False Pretenses (3 page)

She realized that she was very tired this morning as she sat at the boardroom table. She'd been tired since the jury brought in that not-guilty verdict. She had wanted Elizabeth to go to jail for the rest of her life, but that was to be denied to her. She slowly ran her
veined fingers over the smooth, aged mahogany of the immense boardroom table, and listened to the growing furor from all her relatives. Not really listened, for she had heard all the arguments, all the rage for so long now that she could have spoken for each of them in his own words. Michael had the floor now, his deep voice resonant, more reasoned than the others, but not cloaking his anger from her. For a man of fifty-six he still looked remarkably fit, the result, she knew, of the daily exercise he took in his own gym. He had the look of his father, Mason Douglas Carleton—heavy-boned, broad-faced, but handsome with his pale blue eyes and strong chin. Good teeth, she thought. She closed her eyes a moment against the ever-present pain. Timothy hadn't had such good teeth, but of course, he had been sixty-four.

“The woman will be here soon,” said Michael. “Make no mistake, any of you: Rod Samuels will continue to protect her, just as he bribed witnesses for her, but we must break that damned will.”

Ramsey Denebar, Michael's own age and of recognized brilliance in lawyering, said nothing, merely continued to polish the thick lenses of his glasses, his thin lips only slightly pursed. Laurette knew what he was thinking, had figured out all his little habits during the past thirty years. He didn't think they had a chance of breaking the will.

Laurette wished vaguely that it were Christmas and all her children and grandchildren were gathered at her estate on Long Island, their only concern which round of parties to attend. And how much egg nog to drink before dinner.

Brad and Trent, Timothy's two sons, were arguing quietly. Catherine, her beautiful granddaughter and Timothy's only daughter, merely twenty-three, but as aggressive and devious as any of her uncles and brothers, studied her perfectly manicured fingernails. She's saving it all up, Laurette thought; she doesn't want
to waste her fury on the family. Laurette's third son, William, was speaking to Ramsey about his trip to Australia, aboard his own yacht, of course. Dear William, who didn't care a farthing about the empire, only his own pleasures. Perhaps he had the right of it, at least on rare occasions, Laurette thought. She didn't care to admit that she'd given birth to a ne'er-do-well, a black sheep. She wondered why he'd bothered to come.

“I think all of you should come with me,” William was saying, more loudly now. “A month away from the filth of New York, free on the open seas—”

“Shut up, Will,” said Michael, frowning toward his brother. “Unlike you, we have responsibilities. That woman mustn't be allowed to walk away with the Carleton fortune.”

William raised a very black eyebrow. “That woman was married to Timothy. He never thought of all this as the Carleton fortune, it was the
Timothy
fortune. And he did leave it to her.”

“You think he should just be allowed to give it all away? You know very well she must have influenced him unduly.”

“Yes, Uncle Michael,” said Catherine, “and then she murdered him.”

Ramsey spoke for the first time, but only after he'd adjusted his glasses just so on his rather broad nose. “I would suggest,” he said in his cultured, mild voice, “that all of you keep your more scurrilous opinions to yourselves. It won't help. Elizabeth Carleton was found not guilty, you know. I would prefer not to handle a libel case.”

Catherine leaned forward, her eyes glittering. “Then what do you suggest we do, Ramsey? Bow our heads and let her have her way?”

“We will probably cut some kind of deal,” said Ramsey. “I doubt that Samuels will be unreasonable.”
He turned away from her and began to shuffle the papers before him on the table.

“I agree,” said William Carleton, sending his older brother a baiting look. “Live and let live, I say. There's enough for everyone, even a small country thrown in.” Michael never turned down such a look, and Laurette watched his face grow slowly mottled with anger. He used that tanning machine of his too much. His skin looked more leathery than William's. Only the words had changed, she thought, watching Michael's mouth gape open like a fish's, but William had baited his older brother since his first birthday.

