Shaded Light: The Case of the Tactless Trophy Wife: A Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan Mystery (The Manziuk and Ryan Mysteries Book 1) (47 page)

She nodded. “But I’d still like to know more about how she operated.”

“You wondering if she might not have been doing it alone?”

“What if she married Peter Martin because of his money, but she was really in love with someone else. Someone like her.”

“Someone like Bart Brodie?”

“Yes.”

“Not a bad idea. We’ll do our best to find out.”

Bart might have been insulted by the suggestion that he was like Jillian Martin. Or he might have been pleased with it. But right now, he was merely impatient. He wanted to get some money from George, and he wanted to leave. George had proved to be difficult.

“Look, it isn’t as if you don’t have the money,” Bart argued.

“That isn’t the question. However, since you choose to put it that way, how about looking at this? Whatever money I have, I earned. Note the word I use. ‘Earned.’ I—”

“Don’t tell me. You started out with nothing and worked twenty-hour days and made yourself what you are today. Wonderful. We applaud you. But is it really necessary for everyone to emulate you? Why can’t you simply realize you enjoyed every minute of it and now you have more than you need and you have a responsibility to your family to see that none of us starves?”

“What my sister ever saw in your father—!”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that before, too. I’m just like him. So sorry, but I have no choice. My mother never once said to me, ‘Child, we’re planning to bring you into an imperfect world where you can’t choose your relatives or circumstances, and we’d like to know if you want to come.’ I had to come, willy-nilly.”

“You may not have had a choice in being born, but you do have a choice in what you do with your life. So far, you’ve chosen poorly. Well, I have a choice also. And I choose to ignore you. If I’d done that years ago, you might be a lot better off.”

“And if—”

“And if you follow through with your threat of a few days ago and try to give a story to one of the trash magazines, it will harm you more than me. You’re not my son, merely a relative. I have no obligation to you, and I’ll make sure the papers are aware of everything I’ve already done for you. I have no doubt I’ll come out smelling like roses and you’ll look exactly like what you are—scum we could well do without.”

There was a long moment of silence. Finally, Bart said, “You’re bluffing.”

“I’m giving you five thousand dollars. That’s because Ellen feels you were helpful this weekend and she wants you to have something to start with. But you’d better use it wisely, because there won’t be any more. Absolutely none. I know you think I’m bluffing, but I’m not. It’s the last money you’ll ever see from me. And that includes after my death. Your name isn’t in my will. And if you think Kendall will support you, you’re very mistaken.”

“I—”

“I trust you’ll be gone before lunch.” George held out the money in cash, and Bart took it. “Unless you do something to show me that you’ve reformed your lifestyle, you’ll not be allowed on this property or in my office again. As far as I’m concerned, from this moment on I have no nephew.”

“You’re making a big mistake.”

“Close the door when you leave.”

Bart slammed out of the room.

George leaned back. Should have done that years ago. And who knew—it might even work. He felt good.

But now he needed to get to the office and do a day’s work. Time to put the events of this nightmare weekend behind and get on with life. Stupid thing to say, when two people were dead. Yet not much he could do about it.

And, strangely enough, the feelings of impending doom that had been bothering him since Friday had lifted. Coincidence? Probably more like stomach acid. Which reminded him. He needed to take the pills his doctor had given him to coat his stomach.

Twenty minutes after George was gone, Ellen watched Bart get into a cab in front of the house. He’d given her the gist of George’s message, but she’d offered no sympathy. She liked him too much, she’d said, to see him continue to waste his life the way he’d been doing. Maybe if he knew he didn’t have George to bail him out he’d do something to improve himself. That or get his legs broken by a gambler he couldn’t pay or wind up in jail for forgery or something like that. She didn’t know what all he’d done and she didn’t want to know.

She waved.

The cab drove away.

He was gone. They were all gone.

Only she and Mrs. Winston were left.

Of course, Mrs. Winston was unable to do anything. It was Ellen’s turn to take care of her. She smiled. Unhappy though the time might be, it would be nice to get back into a kitchen again without feeling guilty.

