The Jinx

Twenty-Four

W e left Hilary with O’Connell and returned to the car. Jane offered to drop me off at the Ritz. I no longer seemed to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown, so my friends had decided they could trust leaving me to my own devices and resume their planned shopping expedition. They were heading back to Copley Place and the Ritz was conveniently on the way.

“Call us after you’re done,” said Jane. “If this meeting doesn’t take too long, you can catch up with us.”

“A little retail therapy might be nice,” added Emma.

“I’d love to, but I’m going to UHS after this,” I said.

“Maybe we can pick some things up for you,” suggested Luisa.

I shook my head. “No, that’s all right. But thank you.” Luisa’s family practically owned a small South American country, and even with my lavish year-end bonus, I doubted that our respective ideas of “picking some things up” would have much in common. Luisa’s would likely have a few more zeros at the end of it than mine, and I had no desire to take out a second mortgage on my apartment.

Jane pulled up in front of the familiar hotel on Arlington Street. There was a newer Ritz, across the Public Garden and Boston Common, but I’d known without asking that the Caped Avenger would automatically choose the more traditional option, the one that was a Boston institution. Besides, I’d seen him here the previous day.

The doorman helped me out of the Volvo, and I waved my friends off. The urge to abandon my responsibilities and go with them was strong; the yearning was practically physical it was so intense. But I was on a mission. Probably a fruitless one, but a mission nonetheless. I squared my shoulders and let the doorman lead me into the lobby.

It was only two o’clock, but the Caped Avenger had said to meet him in the bar, so that’s where I went. It was an elegant but welcoming room, and it looked much as one would think the bar at the Ritz in Boston should look-lots of dark paneling and heavy upholstered furniture and the general air of rigorous good taste that had made Ralph Lauren sublimely rich. While the bar was a popular meeting place for power drinks, it also served light meals, and a handful of people were seated at the various tables scattered around the room, the remains of their decorous lunches in front of them. It was a nice spot for a leisurely Saturday meal, particularly when the weather outside was as unpleasant as it was today.

“Rachel, darling!” Everyone in the room turned to the corner from which the flamboyant greeting came, and I was sure that nobody was disappointed by what they saw. It would have been hard not to notice the Caped Avenger before, sitting by the window in his idiosyncratic attire, but when he got to his feet, swept his cape over his shoulders, and beckoned me toward him with a dramatic wave of his (fortunately empty) martini glass, you’d have to be blind to miss him. Heads swung first to him, and then to me, obviously curious as to what sort of person would be meeting the bizarre septuagenarian who seemed to be dressed in his Halloween costume several months after Halloween.

I felt my cheeks burning as I threaded my way through the crowded room to his table. The Caped Avenger gripped me by my shoulders and gave me a Continental triple kiss: one cheek, other cheek, first cheek. While it was never easy to gauge the Caped Avenger’s level of sobriety from his behavior, I had the sense that the empty glass he flourished had not contained his first drink of the day. If I knew the Caped Avenger, and unfortunately I did, he’d probably come straight here from the board meeting.

“Hi, Whit.”

“Sit down, my dear, sit down! No, not over there, you silly gorgeous goose. Here, next to me. The banquette’s far more comfortable.”

I smiled (when in doubt, be gracious) but ignored his suggestion and sank into a chair instead, carefully ensuring that the low mahogany table was between us. The Caped Avenger snapped his fingers, and a waiter appeared instantaneously.

“This young lady needs a cocktail, my good man. And I would adore another vodka martini.”

“Ketel One?”

“I’m thinking Belvedere this time. And very dry. Just kiss the glass with vermouth.”

“Very good, sir. And what can I get you, miss?” I took an appreciative note of the “miss.” I liked this waiter already. Maybe the twenty years I’d aged in the past two days hadn’t yet taken its toll on my appearance.

Without warning, my stomach growled. A barely touched bread basket beckoned from a nearby table, and I realized I was starving when I had to repress the urge to make a grab for it. I’d had no breakfast, I remembered, nor had I eaten anything at brunch. “May I have a cheeseburger and a Diet Coke?”

“Certainly, miss.” The waiter’s expression remained professionally detached, as if my uncouth order was perfectly appropriate for our high-brow surroundings.

“And does that come with fries?”

“Yes, miss, it does.”

“Could I get extra fries?”

“Certainly, miss.”

“And a lot of ketchup? Extra ketchup?”

“Of course, miss.”

I sat back in my chair, relieved as the waiter hurried off with our order.

The Caped Avenger beamed, albeit lasciviously. “There’s nothing more attractive than a woman with a healthy appetite. You need some more meat on your bones.” This comment made me doubly glad I wasn’t sitting next to him. Similar comments in the past had been accompanied by a good pinch to demonstrate just how much meat I lacked, although Whitaker usually chose one of my meatier body parts to pinch.

“So, Whit,” I began. “I was surprised to see you this morning.”

“Isn’t it exciting? Such a fabulous deal! Although, I have to admit, I was surprised to see you there, as well. I hadn’t realized you were involved with the company. Stan had simply said that you’d have a conflict of interest and insisted that I work with that Scott person. Really, that young man has no sense of humor. And he certainly lacks your fashion sense, darling.”

I couldn’t disagree with that.

“So, tell me, Whit. How did you get involved with the deal?”

“Oh, you know how it is. I have my ear to the ground, darling. And I’m known in certain circles as the man to see when you want to get a deal done.” I couldn’t imagine what circles those might be, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. “Besides, I’ve known Adam since he was just a tyke. His mother was an old flame of mine and we stayed in touch, even after she remarried. Not that she can hold a candle to you, darling.”

