Here Comes Trouble Page 6

  Ty’s jaw clenched and he looked away. Malcolm took advantage of being out of the line of sight and circled the desk as his phone screen flashed that a connection to the internal server had been established. His mouth went dry as he resisted the urge to sag into the chair. One step closer.

  “Gran and what she wants is one thing we can agree on,” Ty said, flipping through his messages. “But you should know she’s the reason Dad didn’t slam the door in your face the second you walked back in. She threatened to sell her stock in the company if he did anything to drive you out of town again.”

  “Dad’s done driving me anywhere,” Malcolm said, unable to keep the anger out of his voice. “Although from what I hear, stock in Oliver Technologies isn’t what it used to be. Not that Gran is about to abandon the company her money helped to start.” But it was worth far less than anyone, even Ty apparently, realized.

  “I believed her,” Ty said, turning narrowed eyes on Malcolm. “And the stock is doing just fine. Just ask our shareholders. Family, and this company, mean everything to Gran. Even if part of that family doesn’t ascribe to the same loyalty.”

  “You want to talk loyalty?” Malcolm’s skin tightened as he clenched his fists. “Do you even remember what happened in Dad’s office?”

  “I remember him doing what he had to in order to cover your ass.”

  “Covering my—” The accusation stung. “Jesus.” He shoved restless fingers into his hair. “It wasn’t my ass he was covering, Ty.” The second the admission was out of his mouth, his cell phone vibrated its silent confirmation of a successful upload. “I’m going to get the proof, one way or the other, and show you none of this”—he waved his hand around the office—“is what you think it is.”

  “Why now, Malcolm?” Ty leaned his arms on the desk and stared at him. “After all this time, all these years, why are you churning all this up?”

  Because I might not have another chance. But the truth lodged in his throat. “Because when all is said and done, you’re my brother. You and Gran are my family. Somewhere, sometime, you’re going to have to hear me out. I know you won’t believe me, but you don’t know everything. You only know what Dad wants to you know.”

  “He said you’d say that.” Ty folded his hands behind his head.

  “Dad says a lot of things.” Malcolm slipped his phone into his pocket. “And I can promise you that very little, if any of it is true. I’m staying at the Empire if you change your mind and you want to talk.”

  “Please don't hold your breath.”

  Malcolm headed to the door, trying not to let the bitterness in his brother’s voice cling to his wake. He heard the elevator rush past to the third floor, a flood of voices erupting as the doors opened on the landing above him, and he stood for a moment, watching as the same sullen receptionist led the line of stockholders around to the conference room across from where he stood. He counted them off, including the stunning leggy redhead bringing up the rear.

  Her gaze caught his, maple-brown and razor-sharp. He inclined his head before he nodded one sharp time. The corner of her lips quirked before she dipped her chin and ducked back into the room, pulling the doors closed behind her.

  Malcolm took the stairs down, walking out of the building and rounding the corner into the mid-morning sun before pulling out his phone. “Yeah, it’s me. You should have full access to the system now. Find me what I need. And find it fast.”

  Chapter Five

  “Sheila, you’re spoiling me with these visits.” Levia Abrams beamed, aged silver-grey eyes blinking through thick trifocal lenses as the waitress refilled their water goblets.

  The dining room at the Water’s Edge Retirement Home was understated with its subtle green and blue hues, accents of copper threading through the embroidered chairs and matching draperies. Early afternoon on a Monday—Levia’s preferred meeting time as she had a canasta game at one—meant few other residents were around and interruptions were less likely. “I know how busy you are with all your parties and events.”

  “I’ll always make time for you, Aunt Levia.” Sheila raised her glass in a toast after she ordered a small salad with dressing on the side. “Besides, Mom loved visiting with you and I’m happy to continue the tradition. You were very important to her. Just as you are to the rest of the family.”

  Sheila clutched her hands in her lap. Looking across the table as her adoptive aunt squinted and angled her gaze, she was reminded it wasn’t only Chadwick’s schedule working against her, but Levia’s failing sight. In another few months, maybe weeks, finding the painting wouldn’t matter. Levia wouldn’t be able to see it. The family she’d lost, the family she was convinced was gone forever, really would be.

