Lost and Found (12 page)

It was his turn to be stunned. “No, nothing at all. I’ve been thinking about this for some time now.”

“I don’t believe it.” She searched his face. “Dad, please don’t tell me that Cady Briggs is involved in this.”

“Cady has nothing at all to do with it.”

“Are you sure?”

He shook his head, exasperated. “What makes you think Cady Briggs has got something to do with my decision to sell the house?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that you never mentioned the idea until today.” She made a face. “Jeez, Dad, I can’t believe you’re acting like this because of a woman. Aren’t you a little old for that kind of thing?”

“What kind of thing?” he asked neutrally.

Her cheeks turned a bright pink. “You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t think I do.”

“Stop teasing me, Dad. This is too important. This is our home you’re talking about.”

The sheen of moisture he thought he saw in her eyes worried him. He draped an arm around her shoulders.

“Take it easy, sweetheart. I’m not going to rush into anything. I’ll take my time. There are a lot of decisions to be made. Come on, let’s go get some lunch.”

L
ater that afternoon he made the ninety-minute drive south with a very quiet Gabriella beside him. He deposited her safely at her dorm on the wooded campus of the University of California at Santa Cruz and got back into the car for the long trip home.

It took him north again to San Francisco and across the Golden Gate Bridge, through the rolling hills of Marin
County and beyond, into the green and gold of the Sonoma County landscape.

He followed Highway 101 to the turnoff that led to the comfortable old house that, at some point during the past year, had become too big and too empty. He brought the car to a halt in the tree-lined drive and switched off the ignition.

For a time he stayed where he was, hands resting on the steering wheel, and studied the home where he had watched his very smart, very lovely little girl grow up into a very smart, very lovely young woman.

He was grateful to the old house. It had helped him raise Gabriella. It had sheltered them both after Rachel’s death, and it had provided stability and a sense of security for a motherless girl. But it had done its job and now it held only old memories. As hard as he tried, he could not see himself going on much longer inside those high-ceilinged rooms. The door to the past was waiting for him to close it.

Gabriella had guessed right. Something
had
happened on the last job. He had partially opened another door and caught a tantalizing glimpse of his own future.

I
t took him ten days of heavy-duty thinking, the sort of somber, serious contemplation that Gabriella would probably have mistaken for brooding—or, worse, depression—to concoct a plan.

Granted, as plans went, it was pretty half-assed, he decided as he came to a halt in front of Cady’s front door. But he was stuck with it, primarily because he had been unable to come up with anything more promising.

Cady opened the door after he’d leaned on the bell for nearly a full minute. She was barefoot. Her dark hair was pulled back into a strict knot that emphasized her interesting features. She was dressed in tights and a leotard, and she had a sexy, stretchy little skirtlike thing tied around her waist. All the clothing was stark black. He wondered if that was a bad omen.

She stared at him for a few seconds with the expression of a woman who has just discovered an extraterrestrial on her front step.

“I had to come down to Santa Barbara on business,” he said into the awkward silence. “Happened to be in the
neighborhood. Had your address in my files. Thought I’d take a chance and see if you were home.”

Thought I’d leap off this cliff because I had nothing better to do and I was going nuts trying to think of an excuse to see you again
, he added silently.

She blinked a couple of times, looking startled and somewhat confused. But not annoyed, he thought. That was a positive sign. He became aware of the music that was flowing down the hall behind her. Mozart.

“You caught me by surprise,” she said. “I was just finishing my yoga exercises.”

“Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” she said quickly. “I just wasn’t expecting you to show up in person.”

“Is there any other way to show up?”

“I thought you’d call first to discuss the situation.” She sounded disgruntled now, maybe even flustered. “I take it the fact that you’re here means that you’re interested?”

She had expected him to call? And here he’d been thinking that he would be lucky to get a foot in the door. His spirits rose. Obviously he had missed some significant signals somewhere along the line. Wouldn’t have been the first time.

“I’m interested,” he said, feeling his way through the verbal minefield. “Definitely interested.”

