Inheritance (30 page)

"Well. I wouldn't put it that way."

"How would you put it?"

"She didn't know all that much about a large kitchen. But she learned very fast and she—^"

"But at first. Did you think she had worked in kitchens of wealthy homes in the past?"

"I didn't. No."

"Did you think she was a liar?"

"Objection!" RoUins called.

The judge peered at Cheyne. "I think you'd better rephrase that, counselor."

"Did you have evidence that Miss Fairchiid had been truthful about her past experience?"

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*Well, no, but any youngster who really needed a job— **

*Just answer the questions, please. Mr. Salinger had a library in his home on Cape Cod. And Miss Fairchild took time off from the kitchen to work in it, is that correct?**

"Yes.**

""Did Mr. Salinger talk to you about taking her away from her work in the kitchen?**

"Yes. In fact, that's where they were when the idea first came up.**

"Mr. Salinger asked if Miss Fairchild could take time off to work in his Ubrary?*'

"Well . . . actually it was Laura who offered and he said it was a good idea and suggested to me that we could work it out.'*

"Miss Fairchild suggested it?**

"Yes. She said she knew books.*'

"And what did you say?**

Rosa hesitated. "I said to Mr. Owen that I thought she wasn't always quite truthful about the things she*d done and could do.**

Laura gripped her hands. Dear Rosa. Fair, land Rosa. It isn't your fault that everything is coming out wrong.

On Friday afternoon, at the end of the first week of the trial, Allison was called to testify. "We were friends,** she said. "We talked about everything.**

"Including stories about your childhood?'* asked Carver Cheyne. "Parents, school, boyfiriends, slumber parties . . . that sort of thing?**

"Objection!** exclaimed Ansel Rollins. *This has no relevance to Owen Salinger*s will.**

"It has to do with Miss Fairchild*s character," Cheyne said promptly. "And, especially in a case of this kind, character is relevant.**

"1*11 accept that,** said the judge. "Objection overruled.**

Cheyne turned back to Allison. "Did Laura Fairchild share stories about her past, Miss Salinger?"

"No. She said she didn't like to and it wasn't important.**

"So she never mentioned to you her conviction for theft in New York City when she was—?"

"Objection!" Rollins thundered. He sprang to his feet. "If I may speak to your honor ..."

Judith Michael

The judge nodded and motioned Cheyne forward, too. Rollins, standing at the bench, handed the judge a stapled set of papers, the ^ef he had prepared in case tins happened. **As your honor can see/' he said, his voice urgent but confident, *the sealed record of a juvenile ... not admitted as evidence . . . Fve listed precedents for this— **

"Your honor,'* Cheyne said, as urgent and confident as Rollins, his own brief in his hand, ''the conviction was only seven years ago. It is our position that such a history pertains to the character and motives of Miss Fairchild and her brother in becoming involved with the Salingers; it is also our contention that it is relevant and essential in judging Miss Fairchild's reliability when she describes her relationslup with Owen Salinger and his wishes, especially during his illness.'*

There was a pause, llie judge nodded. 'Til accept that,** he said as he had before. "You may pursue that line of question-mg.

Rollins*s face turned a dark red. "Your honor, I make a motion for a mistrial,'* he snapped.

"Denied,*' said the judge. "May we continue, Mr. Cheyne?**

^d so, as Allison left the stand and was replaced by a New York City police officer, while Rollins muttered ^ously about the defeat they had suffered, the jury listened to a flat recital of Laura*s arrest, her release on bail, her conviction, and then her release on probation in the custody of an aunt named Melody Chase who gave an address later found to be an abandoned building.

When he was finished, the courtroom was very silent. The judge struck his gavel once on his desk. "We will adjourn until Monday morning at nine,** he said.

In the hot July afternoon, the weekend traffic leaving Boston was dense and crawUng, and it was almost ten o*clock when Laura and Clay reached Damton*s. Laura had insisted on driving; Clay was in a rage and could barely sit still. "It*s Ben*s fault, damn him; he got us into that mess; got us caught and convicted—like stupid criminals — "

"He didn't," Laura said wearily. "We weren't even with him that night, and you know it. We thought we could do it ourselves.**

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**He shouldn't have let us. He should have been around, to take care of us/*

"We shouldn't have been stealing."

