“Rumors aren’t good enough.” We were meeting in Brennan’s office again. I had a hunch he spent most of his waking hours sitting in his high-backed leather chair, listening to problems from everyone connected with this little school. Of course, my snippy inner voice pointed out, still wary after that spooky car ride with the man, he may have created half the problems.
I was uneasy sitting there, remembering how threatened I had felt. But that had been in the dark with no one around. Today, sun streamed in his window and the sound of voices in his outer office made last night seem almost like a fantasy. Brennan didn’t mention our aborted drink at the inn, although he listened to my verbal report with a deepening frown, alternately staring at me and at the branches of a tree outside his windows. The coffee he had offered was cold in the mug beside me when I finished describing the stories that touched, but apparently didn’t harm, Margoletti seriously in the business world. “No one who makes as much money as he has or who is involved in legal wrangling as often as he is can avoid people’s envy,” Brennan said, playing with a pen on his desk.
“I agree, but it’s enough to merit some further review, don’t you think?” I said after ticking off the reports of ethical lapses and the side issue of the discrepancies on the two lists of artworks being given to Lynthorpe.
“Not in my mind.” He shook his head. “Look, Silicon Valley is paved with lawyers, all looking out for their clients. Everyone out there is a little paranoid. The stakes are huge and it doesn’t surprise me one bit that people feel their ideas have been stolen. I’ll bet stories like that pop up every day.”
“Perhaps, but magazines have lawyers too, and they aren’t going to publish stories hostile to someone as powerful as Margoletti unless they feel they’re on pretty safe ground. Your vice president and Gabby had pulled up media coverage that pointed to some possibly unethical business practices.”
“I know about Larry’s clippings. Believe me, he went over them with me in great detail. I wasn’t convinced then and I’m not convinced now that this constitutes proof that an alumnus of Lynthorpe College, a member of its board of trustees, a brilliant lawyer and venture capitalist, and an art collector of taste and means, is too crooked to give Lynthorpe the largest gift in our history.” Brennan dropped his chin and looked at me through his eyebrows.
What, I wondered, did “too crooked” mean? Was there a “just right” crooked? Was a little crooked okay when twenty million dollars and an eye-popping art collection were at stake? Did Margoletti wield so much power even here, three thousand miles from his Silicon Valley fiefdom, that the president of the college would look the other way even if there was something fishy about the proposed gift?
“I agree that there’s nothing firm here.” I had told him Ethan’s story without naming names, but Brennan dismissed it as partisan sniping. “Do you think hiring a private investigator might be a good idea?”
“I thought investigating is what you were doing for us,” Brennan said, and there was no mistaking the annoyance in his voice.
“Not exactly. I’m looking at the ways to ensure that this wonderful gift doesn’t have a public relations downside for Lynthorpe, that you and the board won’t be criticized later for accepting a donation that might be tainted in some way, or might not even come through. I only have the public documents that Larry Saylor and Gabby have been able to find. For a deeper look, if it were the Devor, we might approach our own attorney to ask her to contract with a private—”
“No way,” he said in a steely voice. “Look, I appreciate Geoff’s concern that we do this right. I was happy to have you come take a look at this, but it’s time to call a halt. Please stick with the terms of the gift contract and the valuation of the art which, as you said the other day, may need to be adjusted for insurance purposes, and let it go at that.”
In his place, I’d be tempted to think the same thing, or at least I might if two people weren’t dead. It was a glittering prize and unless there was something hiding in plain sight on those two lists, I couldn’t tie anything illicit to the twenty million dollars or the art collection. There was no evidence that Vince Margoletti couldn’t make good on his pledge, only a nagging concern that he wanted to close the deal awfully quickly, maybe before anyone looked closer at it.
“The only other specific issue I’ve come across that might be cause for concern is several discrepancies between listings of the art that is coming to Lynthorpe. You mentioned the other night that Vince might sell off paintings he could otherwise give Lynthorpe. Did Larry mention anything about that to you?”
“He said something about Vince possibly holding back a few pieces. We can hardly object to that without seeming to be grasping, can we? He said he’d confirm which ones with Vince directly.”
“Do you know if he did that, and which ones they are?”
“I don’t recall. That might be something for you to take care of, a better use of your expertise, I think, than looking for skeletons under the bed.” He smiled at me as he said it to let me know he had forgiven my misplaced emphasis on trivial matters.
I didn’t see what else I could do without Brennan’s support, and his impatience was real, so I tried to fold as gracefully as possible. I agreed to write up my recommendation to have a second appraisal done on the art, to get the staffs of Margoletti’s firm and Lynthorpe’s to iron out any discrepancies on the gift lists that I could show them, and to suggest a few modifications in the contract to bring it in line with similar agreements I had collaborated on for the Devor.
