Possessions (52 page)

“Problems about her work?” Mettler asked Derek.

“No. Personal. I wouldn't worry, Herman; chances are they won't affect you at all.”

In the midst of the party's gaiety, a small, dark silence fell among the three men.

“
Chances are,
” Mettler repeated. “Shouldn't I be the judge of that?”

Derek shrugged.

“God damn it, Derek, I asked a civil question. I'm investing in this woman and if she has problems that might affect her work,
I want to know about it!”

“There's no cause for hysteria, Herman; I only know some isolated facts. Nothing more.”

“Facts! Facts! What the fuck are you talking about? Marc,
if you don't mind . . . Derek, in private—” Taking Derek's arm, he led him to a corner away from the crowd. “Now, what the hell is going on?”

Derek drank half his Scotch. “I haven't the faintest idea whether something is ‘going on,' as you put it. Katherine is a troubled young woman, with more than her share of problems. Her husband is an embezzler who disappeared over a year ago after admitting to his partner that he'd stolen from the company for years. Less than two months after he disappeared, Katherine sold their house at a loss and fled Canada; soon after she arrived here she started receiving money every month from her husband. And last New Year's Eve he came to see her. We've asked her to tell us where he is, so we could help him, but she insists she doesn't know. More likely she's afraid to trust anyone.”

Mettler passed his hand over his face. He had heard parts of that story—though nothing of embezzling—but coming from Derek it sounded far different. “Are you saying . . .” He cleared his throat. “She might be involved in her husband's embezzling? She might be a thief?”

Derek shook his head. “Doubtful.”

“You're not sure?”

“One has only her word. She seems honest.”

“But you're not sure. And if she's a thief, she could be stealing other things. Like jewelry designs.”

Derek smiled thinly. “That's quite a leap, Herman. I wouldn't accuse her of any such thing.”

After a moment, Mettler blurted, “She married into your family!” Derek was silent. “That's why you're so cautious! Protecting your family!”

“Pull yourself together,” Derek said coldly. “You're going off the deep end. I don't know how this came up; you have nothing to worry about.”

“I have plenty to worry about! You know how much my customers pay for the assurance that they're buying originals! Jewelry designs are copyrighted, damn it; my customers know that; they didn't get rich by being naive! Do you know what they'd do to me if they thought they were investing in copies or—my God—stolen designs? They'd find someone else to trust! Then where would I be? God damn it, if I'd known—!”

“Has Marc wandered off?” Leslie asked, pushing through the guests to reach them. “I thought he was with you. Good heavens, Herman, has someone died?”

Mettler looked at her blankly. “Marc went off. I don't know where he is.”

“Thanks,” she said dryly. “I'll find him. And do let me know if it was someone important who died.”

She found Landau fending off a short man with heavy jowls who wanted him to design a necklace for his wife. “Must go,” Landau said in relief as Leslie came up. “Drop me a note with a sketch; never do business at parties. He won't write,” he muttered to Leslie as they made their way across the room. “Because he can't. Inherited all his money, plays a pathetic game of golf and never learned to write. That's all I know about him. Except that his wife likes emeralds. Are we eating dinner here or will you come home with me?”

“Here, if you don't mind.”

“Leslie.”

“Yes?”

“When were you last in my home?”

“April twenty-ninth.”

An eyebrow went up. “Extraordinary memory. Or something happened to fix the date in your mind. And to keep you from my bed for nearly three months. Who is he?”

“You don't know him.”

“Even so, I assume he has a name.”

“Claude Fleming.”

Landau studied a manicured fingernail. “You're right; I don't know him. But I know his firm. Shall we eat?” In a walled garden, a buffet held ice sculptures of birds, weeping as they melted above hot and cold kabobs and hollowed pineapples heaped with fruits. “You're moving up,” Landau said as they filled their plates. “From a humble jeweler to a partner in one of the stuffiest law firms in the country. Isn't that a rather old-fashioned way for a woman to get ahead these days?”