“Good.” Something that might have been relief flashed in her eyes. “I realize that I probably wasn’t very clear in the message that I left on your voice mail last night.”

“Uh-huh.” He kept his voice noncommittal and made a mental note to call for his messages as soon as he got back to the hotel. He hadn’t checked them since yesterday afternoon. He’d been too busy obsessing on how to make this little drop-in scene appear casual and off the cuff.

“I don’t blame you if you’re confused.”

“I’ve been confused before,” he assured her. “You get used to it.”

She gave him a slightly quizzical smile. “I would have called sooner but I was out of town and there was a lot going on.”

“I’ve been a little out of touch, myself,” he said. “Didn’t know you’d been gone.” He suddenly recalled her plans to set herself up in competition to Lost and Found. His stomach clenched. “A consulting job?”

“No, a funeral. My great-aunt died while I was helping you recover that armor for your friends.”

“Great-aunt?” That got his full attention. “You mean Vesta Briggs? The head of Chatelaine’s?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.” He couldn’t believe he had missed the news. He made it a point to keep up with events in the art world. For the death of Vesta Briggs to have escaped his notice, he must have been more than just a little out of touch during the past ten days. He must have been in a complete fog. “I didn’t know.”

“They think that she had an unusually bad panic episode while she was swimming alone. She may have assumed that it was a heart attack. The symptoms can be very similar. At any rate, the doctor told my cousins, Sylvia and Leandra, that in her extreme anxiety, Vesta probably grew exhausted and disoriented very quickly and went under.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. He couldn’t think of anything else to say, under the circumstances. “Must have been a shock.”

“Everyone told her that she shouldn’t swim alone, especially at night when she was the only one in the house. But my aunt was always very strong-willed.”

He nodded. “The trait obviously runs in the family.”

Cady’s jaw tightened briefly. Then she sighed. “I won’t argue with you on that point.” She stepped back. “I suppose
you’d better come inside. I need to fill you in on the situation and I don’t want to do it here in the doorway. Would you like some iced tea?”

He did not like cold tea any better than he liked hot tea, but he was nothing if not adaptable.

“The tea sounds good,” he said as he moved through the front door into the hall.

She led the way into an airy living room defined by stark white walls and minimalist furnishings.

“Have a seat.” She motioned to a sleek black chair.

The condominium was on the second floor. The sliding glass doors opened onto an expansive tiled balcony. He glanced out and down at the stylishly landscaped grounds. A small fountain gurgled amid a selection of lush plants arranged in an artful grouping. Expensive, tasteful and not unlike a lot of other upscale condo developments in the area.

It was the interior of Cady’s home, with its sculptural spaces and contemporary décor that surprised him. He chose the black, Italian-modern chair positioned on a crimson area rug and watched Cady go behind a glass-block counter set with black and turquoise tiles. She opened the stainless-steel refrigerator and removed a pitcher. The tea inside was the color of amber.

“This isn’t quite what I expected,” he said, watching her pour the tea into two glasses.

She glanced up from her task. “What do you mean?”

He moved a hand slightly to indicate her interior décor. “Given your professional expertise and your background, I expected to find you living with a lot of really good antiques.”

“I spend a great deal of my working time with old pieces.” She picked up the glasses and carried them into the living area. “I find that the contemporary style at home suits me. It gives me a break that allows me to think in ways that I can’t when I’m immersed in the past.”

“Makes sense.” He took one of the glasses and tried to look like he had half a clue about what was going on here. “Since, as you say, your message was a little vague, why don’t you start at the beginning and fill me in?”

“All right.”

She walked to a low-backed leather sofa and curled into the corner, one sleek leg bent at the knee. He noticed a sheet of creamy notepaper filled with elegant, feminine handwriting lying on the glass table in front of the sofa. Next to the note was an open envelope. A small, elaborately carved gold key set with a blue gemstone rested on top of it.

“Long story short,” Cady said, “is that Aunt Vesta, in addition to leaving me her house, an important piece of jewelry and her collection of antique boxes, bequeathed me a controlling block of shares in Chatelaine’s. The entire family is still in shock.”

