The Third Sin (6 page)

“Even though we've fought, I have to look out for Blair's feelings. I owe it to her father.”

Sonya frowned. What was Donna afraid of? Didn't she realize Sonya wouldn't be able to do her job if her hands were tied like this? “My appointment with Wade Bruckheimer is for noon,” she said. “You're sure you want me to do the interview?”

“Yes.” Donna nodded, then visibly turned her attention to some papers on her desk.

Their strange conversation was over.

Heading for her office, Sonya asked herself what could have happened to have affected Donna so profoundly. She was giving Sonya permission to spend time and resources on a story she was reluctant to air—and at the same time, was telling her not to use her best leads. It made no sense.

Had Blair asked Donna to cancel the story?

But it had been Kirsten, Blair's daughter, who had first alerted Sonya to the sale.…

Except, Sonya remembered, Kirsten had said her mother didn't know she was passing on the information about the diamond.

It was all very confusing.

Sonya sat down to review her notes. Before she spoke to Wade, she wanted to have a solid idea of the questions she wanted to ask and the information she hoped he would provide.

 

Chapter
7

T
HURSDAY, 9:00 A.M.

Kitchen of Irina Bruckheimer's
Fifth Avenue apartment

Blair Bruckheimer ran her hand over the gleaming surface of the antique farmhouse table. It was a comforting reminder that she was one of many strong women who had worked at this table to feed and support their families. She had been a young food writer when her parents had given it to her, secretly moving it from their home to hers. Touching the table again, Blair smiled, remembering her exhilaration that evening, when she'd gotten home from work and found it.

How different that day had been from when she and Harold moved into Irina's apartment. Most of her furniture had been left behind, but her kitchen table would never be abandoned. While the movers were still setting the table in place, Irina had confronted her.

“I had no idea you were bringing
that,
” she'd snapped.

“Irina, I told you I was,” Blair had responded calmly.

“Well, it's simply too big for this kitchen,” Irina had insisted.

“It's fine, Irina. There's plenty of room for it.” Blair had looked at her mother-in-law steadily. “I need a large table for my work, and I love this one.”

Irina had laughed. “You love it? Really?
De gustibus non est disputandum,
” she trilled venomously. “There's no accounting for taste, is there?” Irina waited for a reaction, but Blair refused to be drawn in. Smiling sweetly, Irina added, “Let me remind you that this is my apartment and I say the table goes.”

That was too much for Blair.

“Well,” she began with calm determination, “let me remind you, Irina, that the money from my work is what your son Harold and I live on, and, as I have already said, I need this table for that work. If I cannot have this table here, Harold and I cannot live here.”

“That's hardly a threat, Blair.”

“It's not a threat, it's a fact. If you want your son living in ‘your' apartment, then my table stays. It's your choice.”

“I'll speak to Harold.” Irina turned abruptly and left. Later, when Blair asked Harold, he said she'd never mentioned it.

That face-off had set the tone for Blair and Irina's relationship. Irina never again challenged her openly, though Blair knew the older woman whined to Harold, who seldom passed along his mother's complaints.

When he did, he invariably took Irina's side. Though Blair loved Harold, she resented his blind devotion to his mother.

Blair saw Irina as greedy, stingy, and manipulative. She took every opportunity to remind Harold of how little money she had, but Blair knew better. Irina's father had established a generous trust for her; her husband, Douglas, had left her another trust, the proceeds from the sale of his Main Line Philadelphia family's steel business. He'd left his sons only token sums; Irina had received the vast majority of his assets.

Even with Blair's income, she and Harold had to rely on Irina for housing. She let them live with her rent-free and fostered the expectation that when she died, Harold would inherit the apartment along with whatever was left in her trusts. But Irina was capricious and enjoyed teasing her son, saying that there was no money and that the apartment might pass to some charity or other.

Through it all, Harold had encouraged Blair to stay calm, telling her that Wade had promised to leave him the Braganza and had named Harold his executor. Then Wade had married Bella and begun to spend more money than ever before.

