Inheritance (23 page)

Owen's face grew calm. Closing his eyes, he gestured toward the door.

"Until tomorrow," Paridnson said, and scurried out. He saw Laura come down the stairs and slip into Owen's room as he left, and wondered where she had been while they talked, and whether she had overheard them. But he was in a hurry and did not pause in his rush down the stairs and past the library where he glimpsed members of the family having tea. Damned odd, he thought, as he drove back to his office through the afternoon traffic. He's had years to diink about changing his will. If he really wanted to do it, why didn't he take care of it sooner? That had always been his way, of course—take a long time to make up his mind and then rush ahead to accomplish whatever he'd decided—but he was a top-notch businessman, and he knew that important decisions should never be made in the midst of a crisis. He could barely talk, barely move, barely think straight—but still he insisted on this radical bequest to a person none of them really, even now, knew anything about. It was damned odd. One could even say it made no sense.

For Owen Salinger's own good, Parkinson told himself solemnly, it behooves me to learn more about this young woman, before it is too late.

The family was again at tea when Parkinson returned the next afternoon and went directly to Owen's room. Once again

Inheritance

Laura left the two men alone, and as soon as the door closed behind her, the lawyer began speaking in an urgent whisper. "Owen, I have information about that young woman—it will change your mind—it will change everything—^I've found out she has a—^"

"Will," Owen said, the word almost strangled in his throat.

"Yes, yes, I have it; it was finished before I got the call from New York, but you mustn't sign it—you won't want to when you know who she is— *'

"Shut up." Owen's eyes were glaring at Parkinson, his mouth was twisted as he tried to speak through his fury. "Will. Read it."

"Why? I'm telling you, you won't want to sign— **

"Read!"

Angrily, Parkinson pulled a single sheet of paper from his briefcase and read it. The instant he finished, Owen said, "Pen. Pen!"

"Wait. Listen to me. This woman is a thief, a convicted thief; she preys on old men— "

Owen's lips worked. "No."

"It's true, I have the information, I spoke to a police officer in New York—"

"No! No ... it! No .. . difference. Fool." A ragged sigh broke from him. "Witness. Get Laura."

"I didn't understand what you said."

"Get Laura."

"I want to know what you—^" Paikinson saw Owen's face twist and he sucked in his breath, thinking once again that the old man was about to die. He will die, he thought, but not with me in the room. I've done my best; the hell with the rest of it. "We need someone else," he said. "A beneficiary in a will cannot be a witness to its signing. But the nurses will do. If you'll wait just a minute . . ." He crossed the hall and brought them back.

"I've asked you to listen to me," he said rapidly to Owen. "I've done my best to make you listen. No one can blame me—" He saw Owen's eyes and clutching fingers. "Yes, yes, yes." He placed a pen in Owen's fingers.

"Help ..." Owen gasped, and the nurses lifted him to a sitting position high enough to see the document Parkinson

Judith Michael

held on a book on the mattress. Owen wrote, his sloping handwriting barely recognizable in the shaky scrawl he left on the bottom line. Then he gave a long sigh that was almost a moan. "Neariy missed," he said with a shadow of a grin at Parkinson as the nurses signed as witnesses. "Last victory." He closed his eyes. "Laura," he whispered.

"I did warn you," Paricinson said through tight lips. He slipped the document into an envelope and returned it to his briefcase. "I hope someone believes that."

"Laura," Owen whispered again. One of the nurses was arranging the blankets and the other was unrolling the cuff to take his blood pressure as Parkinson left the room.

He found Laura on the landing, near the door. "He wants you," he said shortly. At the cold anger in his voice, she looked at him with startled eyes. "He's a sick man," he snapped, but as he said it he saw Laura's eyes change; there was a sadness in them so deep he almost felt sorry for her. But he caught himself. More likely she was just waiting for him to leave.

"Good-bye," Laura said and went into Owen's room, closing the door behind her. The nurse was rolling up the blood pressure cuff; both of them left as Laura sat beside the bed. "He's a peculiar little man," she said to Owen's closed eyes. "He seems to be angry atx>ut something. Did you shout at him?"

Without opening his eyes, Owen made the sound that Laura knew was a laugh and held out his hand. She clasped it between hers and he gave a shght nod.

