Danger in a Red Dress (2 page)

She looked at the envelope. Looked at him. Noted that even at his father’s funeral, when she was covered from head to foot in all-concealing black winter clothes, the fading playboy couldn’t resist looking her over. “Thank you, Jeff. I’m sorry that your father had to die in such pain, but I loved hearing the stories of his life. He was very interesting.”

She had Jeff’s attention now. “He talked to you? He told you the stories of his life? By God, that’s more than he would ever do with us!”

“All I had to do was ask.”

He stiffened, hearing the rebuke.

She tucked the envelope into her coat pocket and turned away. “Goodbye.”

He muttered something quietly resentful, and strode past her and out the door.

So this was it. The end of another job. Time to go back to the placement agency.

Another man, about Jeff’s age, but imposing, stood holding the church door open, and the cold February air filled the foyer. “Miss Grey? Do you remember me?”

She shook his outstretched hand. “Of course.” Stephen Burkhart had been Mr. Dresser ’s attorney. The two men had spent hours cloistered in the study, and during his visits, he had been pleasant, respectful of the limitations she placed on her patient, and watchful. Very watchful.

“Miss Grey,” he said, “there’ll be a reading of the will at my office at four. Mr. Dresser asked that you attend.”

“Because . . . because Mr. Dresser left me an inheritance?” She smiled and sighed, recalling the previous occasion she’d received a bequest from a patient, and how much Mr. Coleman’s family had resented even that small amount. When she thought about how much the Dressers anticipated getting their hands on the old man’s sizable fortune, she almost wished Mr. Dresser hadn’t bothered. “He was worried about what he called my lack of resources,” she explained. “I told him once I paid off my student loans, I’d be in the clear, and I meant it. I wasn’t hinting.”

“You knew Mr. Dresser better than that. He was not the type to respond to hints.” Mr. Burkhart placed his hand on her shoulder. “Be at my office at four.”

 

Hannah paused in the door of the conference room of Burkhart, Burkhart and Gargano, attorneys at law, and found herself facing a long polished wood table, a nervous Kayla Thomas of Teignmouth’s Opportunity Council, sixteen surly members of the Dresser family, and a stern-faced Stephen Burkhart.

“Steve, did the old man give a bequest to the nurse, too? My God, did he leave money to every single person he ever met?” Donald Jr. swung toward Kayla Thomas. “He already gave a bundle to the Opportunity Council this year, and now she’s here with her hand out.”

Kayla flushed. “I am here because Mr. Burkhart asked me to be here.”

Mr. Burkhart met Donald Jr.’s resentful gaze. “It’s a clean will which makes Mr. Dresser ’s intentions clear.”

Hannah slid into the nearest chair. The legal assistant followed her in, shut the door behind her, seated herself, and prepared to take dictation.

Mr. Burkhart announced, “Mr. Dresser originally had my father prepare his last will and testament, and five months ago asked me to help him amend it.”

The Dresser family muttered and shifted.

Mr. Burkhart ignored them. “On his behalf, I scheduled a screening of his mental health at the Hartford Mental Clinic. Once the soundness of his mind was established, we discussed his wishes, then wrote his will, as follows.” Unfolding the stiff papers, he read, “ ‘I, Donald Dresser, of Teignmouth, New Hampshire, do hereby make, publish, and declare this to be my last will and testament, hereby expressly revoking all wills and codicils heretofore made by me. . . .’ ”

As Mr. Burkhart worked his way through the formalities, Hannah observed the Dresser family. Donald Jr. and his wife looked impatient. Jeff leaned forward, his gimlet gaze fixed on the attorney. Mr. Dresser’s only daughter, Cynthia, chewed her thumbnail.

Kayla Thomas braced herself against the table.

They were all anticipating . . . something, and Hannah felt the same suspense that gripped them tighten her nerves.

“ ‘To Miss Hannah Grey, I leave fifty thousand dollars in recognition of her kind and faithful service, with best wishes for her future.’ ”

Hannah’s breath stopped in her chest.

Fifty thousand dollars?

She had never had a father. Her mother had supported them on a legal assistant’s salary, but there had been medical bills. Now for the first time in Hannah’s life, she had a financial cushion, and the relief left her gasping—and facing sixteen pairs of accusing Dresser eyes.