Now Wade planned to sell the Braganza, ending Harold's hopes of a big inheritance. Once the diamond was sold, and the money placed in Bella's greedy hands, there would be nothing left for Blair and Harold.

Finding that the tray of cookies that she'd left to cool were ready, she placed them in a jar. Ginger snaps were Kirsten's favorite, so Blair kept a supply on hand in the hope that her daughter would gobble them as she had when she was a child and finally gain some weight.

“Those cookies smell great,” Harold said, entering the kitchen. Blair looked at her handsome husband. After eighteen years of marriage, he was still a knockout, tall and lean, with blue eyes that lit up when he smiled. Those smiles were rare—he considered himself a “boring engineer” and a serious person—and Blair treasured each one.

“Are you still upset about the sale?” he asked as he reached for a cookie.

She stared at him. “Angry? No. Furious is more like it. I should have been prepared. Months ago, you told me Wade was broke and would have to sell the Braganza. I just didn't believe he'd do it.”

He sighed. “I didn't believe it either.”

“We can't stand by—” she began.

Harold interrupted her. “I don't care, my real worry is Mother. She's been depressed since Dad died two years ago. The sale of the diamond is another blow. She's worn the Braganza for so long, she's convinced it's hers. She'll do anything to keep it.”

“Irina doesn't deserve any sympathy. Your father said all along that it belonged to the Dias family and would go to Wade,” Blair said bitterly. “How about some sympathy for us?”

“Stop it,” Harold responded with unusual firmness. “First of all, don't forget that the diamond came from his mother, not mine. It's his by right. I know Wade promised to leave it to me when he died, but is that what you want? My brother dead?”

“You know what I mean. It's only right that Wade give you something from the sale.”

“And you know that he'll spend every dollar on himself and Bella. But he's entitled to it. It's his diamond.”

Blair picked up the cookie tray and put it in the dishwasher. She knew Harold would never ask his brother for money. She loved him, but … “You're hopeless.”

“Who's hopeless?” The deep voice came from the doorway. Wade stood there, dressed in an ill-fitting, blue-striped caftan and holding a bulky cardboard box. On his shoulder sat Cacao, his macaw.

“Wade,” Blair demanded, “get that damned bird out of my kitchen.”

“Oh, Blair, don't be so uptight.”

“Damned tight, tight, tight,” Cacao squawked, turning his large bright eye to watch Blair.

“See? He agrees with me,” giggled Wade. “Now, help me with this box.”

Harold took the box from him and put it on Blair's beloved table. “What's this?” Harold asked as his brother shifted his bulk toward the table and began to encourage Cacao to walk down his arm. Blair realized he was about to let the bird stand on her table.

“No,” she roared, startling everyone in the room. “Put that bird near the sink. I don't want it messing all over the place.”

Wade chuckled and complied. “Just give him a piece of dried spaghetti and he'll stay there. Won't you, dear Cacao?” Wade pursed his lips and sent a smacking air kiss toward the bird. “I thought I smelled something good. If those are your famous ginger snaps, I want one, and I want it now.”

“Okay,” Blair said. Her hand shook as she held the jar toward him.

As she expected, he reached in and took a handful. “You can forget about the spaghetti, I'll give Cacao a piece of cookie.” He broke the ginger snap in half and held a piece out toward the bird. Cacao balanced on one foot, took the cookie tightly in the other, and nibbled away. “Cacao loves your ginger snaps. Sugary things aren't supposed to be good for him, but once in a while I like to give him treats, don't I, sweetie?”

“Weetie,” the bird mimicked.

Blair looked away, hiding her disgust. Harold had once asked her, “Do you want to see my brother dead?” At this moment, her answer would have come easily: “Yes. And that goddamned bird too.”

Wade pointed to the box. “This is a treat for you, Blair. I bought it for you as a peace offering. I know I should have asked you and Harold what you thought about selling the Braganza.”

“Yes, you should have,” Blair replied honestly.

“But I would have had to do it no matter what you said. The truth is I need to raise as much money as I can.”

Blair looked at the box.

