Fatal Trust (3 page)

She rested her palms on her mahogany desk. “I thought we’d
agreed that you pay me to be anal retentive,” she said levelly.

“When you’re my attorney,” Max
said, waving his hand. “But that doesn’t mean you should act like you’ve got a
stick up your ass the rest of the time.”

His words made Catherine smile. “Aunt Jessica always used
to describe my mother that way.”

Max’s smile was tinged with
sadness. “I know. I owe it to Jessica to make sure you don’t turn into another
uptight Elizabeth.”

“As Aunt Jessica also used to say, one Elizabeth Barrington
is more than enough for the world.”

“I’m sure your mother would say the same thing about me,” Max said.

“No, she wouldn’t.”

“Don’t bother lying to be polit
e,
”
Max said, his
smile now genuine. “Your mother’s opinion really doesn’t bother me.”

“I’m not lying,” Catherine said. “She’d never say it
because
that
wouldn’t be polite. Of course, that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t think it.”

“Actually
,
I owe your
mother,” Max said. “She’s inspired my next book.”

“Do you kill her off in some particularly gruesome way?”

“Of course not,” Max said, looking offended. “I could never
kill off Jessica’s only sister
,
no matter how
much she disapproves of me and I disapprove of her. I’m planning to write about
a town where someone puts a drug in the water supply that turns everyone into
stiff, uptight, unerringly proper people who never smile or have any
fun but are always courteous.
I’d call them
something like Zombie Bluenoses.” His forehead creased. “Not that, of course.
It doesn’t have the right ring. But you get the idea. A whole town full of
pompous, polite paragons. Can you imagine a more horrifying place to live? Or even visit?”

“The drug wouldn’t
affect
everyone in
town,” Catherine pointed out. “Not everyone drinks tap water anymore.”
Experience had taught her that Max not only wouldn’t get back on topic until he
was ready but
he
expected her to join in the conversation. To be honest, it was more fun than discussing
trust distribution issues anyway.

“Good point,” Max said, stroking his white beard. ”I’ll
have to come up with another distribution system.”

“What do these people do once they’re affected? Catherine asked. “Storm Las Vegas and try to convert everyone
there?”

“That could be interesting,” Max said. “I haven’t figured
that out yet. Although I do know I’ll need a hero. A guy who burps and
scratches in public and eats with his fingers. He ends up saving the town. What do you think?”

“I think it sounds ridiculous,” Catherine said. “And I
think that if you write it, it will still end up being a bestseller.”

“Which is another reason for you to loosen up,” Max said.
“Otherwise I could very well put you in the book.
Actually, maybe I’ll make you the heroine, the woman the hero teaches to loosen
up. Once she does, she ends up helping him save the town.”

Catherine rolled her eyes. “Too bad for you that you can’t
manipulate real life like you do the characters in
your books.”

Max grinned. “So you think.”

Lexie ran a brush through her loose hair, frowning at her
reflection in the bathroom mirror. That conversation had occurred years ago,
but she could still remember it perfectly. And Max had been right about his
ability to manipulate real life. Thanks to his manipulation from the grave, she
was now pretending to be Ben’s girlfriend while spying on his relatives,
something she was not looking forward to. She’d even called First Trust, hoping
that after hearing the plan’s specifics, the trustee would find some reason to
object to it. No such luck.

She surveyed herself in the bathroom mirror. She’d selected
tonight’s dress because although it was navy silk, the V-neckline in both front
and back made it the least conservative of the three dresses she’d brought
along. For her investigation to succeed, she had to convince Ben’s family
members she was his cocktail waitress girlfriend, and you only got one chance
to make a first impression. Rule Number 9.

She was applying her lipstick when Ben knocked on her door.
She checked her watch. Seven minutes after six.

She replaced the silver cover and set the lipstick tube on
the bathroom vanity, then went to open her bedroom door.

Her breath caught in her throat. Talk about cleaning up
well. The man standing outside was Ben, but not the auto mechanic/NASCAR driver
Ben she’d been with less than an hour ago. She’d never expected he’d own a
suit, let alone a perfectly tailored charcoal one, which he wore with a white
shirt and a silk tie that matched his eyes. With his hair damp and every trace
of stubble and oil gone, this Ben had her stomach fluttering.