“Don't overdo it, Marc,” Leslie said, walking ahead of him to a table. “If you're nasty, I might think you really care what I do.”

“Or is it that he is willing to father this mythical child you
once prattled about? That sentimental tale of longing for single motherhood. Have you been looking all this time, while I continued to escort you, for someone who longs for fatherhood?”

“I'll be damned,” she said. “You do care. Marc, you're as jealous as a teenager.”

“Don't talk nonsense. I'm saying I don't allow anyone to take advantage of me.”

“That's what you were saying? You could have fooled me.” She pushed her plate away and stood up. “I'm sorry, Marc; I wanted to stay friends. You're the only son of a bitch I know who sometimes has a heart of gold. But I wouldn't want you to feel taken advantage of, and whatever you may think I don't want you to be unhappy. If I'd known you cared a hoot in hell about me—well, I don't know—Claude might not have made such an instant impression. We'll never know, will we? But damn you anyway, Marc, for sleeping with me for years and keeping all your feelings to yourself. God, I'm so tired of cool, clever people. No, don't get up; I can find my way out; you stay and enjoy the party. Cheer up our host; he looked like Derek gave him a dose of poison. Goodbye, Marc; thank you for a pleasant few years.”

She strode through the living room to the foyer. Shouldn't have gotten upset, she thought. But she felt light with relief. For three months she'd been unable to break it off—still unsure enough of Claude, and her own feelings for him, to cut loose entirely from someone as reliable as Marc. But now it had happened almost by itself and she gave a small skip as she went outside, stood for a minute, debating, then walked briskly two blocks to the Mark Hopkins to catch a cab.

She got home early, spent an hour on paperwork, and had it organized when she arrived at Claude's office the next morning. “Here it is,” she said, handing him her typed notes. “All but the last chapter. I don't suppose Bruce is here yet?”

“Bruce is here. Crisis inspires him to rise early. Can I get you coffee?”

“Yes.” She sighed with pleasure. Everything was coming together; everything would be all right. She hadn't felt so well protected in years.

“Morning, sis,” said Bruce from the floor where he sat yoga-style. “I'm meditating if you want to try—”

“Bruce, could we go over this once more?”

“You're nervous,” he said accusingly.

“There's a lot at stake. I don't want to be wrong.”

“We're not wrong! I know everything—well, almost everything—”

“Bruce.” Claude sat on the arm of Leslie's chair. “Go through it again.”

With a glance at the two of them, Bruce sighed. “Right. Here goes. You want to steal merchandise from a store—not just a sweater or a purse, but maybe a million bucks worth a year—what do you do? First you write a special computer program that lists each week's high-priced stuff that's selling fast—it's on sale or specially advertised or whatever. Then you give the list to somebody who goes through the store lifting the stuff, a dozen sweaters, maybe, or two dozen scarves or a couple of five-hundred-dollar jackets . . . not enough to be noticed when things are selling fast. He'd have to do it after store hours—”

“Night watchman,” Leslie interrupted.

“Or security guard, whatever. At the same time another part of this special computer program changes the inventory record for the store—
showing the stuff as sold!
Got that? If you used the regular program to do this you'd leave a record, but this special program bypasses all the controls we put in and doesn't leave a trace of tampering! Clever bastard, but I was almost on to him, when he found my notes and stole them—”

“That's what the special program does?” Claude asked. “The one you found, but won't tell me how?”

“Damn it, you know where I—oh. Right, all the king's horses couldn't drag out of me how I got into the office to find it, right, that's what it does, without leaving a clue. But I confess I'm stumped on how they got it past the sensors and television cameras and out of the store. Janitors, using trash cans? Carpenters? Painters, with paint cans?”

“Leslie and I have an idea,” said Claude. “We have to call Katherine to check it.”

“Katherine in France?”

“Yes. But first I have some questions. This special program took an expert, is that right?” Vigorously, Bruce nodded. “How do we know it wasn't you?”

