Nick sat at his desk, staring at a white envelope. It looked exactly like the one Detective Cormier had shown him the previous day, in his father’s hotel room. The envelope had just arrived in the post from the University Development Office. He turned it over, opened it with his Swiss Army knife, and withdrew the contents— a copy of his father’s donation agreement with the Center.
Nick thumbed through the documents. They were stamped unsigned copy. Maybe his father’s death meant the donation was no longer valid . . . then again, he’d already signed the other documents before he died. An accompanying letter from the Development Office indicated the signed copies would be coming soon.
A paragraph on page eight caught his eye. He pulled it closer and started reading in earnest. What the—? The document stipulated that the Center would receive his father’s art collection, but every month, it would sell one painting and split the proceeds. So this was what that “business associate” had been talking about. His father had been planning to use the Center to launder money. Figures. Now the sudden interest in philanthropy made sense. And Nick had thought the two paintings he’d already sold for his dad might be the end of it. Fat chance.
What about the two million dollars? Was that some shady tax write-off or money-laundering scheme, too? That donation would give the Center legs. He continued reading the document, which was mostly legalese. But it promised the two million dollars and the entire Russian art collection, along with some jewelry. He skipped to the end to see the bit about Russian refugees the detective had mentioned. He couldn’t find it. He started over at the beginning, running his finger down each page. Nothing. He scanned each page again. Nope. This copy didn’t contain the refugee provision. Weird. Why would his selfish, money-grubbing dad leave money to refugees? He must have had a change of heart.
The phone rang and he answered it. Shit. It was a member of the museum board. What did he want?
“I heard you raised enough money to hire permanent staff,” Bob Marshall said in a demanding tone.
This guy didn’t beat around the bush. “Actually, yes, we may have a big donation coming in soon.” But how could he have heard about it? Dad just signed the paperwork.
“Now you’ll be able to promote Sally to the assistant director position.”
“Actually, I already have an offer out to a stellar young scholar just finishing her PhD.” Nick wrote Jessica on the envelope and drew a little heart next to it.
“I thought you were going to promote Sally.”
It figured. Trustees and board members would be pressuring him to hire their children and second-cousins and who knew what else. Just because Bob Marshall had donated to the Center didn’t give him the right to make demands. Sally was doing a fine job as an intern, but she didn’t have Jessica’s keen intelligence . . . and there was just something about the perfect little rich girl that set Nick’s teeth on edge.
“My daughter, Sally Marshall. She’s graduating from college this year and majoring in art—against my wishes, too, I might add.”
Nick was tempted to quote the many studies demonstrating the financial benefits of any humanities degree, but he thought better of it. “Sally. She’s doing a great job as an intern.” Instead of donating tens of thousands to the museum and the university, why didn’t daddy just hire his beloved daughter himself? “I’m sure she’ll find the perfect job.”
“Sally is bright and responsible. She’ll be a great assistant director.”
“I’ll consider Sally if the other candidate rejects my offer.” He leaned back in his chair. Jesus. His father had used the museum to sell paintings and launder money—then turned up dead in a hotel room. Now a trustee expected him to promote his daughter. What the hell would be next?
The sound of high heels on the tile interrupted his meditations. He glanced up and saw his father’s widow standing in the doorway. Shit. What is she doing here? From the moment he’d met her, Nick could tell Chrissy Schilling was one of those women who’d learned from an early age that beauty was a powerful weapon if you knew how to wield it. And she did. Chrissy leaned against the doorframe, weeping into a floral handkerchief.
“Nicky. Isn’t it awful?” She bit her lip.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, unable to conceal his annoyance. Were those tears real or an act? Did she really expect him to go over and comfort her?
“I came as soon as I heard.” She sniffed. “Poor Richard.”
She must have caught the first flight from New York . . . or Paris, or wherever she’d been. His father hadn’t been dead twenty-four hours.
“His heart gave out, I’m afraid.” He tried not to think of poison. Although if anyone was capable of killing his father, it was Chrissy.
Rivulets of mascara trickled down her cheeks. Nick couldn’t take it anymore. He got up from his desk and went over to her. Maybe her distress was real. Was she actually distraught about “poor Richard”? Or was it his money she’d miss?
“Oh, Nicky,” she said as she fell into his arms.
Her musky Shalimar perfume reminded Nick of his mother. His father gave it to all his wives. Nick closed his eyes. He hadn’t seen his mother since she started shooting her latest film in Egypt, months ago. They used to talk on the phone every week. But since she’d become a movie star, her calls were less frequent and she wasn’t always easy to reach.
“What will I do now?” Chrissy whined. “Will you take care of me? Promise you’ll take care of me.”
“You’ll be fine.” Nick pried her fingers off his neck. “You just need time to mourn, and so do I.”
“At least we have each other,” she said, gazing up at him with her soft amber eyes.
Although her cheeks were wet, her eyes weren’t swollen or red from crying. Is she manipulating me? Perhaps his mother wasn’t the only actress.
“You can throw yourself into your work. That’s what I plan to do.” Nick turned to go back to his desk. He’d had enough of her waterworks display.
