For Every Evil (23 page)

As she waited, she glanced at Louie. He didn’t look good. She wondered if he had a hangover. “How are you feeling?” she asked softly.

“So-so.” He placed a hand over his stomach.

“It’s not a hangover?”

“Who made you my mother?” His frown turned immediately into a smile. “No, Ivy. It’s not a hangover. The night after your party, to be honest, I did have a doozer.”

“I wondered where you’d gone that night. I didn’t see you for such a long time. Then, when the police were searching the house, there you were, upstairs in your room.”

“And until I was so rudely interrupted, I was sleeping like a baby.”

“More like a drunken sailor.”

He sniffed, raising an eyebrow. “I decided next day that I was never going to do that again. Champagne can sneak up on you.” He reached into his pocket and took out several antacid tablets, popping them into his mouth.

“Your digestion is still giving you problems?”

“It’s nothing,” he said, squeezing her hand. “But thanks for worrying.” He chewed for a moment and then said, “How’s Max?”

Not the topic she would have picked, but she knew she had to say something. “Fine. He’s in surgery all day today.”

Louie winced. “What a profession.”

“Yeah.” The truth was, Max was beginning to worry her. He seemed to think, now that Hale was out of her life for good, that he had a right to make demands — unreasonable demands from her standpoint. After all, as he’d begun to point out almost hourly, he’d risked everything for her. That kind of talk made her uneasy. She’d risked every bit as much — even more. And his jealousy was beginning to frighten her.

The secretary at the desk put down the phone and said, “Mrs. Micklenberg? You can go in now.”

She looked at Louie. “Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need it. Just tell them the truth, kiddo.”

She hoped it would be that easy.

“Ivy,” said Aaron, rising and motioning her to the chair across from him. “How nice to see you. I was so terribly sorry to hear about Hale. I’m sure the police will find out who did it. It’s not much of a consolation, but it’s something.”

She nodded and sat down.

“How are you doing?”

“It’s been hard.”

“I don’t doubt that.” He dropped a file into a wire basket on his desk and leaned forward, studying her. He was a small man in his mid-forties. Mousy brown hair and eyes. “Well. So. What can I do for you?”

She decided to make this encounter as brief as possible. No extraneous details. Nothing but the facts. “I need to tell you something. Something important.”

“Yes?”

“Hale never wrote the column that appeared in your paper. I did.”

He stared at her.

“My husband and I made a pact years ago. I would write the column in an effort to further his career. In return, I would reap the benefits as his wife. Not a very liberated arrangement, I grant you, but then, I was quite young at the time. I also promised total secrecy.”

“I … don’t know what to say.”

She held up her hand. “Let me finish. I’ve come to ask you to put an end to this charade. Hale’s column will be up for grabs now. I’d like you to know that it can continue as it always has, but I want my name on it. I am a tenured professor of art history at Morton, so I bring my own credentials to the job. You can tell the truth about this matter — or not — however you want to play it. But I want to be free to discuss it with the art community. I think, after all these years, I deserve that much.”

Aaron picked up a pencil and began to twist it between his fingers. “Ivy, I —”

“You believe me, don’t you?” She watched him fidget. His body language told her he didn’t.

“To be honest I don’t know what to think.”

“I wouldn’t make something like that up!”

He sighed. “We … I don’t know that. And, well, I did hear that Hale was not very … liberal in his bequest toward you.”

Her mouth set angrily. So. The gossip mills were already grinding their venom.

“I can see why you’d be angry,” continued Aaron. “Don’t get me wrong. But… as far as your taking over the column, I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Why?” She perched on the edge of her seat. ‘Tell me
why,
Aaron. I’m the best qualified! I’ve been doing it for years!”

“That remains to be seen.” He leaned back in his chair. “Even so, the fact is we’ve already offered the job to someone else.”

“What? Who?”

“Charles Squire.”

She felt as if he’d slapped her across the face. ‘Tell me this is a joke. You can’t be serious.”

“Indeed we are. We felt he was perfect for the job. When he came to us yesterday afternoon —”

“He came to you?”

Aaron nodded. “He explained that he’d been the managing editor of
Squires Magazine
for several years before Sophie Greenway took it over. He left to pursue other interests.”

“He left because his father realized he was an inept idiot and fired him!”

Aaron gave her an indulgent smile. “He’s now the CEO of IAI. As I see it, he has ample qualifications.”

He rested his hands on the desk, palms up. “I think, in a more sane moment, you would agree.”

“Never!” she said, rising from her chair. “Not in a million years.”

Charles Squire — everywhere she went, he was there supplanting her. If anyone had benefited by the death of her husband, it was Charles Squire.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” said Aaron, touching the tips of his fingers together.

Ivy started for the door.

“Do keep in touch.”

“Go to hell,” she said, slamming it behind her.

The gate house door creaked open. “Oh,” said Charles, standing behind it, the edges of his mouth turning down in disappointment, “it’s you.” He gave a weary sigh, adjusting the flower in his lapel. “I thought you might be Mrs. Malmquist and her grandson.”

“You should oil those hinges.” Ben smiled. “Well,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “I’m right on time. May I” — he twirled his finger — “come in?” He’d always been amused by people like Charles, men and women who wore their ennui like a fashion statement. He moved silently into the first-floor gallery.

“Come with me,” said Charles, switching on the track lighting. Mozart’s
Requiem
played from two speakers at the far end of the room.

Ben decided
Mrs. Malmquist and grandson
must be

potential clients. The gallery was being readied for a showing.