Which annoyed her. “You’re late,” she said, even though she
hadn’t been ready on time either.

“Sorry.” He offered her his arm. “Let’s go, babe.”

The fluttering stopped. She
really
wasn’t looking forward to tonight.

Sherry hour was held in the parlor, a room furnished with
the kind of elegantly uncomfortable Victorian-era furniture Lexie’s mother
favored. Aunt Muriel was already there, still wearing her habit and bright
lipstick as she drank what appeared to be whiskey on the rocks.

“I’ll introduce you to Trey,” Ben said, leading Lexie to the
stately silver-haired man standing next to the fireplace.

“Trey, I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Lexie. Lexie,
this is Grandfather’s best friend, Trey.”

Lexie held her breath, ready for Trey to recognize her and
tell everyone her true identity. But he simply extended his hand, not
exhibiting a hint of suspicion. “Delighted to meet you, Lexie,” he said. “Where
are you from?”

“Lexington, Kentucky, believe it or not,” she said,
relaxing. “Although I wasn’t born there, so I can’t blame my parents for the
‘Lexie from Lexington’ idiocy.”

Trey smiled. “I can blame my parents for my nickname Trey.
My name is actually Thomas J. Donaldson III. My grandfather was Tom and my
father was Tommie, so my parents decided I needed something completely
different. They came up with Trey, which is based on the Italian word for
‘three.’ They claimed it was because I was conceived in Rome, although I have
no idea if that was true.”

“It makes a good story,” Lexie said.

Trey nodded. “And after spending so many years with Max, I
know the story is the most important thing.”

“Let’s go get something to drink, Lexie,” Ben said.

“It’s been very nice meeting you, Trey,” Lexie said.

“I told you he wouldn’t suspect,” Ben murmured as they
walked over to the drink table.

A few minutes later Cecilia came in, wearing an elegant
black sheath and accompanied by a man who resembled her so closely he had to be
Dylan. With his dark hair in a ponytail and striking features, Dylan was movie
star handsome, although his red-rimmed brown eyes somewhat ruined the effect.
He headed directly to the drink cart.

“I’ll have to keep an eye on Dylan,” Cecilia said as she
walked up to them. “He could very well get drunk enough to head to the nearest
casino for a couple of days and lose his share of the trust.”

“I thought he was out of money,” Ben said.

“I’m sure he can borrow more now that he’s in line to
inherit a fortune.”

Ben draped an arm around Lexie’s shoulders, pulling her
against his side. He smelled like pine soap, which surprised her. She’d
expected some men’s cologne with a virile name and an overdose of spice and
musk. “Why don’t you get me another drink, Lexie? She’s a cocktail waitress,”
he told Cecilia.

Lexie gave him a tight smile. “I’m off duty.”

“I promise I’ll make it worth your while,” Ben said, his
voice lowered suggestively.

She was supposed to be crazy about him, so instead of
telling him where to stick it, she raised her chin. “I came out here to give
you emotional support. Not to wait on you.”

“Good for you, Lexie,” Cecilia said. “Ben always dates twits
who do whatever he wants. He needs someone who’ll stand up to him.”

Ben sighed as if he’d been ordered to haul stones across the
Sahara for a new pyramid rather than his own glass across the room for a
refill. “With the two of you ganging up on me, I guess I’ll get my own drink.”

“Bring me a glass of cabernet while you’re at it,” Cecilia
called after him.

“They got me.”

The words came from the man who’d just stumbled into the
parlor. His light brown hair was all wild wisps and spikes, one sleeve of his
suit coat was torn, and his shirt had been pulled from his trousers.

And he was covered with blood.

“They came out of the trees,” he wheezed out. “I couldn’t
stop them. I tried, but I couldn’t.”

“Help me.” His voice was just above a whisper. “Please.”

Then he collapsed in a bloody mess on the parlor floor.

Lexie froze, her body tensing and her blood chilling. “Oh my
God,” she said. “We need to call 911.”

“Don’t bother,” Ben said. He hadn’t moved.

Actually, no one else in the room had moved either.
Meanwhile the man lay motionless on the floor, dripping blood onto the carpet.