“Yes, your precious Center.” She threw her head back and shook out her hair. “It’s a shame Richard died before he signed off on the donation.” She smoothed her skirt.
“But he didn’t.” Nick smiled. He’d seen the signed documents in his father’s hotel suite. Detective Cormier had showed them to him. He was sure they had been signed.
“What do you mean?” She sauntered across the office and perched on the edge of a leather chair.
“He signed everything before he died.” He sat back down and folded his hands in his lap. “All the paperwork for the donation is complete.”
“Impossible!” Her lips quivered.
“It’s true.” Did she think she was inheriting everything?
“Promise you won’t let them put me out on the street,” she simpered.
“I’m sure you won’t be out on the street.” He shook his head.
“You mean I get the house?” Her voice perked up.
“I don’t know anything about Dad’s will. I’m sure he left you something.” He couldn’t believe she was thinking about the will the day after his father’s death. Actually, he could believe, all too well. What was wrong with this woman? He shuffled through the papers on this desk.
“I gave him my prime years.” She sniffed. “He was already an old man. And I gave him my best years. I deserve something.”
She deserved a kick to her skinny ass. “I really have to get back to work.” He pointed at the stack of papers on his desk.
“Will you come to my hotel for a drink later?” She bit her lip again.
“I don’t know if that’s a good—”
“Please, Nicky. I don’t want to be alone,” she pleaded.
He shook his head and sighed. The conniving little witch had been playing him ever since she married his father. Even at the wedding, she’d come on to him. No way he was going to meet her in her hotel room.
She collapsed into the chair and sobbed.
She was making so much noise even the security guard down in his booth would hear her. Nick closed his office door.
“I don’t want to go on living.” Her shoulders heaved. “I’ve lost my job. I’ve lost my husband. I don’t have anything else to live for.”
He stood next to her chair and patted her on the shoulder.
“Please come to my hotel tonight. It’s important. I have to show you something. Please, Nicky. Just for a few minutes—” She blew her nose into a tissue. Her tears were real. Maybe she did love his dad.
“Okay, okay. Stop crying.” He retrieved the Waterford pen from his pocket and held it over a notepad. “What hotel?”
“Parker. Room 817.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Come by at seven.” She stood up, straightened her tight-fitting dress, and sauntered out of the office. “Don’t forget,” she said, turning back to flash her million-dollar smile.
“I won’t.” He shook his head.
The last thing he needed was more time with his father’s conniving wife. He really did have work to do. The grand opening of the Center was only a week away. And he still had to persuade Jessica to join the team. She was perfect for the job—brilliant, creative, high-energy but down-to-earth. And he had to admit, he would love having her around.
He thought about the night they’d met, at Lolita’s poker game. There was something endearing about the way she’d kept tripping over those ridiculous high heels . . . and the sweet smell of her little black dress covered in Starbucks Frappuccino had sent his head spinning. The wilderness in her heart made him want to follow her into untamed forests and forget about the rest of the world.
He took his phone from his jeans’ pocket and hit “Dolce” on speed dial.
“Nick, how are you doing?”
Her melodious voice was soothing. He could listen to it for the rest of his life.
“I’m okay all things considered.” Actually, given the circumstances, he was doing pretty good . . . too good? He should be feeling something—pain, grief, anger, anything. But he felt hollow. What’s wrong with me?
“Are you sure? You sound strange.”
“It’s been a strange day.” He shifted the phone from one hand to the other.
“How so?”
“I’ll tell you over dinner tonight.” Before she could object, he added, “It won’t be a long dinner. I’m meeting Chrissy at seven.”
“Chrissy?”
“My father’s wife. Widow.” He twisted his class ring around his little finger.
“She’s here?”
“She flew in as soon as she heard the news.”
“Are you sure she wasn’t here all along?” Jessica asked with a wry tone.
“You mean before dad’s death?” He sat up straight.
“That would be convenient if she wanted to kill him.”
“He died of a heart attack. Anyway, why would she want to kill him?”
“Greed. Why else? And I still say he was poisoned.”
“I’m sure he had a prenup.” He leaned his elbows on the desk. “He always did. He was worth more to her alive.” He’d have to ask Mr. Randall, his father’s lawyer.
“How can you be sure?”
Was Jessica cross-examining him? She’d make a good lawyer.
“How about we discuss Chrissy’s scheming over dinner tonight. Can I pick you up at six?”
“I don’t know. I only have a couple of months to finish this last chapter of my dissertation.” She sighed. “I have writer’s block. I’m totally stuck.”
“All the more reason to join me for dinner. We can talk about your project. Maybe talking about it will help.”
“Maybe.”
“I know it will. Talking about my work always helps me.” It was true. And his conversations with Jessica were some of the most inspiring.
“Okay. You know where to find me. My regular table at Blind Faith.”
He hung up, considerably cheered by the prospect of seeing sweet Jessica in just a few hours. Now to get some work done.
Sally Marshall appeared in the doorway. “Who were you talking to? That person you want to hire for the assistant director job?”
How long was she standing there? And what right does she have to ask me who I’m talking to? “Yes, Jessica James. I hope she accepts the position.”
Sally scoffed, turned on her heels, and said—under her breath but just loud enough to hear—“I hope she drops dead.”