“Why is it so strange that she would leave you the shares?”

“She knew that I had no interest in the day-to-day operation of the business. It was understood in the family that she would leave her voting shares to my cousin Sylvia, who is currently the CEO.”

“And now?”

Cady sipped tea thoughtfully and then lowered the glass. “Now, for all intents and purposes, I hold the future of Chatelaine’s in my hands. And I have no idea why Vesta arranged for that to happen.”

“I take it congratulations are not in order?”

“I told you, I never wanted to be a part of Chatelaine’s. Corporate operations, five-year plans and retirement benefit programs bore the socks off me. Aunt Vesta knew that.”

“Yet she stuck you with those shares.”

“Yes.” Cady tapped one elegantly manicured fingernail
against the glass. “At a time when, as fate would have it, Chatelaine’s is facing a major crossroads.”

“What kind of crossroads.”

“Next month the board was scheduled to vote on whether or not to merge with the Austrey-Post galleries. The proposal has been in the works for months.”

Mack felt he was on firmer footing now. He knew something about the long-standing friendly rivalry between the two privately held firms.

“That would be a major move, all right,” he said.

“It has a lot of possibilities. Combining the resources of Chatelaine’s and Austrey-Post would catapult the new company into the big leagues as far as the art world is concerned. Sylvia is already talking about expanding to the East Coast and possibly opening a branch in London. Randall and Stanford want to establish a presence on the internet.”

“Who are Randall and Stanford?”

“Randall is Randall Post,” she said. “His grandfather Randall Austrey founded the Austrey Gallery. Austrey’s daughter eventually married John Post. Austrey made his son-in-law a partner in the firm and the gallery became Austrey-Post.”

The name clicked. “Randall Post is your ex-husband, isn’t he?”

Her jaw tightened. “Yes.”

He had done his research before contacting her the first time. Post was the man she had divorced after a nine-day marriage. Morbid curiosity pulsed through him, but he could see that Cady was not inclined to elaborate on her relationship with her ex.

“Stanford would be Stanford Felgrove, then?” he asked. “The current president and CEO of Austrey-Post?”

“Right. John Post died when his son, Randall, was thirteen. Randall’s mother remarried Stanford Felgrove.”
Cady’s mouth was a grim line. “Jocelyn Post died of alcoholism and left fifty-one percent of Austrey-Post to her second husband. Stanford Felgrove took over control of the gallery. Today, Randall is only a junior partner in the firm his grandfather founded and which his mother inherited.”

“That’s got to be a little hard for your ex to swallow.”

“Yes.” Cady paused. “Randall and Stanford have handled the situation by dividing the business into two different spheres. Stanford manages corporate operations. In fairness, he’s good at it. He has certainly kept Austrey-Post profitable. Sylvia tells me it has just completed a record-breaking year. Randall is the one with the background in art and antiques, though, and the connections. He courts clients and brings in the major consignments. Both of them are pressing for the merger.”

“Am I missing something? Is there a problem with the merger?”

“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.” Cady tapped the glass again. “Until shortly before my aunt’s death, things were on track for the board vote next month. There shouldn’t have been any glitches. Both boards wanted the merger to happen. The families on both sides are enthusiastic about the prospects for the future.”

She stopped talking abruptly.

“But?” he prompted.

“But a few days before she drowned, Aunt Vesta postponed the vote. At about the same time, she changed her will to leave me the shares in Chatelaine’s.”

“And you don’t know why?”

“She just said that she was having some last-minute doubts about the wisdom of the merger.”

He considered that for a moment and then shrugged. “If that was true, why wouldn’t she have discussed them in detail with your cousin Sylvia and the other members of the board?”

“I don’t know. Probably because she was uncertain of her information.” Cady’s hand tightened visibly around the glass. “My aunt was secretive by nature and the tendency got more pronounced as she got older. She rarely confided in anyone. But I do know that she was in favor of the merger, at least until quite recently.”