"Do you want to take a nap?"

He nodded again. She rose and pulled the heavy velvet drapes across the windows overiookmg the walled rose garden. The room was dark and somber. "Do you want me to stay?"

"Here."

She sat beside the bed. "What would you like?"

'Tell you." His eyes were still closed, his face ashen. "Dearest Laura. Left you a . . . little something ... in ... my will."

Laura's eyes filled with tears. "Don't talk about it. You're getting better. I saw you move your other hand this mom-ing—

Inheritance

"No." He opened his eyes and it was as if he were looking at her from deep within himself. "Love you, my child. Gave me such joy." Laughter trembled in his throat. "Sometimes . . . wished I was Paul. Paul's age. So much love."

Laura was crying. "Don't go. I love you, Owen. I'll take care of you, I'll make you well, I promise. I love you. Don't leave me, there are things I want to tell you . . . please, please don't go . . ."

Her head was bent over him, and Owen raised his hand and touched her tears. His fingers rested on her wet cheek. "Dearest Laura. Finish . . . our plans. Yours now. I wish ... I could see . . . them . . ." His eyes closed. ". . . finished." His fingers slipped down her cheek. Laura grasped his hand before it could fall and took it between hers. She kissed it and held it against the tears that streamed unchecked down her face.

"You gave me my life," she said through her sobs. Her head drooped until her lips brushed Owen's still face and felt the irregular, frail breaths that barely stirred his mustache. "Everything I am. You made me proud of myself. I didn't thank you enough; I didn't even tell you the truth about myself so you'd know how much you did for me. I wanted to tell you; I want to tell you now . . , can you hear me? You gave me my life; you're part of it; part of me . . . Please say you can hear me; I haven't thanked you enough, I haven't made you understand how much you did and what it means to me . . ."

The room was hushed and dark. Laura wept, her tears falling onto Owen's cheeks so that he seemed to be crying, too. "I love you," Laura whispered at last. "I know you can hear me, because we can always hear when someone gives us love. Can't we? Dearest Owen, I love you.'*

The next day, without awakening, Owen Salinger died.

Chapter 10

FELIX was in his office when Parkinson called. "I've been trying to speak to you for three days—even today, in the cemetery—but I felt uncomfortable about discussing business there."

"My secretary says you told her it's something about my father's will," Felix said impatiently.

"More accurately, it's about Laura Fairchild."

Felix sat straighter. "What about her?"

"I'd rather tell you in person. I can be there in half an hour."

"Just give it to me now."

Parkinson felt a flash of longing for Owen's old-world courtesy. Briefly he considered telling Felix what he thought of him. But he knew that would be unwise: the Salinger account was vastly bigger than El win Paricinson's pride. "Well, then. She has a record, in New York, for theft. She and her brother Clay."

*Theft," Felix repeated tonelessly. "When?"

"Seven years ago. She was fifteen; her brother was fourteen."

"And the parents?*'

"According to the police report they were killed in an autotruck accident the year before. It isn't clear who was their guardian; most likely their aunt. They were released in her custody after the arrest. Melody Chase."

Inheritance

"What?"

"I know it sounds improbable, but that was the name I was given."

"Probably a fake. What else?"

"Two years later, when she was seventeen, she was named in a will filed for probate—a bookseller named Hendy. He left her ten books."

"Anything else?"

"I wouldn't treat that lightly; it may be significant, especially if the books had value."

"Why?"

"Because the day before he died your father changed his will; he added—"

"He what?"

"He added a codicil leaving two percent of Salinger Hotels Incorporated and one hundred percent of the Owen Salinger Corporation to Laura Fairchild."

"Two percent? To that woman? You knew he was going to do this and you didn't tell me?"

"A lawyer doesn't talk about his client's decisions to others."

"Not others, you damned fool! His son! What the fuck were you thinking about, letting him do this? Are you out of your mind? His corporation, too? With those four hotels?"

"And his house on Beacon Hill."

"Goddam son of a bitch! He broke up his estate? And you didn't try to stop him?"

"I did try—"

"Not very hard! Not hard enough!" Felix felt as if his in-sides were twisted into knots; his stomach was taut, his teeth clenched. "He was mad."

