LITMIR.BIZ

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why not?” he asked, looking at her critically. “You’re one of the most elegant women in this town, or any other, I would think. I’m sure you’ve met everybody there is to meet.”

      “Yes, but now I really wonder if marrying rich is what it’s about. Look at little Valerie. She works for Victor twenty-four hours a day. That’s quite a price, even for all of this.”

      “But Valerie is in love with Victor.”

      “Maybe she is,” Mary conceded.

      “She really thinks he’s all right,” John mused. “Incredible.”

      “What do you think?”

      “I sure can’t see Victor parachuting from a 727,” John laughed.

      “Are things bad enough that Victor would go on the run?” Mary asked casually.

      “No you don’t,” John said, his voice lazy. “I’m a lawyer, remember? I keep my own counsel.”

      “And you cover your own ass.”

      “That too,” he agreed, thinking that she was really attractive in an understated way.

      Across the lawn, Valerie came toward them, followed by her personal trainer. Both of them wore workout sweats. Strange, Mary thought, all of them pretending that it was all business as usual.

      As Valerie approached them, Mary realized she looked strained. “I wish that thing would go away,” Valerie said, gesturing toward the helicopter. “Why can’t they leave us alone?”

      “How was your workout?” Mary asked.

      “Oh, it’s better to be doing something than just sitting and wringing my hands,” she said. “Didn’t you say that Elliott was going to come by?”

      “What do you want Elliott for?” John asked. “Do you feel all right?”

      “Oh, I’m fine. I’m just exhausted, that’s all.”

      The intercom on the telephone sitting on the table buzzed insistently, and John reached over to answer it.

      “It’s Kyle,” he said. “There’s going to be some news in five minutes.”

      Quickly, they walked to the mansion’s music room, where Valerie had spent many hours, either practicing or taking lessons from Kyle. The room’s focal point was the magnificent nine-foot concert grand Steinway piano. The yellows, greens and reds of the sofa and chairs picked up the colors in the priceless Aubusson carpet, which covered most of the floor. The marble fireplace was deep enough to roast a boar. Even the sunlight usually caught the room in a way that made it warm, welcoming. On the screen, a network correspondent stood in front of a government building in Acapulco. “The five bodies recovered this morning from the Penn International jet have all been identified through dental records flown to the scene, although those names will not be released pending notification of next of kin. To repeat, four of the bodies, including that of the woman on the plane, died as a result of bullet wounds to the head. Tentatively, the fifth body is believed to have succumbed from smoke inhalation.”

      “What did he say?” Valerie asked incredulously.

      “They were shot,” Kyle said. “All but one man.”

      The ringing of the phone cut through the shocked silence. Five times, six. Seven times. Finally, John picked up.

      “Valerie,” he called from across the room. “It’s for you. It’s Raymond.”

      She crossed the room and took the receiver from John’s hands. “Yes, Raymond?” she said stiffly.

      “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly. “The dental records have confirmed that Victor is dead.”

      “He can’t be,” Valerie whispered.

      “Stop being a fool for once,” he said icily. “I’m not here to play your little games with you.”

      For a moment, Valerie held the phone, unable to collect herself to speak.

      “You did this,” she hissed into the receiver. “I don’t know why, or how. But you did this. I know you did.”

      “I’ve decided that the funeral will be in London,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “I’ve already spoken to Miss Furst, and she’s starting to make the arrangements.” He paused for a moment, and then he said, “It seems to me that if you plan to arrive in London two days hence, it should be soon enough.”

      “Why can’t it be here?” she wailed. “I want Victor to be buried here.” The words seemed absurd, even as she spoke them. She didn’t want Victor buried anywhere, didn’t want Victor dead at all. He couldn’t be dead.

      “This is a difficult situation,” Raymond said. “If you manage to pull yourself together, it will be somewhat less difficult. Now, let me talk to Mr. O’Farrell.”

      “What about my children?”

      “Miss Furst is arranging for them to fly to London immediately. The staff at the Regent’s Park house has been informed to expect all of you.”

      “This isn’t what I want, Raymond.”

      “Nobody cares what you want,” he said savagely. “I’m trying to be civil.”

      “You don’t know what civil is,” she whispered before handing the phone to John.

      “Victor is dead,” she said aloud to those in the room, “and it was Raymond who did it.” Her voice rose to a scream. “I know it was Raymond!”

      “Valerie, dear,” Mary said, rushing to her side. “Come and sit down.” Putting her arms around the younger woman, she helped her to a chair where Valerie collapsed, sobbing, her face in her hands.

      In a minute, John hung up the phone.

      “Valerie,” he said tentatively.

      She looked up at him, her eyes red, her cheeks wet with tears.

      “Now, I want you to listen to me. Can you do that?”

      She nodded slowly.

      “I don’t know if this is going to be harder on you. Maybe it will be easier. Victor wasn’t shot. He was the one who died of smoke inhalation.”

      She nodded again.

      “Now, as soon as the identification is released, the bank examiners and the IRS will be moving into the banks and all the companies. Do you understand that?”

      “I understand,” she said in a tremulous voice.

      “And I’m afraid the marshals will be moving in here.”

      “But this is our home,” she protested.

      “Well, yes and no,” John said. “The house is actually in the name of Penn International. So is everything in it. To the feds, all of this is just another asset of the corporation.”

      “Do you mean I own nothing?”

      “It’ll all have to be straightened out. It could take a long, long time. Years, even.”

      “Is this what you meant when you said that things were going to get worse?” asked Mary.

      “Yeah,” he said, glancing at her. “This is it.”

      “And how bad are things?”

      “Pretty bad.”

      The jewelry, Mary thought, locked away in that safe-deposit box in a bank in Beverly Hills in Valerie’s name and her own, so that either of them could get to it if Valerie wanted to wear the real thing. Quickly, Mary ran a mental tape of what was there. Ten million dollars, easy, she calculated. And the jewelry, at least, was not a corporate asset. She realized she wasn’t going to mention the jewelry to John. She looked up at him. He was so handsome in his tennis whites, with his dark,

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