"He taught us. He should have come with us.'*

"Oh, should, should, should," Laura said angrily. "It*s too late for should; we can't go back. And we can't blame Ben for everything."

"He was older."

That was true; silendy Laura acknowledged it. Ben was older, Ben was smarter, Ben had been in charge of them. But he had been young, too, and he'd had a date, and hadn't paid attention when they said they were going out. Lots of times he hadn't paid too much attention, but in most ways he had been wonderful to them for years and years. "I don't blame him for anything he did back then," she told Clay. "He was wonderful. If only he hadn't robbed the Salingers we'd still be friends.**

The great hall at Damton's and the sweeping front lawn were ablaze with lights. The lodge had full occupancy, with nearly three hundred guests on the island. Some were stiU boating, others watched a film in the theater in the main lodge, others walked by the lake, and many of them were still strolling through the outdoor sculpture exhibit Laura had organized on the front lawn.

Kelly waved at them as they drove up. "Fifteen pieces sold today," she said. "Somebody from New York said it was as good a collection as he'd seen in—oh, shit, what's wrong? Was it a terrible week?"

"Not good," Laura said. Clay had left to see if the fleet of cars had been properly attended to, and she tried to be interested in the sculptures. "Fifteen sold? That's wonderful. No problems?"

**The wine coolers and champagne ran out; but John did some kind of deal in Jay's Landing and bought enough to last the weekend. We read about the trial; one of tte guests brought a Boston newspaper with him. I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?**

"You*re the first Pd ask if I could think of anything.** She managed a smile. "We haven't lost; we're just weaker than we thought we'd be. And I didn't like being there."

Judith Michael

"In the city or in the courtroom?"

"Both."

"Well, you're home now. Why don't you go to bed and sleep off the whole week?"

'Thanks, Kelly, I think I will. I'll help you here tomorrow."

"I'll need you." She put her arms around Laura and kissed her. "We love you. Pleasant dreams."

But her dreams were turbulent, and she woke feeling ahnost as tired as when she had gone to bed. I'll be all right, she thought, standing for a long time beneath a hot, pounding shower. I'U think about sculpture exhibits and all the mail that's probably stacked on my desk.

But just after breakfast, she was stopped as she walked to her office. "Laura Fairchild?" The voice behind her was deep and faintly harsh. Laura turned and he held out his hand. "Wes Currier."

"Currier." She frowned slightly as they shook hands.

"I'll be at the Global Finance Conference in August; you wrote two weeks ago to welcome me." In the bright sunlight of the great hall, his look was quizzical.

Laura flushed. He was to be the main, and most prestigious, speaker at the most prestigious conference she had been able to book at Damton's. "I'm sorry. I was thinking of something else. And I didn't expect to see you here until next month. Is fliere a problem?"

"Most likely not. But I don't leave things to chance. Since I've never been here, it seemed a good idea to stop by."

"And check us out. Of course."

"I wasn't really worried." His look was direct and unwavering, and Laura thought he could see how distracted she was but would not let that interfere with his own plans. "I liked your letter, I liked your voice over the telephone. And my first judgments are always right." He stood easily before h^, his eyes on a level with hers, his compact, broad-shouldered form clothed in well-cut lightweight wool, his silver and gray hair neatly in place, like sunlit metal. He had a square face with gray eyes below thick gray brows, and his large head thrust sli^tly forward, giving him an aggressive look only partially softened when he smiled. "I do like to know where I'm going, however."

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Laura nodded. She was having trouble thinking straight; she couldn't keep his face in focus, and she felt annoyed rather than flattered by the interest in his eyes. But Wes Currier couldn't be fobbed off on anyone else. "Would you like me to show you around?"

"Please."