"I don't think so; he knew he wanted to sign it; he even argued with me about it. And he knew it had to be witnessed; he forced me to bring in the nurses. His mind was very clear." Parkinson paused; it was time to make himself indispensable to FeUx. "However, I did have a feeling—^"

"What?"

*That he was very tired. And perhaps—of course one can't be sure—" He stopped.

"Fuck it, Parkinson, stop dancing around. Sure of what?"

Judith Michael

"I did have the feeling he might have been under some kind of pressure."

The words reverberated in the air. Felix let them settle slowly into a new idea, and his muscles began to relax. "You mean someone was influencing him."

"Someone might have been."

"Someone who had a habit of getting old men to change their wills."

"I didn't say that."

"No," said Felix thoughtfully. "But if you were asked for your opinion . . ."

"I would have to say I had the distinct impression that Owen Salinger was highly agitated and acting under some kind of coercion or persuasion. I might add that I was alone with him in his room on two consecutive days, having asked Miss Fairchild to leave before we talked, and on both occasions, when I left I found her hovering outside the door."

'Thank you, Elwin," Felix said softly. He sat for a moment, hearing the slight whine of Parkinson's breathing on the other end of the line. "We've set the reading of the will for next week; you'll probably hear from me before then." He hung up and walked to his comer windows to look across the Public Gardens toward Beacon Hill. And his thoughts began to chum again. Left the house to that woman. And his hotels. And part of the company. My company. Insane. Vindictive. Making me look like a fool. At the last minute, when we couldn't stop him . . .

But I will stop him. He's dead and I'm alive, and I'll tear that woman apart; I'll tear his fucking codicil apart. We'll make the old will stick. It was good enough for him when he made it; it's good enough now. Everything else gets destroyed.

Looking at the Gardens, he felt a sudden alami. Maybe there was more than the will. What else did the old man dictate or write? What other secrets did he have? What else needed destroying?

He had to find out. He couldn't wait; he had to know.

At seven he telephoned Paul. "I thought we might have dinner together, just the two of us. It's late, I know, but I've been tied up."

"How about lunch tomorrow?" Paul asked. "Laura's here

Inheritance

and she's so upset, after the funeral this morning, I don*t want to leave her."

"Fine. My secretary will call you in the morning.**

And having made sure they were both away, he went to Owen's house.

"Good evening, Rosa,** he said, walking past her and starting up the stairs. "Fll be in my father's study. You can go to bed; rU let myself out.'*

Rosa bristled. Never in fifty years had Mr. Owen sent her off to bed. "Would you like coffee? Something to eatT* She sent her voice up the stairs after him. "Or I might help you find something? Fve been doing a bit of cleaning—^" She turned away to swallow the sudden tears that were always near the surface these days.

But Felix was already crossing the upstairs foyer to the third-floor stairway. "I can help myself," he said over his shoulder, and as he took the stairs two at a time he repeated the words to himself. I can help myself.

Owen's study was lovingly dusted, the books that had been scattered on tables and the floor made into unnaturally neat stacks, the papers on his desk aligned in perfect piles. Felix switched on the lamp on the Chippendale desk and began to go through the papers on top and then in the drawers. It took only a few minutes to find the envelope with Laura's name, and to read the letter inside.

Beloved Laura,

It is a fine day outside, as fine as I feel. But at my age a prudent man contemplates his mortality, and the things he may never have a chance to finish, and so today, while my mind is clear and my hand still strong, and my heart perhaps steadier than ever, I am writing to put in concise form the plans you cmd I have made together, for my hotels, because you know better than anyone what they mean to me. But first I want you to know that I am planning to change my will, leaving to you a small part of the family company, and this house, and all of my own corporation. This means the hotels will be yours when I die, and therefore you will be the one to oversee their rebirth if I carmot.

Judith Michael

Felix stopped reading. There were ten pages, closely covered with his father's bold, sloping handwriting, but now that he knew what they were, he could not read them: he couldn't stand hearing his father's voice, through his written words, saying he preferred Laura to his own son. His hands were shaking and he realized he was holding his breath. Bastard, he thought, letting it out in an explosive burst. To do that to me. Telling the whole worid you didn't care about me; you cared about her; you were giving her what I wanted. Only a sick man would do that to a son.