Children of Dynasty (34 page)

She went to his door. “It’s all right, Dad.”

When she came back to the kitchen, Rory was putting on his parka with jerky movements.

“Where are you going?” He couldn’t leave now.

“I need time to think.” He gave his attention to joining the zipper and pulling it up with a rasp. At the front door, he paused and looked back at her with a distant expression. “I’m not sure I can accuse the man who raised me of such a thing.”

O
n Wednesday morning, Mariah woke before six. Truth to tell, she had never really slept, pummeling her pillow and kicking the covers away from her feet every few minutes.

In her comfortable old bathrobe that had been seen on a million TV sets, she ran water into the kitchen kettle and put it on for tea. Outside the window, a gray dawn came late as the continued rain sheeted down the glass.

Yesterday she had been so full of hope that things were working out at last. Yet, Rory had not yet left DCI, albeit he couched it in terms of helping save Grant Development. And when she dared to accuse his father of plotting the Grant Plaza accident he had not only refused to consider it, he had walked out of the house.

She busied herself with the blue ceramic teapot she’d chipped when she was eight. Last week Dad had confessed he’d kept the pot all these years because the little white mark on the rim reminded him of her. From the healthy products she’d introduced to his kitchen, she selected white tea reputed to be high in antioxidants.

Warm smells of steeping tea leaves and lemon soon filled the room. Morning finally brightened the windows and Mariah turned off the overhead light. Taking her cup to the kitchen table, she settled into the chair Rory had taken the night before. Outside the window, tired and sodden flowerbeds surrounded a patch of ragged lawn. She’d have to insist on a hired gardener to do what John could not.

She felt torn about letting him go to the office. He wasn’t strong enough … if he got sick again … Did she dare tell him there might be a corporate spy in-house?

Assuming so many things, that Davis had told Rory the truth about the spy and that he had repeated it with accuracy, that it had not been some kind of planted story — by father or son — a lie designed to create discord in the already disordered ranks of Grant … there were a lot of “ifs.”

If it were true, who could it be but Arnold? And if that were true, could he have used his position as financial vice-president to torpedo the company with late loan payments?

“How about some eggs?” John spoke from the doorway. His business suit hung loosely on his diminished frame.

Mariah gestured toward the counter where a loaf of whole grain bread sat beside the toaster.

John sat and pulled the teacup she’d poured for him closer. It rattled against the saucer. “So, I’m still living with the diet police.” He sipped and flashed a look of irritation that was a lot like his old self. “This heart healthy tea tastes like a boiled dishrag.”

She drank some. “It’s not so bad.”

John shoved the cup away. “Did you mean what I heard you tell Rory last night? That Davis would resort to murder to get at me?”

In the daylight, she was less certain. “I don’t know how I’d ever prove it.”

He sighed. “I want to think you’re mistaken.”

Mariah shoved back from the table. “Believe it or not, for Rory’s — for all our sakes — I want nothing more than to be wrong.”

Two hours later, the stormy morning threw back her windowed reflection from the darkened canyon of Market Street. Her pale hair was pulled starkly back from her face, a tailored navy suit severe on her small frame.

Her father sat in his accustomed place for the first time since his illness. With a trembling hand, he reached for a Styrofoam cup of black coffee.

Mariah resisted the impulse to go and steady his hand with hers.

“No creamer, no fat,” he groused.

She forced a smile, remembering Dr. Hanover’s verdict that if he could complain he was getting better.

He leaned toward her with a more serious expression. “The other thing I overheard last night was something about Davis having a stooge in the company.”

“Rory reports his father bragged on it to him yesterday.” She braced herself for a fight. “My money’s on Arnold.”

John shook his head. “After working with him, being friends with him, I find that hard to believe.”

“Then you tell me who the spy is. Did you tell Arnold that Rory was leaving DCI?”

Her father looked miserable. “I did tell him. I hoped it would soften him toward you if he knew there would be no more conflict of interest.”

“Did you talk to anybody else at the company last night or this morning?” She hated hammering at him, but they needed to know who had betrayed them.

John set down his cup unsteadily. “Only Arnold.”

“What if he’s lying about software being the cause of the late payments? He’s the one who suggested the entire company would have to be sold yesterday.”

“He’s probably correct, from a business standpoint,” John argued.

“Why don’t you ask him whom he has in mind for a buyer? If he says Davis Campbell, would you change your mind about him?”

“If I confront Arnold, he will no doubt suggest it is Davis’s son feeding you false information.”

The silence would have been absolute but for the distant rumble of thunder. She remembered cowering beneath her bed covers as a child, believing that thunder was the devil rolling empty barrels down the stairs of hell.

She’d been ready to trust Rory again with her heart, with her very life … “Is that what you think?”

“I said Arnold would say that.” John made an impatient gesture. “We’ve got an accident that might not be an accident, a banker and a senator in Campbell’s pocket, reports of a spy in-house. I have no idea what to believe, but I know one thing.” His voice firmed “I cannot see this company taken away from us.”

Thunder rolled louder down Market Street as he reached for the telephone. “We have to raise the money and pay off the loans.” He waited while a number rang. “Hello, Takei. I was wondering if I might expect an offer from you on any of our properties.”