They walked the length of the great hall, stopping when Currier examined a piece of sculpture or a painting, then into the library and dining room, as Laura made brief conmients about the different functions held in each room. Even through her distraction, she was aware of Currier's energy; there was a magnetism in it that drew her on, as if he were leading and she were following. Laura found herself thinking that it was too bad they had met this weekend; any other time she would have found him attractive. Today, she only found him overwhelming.

They went through guest rooms, on the ground floor and upstairs, where maids were cleaning: spacious and bright, each with a fireplace, Early American wallpaper and fiirni-ture, four-poster or canopied bed, built-in bookshelves, desk, and a round table with four chairs—^'*in ease you wish to eat in your room," she said. "Not many guests do."

**They like the noise and bustle?" he asked.

*They like the conviviality. Most people enjoy meeting new people, especially when they know they don't ever have to see them again after they leave here."

His brows shot up. "Do you say that to everyone?"

"No." She paused beside a tall window and gazed at a huge sycamore, its branches scraping the glass. "I'm sorry; I don't know why I said it."

"You said what you thought. I'm flattered. And you're very perceptive. Most people do prefer friendships that don't carry the burden of permanence. I'd like to talk to you some more, but I'll be leaving early this afternoon; will you have lunch with me?"

"I don't think I can. But please stay, as our guest; perhaps I can join you for coffee."

"Thank you. I'd enjoy that."

They had reached the office door. "One o'clock," she said. "Unless we have a crisis. I hope we don't."

Judith Michael

**And so do I/* He gazed at the door after she closed it behind her. Young, he thought, and probably beautiful if she could smooth out the pinched look in her face and the sadness in her eyes. But she had a shell around her that made her seem like a prisoner of her own defenses; what in hell had happened in her young life to make her so wary and withdrawn—and not the least bit interested in his interest in her?

He did not find out that day. Laura did join him for coffee, but she was on edge, and even though she apologized, telling him how much work she had after being away for a week, he felt piqued: when had Wes Currier come in second witii a woman when his only competition was a job? "May I come back before August?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Fll be away part of the time on business, and this is the height of the season for us. We can't have much of a social life until September. That's a time for people who want to make friends instead of impermanent acquaintances."

He chuckled. "FU remember that and come back in September."

She nodded, her attention already shifting to something else. "Is there anything more you want to know about Dam-ton's or the conference?"

"Will you be there?"

"I don't know. I'd like to; I'll try."

"May I make that a condition of my appearing here?"

"No." She smiled faintly. "But I will try."

When his taxi came, she watched it drive away, and thought again what a shame it was that she couldn't even flirt intelligently. But what difference does it make? she thought. I have more important things to think about: a trial, a jury, what to say about my past when I testify, what I'll do about the future if I lose.

And Wes Currier has nothing to do with any of that.

The air conditioning was fighting to keep up with Boston's July heat wave when Laura and Clay arrived at the courthouse and walked upstairs. On the landing stood a small, wiry man, notebook in hand. "Yank Bosworth, of the Globe» Miss Fair-child. Hold on," he said hastily when her face changed. "I

Inheritance

don't have a killer instinct; I only want a story. If you*d answer a few questions— "

"Fuck off," Clay said angrily. "We've got other things to—"

"Clay!" Laura put her hand on his arm. "Wait for me inside." She watched his face turn crestfallen. "Fll see you in a minute." When he had left, she let out a small sigh.

Bosworth heard it. "Brotherly protection," he said. "Not a bad thing."

"I know," she said briefly. "If you have some questions, I'll answer them, but I'd rather wait until this is over."

"Uh-huh. But I need a story to fill in, until die verdict." Rapidly he shot questions about where she had been over the weekend, how she felt about the Salingers, what she expected the outcome to be. "I'll get the rest from in there," he said, clipping his pencil to his notebook. "One thing, though: for what it's worth, I think you're getting a raw deal. The whole thing stinks, as far as I'm concerned. 'Course that's off the record."

Laura looked at him sharply and saw that he was not mocking her, he meant what he said. "I won't publish it," she said with a grave smile. "Thank you. It's good to know there are some friendly thoughts in the courtroom." She held out her hand and he took it and she felt comforted by the finnness of his grip.