Mr. Burkhart continued. “ ‘To my family, I leave a chance to redeem themselves. To each of my descendants currently living, I leave fifty thousand dollars—’ ”

An audible gasp rose from the Dressers.

Mr. Burkhart soldiered on. “And the chance to work at Dresser Insurance under the supervision of the board of directors now in place.’ ”

Cynthia came to her feet. “I don’t believe this!” Donald Jr. rapped sharply on the table with his knuckles. “Who has control of Dad’s fortune?”

Mr. Burkhart read, “ ‘To the Opportunity Council of Teignmouth, New Hampshire, I leave the bulk of my fortune, to be supervised and dispensed by Kayla Thomas, a young woman whose acumen I’ve grown to respect—’ ”

Now all the members of the Dresser family were on their feet, shouting at Mr. Burkhart, at the white-faced Kayla Thomas, and at one another, while Hannah watched first in horror, then in amazement, then in amusement. She knew this wasn’t the place or the time, not so soon after Mr. Dresser ’s funeral, yet as she observed Cynthia stomp her foot, Donald Jr. pound on the table, and Jeff gesture like a windmill, the amusement grew.

The fifty thousand dollars that seemed like such a fortune to her was an insult to these people, income for a month, spending money at the gambling tables, a tight budget for a shopping trip.

Damn the old man. He had set this up. He had known this would happen. No wonder the visits from the lawyer had left him with rosy cheeks and glittering eyes. He had anticipated a furor of epic proportions, and she knew that somewhere in the great beyond, he was rubbing his hands and laughing.

And she . . . she couldn’t help it. She laughed, too.

As if that was a signal, silence fell, and the Dresser family focused on her.

“What did you do to earn that fifty thousand, Miss Grey?” Jeff asked. “What kind of services did you render to the old man that made him fifty thousand dollars’ worth of grateful?”

Hannah’s merriment died an ugly death. “I do not indulge in sex with my patients, if that’s what you’re insinuating. Certainly not with your father, frail as he was.”

Jeff snorted. “No man is that frail. Not Dad, for sure.”

“Jeff, that’s enough,” Mr. Burkhart said. “During my visits, Miss Grey showed herself to be a nurse of upright character. She did not sleep with your father.”

“Are you kidding?” Jeff gestured wildly at Hannah. “Look at her, sitting there with her innocent expression and a body that won’t end, and fifty thousand dollars of our money. You can’t tell me she didn’t do the old man to death.”

A cold anger sprang from deep inside of Hannah.

“Jeff.” Donald Jr. had himself under control again. “Shut up. We’ll fight the will. The old man was obviously insane.”

At the insult to Mr. Dresser, Hannah’s anger grew, crawling along her nerves, encasing them in ice.

“You heard Burkhart. You heard about the screening of Dad’s mental health. Do you really think Burkhart didn’t close all the loopholes?” Jeff gestured at Mr. Burkhart with the same vigor he’d used on Hannah. “This little slut managed to screw the old guy stupid, and now she’s
laughing
at us.” He turned on Hannah again. “Didn’t you? Didn’t you screw him stupid?”

Under his insulting, denigrating assault, Hannah’s discipline shattered. “Mr. Dresser was never stupid.” She swept the family with a scornful gaze, then returned her attention to Jeff. “I took care of his . . . needs. I met his . . . requirements. I was his . . . friend . . . when he needed one. Make of that what you will.” She knew exactly what they
would
make of that.

Mr. Burkhart used his fingers to cut his own throat, to tell her to shut up.

She would not. What difference did it make if she lost the inheritance before she had it? She was in a glorious rage, slapping the smarmy Jeff down with every word, letting Donald Jr. and Cynthia know the father they’d neglected had been alive and in need of attention.

She stood up and smiled coldly. “When you think about it, fifty thousand for my services is cheap. I kept Mr. Dresser busy so the rest of you could enjoy your last days of reckless indulgence. I hope you take benefit from your employment at Dresser Insurance. Working for your living should be an interesting experience for you all.” With a grand sense of satisfaction, she opened the door and swept from the conference room.

“Come back here,” Jeff yelled. “Don’t you dare turn your back on me!”

She walked steadily down the corridor.

Behind her, Jeff continued to shout.

