The Jinx

Twelve

C uriosity and disbelief got the better of me, so I darted across Arlington Street, but I lost precious seconds trying to avoid being run over. By the time I reached the Ritz, the men I’d seen were gone, the taillights of their taxi flashing red as it made the turn onto Boylston.

The hundred yards or so I’d walked and then dashed had sated my need for exercise, so I let the doorman at the Ritz hail me a cab, and I gave the driver the Porters’ address. I pulled out my Blackberry and called my office on the way. No, my assistant assured me, the Caped Avenger hadn’t called. Maybe he was in Boston -it was possible, after all. But with Scott Epson? And Adam Barnett? It couldn’t be. That would be just too weird. I really must be in need of glasses. It was simply the power of suggestion-they’d both been on my mind that morning. And dorky white men all tended to look alike, especially from a distance.

Ten minutes later I was climbing up the stone steps to the front door of the Porters’ brick town house in Louisburg Square, one of the more upscale parts of upscale Beacon Hill, a neighborhood that was home to John Kerry, Amos Hofstetter, and a number of characters in Henry James’s novels. The walk in front of the house and the steps themselves looked as if they’d not only been swept but polished-the dirty slush and black ice that decorated Boston ’s streets in January had been exiled from this pristine spot.

I’d scheduled the appointment the previous day, when I was anxious about Barbara’s intentions regarding her stock. My conversation with Brian had allayed that anxiety somewhat, but I still wanted to get the Porters’ input. Even if Barbara’s shares were safe, there was still the concern that an outsider would amass a sufficient stake to become a force to contend with in company matters. I wanted to prepare them for that, and it couldn’t hurt to prepare them for Barbara potentially trying to secure the CEO position for her precious Adam, either.

A uniformed maid answered the door and took my coat before ushering me into a well-appointed room facing onto the square. A worn Persian rug in muted shades of blue and gray adorned the floor, and thick velvet drapes framed the oversize windows. The maid went to fetch the Porters, and I wandered over to the fireplace, where a wood fire was laid but not lit. A collection of silver-framed photographs graced the mantel, and I paused to study them. There was a charming picture of the Porters on their wedding day, which must have been at least sixty years ago, and several photos of their daughter, Anna, ranging from baby shots to her college graduation. The black-and-white prints gave way to color when Samuel Grenthaler made his appearance, his arm around Anna, and then there were pictures of Samuel and Anna with their daughter, and more recent ones of Sara alone.

I felt a pang of sympathy for the Porters. Anna had been their only child, and it must have been devastating for them when she and Samuel died. I imagined them getting the news from the police in Vermont, the unfamiliar voice on the other end telling them about the Grenthalers’ car skidding off the icy road. And then having to call and give Sara the news-not something that any grandparent should ever have to do.

I heard footsteps coming down the hallway and turned away from the photos. Helene and Edward Porter entered the room together, she leaning slightly on his arm. They were well into their eighties, but I knew from Grenthaler board meetings that they’d lost none of their mental acuity. Although increasingly frail, Helene’s excellent posture and good grooming gave testament to her Brahmin roots. She was neatly dressed in a wool skirt and sweater set with a double rope of pearls at her throat, her white hair pulled back into a discreet chignon. She looked as if she were about to attend a meeting of the Daughters of the American Revolution, and she probably was. Edward had a more robust, almost florid look to him, with a significant paunch that even his well-tailored suit couldn’t completely disguise. He’d been a senior partner at one of Boston ’s most prestigious law firms for decades, and he still maintained an office there. He also had a wide range of strange intellectual interests-I still remembered an oddly fascinating discourse he’d treated me to on mollusk breeding habits at a dinner following a Grenthaler board meeting.

They smiled when they saw me, but they looked tired, and I could tell that they were both tense. I didn’t blame them. Sara was all they had left, and I couldn’t even begin to imagine how distressing the past twenty-four hours had been for them. But they greeted me warmly, and Helene immediately began fussing over me. She seemed so disappointed when I declined her offer of coffee that I changed my mind. What I really wanted was a Diet Coke, but this definitely didn’t seem like an appropriate place or time to ask for one. Helene pulled an old-fashioned tassel on the wall, and in moments the maid reappeared with a silver tray bearing an antique porcelain coffee service.

Edward steered me to an upholstered armchair and settled himself next to his wife on a brocade-covered sofa.

“Thank you for seeing me this morning,” I began. “I hope I’m not inconveniencing you.”

“Not at all, dear,” said Helene. “We’re going to the hospital to see Sara this morning, but visiting hours don’t officially start until ten. We have plenty of time.”

“I’m glad she’s all right,” I said.

“Yes,” agreed Helene. “It’s a relief.”

“I just hope they find the miscreant who did it to her,” said Edward. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to these days.”

“Any news from the police?” I asked, although I’d gotten the update from Jonathan the previous evening.

Edward shrugged. “Not yet. And I’m worried they’re not giving it their full attention. There’s so much crime nowadays, what with the serial killers and drug dealers and lord only knows what else. I’ve made a few calls to some old friends, and I’m hoping they’ll exert some pressure in the right places.” I had every confidence that Edward was sufficiently well connected that no small amount of pressure would be exerted in all of the right places.