“Someone’s out there, someone who attacked him,” Lexie said,
her voice edged with hysteria. “Probably more than one person. And without
medical attention, he’s going to bleed to death. You can’t just let him die.”
What was wrong with these people?

“He’s not going to die,” Ben said. “
Death Dreams
,
right?”

Lexie’s body unclenched as the bloody man got to his feet,
grinning. “I should have known you’d figure it out, Ben,” he said. “I thought
it was a fitting tribute to Grandfather. Let me clean up, and I’ll be right
back.”

“The housekeeper won’t be happy about the blood on the
carpet,” Cecilia said as Seth left the room.

“It’s water soluble,” he yelled over his shoulder.

“That was my cousin Seth making an entrance,” Ben said. “He
was playing a scene from one of Grandfather’s books.”

Lexie nodded. “
Death Dreams.
I read it.”

“You’re a fan of Grandfather’s, Lexie?” Cecilia asked.

“Who isn’t? Which Max Windsor book is your favorite?” Lexie
asked, seizing on a topic that would hopefully distract everyone from the
embarrassing fact that she alone hadn’t realized Seth’s arrival had been an
act. Although to be fair, she also was the only one who didn’t know Seth.

A few minutes later Seth returned, minus the fake blood and
torn suit coat, although his hair was still wild. “That was the most fun I’ve
had since I played Dracula at the Fresno playhouse. Which was actually the last
role of my career.”

“Do you miss acting?” Cecilia asked.

“Not much,” Seth said. “I was never big-screen or even cable
TV material. Not like my wife, who just needs the right vehicle. And I prefer
directing.” He frowned. “Although I haven’t had a directing job since that
kids’ show tanked nearly a year ago.”

“Why was it cancelled?” Cecilia asked. “I never heard, and I
thought it was doing well.”

Seth’s frown shifted into a grimace. “It was, until the
asshole who played the giant rabbit solicited a prostitute who happened to be
an uncover policewoman. And then Mr. Sombrero the Mexican mouse turned out to
be an illegal alien from Guatemala. We could have replaced them, but the
sponsors decided that wasn’t the type of show they wanted their supposedly
wholesome but overly sweetened, artificial-ingredient-filled breakfast cereal
associated with, and pulled the plug.”

“Lexie, this is my cousin Seth Windsor,” Ben said. “Seth, my
friend Lexie. She’s from Kentucky.”

“It’s great to meet you, Lexie,” Seth said, shaking her
hand. “Sorry if I scared you.”

“No problem,” Lexie said. “Maybe you shouldn’t have quit
acting. You were very convincing.”

“Thanks, but I think it was the blood,” Seth said. “Use
enough fake blood and even the worst actor becomes convincing. When did you
meet Ben?”

“Six weeks ago,” Ben said, answering for Lexie. “I was in
Lexington for Bill Hansen’s second wedding. Afterward I stopped at a bar for a
drink, and Lexie waited on me.”

“Did you know Ben was Max Windsor’s grandson, Lexie?” Seth
asked.

“Actually, I didn’t realize it until he called upset because
Max had died,” Lexie said.

“Ben really didn’t mention it before then?”

“You think I need Grandfather’s fame to get women?” Ben
asked. “You sound like Jeremy. Or maybe I should say you’re confusing me with
Jeremy.”

“That’s not what I’m implying at all,” Seth said. “I’m
surprised because I use my connection to Grandfather whenever I can. I can tell
you’re not originally from Kentucky, Lexie. How did you end up in Lexington, of
all places?”

“I don’t appreciate you giving my girlfriend the third
degree,” Ben said sharply.

“What third degree?” Seth asked. “I’m interested in people,
and I know everyone else here.”

At that moment a crash sounded in the parlor. Igor was
standing at the doorway, holding a small gong and mallet. “Dinner is served,”
he said.

“And that ends another cheery sherry hour,” Ben said, and
then he murmured in Lexie’s ear, “I think you’d better read up on Lexington.”

Everyone had just finished the delicious first course of
figs and mozzarella in a balsamic vinegar reduction when Seth pulled out a
camera.

“Smile, everyone.” He got to his feet and circled the
mahogany table, snapping pictures.

