The Jinx (23 page)

J
onathan put his head down on the steering wheel and burst into tears. I looked up and realized, shocked, that we'd emerged from the tangle of side streets and were parked directly in front of the hotel.

“Um. Uh, Jonathan. Don't cry,” I said lamely.

“I love her,” he sobbed. “And she barely notices me. She just thinks of me as her boring old professor. But I love her.”

“Um, I'm beginning to see that. But don't cry.”

“I pour my heart out, and she could care less. She even gave me the letters back. As if they meant nothing to her.” He picked his head up from the steering wheel and looked at me, as if I shared his anguish and his outrage. “How could she do that to me?”

Thankfully, there was a tap on the driver-side window. It was O'Connell. I turned to peer out the back. There were a couple of cars behind us: Jane and Sean's Volvo and what was probably O'Connell's unmarked police car. I was impressed that they'd managed to keep up with Jonathan's wild race through the snow-covered back streets of residential Cambridge.

O'Connell tapped on the window again and Jonathan slowly rolled it down. “Professor Beasley. I think you should come with me.” The detective was holding Jane's cell phone in his hand, and it was on speaker, echoing his words back to us. I decided I could safely end the call I'd placed and pressed the off button on my own phone.

 

It was well after eleven, but a unanimous decision was reached that we could all use a nightcap. We retired to the lounge at Rialto, on the second floor of the hotel, once we'd ascertained that there was no longer any threat of live jazz.

“That was a nice after-dinner activity,” said Hilary, tucking her long legs under her on the velvet-covered sofa.

“But it was scary hearing you trying to tease out a confession from him,” Jane told me. “I mean, I knew we were right behind you and everything, but he sounded like he was really out of control.”

“You know,” said Emma thoughtfully, “I really believed him when he said he loved Sara.”

“He does love her,” I responded. “Just in a bizarre and twisted way. And it all fits. Sara went to him with the letters on Wednesday, thinking that she was going to get help from a wise and caring authority figure. Meanwhile, he must have interpreted it as her rejecting him and wasted no time lashing out. She was attacked on Thursday morning.”

“What a freak,” said Hilary. “And the crying! Ick. Rach, I'm glad we nipped this one in the bud before you started anything. I don't think I could handle you dating a guy who goes around weeping all the time.”

 

When it looked like our one drink was going to extend to another round, I excused myself for a moment. I'd been wearing high heels for fifteen hours, which would have been bad enough, but my right foot was particularly sore from where it had connected with Grant Crocker's groin. I'd taken my shoes off at Jane's, but I had a feeling that the Rialto would prefer that its patrons kept their shoes on. I ran upstairs to change into a more comfortable pair.

I was all too aware that there hadn't been any messages from Peter on my Blackberry, so the blinking message light on the phone in my room took me by surprise. I listened to the message as I kicked off my heels and eased my throbbing feet into flats. It was Peter, speaking quickly and in a harried tone.

Humph.
With a message like that, why even bother leaving one at all? Flimsy excuses, lame apologies—left in the last place I'd look for them and in the one place where he'd be relatively sure not to have to talk to me in person. Who needed it? I tried to work myself up into a healthy rage as the elevator took me back down to the second floor. Surely rage was more productive than giving way to the acrid taste of rejection and its favorite dance partner, loneliness.

A fresh drink was waiting for me when I returned to my friends, and it was a welcome sight. I was already well along the path to mild inebriation, and I'd made an executive decision in the elevator that I was going to take the path to its logical end. Anything would be better than to feel the way I was feeling. Hilary was enumerating O'Connell's many merits to a less than rapt audience, and Sean and Matthew were deep in conversation in their corner, probably talking about woodworking or something similarly manly. “Anything?” asked Emma in a low voice as I picked up my glass.

“A stupid message,” I told her, more loudly than I'd intended.

“What?” asked Hilary, her monologue interrupted.

“Stupid Peter. He left a stupid message. Saying he'd be locked in stupid negotiations potentially all night.” I held up two fingers of each hand, indicating quotation marks around the word
negotiations.

“Maybe he is locked in negotiations,” said Jane, ever the optimist.

“With Abigail?” I said, bitterness getting the best of me. “All night?”

“It's possible,” she said.

“Even after what we saw?”