“Guess what it is,” Wade said, spreading his arms with a flourish. Before she could respond, he continued, “Okay I'll tell you. I stopped by Williams-Sonoma, your favorite store, and picked up the latest espresso, cappuccino, latte, you-name-it machine. I promise it's as efficient as you are. You'll love it.”

“Thank you,” Blair said evenly.

“That's wonderful,” Harold cut in with enthusiasm.

Blair reached for a knife and slit the box open. She looked into it, took out the instructions, and whistled. “My god, I've seen this in the shop. It costs four thousand dollars.”

Wade waved his hand nonchalantly and sat at the table. “Don't worry. Isn't it a beautiful machine? Just consider it a gift from my Braganza.” He took another handful of cookies. “Want another cookie, Cacao?” The bird moved restlessly from one foot to the other, bobbed his head, and let out a shriek. “See, he wants it. Cacao loves your cookies, Blair.

“I feel bad about Irina. I didn't know what to send her, so I ordered what the florist called ‘a tree of flowers.' I know nothing will take the place of my diamond hanging around her neck, but I'm sure she'll love the flowers.” As an afterthought, he added, “The diamond wasn't hers, anyway.”

Wade struggled to his feet, supporting himself on the back of his chair and leaning against the table to steady himself.

“I've got to go,” he wheezed. “My beautiful Bella is expecting me. She gets cranky if I leave her alone too long. Besides, I've got to get ready for my interview. It's for Donna Fuller's show. She's a friend of yours, isn't she, Blair?”

“Interview? You're doing an interview for Donna Fuller?” Blair asked, her voice high and tight.

“Didn't Kirsten tell you? For some reason, Donna herself can't come, so her producer Sonya Iverson will do it. The publicity should definitely help the sale.”

Blair tightened her jaw and clenched her teeth to keep from screaming at him.

Wade put Cacao on his shoulder. “Let's go, baby.” He shoveled two more cookies into his mouth as he shuffled out.

“Wade's put on more weight, hasn't he? It's harder for him to walk,” Harold said.

Blair could barely speak. “He can keep his fucking insulting gift. And I hope Donna and that producer have a second thought before doing that interview.”

Harold raised his voice. “Blair, I asked if you think he's getting heavier?”

“Yes, he is, and I hope it kills him before he sells the diamond.” She took a moment to control herself, then continued in a near whisper, “He can't last long at this rate, Harold. We just need to find a way to postpone the sale. His heart must be under enormous strain. If he dies before the diamond's sold, you'll control it as his executor. You could negotiate a private sale with the Dias family. The diamond would go back to Brazil. They would be happy, and we … we'd…” She laughed. “We'd get our fair share and be rich.”

Harold turned, fixing unblinking eyes on hers. “Don't you think I know that?”

The strength of his flat, cold voice startled Blair. This was a side of Harold she had never seen.

“Don't you think I know that?” he repeated.

 

Chapter
8

T
HURSDAY NOON

Wade Bruckheimer's Fifth Avenue apartment

When Sonya arrived at Wade's apartment she found the front door ajar. She knocked briskly, and after a few moments without a reply, slowly pushed the door open and looked in. The entrance hall was dark, with a black-and-white-checked floor and a chipped ornate gilt console. An empty vase sat on top of the console, holding a few dead branches with crumbling leaves. They gave the space a feeling of neglect.

At the far end of the hall Sonya saw a staircase—probably the one Kirsten had told her led to the penthouse that Irina shared with Harold and his family. Thinking about Kirsten reminded Sonya of their argument that morning.

The intern had offered to assist at the interview. “I can ease the way with the family, show you around, help with questions, assist Perry with the equipment…”

Sonya was firm, explaining that, as a family member, her presence would make Wade feel awkward. He would be more careful in his answers, and much less responsive. But Kirsten had continued to plead until, in frustration, Sonya had shouted at her, “No. And that's final.”

She was already anxious enough, worrying about Donna's refusal to take part in the story. What had Blair said to her, and would Blair try to be at the interview? The last thing that Sonya wanted was both mother and daughter trying to interfere.