Barbara Barnett and the Caped Avenger? Now that was a match made in heaven. Or somewhere. It was nice to have one mystery solved, at least. And I supposed that I should be flattered that Whitaker felt that a former Miss Texas couldn’t hold a candle to me.

“So,” continued Whitaker, “when I was asked to help put this deal together, I could tell my superior experience and know-how would come in handy.” Whitaker’s deep pockets were handier than his experience and know-how, but I knew that there was nothing to gain by saying that out loud.

“When did you get involved?” I asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“Did Barbara call? Or Adam? And when?” Was it before or after Tom Barnett’s death was what I wanted to know. I was still curious as to how long Barbara had been hatching her plot.

“Oh, last week sometime. Or maybe the week before? Time flies, darling, it just flies away. On wings.” He demonstrated the movement of time by fluttering his arms, nearly knocking over the fresh martini our waiter had delivered.

I tried, in vain, to get the Caped Avenger to give me more detail. I didn’t think he was holding out on me; rather, he simply didn’t remember, and the measure of undiluted vodka that he’d downed in two gulps wasn’t helping.

My cheeseburger arrived, and I doused it liberally with ketchup before inhaling it. Whitaker, meanwhile, inhaled a couple more martinis. While the drinks didn’t help him to remember much about when, specifically, he had been brought into the deal, it did loosen his tongue about Adam.

“Frankly,” he told me, smoothing his cravat (yes, he wore a cravat) with a wizened hand, “I think if it weren’t for my involvement young Adam would be in over his head. He’s a bright enough boy, but he really lacks the experience to carry this off. And I do get the sense that he had an ax to grind with his stepfather.”

“Tom wasn’t enthusiastic about Adam being involved in the company,” I explained.

“Well, I’m sure he would have approved if he’d known that I’d be on board, guiding young Adam with a sure hand. You know, in a senior statesman sort of role.” I admired his ability to say “senior statesman” without slurring his words. By my count, he had at least four martinis under his belt.

“Did Barbara or Adam say anything about Sara Grenthaler?” I asked. “She does own more than forty percent of the company, and her father was the founder. Tom always intended for her to take over from him when she was ready.”

“Oh, Barbara mentioned that she has a big stake. But she gave me the sense that the girl was a bit of a dilettante. One of those spoiled trust-fund types. Gracious-I’ve seen enough of them, darling. In fact, I almost was one myself.” The unspoken comparison was there, implicit in his words: he, too, could have been mistaken for a spoiled trust-fund type-that is, before he became a takeover artist and media mogul in his eighth decade of life. “Anyhow, Barbara assured me that she wouldn’t be a problem.”

Once again, Whitaker was vague on the timing of Barbara’s comments about Sara. But I sensed my opening and went for it. “So, Whit, are you financing the entire bid single-handedly?”

“Why, yes, yes, I am,” he answered proudly.

“That’s a pretty big chunk of change to lock up in one deal.”

“Well, yes, it is. And I’m sure my advisors will all act like nervous Nellies and counsel me against it. You know how they are about putting all of one’s eggs in the same basket. But how often does a fabulous opportunity like this come along?” He signaled for yet another martini. I was still on my second Diet Coke, although I’d made short work of the burger and fries.

“Not often,” I agreed. “But, you could be part of the majority ownership consortium without using up all of your eggs.”

This point seemed to reach its mark, although I was starting to feel buzzed just watching the Caped Avenger down his most recent martini.

“What do you mean?” he asked. The Caped Avenger was too rich to have missed out on the cheap gene that seemed to accompany so many great fortunes. He’d bragged to me on several occasions about having his capes made by a Hong Kong tailor for a mere fraction of what he’d have to pay in New York or London. And I’d just suggested to him that he could get something he wanted for less than he thought he’d have to pay for it. Whitaker Jamieson might not be the sort of white knight found in fairy tales, but if I could convince him to withdraw his support and partner with Sara instead to finance her acquisition of an additional ten percent stake, the company would be safe from a potential takeover, even if the Barnetts did manage to scramble up another source of backing.

The Caped Avenger was intrigued, or at least he seemed to be intrigued through his vodka-induced haze. He assured me he’d give it some thought. And then he blinked. But his eyes stayed shut. A moment later, he was snoring gently, seated upright on the banquette.

I picked up the tab, including a generous tip. The bar had cleared out, and the waiter said he’d keep an eye on Whitaker. I took one last look at him before I left. I hoped that somewhere in his drunken snooze he was thinking about my pitch and debating its merits. He probably hadn’t noticed that I’d essentially thrown myself on his mercy, but that was pretty much what I’d done. If he didn’t switch sides, my side’s goose was well on its way to being cooked.

The doorman flagged down a cab for me, and I asked the driver to take me to Harvard Square. My wallet was stuffed with cab receipts already, and I hadn’t even been in Boston for seventy-two hours. My trip was turning out far differently than I’d imagined, I thought, remembering how contentedly I’d anticipated the weekend when I’d been on the shuttle up from New York. Instead of romantic room-service meals, I’d been in one taxi after another going from one frustrating encounter to another. And here I was, off to have yet another unpleasant discussion. It was all my fault, really. I should have known better than to anticipate a trip with such pleasure. It was a guaranteed way to screw up even the most carefully laid plans. At least I’d ensured that the police were investigating the Barnetts and tracking down Jonathan Beasley.

Still, I wasn’t looking forward to updating Sara about the takeover attempt, but I’d told the Porters and Brian Mulcahey I’d take care of it-in fact, I’d insisted on it. I was determined not to let her panic, and even though I was panicking, I felt that I stood a better chance of reassuring her on this front than they did. Sara had enough to worry about, just getting well. A thwack on the head and cardiac arrest in less than two days couldn’t be good for a person.

Although, at the rate I was going, enforced bed rest didn’t sound so bad.