“Rach, there could be an explanation that actually does explain it all,” Jane persisted. “You haven't even had the chance to talk to him about it.”

“Like that would help.” I sighed and took a large gulp of my drink.

“I'm going to kill this Abigail person,” said Hilary.

“You're just looking for ways to spend more time with O'Connell,” joked Luisa. “You want him to haul you up on murder charges.”

“It could be fun,” she replied.

“Let's talk about something else,” suggested Emma.

“Yes, Rach. Why don't you tell us again about kicking Grant Crocker in the balls?”

“I've already told you.”

“I know, but it has all the makings of a classic.”

“If you insist,” I said, draining the last of my drink and signaling the waiter for another round.

T
he phone ringing the next morning felt like a dentist inserting his drill directly into my ear. I fumbled for the receiver, grunted into it and unceremoniously slammed it back down before pulling the covers up over my head. A few minutes later it rang again, insistent and shrill. “What?” I demanded, sitting up and ripping the receiver off its cradle.

“Good morning!” announced a cheery recording. “This is your wake-up call! Today's weather forecast calls for heavy snowstorms and a temperature of twenty-three degrees Fahrenheit with a blistering windchill. Have a great day!”

Swearing at a recording was useless, but I swore at it anyway. Which was a bad idea, because if the ringing phone had seemed loud, my own voice was intolerable. Somebody must have come into the room while I was asleep and pounded on my skull with an iron mallet, because that was the only possible explanation for the thudding pain that occupied the space where my brain used to be.

I moaned, but that made it hurt even more. I sat still for a moment, waiting for the pain to recede but nothing happened. I cracked one eye open, careful not to move my head. The clothes I'd been wearing the previous evening were neatly folded over the back of the bedside chair. An open bottle of Advil and an empty glass stood on the nightstand. Dimly, I could remember my friends getting me up to my room, and Jane and Emma insisting that I take the tried and true preventative measures of Advil and water before bed. However, even the best preventative measures couldn't erase the toll that my dedicated drinking had taken. I didn't want to begin to think about how much worse I would have felt if they hadn't forced me to take the painkillers. Anything that could feel worse would have probably been fatal.

Gingerly, I propelled myself to a standing position. Grasping the Advil bottle in an unsteady hand, I tottered into the bathroom and refilled the glass from the tap. I shook out two pills, reconsidered, shook out two more, and then washed all four down with a long drink of water. I could feel the cool liquid tracing its course down my throat and into my stomach, every desiccated cell in my body sucking up the moisture in gratitude. I refilled the glass again and drank until it was empty. Then I tottered back out into the suite's living room and opened the minibar in order to embark on the next part of the cure.

I reached into the refrigerator with confidence and then retracted my arm in horror.

As if the Jinxing Gods hadn't had enough fun with me this weekend. There was no more Diet Coke.

I would have cried, but I was too dehydrated.

 

An hour later, I'd managed to take a shower and brush my teeth. I'd considered drying my hair, but the very thought of the noise the hairdryer would make had been too much to bear, so I sat in a chair waiting for my thick curls to dry themselves. Of course, that hadn't happened, so I eventually just yanked them back into a wet knot and struggled into my clothes. Not the jeans I'd brought for my nice relaxed weekend. Oh no, lucky me had to go see Barbara Barnett this morning, to talk business while battling the hangover that ate Cincinnati, and I had to look like a grown-up, even if I drank like a fraternity pledge. At least I didn't have to worry that she was violent, now that I knew that Jonathan Beasley had been responsible for the attacks on Sara. But that thought offered little consolation as I pulled on the black pantsuit I'd already worn on Friday. I grimaced as I stuffed my still-sore feet into the high-heeled pumps that went with it.

The effort to do all this left me sufficiently exhausted that I had to sit back down to recover. Then I checked my watch. “Crap, crap, quadruple crap.”

I was late. And if I had no love life, I really couldn't afford to mess up on the professional front.

 

My cab driver seemed to sense my delicate condition and take a cruel delight in exacerbating it by alternately slamming on the accelerator and slamming on the brakes. Despite the below-zero windchill, I had the window wide-open. The air was fresh, if frozen, and I let it wash over my face in a vain attempt to quell the nausea.

The taxi screeched to a halt in front of the Barnetts' town house in Beacon Hill. I paid the Driver de Sade, and stumbled up the front stoop to ring the bell.