I left Brennan’s office relieved that the sense of some unnamed danger last night had faded, but feeling I had done a mediocre job for Geoff even though I had at least raised the issues necessary to be doing my job.
****
The day was sparkling and the air soft. I was a little stressed from the meeting, so I decided to take a walk around the perimeter of the campus to think about the next steps in my project before heading back to the hotel. After all, spending time in this part of the world in full-on spring was supposed to be a perk. Gardeners were clipping hedges, kids in shorts and sunglasses were lying on towels on the freshly cut grass, and I saw a faculty member sitting and talking with a circle of students on another lawn, punctuating his comments now and then with karate-style chops with one hand.
I thought about Dermott, so happy a few days ago with his teaching job, and about Gabby, so energetic and in love. I recalled what I’d heard about Larry Saylor, a man with integrity, and wondered, not for the first time, why fate and cruelty so often cut down the best among us. I stood for a long time looking at a sweep of blooming azaleas between the paved path I was on and one of the perimeter parking lots, sniffing the elusive scent that seemed to represent the season here at Lynthorpe. Too bad it would always remind me of death now.
While I was musing, a sleek black town car pulled into the parking lot near where I was standing and Vince Margoletti stepped out of the back door. He didn’t look in my direction, but smoothed the side of his suit jacket and walked toward Brennan’s building, briefcase in hand. For an instant, I fantasized the briefcase was full of money, like a crime scene in the movies. The town car pulled away slowly and, just as slowly, a sports car followed it out of the lot, undoubtedly cruising for a parking spot. There’s never enough parking on any college campus and students usually get the worst of it, having to park in the farthest lots or on the street.
****
I turned and walked back to where I had parked my rental car in a visitor’s section near the president’s office. As I cut across the asphalt, the muffled sound of vintage Rolling Stones reached me. It was seeping from another idling sports car. It reminded me of President Brennan’s car, although it couldn’t be. Rory Brennan a Stones fan? You’re kidding, right? said my inner voice. Some student had a car that looked like his, that was all. What was it with all these nice cars? I remembered that Dickie told me he got his first Porsche when he was accepted at Princeton. Not all college students are strapped for money and some are even loyal to the world’s oldest rockers, my alter ego pointed out. Get over it, scholarship student.
Still slightly distracted, I made a wrong turn leaving campus and had to circle through several residential streets looking for the main one back to town. As I started moving forward at one four-way stop sign on a street where the trees made a lovely canopy, I heard a loud engine to my left in time to see a car came barreling through the intersection. It happened so fast. I slammed on the brakes but the other car smashed into mine and sent my car spinning. I did what every smart driver would do in a situation like that. I closed my eyes.
I smelled something at the same time the airbag came up and slapped me. The car stopped, and it was silent except for the tick of the engine. The bag had already begun to deflate, leaving a white powder on my clothes and in my face. I waited for the other driver to come and when he or she didn’t, I peered out, worried that the person was more seriously hurt. No car. I opened my door and stepped out on shaky legs, walking a couple of steps so I could see the whole intersection. No car. A hit and run? How dare he?
****
Two other cars had come to the same intersection, and one driver stopped while the other drove slowly by, staring at me openmouthed.
“You okay?” the woman who had stopped asked. “I was at the other end of the block, so I didn’t see much, but I sure heard it. Scary.”
“I think I’m okay, just shaky. You didn’t see the car then?”
“No. I was behind you,” she said and pointed in the direction I’d come from. “Dark car ignored the stop sign, moving fast. It didn’t even come to a full stop after it hit you, just slowed to stay out of your way while you were sliding around. Want me to call the police?”
The damage to my car seemed to be mostly a half-detached front fender. I asked her to wait while I checked to see if my car would start. When it did, I thanked her and said I had less than a mile to drive. She looked at her car, where a toddler in a car seat was beginning to fuss, and asked if I was sure. I was, sort of, but kept my reservations to myself. There was something I needed to process, something about the hit and run car, and I wanted to get back to the safety of my hotel room to do it.
****
What is it about room service that is so comforting? I eat out a lot, enjoy better food in livelier settings, but having salmon, grilled vegetables, and a little bottle of white wine brought to me on a tray in my very own room never fails to make me feel special, like Eloise, I guess. As I unpacked the silverware and set myself up to eat in bed, I pushed the blinking light on the room phone and promptly forgot anything I was going to think about.
A message, sent less than an hour ago while I was taking a hot shower to relax the stiff neck and sore shoulder I hadn’t even realized I had until I walked through the lobby. The voice and what it said killed my appetite and my cozy feelings in a nanosecond.
“If you didn’t like that, you won’t like what comes next. Stop poking around and go back to where you came from. Now.”