“What are you doing, Seth?” Ben asked.

“Taking family photos.”

“When did you turn into such a photographer?” Cecilia asked.
“I didn’t notice you taking any pictures at Easter.”

“I started taking more photos when we had the boys,” Seth
said. “And Grandfather’s death made me realize how important the rest of my
family is. This could be the last time the entire family is in one place, since
the only thing that’s ever brought all of us together is Grandfather.”

“You have a point,” Ben said. “But could you wait until
we’re done eating? I’d like my soup.”

Seth sat down at the table as Igor served the soup. Everyone
ate the spicy gazpacho in silence for a couple of minutes before Seth spoke
again. “Ben, I heard you’re taking parts from Grandfather’s Ferrari.”

“I’m planning to use whatever I can salvage,” Ben said.

“How much of the car is left?”

“Not a whole lot. Why?”

“I want to take some pictures of the car before you tear it
apart,” Seth said.

“For God’s sake, why?”

“As a remembrance.”

“A remembrance that Grandfather burned up in his car? That’s
morbid as hell,” Ben said.

“Perhaps Seth wants to remind himself to drive carefully,”
Muriel said, twisting the enormous cross she wore on a long chain around her
neck. “Or to show it to those boys of his when they’re of driving age to remind
them to drive carefully.”

“Or perhaps he wants to sell it to a tabloid,” Ben said,
glaring at Seth. “Like he’s done a couple of times in the past year.”

Seth responded with a glare of his own. “I have not sold
anything to a tabloid.”

“Well, someone did, and you’re the most likely suspect,” Ben
said. His voice hummed with anger. “Who else has your Hollywood gossip rag
connections? And the first article was all about how Grandfather wouldn’t help
out his grandson, the poor struggling director, by requiring or even requesting
that he be hired as an assistant on the movie version of his latest
bestseller.”

“That was common knowledge.”

“If it was, it was because you leaked it,” Ben said.
“Grandfather sure as hell didn’t. He was furious when it came out. And a couple
of months ago you sold the story about the group who’d shot out Grandfather’s
living room window. The ones who’d been sending him threatening letters because
they were upset about the bleeding Virgin Mary statue in his last book.”

“I didn’t know there’d been a shooting until I read an
article about it,” Seth said. “I wasn’t here when it happened.”

“But you’ve got friends still in Lakeview who were. Including
Eddie Maxwell, who was your best friend in high school and just happened to
have fixed the window for Grandfather.”

“I haven’t talked to Eddie in years,” Seth said. “You not
only have contacts here, you live here, Ben. How do we know that you didn’t leak
it?”

“Because I don’t care about money and fame,” Ben said. “You
can’t deny that you do. I’ve made sure that no one has photographed
Grandfather’s car, and you’re not going to change that. Grandfather deserves
his privacy even more now that he’s dead.”

“You don’t own the car, Ben,” Seth said. “I assume it’s part
of the trust, which means it belongs to all of us. So tell me where it is. You
have no right to object if I take a few pictures of it.”

Ben dropped his spoon into his bowl, splattering tomatoey
gazpacho onto the white damask tablecloth. “I can object to any damn thing I
want to,” he said, jumping to his feet. “Lexie, we’re out of here.” He grabbed
her arm and pulled her out of her chair.

“Thanks for dinner. It was delicious,” Lexie got out before
Ben dragged her from the dining room, although she wasn’t sure who she was
thanking. The cook was in the kitchen, and the host of this two-week house
party was dead.

“What was that about?” Lexie asked. “Is it such a big deal
if Seth takes a photo of Max’s car?”

“It is if he sells it to a tabloid,” Ben said. “You must
know how much Grandfather hated publicity. He was furious about both those
earlier stories and was sure Seth was behind them.”

“Furious enough to threaten to disinherit him?” Lexie asked,
spotting a possible motive.

“No, but furious enough that I don’t want Seth to disrespect
Grandfather’s memory by publicizing a photo of that car. Change into jeans and
meet me in the hallway outside our rooms.” He started up the stairs.

“Why?”

“I’ll explain later. Meet me in five minutes.”