A small car came into sight. It was old and battered. The gardeners. She’d forgotten they would be coming in. They had a key to the gate and had apparently come to work, as usual. What was she going to say to them?

Peter was at the office by nine in the morning. Anything to get away from his in-laws. Shauna would just have to cope. He’d make it up to her later.

He accepted sympathy from his secretary and the others in the office. “I’ll be fine,” he said as soon as there was a quiet moment. “I just want to get back to work. It helps to have my mind on something.” He smiled in his engaging way, and the secretaries and law clerks fell over themselves agreeing with him.

He went into his office and shut the door, leaning against it for a moment before sitting at his desk. Now what? He needed something to do. He leaned forward to buzz his secretary.

“Yes, Mr. Martin?”

“What have we got to work on today?”

“You have that litigation for Mr. Devlin.”

“Ah, good, good. Bring the file in, please. And your notebook. I have a couple of letters to write.”

“Yes, Mr. Martin.”

She was there in three minutes, seated across from him, efficient, agreeable, eager to please, easy on the eyes, and, to the best of his knowledge, not in the process of blackmailing anyone. She should take his mind off things nicely.

Douglass would much rather have been in the office, too. But Anne had been in such a state the night before that he’d finally phoned her doctor, who’d recommended she take two of the sleeping pills he’d prescribed several weeks before and come in the next day if she thought it necessary. A lot of good that was.

She’d already drunk half a bottle of vodka, and he hadn’t wanted to give her a pill on top of that. But he’d looked for them. And found more than he’d bargained on. Three bottles of sleeping pills. Along with a suicide note telling him he was free to go to Jillian and begging him to look after the kids.

He slept little during the night. His mind was grappling with too many things. Douglass Fischer, age forty-four. And what did he have? A good job that took most of his time and interest. A wife who was so miserable she was ready to commit suicide. Two children who were so out of hand he had no control over them. And it didn’t take a genius to see they were both heading for trouble. A guilty conscience because of one foolish weekend.

He got up at eight and made sure there was an ice pack for Anne. When she woke up, she’d need it.

He shut himself up in his office and began to write out a list of everything that was wrong with his life.

Lorry was busy, too. Dave Spalding, the man at whose home she was staying, had taken her over to the small ground-level store they’d remodeled to make an office for the mission. Now, he was showing Lorry the basic operation.

The back of the office had small kiosks where staff counseled teens and either helped them find jobs and places to stay, or reconnected them with their families. The front part of the office had desks and a meeting room for the staff and volunteers, who also ran a small doughnut shop manned by teens who’d been on the street, a house converted into bedrooms for teens who had nowhere to go, another house that served as a halfway stop for teens trying to get their lives back on track, and a community center where teens could hang out.

Lorry was going to work on the counseling and referral end, talking to teens who came in, helping them figure out what they were doing on the street, suggesting ideas for what they could do with the rest of their lives, trying to give them hope.

Dave was the director. There were three other full-time staff, a couple of part-timers, a number of volunteers, and two summer workers other than Lorry.

The staff was horrified to learn about Lorry’s long weekend. But she was already tired of discussing it. She wanted to get busy and put the taste of the last few days behind her. So she was glad to go out with Dave, slowly walking around the streets, meeting a few of the kids who were regulars.

But in spite of a strong effort to keep her mind on the mission, every young man with dark hair reminded her of Nick Donovan. And every pair of blue eyes reminded her of him, too. It was very annoying.

Shauna was wondering why she’d put up with her family all her life.

The phone rang and Mrs. Jensen grabbed it. “Martin residence.… Shauna?… Who’s calling?… She’s quite busy. If it’s anything to do with Jillian, I can—I didn’t say she was out!”

She set down the receiver and said, “It’s for you. The nerve of some people! I don’t know who this man is, but he’s quite rude. I had a good mind to hang up on him. You tell him not to call again.”

Shauna took the receiver. A rebellious thought made her want to run into Peter’s bedroom to use the extension, but she knew that if she were to do that her mother would listen on this phone. Besides, who would be calling her? Likely Inspector Manziuk. He could be rude and get away with it. “Hello,” she said softly.