The
click-clack
of Barbara's heels preceded her. She threw the door open. At ten-thirty on a Sunday morning she was decked out in a lime-green Christian Lacroix suit that probably matched my complexion exactly. “Rachel, honey, come on in out of the cold.”

“Hi Barbara,” I croaked. My throat was still dry.

“You sound a bit hoarse, honey. I hope you're not coming down with anything. And you look a bit peaked. Let's get you something hot to drink,” she offered, ushering me into a sitting room. “Maybe some nice hot tea with honey, honey?” She paused to smile at her own joke. “That's always soothing on a sore throat. Or a hot buttered rum?”

The word
rum
made my stomach lurch. “Um, that's all right. If it's not too much trouble, what I'd really like is a Diet Coke.”

“Coming right up. If you'll excuse me, I'll go get the refreshments. The maid's off today, so I'm on my own. You just make yourself right at home.”

I sat on the sofa she indicated and immediately sank deep into its down-filled cushions. I looked around the room as I struggled to pull myself into something more like a sitting position. It was pretty clear that Tom hadn't had much say in decorating decisions. The room was the height of mid-eighties chic,
Dynasty
by way of the zoo. Ornate gilded furniture vied for attention with a zebra-striped throw rug and leopard-print upholstery.

Barbara returned a few minutes later carrying a tray with a fuchsia-and-black teapot and matching teacup, a crystal glass of ice, and a can of Tab. “Here we are,” she announced with a cheer that rivaled that of the wake-up call recording. “I'm sorry, honey, we're fresh out of Diet Coke, so I brought you a Tab instead. Is that okay?”

I nodded mutely. Desperate times called for desperate measures. At least it wasn't Diet Pepsi. Beaming, Barbara settled herself into a chair for which some undoubtedly endangered jungle animal had given up its life. She popped open the soda and began to decant it into a glass. “Oh, that's all right, Barbara. I actually like it best straight out of the can.”

I had to give her points for not commenting on my uncouth preferences. She handed me the can and I accepted it gratefully. The familiar feel of the cold aluminum in my hand was enough to still my churning stomach, and the first sip, while not my elixir of choice, tasted better than anything I'd ever drunk before. I'd gulped down half the can before I realized that Barbara was staring at me, her own teacup raised halfway to her mouth. “Why, you must have been thirsty.”

I smiled sheepishly before guzzling what was left.

“So, Rachel, you wanted to talk about business?”

I collected myself, newly fortified by the dose of carbonation, caffeine and artificial sweetener. “Yes, that's right. And I really appreciate your making the time to see me. You know that I've worked with Grenthaler Media for several years now, and I advised Tom on a number of transactions.”

“Of course. Tom always spoke highly of you.” Her words were kind, but her voice had already taken on a more guarded tone.

Diplomacy was never my strong suit, particularly not when hungover, so I came straight out with it. “I'm concerned that your decision to back this takeover is not what Tom would have wanted you to do with the shares he left you.” As smoothly as I could, I launched into my spiel, aided by the infusion of Tab rushing through my veins. I spoke passionately and at length about Samuel Grenthaler and the legacy he'd left his daughter, and how intent Barbara's late husband had been on preserving that legacy.

My eloquence bounced off her as if her Lacroix were constructed entirely of Teflon. She listened, smiling and nodding, and when I was done she seemed not to have understood a word I'd said. “Yes,” she agreed, as if she were reading from a script. “It is a wonderful company. It plays such an important role in keeping the public informed about important issues. I'm so thrilled that Adam will be leading it into the future. I know he'll be able to take it to the next level.”

Next level of what, I wanted to ask, but I doubted that would be a productive direction in which to steer the conversation. I knew for a fact that her last three lines were directly paraphrased from the press release Adam had issued the previous day. “It is a wonderful and important company,” I agreed. “But,” I added, choosing my words carefully, “Tom and Sam Grenthaler both wanted Sara Grenthaler to be running it one day.”

“You know,” said Barbara, setting her fuchsia teacup down so hard that tea splashed over its edges, “Sam Grenthaler really took advantage of Tom. My late husband, may he rest in peace, worked his tail off for that man, and Sam never appreciated him.” Her guarded tone had given way to much less guarded indignation.