“I really wish Sara would stay here with us,” said Helene. “It’s so much nicer than those nasty dorms, and it wouldn’t be hard to get back and forth from campus. I know she has good friends at school-that Edie Michaels is lovely-but I really don’t care for some of those other people. You went there, too, didn’t you, dear?”

“To the business school? Yes, but I graduated several years ago.”

“Well, I must say, it does seem to attract a strange mix. That LeFavre woman, for example. She’s a little too tightly wound for my tastes. And so pushy. Why, Sara brought them over for dinner one night, and she was practically shoving her résumé in Edward’s face over the soup course.”

“It wasn’t as bad as that,” protested Edward. “I think she was just hoping I might be able to introduce her to some people in the finance community. She seems very eager to get into your field, Rachel.”

“I know,” I said. “She interviewed with our firm.”

“Well, she certainly doesn’t have your polish, dear. And who was that boy we met last month, Edward? At that restaurant on Newbury Street?” Helene turned to me. “Edward thinks trying new places keeps us young, so he drags me to these hip places with loud music.” The word hip sounded comical coming from her lips. “Anyhow, Sara was out on a date with a young man, and there was something strange about him. Very stiff and military.” Grant Crocker, I guessed.

“He seemed like a very pleasant chap,” Edward said. I loved that he could use the word chap without a trace of irony. And I wasn’t surprised by his impression of Grant. Men always liked Grant more than women did.

Helene made a face. “Humph.”

“What I’m worried about,” interjected Edward, “are these letters Sara’s been getting.”

“You know about the letters?” I asked.

“Edie told us when we were at the hospital yesterday,” said Helene. “Edward’s very worked up about it.”

“I’m not worked up. But our granddaughter was attacked, and meanwhile somebody’s been sending her anonymous love letters. It smells fishy to me.”

“I seem to remember a certain someone sending me love letters at one point in time.”

“Yes, but I signed my name,” her husband pointed out.

“Nobody who was in love with Sara would try to hurt her,” said Helene. She clearly hadn’t spent much time watching Lifetime Television for Women. “I can’t believe that has anything to do with the attack.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m just glad that Sara’s all right. I’m sure the police will figure it out.”

“I certainly hope so,” said Edward with a sigh.

“But you haven’t come all this way to listen to us squabble,” said Helene. “What is it you wanted to discuss, dear? Pass me Rachel’s cup, Edward, so I can pour her some more coffee.”

“I was talking to Sara on Wednesday night, and she was concerned about some unusual movement in Grenthaler’s stock. And apparently Tom was also concerned before his death. I’m looking into it.”

“Grenthaler can’t be taken over if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Edward. “Somebody would have to buy up all of the stock in the market plus acquire shares from Sara or from Barbara Barnett to get majority control.”

“True. But the movement in the stock does suggest that someone’s buying, and it would be good to know who and what his intentions are. One of the reasons I’m here is that I wanted to see if you had any sense of what Barbara Barnett might do with her shares.”

Helene sniffed. “Who knows what that idiot might do.”

“Helene!” said her husband, but he laughed. He clearly shared his wife’s opinion.

“Well, she is an idiot, Edward. Miss Texas of all things. I have no idea what Tom saw in her.” The way she said “Miss Texas ” made Helene’s feelings on the subject clear. “And that creepy boy of hers. He gives me the willies.”

Edward laughed again. “Adam is a strange one,” he acknowledged.

“She’s such a stage mother-trying to maneuver that boy into the spotlight at every opportunity. And talk about pushy!” continued Helene. “That woman! She’s always trying to worm her way into things. She came right out and asked me to put her up for the Chilton Club. That’s not how these things are done. And she just wouldn’t fit in. This isn’t New York, you know. All of that plastic surgery and the ridiculous clothes. She’s very showy.”

“Still,” said Edward, “I don’t think you have to worry about Barbara needing to sell her shares. She’s very well situated. Tom left her quite comfortably off.”

“That’s good to know,” I said. “Although, Brian Mulcahey’s concerned, and I am, too, that if Barbara’s not selling, she may actually seek to become more involved in the company, which brings with it its own set of problems.” I related to them the highlights of my conversation with Mulcahey, which they reacted to with mild alarm, tempered by amusement.

Edward chortled. “Adam? As CEO? I think not!”

“You have no need to worry, dear,” said Helene. “Barbara will meet with some stiff opposition if she tries to foist her son upon the company in such a way. Edward and I will be sure of that.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“We know everyone on that board, and they’ll listen to reason,” added Edward.

“I’m actually supposed to go to the board meeting tomorrow. Brian Mulcahey asked me to sit in.”

“Excellent. It will be good to have another voice of reason in the room if Barbara does indeed intend to make such a preposterous proposal.”

A grandfather clock wheezed into action from the depths of the house, striking the half hour. Helene jumped up. “I hadn’t realized the time. Edward, we should leave now if we want to be at the hospital by ten. You know how hard it is to find parking.”

They offered me a ride to Harvard Square, and I accepted it, climbing into the back of their ancient Mercedes sedan. Twenty minutes later I was back at the hotel.