Bruce sprang from his meditative position. “Because we
know who really did it! My boss, Dick Volpe—the one who framed me by stealing my notes—I told you all this!”

“Grow up, Bruce,” Claude snorted. “Who'll believe you?”

“Fuck you, Fleming! I thought
you
believed me! If you think I'll let you marry my sister if you call me a—”

“Bruce!” Leslie cried. “No one's said anything about marriage!”

“Stick to the subject,” Claude ordered, but the corners of his mouth twitched as he tried not to smile. “What's your defense when someone accuses you of lying about your former boss?”

“Oh—that's what you're doing?—working on my defense? A lousy defense lawyer, scaring the shit out of me . . . I told you, Volpe and I are the only ones who know enough to get past the controls on these programs, and Volpe has his own way of writing arrays—you don't know what that means, but never mind—we always knew which programs he wrote because of his style—wait, I'll show you—”

“Just explain it,” said Claude. “Is it like different styles of painting or writing books?”

Bruce nodded.

“Different handwriting?”

“Not quite, but close.”

“Could computer experts identify one person's style?”

“Yes, damn it! That's what I'm saying!”

“And yours is different from Volpe's?”

“Every which way.”

“We can go with that,” said Claude. “I'm satisfied. Leslie, are you?”

She nodded. “I apologize for my brother's wild fancies.”

He met her eyes. “I didn't hear any wild fancies.”

In the silence, Bruce cried, “Well? Are we calling Mademoiselle Katherine in her French hideaway?”

“Leslie is,” said Claude. “But only a question, Leslie. Not a word about Bruce's theory.”

“Why not? Claude, she's my friend and she knows what I've gone through—”

“I want to finish it first. Make sure we have the whole scenario, and that we're right. Leslie, I'm thinking of what is best for you. And Bruce.”

“You're thinking of getting a conviction,” she said.

“Which will keep your job and perhaps make Bruce head of Data Processing if that's what he wants. Damn it, Leslie, Heath's hasn't hired me; I don't care if they're robbed to their foundation. All I care about is you.”

Leslie remembered coming home one night and curling up in her window seat, thinking how lovely it would be to have someone who gave a damn. “A convincing argument,” she said with a small laugh, and picked up the telephone. Claude lifted the receiver on the extension at the other end of his office as she dialed the number Katherine had left her of Victoria's villa in Menton.

“Hi,” she said casually, when Katherine came to the telephone. “I called to say hello and—”

“Leslie! Good heavens . . . a voice from the outside world! How are you? Have you gotten my letters?”

“All of them, and they're wonderful. But, Katherine, this is really a business call. The social one comes later. I'm in a meeting and I need to know why Gil fired you.”

“Gil? Of all the people I never think about—”

“I know, but it's important or I wouldn't ask. Could you tell me what happened? It was the night you took inventory, wasn't it?”

“I did a wedding scene in the window,” Katherine said, thinking back. “When I finished I went back downstairs . . . Gil wasn't there but he'd been in such a terrible mood I was afraid to leave if there was still counting to do. There were some cartons on the floor—display materials from the windows we'd taken down that week. They hadn't gone back to the warehouse, because the regular driver was sick and Gil refused a substitute, so I thought I'd better count them. About then he came back and started screaming at me.”

“While you were going through the cartons?”

“I'd gone through two or three; it was taking longer because there was new merchandise mixed in with the display materials . . .” Leslie and Claude exchanged a triumphant glance, as Katherine's voice faded. “Leslie?” she said. “I thought at the time the receiving room had made a mistake, and then later I was so shaken up by Gil that I forgot it, but . . .”

“Katherine, I'm sorry,” Leslie said hastily. “I know what
you're thinking but I can't talk about it now. Not yet; pretty soon. I'll call you as soon as I can; is that all right?”

“Of course, but—”

“I'm sorry—so much is happening—goodbye, Katherine, I promise I'll call you back.”

She and Claude hung up simultaneously. “Well?” Bruce cried, squirming in frustration. “Well, damn it?”