“Why, Barbara, I don't think that's true. He designated Tom as his successor. And Tom always spoke warmly of Sam. He considered Sam to be his best friend. He loved Sam, and Anna and Sara, as much as if they were his own family.”

My words, intended to soothe, seemed to have exactly the opposite effect.

“Tom was a sweet man, but he was naive. He just didn't see how Sam took advantage of him. And that wife of his, too.” She imitated a Boston Brahmin lockjaw. “Anna Porter. She thought she was so classy, and she was always looking down at me over that long nose of hers when she wasn't busy making eyes at Tom. Sara's not much better, either. Spoiled brat. She thinks she's too good to have anything to do with my Adam. Well I'll be damned if I'm going to let anyone named Grenthaler continue to take advantage of my family. My son's going to get what's rightfully his.”

Barbara's décor wasn't the only thing that was straight out of
Dynasty.
This little speech could have been lifted directly from the show's seventh season. Her logic was a bit faulty, but apparently I'd struck on a sore spot. I remembered Nancy Sloan's theory about Tom having carried a torch for his best friend's wife. It looked like Barbara shared in that theory, and years after Anna's death, she still wasn't happy about it. I realized, belatedly, that this takeover meant more to Barbara than just seeing her son in the limelight. In some way, she also saw it as a way to avenge herself on Anna Porter, who likely had never suspected that Tom Barnett's interest in her was anything but that of a man's friendly affection for his best friend's wife. Not to mention an opportunity to get back at Sara, who had had the temerity to reject her son. I wondered if Barbara saw herself as playing the Alexis role or the Krystle role in her own little melodrama.

“Barbara,” I began, not sure what I was going to say, but she interrupted me anyhow. The gloves were officially off.

“The important thing is that Adam and I are no longer standing on the sidelines. Nothing you can say is going to make me change my mind. And unless little Sara can top our offer, it looks like this deal is going to get done.” She picked up her teacup and took a demure sip. “Honey,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

There was a clatter in the kitchen and a sound of breaking glass. “What was that?”

“Probably just the damned cat,” said Barbara, taking another sip of tea. As if on cue, an enormous white cat waddled into the room. With surprising agility for an animal so large, it leaped upward, landing on my lap with such force that it seemed unlikely neither of us had suffered any broken bones.

“Oof.”

“Krystle!” scolded Barbara, inadvertently answering my previous question. “You naughty little creature.”

“It's okay,” I said as Krystle began kneading my thighs. Krystle wore a rhinestone collar, and all of her claws seemed to be intact. I was glad for a temporary distraction in which to plan my next angle of attack, but it looked like the distraction was going to come at the expense of a perfectly good Armani pantsuit. A white cat and black trousers made for unfortunate results, but since Krystle's claws were busily shredding the trousers anyway, worrying about the shedding was probably not a good use of time.

I'd been debating whether or not to pull the one card I had up my sleeve. It wasn't a card in which I had a great deal of confidence, to be sure. But Barbara had pissed me off. I hadn't liked the way she'd spoken of Tom, who had been a wise and gracious man. Nor did I appreciate her referring to Sara, a woman for whom I had tremendous respect, as a “spoiled brat.” And, as Janis Joplin had put it best, “freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.”

“You do realize, of course, that Whitaker Jamieson is going to have to get approval from his trustees to sink all of his assets into a hostile takeover.” I was stretching the truth. Whitaker Jamieson's trust fund may have had trustees before he turned twenty-one, but now there was only one trustee, and that trustee was the Caped Avenger himself.

“Whit's a very competent businessman,” responded Barbara, but I could tell that I'd rattled her.

“And the trustees might find it a bit—” I paused, pretending to be carefully selecting the right word “—
unorthodox,
that he's handing all of his assets to the son of his ex-girlfriend. And that the son in question has no significant experience managing a business of any size, let alone a large public company.”

“What do you mean, ex-girlfriend?” she asked with narrowed eyes.

“Are you denying that you and Whit were an item before you married Tom?”

“Whit is an old family friend,” she parried with admirable bravado. “But that doesn't mean he isn't making an informed decision. He knows Adam well and is just as confident in his abilities as I am.”

“I wouldn't be so sure,” I responded, with equal bravado, although mine was completely false.