Then Rod Samuels walked into the long room, Elizabeth at his side. The woman had a certain style, Laurette thought, watching Elizabeth take her seat on Rod's right, and it had nothing to do with her very expensive clothing, clothing that Timothy had forced upon her, she admitted grudgingly. An exquisite Donato scarf in vivid blues broke the studied starkness of the Armani double-breasted gray wool suit she was wearing, its narrow waist set off by a thin black leather belt. Laurette studied Elizabeth's face, seeing the quiet quality, the aloofness and reserve that had drawn in Timothy. And Timothy was dead. Her heart began to pound. She wanted to kill Elizabeth. She forced herself to draw slow deep breaths.

“You are all here, I see,” said Samuels. “Ramsey,” he added, nodding to his colleague and occasional enemy for the past twenty years. “Laurette, you are looking well.”

“Thank you,” she said. Her eyes shifted to take in Elizabeth's pale composed face. “You have been acquitted, Elizabeth,” she said. “Now we may get this will business finalized. I trust you will be reasonable about it.”

Elizabeth looked at her mother-in-law as she spoke. Timothy had told her once that his mother hadn't changed in the past twenty years. It was probably true.
At eighty-three, Laurette still had an imperious, very regal look, her white hair still thick, her white skin like smooth parchment. And she was so strong, so certain of herself. Elizabeth had always felt like a scraggly waif in her presence.

All of them, she thought, staring about the table at the battalion of Carletons, all of them were confident and self-assured, except perhaps for William, who simply didn't care.

“Well, Elizabeth?”

Laurette's voice was sharp, but Rod said smoothly, “As all of you know quite well, Timothy left the bulk of his empire to Elizabeth Xavier Carleton, his third wife. None of you have been left out. None of you have been embarrassed by the terms.”

Brad Carleton, Timothy's eldest son, sat forward in his chair. “You're joking, Samuels. This . . . woman doesn't deserve a dime of the estate. Further, she knows nothing about business, much less the empire my father built. She would destroy everything. God knows that a woman—”

“Now, my boy,” said William mildly, staring at his nephew, “you surely don't wish to continue with that particular train of thought.” He gave his gamin smile to Elizabeth and said, “Congratulations, my dear. Your ordeal is finally over.”

Trent Carleton said sharply, “Uncle Will, none of this really concerns you, does it? After all, you aren't one of my father's real heirs. I agree with Brad.
She
mustn't be allowed to dissipate my father's fortune, his life's work.”

“I doubt three hundred people could dissipate your father's fortune in a lifetime, Trent,” Rod said.

“My dear boy,” Will continued to Trent, “your esteemed father left me a million dollars. It would appear that I
am
an heir.”

“A piddling amount that you will spend in six
months,” Michael said. “It hardly counts, with the hundred millions involved.”

Laurette frowned a bit. They were all acting ridiculously. Each and every utterance could only anger Elizabeth and make her dig in her heels. She cleared her throat, and that simple action, used hundreds of times in the past with instant effect, brought all faces to her.

“Elizabeth,” she said in her low, cultured voice, “I agree with William. Your ordeal is over. However, the question of Timothy's estate now looms with equal importance. We are his family. We care about the future of Timothy's holdings. Michael, Brad, and Trent are completely familiar with all Timothy's corporations and their operations. You are not. You know nothing about business, isn't that true?”

Elizabeth wondered if Laurette really wanted her to say something. She compromised and nodded. It was true, as she'd told Rod. She knew nothing.

“There, you see,” Laurette said, giving Elizabeth one of her rare smiles, one, however, that did not reach her eyes. “I suggest that you simply leave the family, but not, of course, as you came into it. I would think that the sum of, say, ten million dollars would be satisfactory compensation for your three years.”

Rod Samuels laughed. Even Ramsey Denebar looked startled at the insult. Elizabeth was on the point of telling Laurette that she could keep her ten million dollars, that she never wanted to see any of them again, but she felt Rod's hand cover hers under the table.

He knows me too well, she thought.