Refusing would result in an argument, and Barringtons didn’t
argue—except in a courtroom, of course. Rule Number 17. More important, her law
firm dictated that the client was always right. Ben wasn’t her client, but the
trustee would want her to keep the trust beneficiaries happy. Lexie went to dig
out her jeans.

“It’s hard for me to believe pants that cost nearly three
hundred dollars can be considered jeans,” Ben said when she returned to the
hallway.

“How do you know how much these cost?” Lexie had been
appalled by the price, but the jeans had been so flattering she couldn’t
resist. Besides, this wasn’t like college when she’d owned a dozen pairs in
assorted sizes, styles, and shades of denim. She actually owned only this one
pair—if PMS had her too bloated to zip them, she didn’t wear jeans.

“I read an article about outrageously expensive jeans that
mentioned that brand. In
Playboy.
”

“Which you only buy for the articles, of course.”

He snorted. “You gotta be kidding. Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“Trust me.”

“Now you’ve got to be kidding,” Lexie said as she followed
him down the stairs. “Where?”

“We’re checking out Grandfather’s Ferrari.”

The outside air had cooled enough that Lexie was glad she’d
put on a long-sleeved shirt. The sky glowed dull orange, the sun already
setting behind the pine and birch-forested hills to the west.

She stopped beside Ben’s pickup, but he continued walking
until he reached a motorcycle. “We’ll take this.”

Lexie’s stomach backflipped. “I am not riding on a
motorcycle.”

“Why not?” Ben asked, picking a helmet off the grass. “Lexie
would love it.”

“Only if Lexie has a death wish. A motorcycle is a hopeful
organ transplant recipient’s best friend.”

“I’m not some wild teenage kid. I’m an excellent driver, and
I only had one drink.” Ben walked toward her, holding out the helmet. “It’s
perfectly safe.”

“Don’t you have to worry about deer and moose crossing the
road around here?” Lexie asked, grasping the back of the pickup with both
hands. “It’s dangerous enough when a car hits those things.”

“On a bike they’re easier to dodge.”

“I’ll follow you in my car.” She was gripping the pickup so
tightly she could feel her racing heartbeat in her palms.

“I think you should ride with me, and the client is always
right.” He thrust the helmet at her.

“You’re not my client.” To hell with the trustee’s wishes.
Risking her life to keep a beneficiary happy went way beyond her job
description.

Ben lowered the helmet and tapped it against his
black-jeaned thigh. “You know, if I get upset enough, I’ll bet I could find a
reason to sue the trustee for mismanagement of the trust.”

“Your grandfather was the trustee.” The corporate trustee
had taken over only after Max’s death.

“He hasn’t been for five days,” Ben said. “Big as the trust
is, I’m sure at least one investment decision or lack of decision has already
resulted in financial loss. Corporate trustees are held to a high standard.” He
offered the helmet again.

Lexie was surprised he knew that, but the Internet provided
all sorts of information. She doubted he’d win a lawsuit, but he could find one
to bring. And corporate trustees truly hated being sued.

She released her death grip on the pickup and reached for
the helmet. Her shaking hand had moved only a couple of inches before common
sense reasserted itself. At least she hoped it was common sense. “You’re not
going to sue the trustee because I won’t ride on a motorcycle,” she said with
more confidence than she felt. “You’re just trying to manipulate me.”

Ben looked at her for a moment, his lips pursed, and she
held her breath. Then his expression turned sheepish. “Guilty. But we need to
check out the car, and after the last few days, I need to ride. This would kill
two birds with one stone. Please.”

Lexie looked at his face, at the helmet, at his face again.

“Please,” he repeated, his eyes fixed on hers, his voice low
and compelling.

She could certainly understand why he was upset. He had just
lost his grandfather. Sighing, she reached for the helmet. “As long as we’re
not the two birds you’re planning on killing.”

By the time she was helmeted and situated behind Ben on the
motorcycle, Lexie was regretting her momentary weakness. She closed her eyes
and wrapped her arms around him. Her heart hammered against his solid back, his
warmth barely permeating her cold and stiff body.

Ben started the engine, then immediately shut it off. “I
lied before,” he said, his voice muffled by their helmets.

Lexie opened her eyes to see him looking at her from behind
his visor. “I hope it wasn’t when you said you were an excellent driver.”