Once upstairs, Charles took a seat behind the desk and waved Ben to a chair. He looked perfectly at home in Hale’s old office. He’d even made a few changes. Gone was the gaudy brass ashtray. In it’s place was a cut-crystal bowl filled with miniature chocolates. And the modern leather chairs had also been replaced, this time by two elegant antique wing backs covered in a subtle, mauve silk.

“Nice touch,” said Ben, sitting down on one of them.

Charles nodded, eyeing Ben’s plaid shirt.

Ben took off his bombardier jacket. That way, Charles could get a better look at the fascinating contrast between plaid and brocade.

“So,” said Charles, unwrapping a chocolate, “I assume you’ve come to talk about the photographs for the spring catalogue.”

“Among other things.”

They stared at each other, both understanding the implication.

“As I said to you on the phone,” continued Charles, slipping the contract folder out of the bottom desk drawer, “I am prepared to offer you the job.”

“Good.”

“I do need to have some estimate of the cost.”

“Of course.” Ben leaned forward and wrote a figure on a notepad. He shoved it toward Charles and then leaned back, waiting.

Charles stared at it. “Is this a joke?”

“No joke.”

“You’ve got to be out of your mind.”

“Afraid not.” He folded his arms over his chest. “See, I’m planning to use the extra cash to finance a national tour for my ex-wife and her dance company. What’s a couple hundred thousand, give or take, to you now that you’ve become president of IAI? Besides, you needn’t worry. Your capital will be put to good artistic use.”

Charles was silent. After eating another chocolate, he asked, “Did you bring the disks?”

“They’re right here.” Ben tapped his pocket.

“How do I know you haven’t made copies?”

“You don’t.”

He drummed his fingers on the desktop. “I need some time to consider this.”

“You’ve got one minute.”

Charles’s eyes flashed angrily. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“Well, for starters,” said Ben, “I’d say I’m talking to the man who helped falsify Hale’s 1994 tax return. Second, I believe that same man participated in helping Hale to hide money in several Swiss — “”

“You can’t prove any of this!”

“But, Chuck, you know I can.”

“Those disks are merely records.”

“Do you really want to chance it? Maybe I should drop them off at the nearest IRS office and see what
they
think?”

Charles sat forward in his chair, folding his hands over the contract file. “What if I called your bluff? I didn’t even start working for Hale until six weeks ago.”

“Plenty of time.”

“Most of the information recorded on those disks happened years ago.”

“A minor point. Come on, Chuckie. We both know one of those foreign accounts has your name on it. What was it? A bribe? You discovered the extent of Hale’s illegal dealings — and to keep you quiet, he gave you a … small gift? Unless you’re smarter than I thought, the information I have will nail you, as well as your ex-boss.”

Slowly Charles rose from his chair. “I believe our meeting is over, Mr. Kiran. I want you to leave.”

Ben was stunned. He hadn’t expected this. “But —”

“I don’t care if you mail those disks directiy to the White House! Publish them in the Congressional Record for all I care. That was Hale’s business, not mine. I was merely an assistant with no knowledge of any untoward business acdvity. Neither you nor anyone else can prove otherwise. Believe me when I tell you, Mr. Kiran, I
am
smarter than you think. Smarter than anybody’s ever given me credit for. With the money I have at my disposal now, I could tie up any potential litigation in court until hell freezes over.” He leaned forward, pressing his hands on the desktop. “And I can eat someone like you for breakfast.”

Ben was speechless.

“Now, get out!” roared Charles.

“But … the shoot?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I thought I’d made myself perfectly clear.” He yanked on his pin-striped suit. “If you’re too thick to get it, I’ll say it again. You and that ex-wife of yours can rot! I will not be issued an ultimatum. Not by you. Not by Hale. Not by anyone!”

Ben took a moment to get his bearings. Charles did seem to have the upper hand. Slowly he rose and dropped the disks on the desk. It didn’t matter. He had several copies at home. “You know what, Chuckie? You’ve turned beet red.”

Charles glared at him.

“You clash with your chairs.”

“Get out!”

“I’m going.” As he got to the door, he had the urge to turn. He wanted to say
you haven’t seen the last of me, buddy.
But not only did that sound trite, unless he could come up with another plan, Charles may indeed have seen the last of him.

“Can I help you, sir?” asked the hostess, walking up to Sophie with several menus tucked under her arm. It was Thursday evening, and the dining room of the new Mediterranean Winds restaurant was packed.

“Why, yes,” said Sophie, using her deepest voice. Once again, in order to write a completely honest restaurant review — a review she’d promised her paper
last
week — she’d donned a disguise. If she didn’t, people were immediately on their best behavior. Staff would fuss and fawn. The management would make sure that every plate that reached her table was meticulous. She was sure all the restaurateurs in town had a picture of her face — perhaps in combination with a dart board — in their kitchens. But she’d found a foolproof way to thwart all this. Tonight she had on a tweed sport coat, one of Bram’s best ties, and a black wig and beard. And she was smoking a pipe. Bram said the pipe was too much. He had
no
drama in his soul.

The first time she’d visited the restaurant was two weeks ago. She and Bram had been searching for a spot to have a leisurely Sunday morning brunch. The buffet looked so enticing, they decided to give it a try. Lovely cold salads. Marinated eggplant and red onion. Cucumber and tomato in a lightly minted yogurt dressing. Small, crispy phyllo pillows of spinach, Boursin cheese, feta, parsley, and fresh dill. And the main dish, a rich moussaka. The bechamel sauce on the top was perfection. Thick and creamy, scented with nutmeg. She wondered if it was still on the menu. The only disappointment was the dessert. A cloyingly sweet rice pudding that tasted more like her grandmother’s cold cream. A little too much rose water for her palate. But the rest of the meal was so good, she was able to overlook it.