The rest of the family picked up the volume.

Hannah walked on, her gaze fixed on the elevator at the end of the hall.

Putting her hand in her pocket, she found the envelope Jeff Dresser had given her earlier. The bonus the Dresser family had given her in gratitude for her care of their deceased patriarch.

She got into the elevator and punched the button for the first floor.

Jeff stalked toward her, fists clenched.

Before he could reach her, the doors closed in his face.

She could almost hear Mr. Dresser ’s voice.
The little asshole.

She pulled the envelope out of her pocket. She broke the seal, looked at the check . . . and laughed on the edge of hysteria.

“Really. You shouldn’t have,” she said aloud.

The Dresser family’s gratitude came to twenty-five dollars.

TWO

In the elegant entry of the Teignmouth Country Club, Carrick Manly stopped in front of the mirror. He looked himself over and smoothed his dark hair, ruffled by the spring breeze. He was six one, broad shouldered, and dressed in an understated black suit with a crisp white shirt and dull gold tie. When a man had a background like his, when he sported distinctive green eyes, he had to seem understated. He had to look conservative. He had to be
careful
.

Satisfied with his appearance, he stepped into the doorway of the elegant smoking room.

Collinson met him before he had crossed the threshold. “Good day, Mr. Manly, you’ll want your copy of the
Wall Street Journal
.” Hushed, reserved, and ageless, Collinson was the perfect majordomo for the exclusive men’s club.

“Of course.” Carrick took the proffered paper, tucked it under his arm, and assessed the posture and mood of each and every man inside. It was a skill he’d developed and honed during the slim years.

The club looked as it had for a hundred fifty years: dark paneling, high windows, overstuffed leather chairs, newspapers scattered on the end tables. The low buzz of male conversation and the clink of glasses filled the air.

Mathew Davis was smirking at the glowing tip of his cigar. Carrick had heard rumors of a successful insider stock deal; obviously they were true.

Headphones on, Judge Warner Edgerly watched a DVD on his handheld, a heated flush climbing up his shiny forehead. He must be reviewing porn again.

Jeff Dresser sat at the bar hunched over a gin and tonic. Dresser looked hangdog and irritated, and anything that made the pompous jackass unhappy must be good news.

Carrick slid into a seat next to Harold Grindle, the nosiest old gossip in New England. “What’s the problem with Jeff Dresser?” he murmured.

“What?” Harold shouted.

Carrick leaned forward and turned up the volume on Harold’s hearing aid. Still quietly, he asked, “I said, what’s the problem with Jeff Dresser?”

“Oh.” Harold lowered his voice, too. “Haven’t you heard?” With a sly grin that relished each of Jeff’s tribulations, he reported the tale of Donald Dresser Sr.’s death and the details of his will.

When he had finished, Carrick whistled softly. “So the Dressers are working at the insurance firm?”

“The members of the board of directors are tearing out their hair. The stock is descending with each passing day. As a preventive measure, they’ve fired a few of the most worthless progeny”—Harold’s rheumy old eyes glistened—“
including
Cynthia.”

“No!”

“She’s threatening to sue, but Burkhart assures me her claim will never stand up in court. I asked him about the scandal concerning old Donald’s private nurse. He clammed up about that, but
I
heard she slept with the old man to the tune of five hundred thousand dollars.”

Carrick’s eyebrows shot up disbelievingly. “The old man must have gone senile, then, because when I knew him, he hadn’t an ounce of weakness in him.”

Harold drew back, offended. “I only report what I’ve heard.” He turned off his hearing aid, and loudly, he huffed, “Upstart!”

Ah, yes. The first insult of the day.

Sauntering over to the bar, Carrick took a seat two stools down from Dresser. “Gin and tonic,” he told the bartender.

He hated gin and tonics, but he wasn’t going to drink it, anyway. He was merely ordering up a little camaraderie.

He placed the
Wall Street Journal
on the polished cherrywood bar and scanned the headlines, then turned with a well-feigned start. “I didn’t see you there, Mr. Dresser. How’s Ryan?”

Ryan Dresser was the asshole who had made Carrick’s life hell after Nathan Manly crashed his multibillion-dollar business, walked with the money to South America or Thailand or wherever the hell he’d gone, and left Carrick and his mother destitute and humiliated.