Mariah watched her father’s face fall as the head of Golden Builders explained politely that he was overextended.

For the next few hours, she listened while John called all the major developers. A man in Oakland offered to “take a property off their hands” for less than half what Grant had just paid for it. When John told him that would not service the debt, he said he was sorry, but he was committed to other things. Another owner mentioned she’d like three small properties for around forty million. John gave her a verbal acceptance, for the price was fair, their contract people to get together in the morning.

By one o’clock, he had phoned L.A., Seattle and Vegas. It sounded as if they could raise around a hundred million. The foreclosed loans were twice that.

Going back to the window, Mariah searched the dark day.

At two-ten p.m., Rory opened the door to Davis’s office and went in. He’d been careful this time that the richly decorated Oriental domain had no visitors.

Mariah had unsettled him with her accusation that Davis had committed what was at the least manslaughter, but during the night, he’d weighed her words. Much as he wanted to believe it was impossible, he was no longer certain of anything.

Davis raised his dark head from studying his computer screen. “I thought you were leaving DCI.”

Though it ate at his pride to stay, he reminded himself it was for Mariah. “I decided I’d better have something set up before I go.”

He passed his father’s lacquered desk and his pant leg brushed a folder off the corner onto the floor. Bending to retrieve the well-worn manila, he found a sheaf of photos with yellowed edges spilled out onto the carpet.

A look at the one on top, and he nearly dropped it again. She was beautiful, slim and elegant, and smiling so boldly at her photographer that Rory wished he could join Catharine on the rock-strewn beach. Davis must have taken the pictures with his old Yashica, down the coast at Monterey. The tide was out, leaving the crystalline granite bare, the tidal pools drained to a few feet of the clearest water. Orange starfish and dark green sea cucumbers lay among piles of purple mussel shells. Sea anemones feathered their glassy tentacles and the kelp lay limp, waiting for deeper water that would allow it to float free like a woman’s long hair. The camera had captured Catharine’s silvery tresses, whipped into sensuous disarray, and her golden eyes beckoned endlessly. Rory wanted to know her.

He raised his eyes and found Davis watching him. Slowly he got to his feet with the photos and folder in his hand.

“You curious about that?” Davis shoved to his feet. “About why I despise John Grant? Look at the rest.”

The envelope beneath the photos was lavender, clearly a woman’s stationary. Impossibly, it seemed to still bear a faint perfume.

Davis,

There will never be a good time for what I have to say. I have fallen in love, so deeply and perhaps foolishly that I can barely believe the earth is the same planet I inhabited before. There is no help, and all I can tell you is that I am sorry it could not have been you.

John and I were married last week.

Please do not blame him. He tried to be a valiant friend to you. If only there were some way, that I could do this without hurting you, a solution where I could live out separate lives as two women, one for each of you.

Catharine.

Rory flipped through the rest of the well-thumbed photos. “I understand how painful it must have been to lose her, but …”

“I didn’t lose just her. Catharine could have been the love of my life, but it was my best friend’s betrayal …” Davis’s voice choked. “John and I were friends all through Stanford, roommates, drinking buddies …” He raised a fist. “God, how we dreamed of being the best building team in the state, hell, in the world.”

As he saw a suspicious sheen in his father’s eyes, Rory felt a sting in his own.

Davis turned away and walked over to load a tape into his office VCR. “Have a look at this.” His voice was back under tight control.

For a moment, Rory thought he was going to have to watch his “On The Spot” appearance, complete with scathing commentary about how he was no better than John Grant for taking up with his daughter. With relief, he saw it was merely a clip from the local TV news.

A young Chinese newswoman spoke energetically into her microphone. “This morning, Field Incorporated, the Seattle-based company who built the Grant Plaza construction hoist, has categorically denied that any mechanical weakness or flaw on the part of their equipment contributed to the accident. Rather, they have pointed the finger at Grant, claiming that unsafe installation or usage must be to blame.”

Rory stood straight and watched without expression.

When the video ended, Davis turned off the TV. “That’s not all. My source at Grant tells me John is in his office right now, calling everybody he can think of to sell properties.”

Rory was surprised that John had gone in, but the clock was running out on the loans.

Davis opened the door of his adjoining private bath and went in. Through the open door, Rory saw him wash his hands, straighten his expensive silk tie, and smooth back his wings of sleek hair. “John’s not having any luck, so we’re going over there now.”

The idea of walking into Grant Development with his father made Rory’s stomach ache. “You don’t need me.”

Davis’s toilet complete, he grabbed his cell phone off the desk. “We’re going to buy out Grant. I thought you’d like to see this.”

There was no way Rory would join in humiliating John and Mariah. He imagined the disbelief and horror on her face and knew he couldn’t be a part of it. He had to refuse or phone ahead and warn her.

“I’ll get my jacket,” he agreed.

As soon as he escaped, he hurried down the hall. His own cell phone was in his office, so he went around a corner and down thirty feet to a closed door. He went in, shoved the door shut behind him, and headed for the desk.