun in
devil-red lipstick, and a butler called Igor, she was starting to feel a little
like Alice wandering around Wonderland.

“The next best thing.” Ben directed her into an enormous
living room with the same dark paneling as the foyer, an ornately carved wood
fireplace, and a sleek black leather couch and matching chairs.

“As you’ll notice, Grandfather liked nineteenth-century
architecture and mahogany, but he wasn’t a big fan of the furnishings,” he
said. “The parlor and dining room are the only rooms that look like they belong
in this place.”

Lexie wandered over to the fireplace. Each end of the
mahogany mantel held a statue of a black bird. “I assume that’s in honor of the
raven from Poe’s poem,” she said, pointing.

Ben nodded. “Grandfather thought it appropriate since the
bird inspired the name of this place,” he said. “And the other one’s the
Maltese falcon. One of several used in the movie and touched by Humphrey Bogart
himself.”

“You’re kidding.” She moved closer to examine it, resisting
the urge to pick it up. After all these years she doubted she’d smudge any
historic fingerprints, but some things were too sacred to disturb. “That’s one
of my favorite movies.”

“You like old movies? Even when they haven’t been
colorized?”

Speaking of things that were sacred …
“Colorization should be illegal.”

“One of the first things we agree on,” Ben said. “Except
just so you know, none of my girlfriends would ever like black-and-white
movies.”

She gave him an over-the-shoulder glance, but his half-smile
and love of old movies torpedoed her planned derogatory retort. “That’s what a
year of college does for you,” she said instead.

“Other items in this room are also movie memorabilia,
although nothing’s from Oz or Wonderland.” Ben walked over to a high table.
“This brandy snifter and martini shaker are from a Thin Man movie. That ashtray
is from
The
Big Sleep
, and the candelabrum was in
Dracula
. And
several pieces are from movies made from Grandfather’s books.”

Lexie crossed the room to a low, curved chest that looked
Italian or Spanish, displaying a pair of silver candlesticks and a bloodred
bowl she remembered had played a prominent role in
Deadly Light.
Just
looking at this stuff was giving her goose bumps. “This is amazing.”

“Ben. Aunt Muriel said you were here.” An attractive
brunette wearing a deep tan and a white sundress strode into the room. She gave
Ben a hug. “I’ve missed you.”

“Speaking of amazing, this is my cousin Cecilia from
Phoenix,” Ben said, his smile now full and holding genuine affection. “Cecilia,
meet Lexie. I met her at a wedding last month. She heard about Grandfather’s
death and came all the way from Kentucky to comfort me.”

Cecilia turned her smile on Lexie, extending a manicured
hand. “I’m happy to meet you. Great shoes, by the way. Jimmy Choos?”

“I live near a fabulous consignment shop,” Lexie said, since
new Jimmy Choos probably weren’t in most cocktail waitresses’ budgets.

“I’m sorry about your divorce,” Ben said.

“So am I.” Cecilia waved her hand. “I thought the third one
would be the charm, but obviously that doesn’t work for marriages. Or maybe
it’s just me and marriages.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Ben said firmly. “You’ve
chosen the wrong men for the wrong reasons.”

“Well, at the rate I’m going, I’ll pass Mother before I’m
forty.” Cecilia’s expression held a combination of regret and resignation. “My
mother’s on husband number six,” she told Lexie.

“She’s the major reason you keep choosing the wrong men,”
Ben said. “Is anyone else here yet?”

Cecilia’s expression became even more resigned and
regretful. “Just Dylan. He’s in his room sleeping off a hangover. As usual.”

“Is he still gambling?” Ben asked.

“He lives to gamble.” The classic features Cecilia had
inherited from Max tightened. “Although he had to stop once he’d borrowed the
maximum a Las Vegas loan shark would lend him. I’m hoping he was smart enough
to find one without Mafia connections, since his lender could very well track
him down here.”

The grandfather clock in the corner sounded. Instead of the
usual tune, Lexie recognized the desolate first measures of the
Carmina Burana.

“It’s already five,” Ben said when the clock began chiming
the hour. “Lexie and I’d better head upstairs. See you at sherry hour.”

“Sherry hour is from six to seven every night, followed by
dinner,” he explained as he and Lexie walked toward the polished mahogany
spiral staircase. Two devils brandishing pitchforks guarded the steps, one
carved into each of the bottom newel posts. “We dress up, but if you didn’t
bring anything—”

“Max mentioned that in my letter, so I’m good,” Lexie said.
“He said sherry hour would provide an opportunity to check people out.”

“He’s right. Thank God no one sticks to sherry, since those
gatherings call for something stronger.”

They ascended the stairs, and then started down a long
hallway. Ben stopped at the second door and flung it open. “You’re staying
here.”

Lexie walked into a large room with an attached bath. The
sapphire silk comforter and drapes and the black lacquer furniture coordinated
with a sapphire, black, and white Oriental carpet. “This is beautiful. How many
bedrooms are there?”

“Thirteen, of course,” Ben said. “Ten on this floor.
Grandfather’s bedroom is on the third floor, along with two tower bedrooms.”

“I assume the tower rooms are supposedly haunted.”

“According to Grandfather, all the bedrooms are.” Ben turned
and headed to the door. “I’ll stop by at six.”

“You know, you’d be a lot happier if you loosened up,” Max
said. He was sitting in one of the leather chair
s that faced
Catherine’s desk.

His comment had come out of the blue—they’d been discussing
a proposed revision to his trust. But Max frequently sw
itched topics
without warning.
He claimed it was because he liked to catch
her off
guard. Catherine
suspected it was really because when it came to estate planning issues, he was
easily bored.