“Now, Laurette,” Rod said, “you can't believe that we would consider such a thing. You must also realize by now that the will can't be broken. However—”

Elizabeth cut him off. It was now or never, she thought, feeling their hatred of her, flowing toward her in waves that made her want to flinch away. “I
should like to say something, Rod. Laurette, your offer . . . well it isn't what I expected.” She was sounding like an ineffectual idiot. “What I mean is that I wouldn't consider taking ten million dollars from Timothy's estate. In fact, I don't intend to—”

Catherine Carleton interrupted her, rising gracefully to her feet, her palms pressed against the tabletop. “You wicked, evil woman! You married my father for his wealth, lorded it over all of us for three years, then murdered him when he found out exactly what kind of trollop you are. All of us know that you bribed that man to testify for you. You aren't worthy of a dime of my father's money.”

Elizabeth didn't change expression, nor did she make a single movement. She said finally, her voice flat, “I did not kill your father, Catherine.”

“You lying slut! You even aborted my father's child because you hated him, didn't want to ruin your life—”

“That's quite enough,” said Ramsey Denebar firmly. He knew what Elizabeth had been about to offer, but he'd been too surprised to say anything before Catherine's outburst. Now he wondered what she would do.

Elizabeth said again, her voice stronger this time, “I repeat, Catherine, I did not kill your father. And you are forgetting facts. I miscarried the child. You are purposely being blind, Catherine.”

Rod Samuels drew a surprised breath. He felt Elizabeth draw her hand away from his, felt the tension in her body. He could think of nothing to say for the moment, and watched her rise slowly from her chair. She looked at each member of the family in turn, then said in a calm, detached voice, “I have no intention of leaving any more of Timothy's estate to any of you. You are all rapacious and greedy and vicious. You will not break the will. I won't let you. In fact, if you try, I won't hesitate to use all Timothy's resources to
fight you. And if, by some slim chance, you do manage to break the will, there will be next to nothing left. I bid you good day.”

She turned and slowly walked from the boardroom, quietly closing the door behind her.

Elizabeth sagged against the door. She could hear the raging voices, but they were now apart from her. She wanted to vomit, and quickly looked toward the rest room.

“Mrs. Carleton, are you all right?”

Millicent Stacy's worried voice sounded beside her, and she forced herself to nod. She met the older woman's eyes, and saw sympathy in them. That in itself was a shock. “Yes,” she said, “I'm all right now.”

“Why don't you go into Mr. Carleton's office, ma'am. I'll bring you a glass of water.”

Elizabeth did as she was told. She accepted the water from Mrs. Stacy, Timothy's executive secretary for twenty-two years, and the woman left her alone. She sat on the soft gray leather sofa wondering vaguely what she had done.

Rod Samuels found her sitting very quietly some thirty minutes later. She looked shell-shocked, he thought. He said, “You did marvelously, Elizabeth. I'm proud of you. Timothy would have been proud too.”

“I'm a fool,” Elizabeth said. “You know I was going to give them all of it.” He nodded. She continued, “I was such a fool to let Catherine rile me.”

“But the dam burst, didn't it? You won't go back on what you said, will you?”

She looked undecided, and he said, his voice cold, “I believe it important for you to make a will immediately, leaving your entire estate to various foundations and charities in the event of your death.”

Her eyes widened in shock. “Come, Rod, that's ridiculous. You can't believe they would want to kill me.”

He was silent for a long moment, then said softly, “You didn't kill Timothy. Someone did. If it was one of the family, what makes you think you'd be immune?”

She closed her eyes. Her world had tilted since last July 10, had become crazy, and she had become helpless. She wasn't helpless now. She looked at him, thrust her chin out, and said, “Draw up the will.”

“Good. You can be certain that I shall announce to every Carleton son, daughter, grandchild, and pet, the terms.”

“It's all craziness,” she said, leaning her head back against the soft leather. She didn't move as she continued, a touch of humor in her voice, “Include yourself, Rod. I'm relatively certain that you won't try to do away with me.”

“Don't be too certain,” he said. “Didn't I tell you that my wife took me to the cleaners?”

She opened her eyes and leaned forward. “You've been an excellent friend to me. I appreciate it. And I do thank you, for my life.”

He wanted to tell her that it was Christian Hunter—and none other—she should thank, but he didn't. He picked up his hand-tooled leather briefcase and opened it. He handed her a thick packet.