  Returning that portrait was the least she could do for the woman who had shared her love of art, striking a chord in Sheila at just the right time that set her on the path to discovering and developing her talent.

  Color flooded Levia’s taut olive complexion as she smiled and plucked a soft roll from the metal basket. “Now, tell me, how is your painting coming along? The last time we spoke, you were working on a piece that was inspired by your mother?”

  “I haven’t finished it yet,” Sheila admitted, and ducked her head to avoid the shrewd disapproval on Levia’s face. “I’ve been busy with work and now that Morgan’s getting married—”

  “Ah, finally, a Tremayne wedding. I never thought Morgan would be walking down that aisle before you.”

  Neither did anyone else, which meant a detour of conversation was in order. “I did want to see if you were able to get in touch with someone at the Marmount Museum in France?”

  “Oh, yes.” Levia reached into the needlepoint bag she had looped over the arm of the chair. “A very nice docent returned my call and said they’d taken some time to dig into their archives, what survived from those years around the war, anyway. But I’m afraid all he could come up with was this.” She unfolded a piece of paper and handed the photocopy of a signed and faded handwritten inventory receipt to Sheila. “The few paintings I know belonged to my father are noted, but there were more in his collection. When the war started, the curator at the time hid a number of transaction journals, including those belonging to my father, behind a wall in the basement. Anyone suspected of doing business with those of Jewish descent would be considered criminals, so I suppose in protecting himself, he was able to preserve a bit of my family history for a time.”

  Sheila’s fingers itched as she took the offered paper and scanned the information, her trepidation vanishing as another piece of her plan fell into place. It was one thing to get the painting into Levia’s hands. It was another, given the attention lost artwork of that period captured these days, to ensure it stayed there.

  “He’s mailing me the original journals,” Levia continued. “As soon as they’re documented for the museum, they’ll be on their way. I know it won’t be the same as having my father’s paintings, but . . .” Her lips tugged into a sad smile.

  “Levia.” Sheila reached across the table and covered Levia’s hand. “I came across something the other day, a picture in an archive. I know it’s not what you were hoping for, but I was curious if this might be one of your father’s paintings?”

  She reached into her own bag and withdrew the color copy of the photo she’d taken in Chadwick’s vault.

  “Oh.” Trembling fingers reached out, pulled the photo close to her face as she angled the photograph this way and that, making Sheila’s stomach pitch at the thought of a former art teacher who would soon not be able to see.

  But maybe, just maybe, Sheila would be able to right a fraction of the horrible tragedy her aunt and family had endured.

  Proof that Sheila could, in some small way, be relevant in her own right.

  “Oh, my dear.” Levia clutched the photo to her chest. “Wherever did you find this?”

  “I’ve been doing some on
line research into lost World War II art. It is your father’s painting, then?”

  “Yes.” Tears welled in Levia’s eyes, spilled down aged and weathered cheeks, and for an instant, Sheila saw the child from the painting reflected in the face of the woman sitting across from her. “Yes, this is it. My little brother, Jacob, and sister, Samara. She was only a year older than I.” She traced a finger down the edge of the picture. “I’d forgotten how beautiful my mother was. And that gleam in my father’s eye, whenever he looked at her. Oh, what a gift this is. Thank you.”

  Sheila swallowed around the lemon-sized lump in her throat. Even before Levia had the painting in her hands, Sheila felt as if she’d given her something special . . . hope. Now all she had to do was fulfill it.

  “All these years,” Levia breathed. “There were rumors of course, of thefts, of fires, but nothing my fellow survivors or I could ever prove. I’d long given up hope of ever seeing them again.” Levia ducked her chin to gaze into the photo again. “Some days I wanted to see them so badly, if only to prove to myself that life before . . .” Her voice broke. “That life before wasn’t a dream. That something of my family, besides myself, survived. Once I’m gone, how will anyone know my family was ever here?” Another tear trickled free and stopped in the crook of her wan smile. “How will anyone know they lived?” “I’ll know,” Sheila said and reached across the table to take hold of Levia’s arm. “And I’ll remember.”

  ***

  “I’m beginning to believe you don’t pay me enough, Malcolm.” Veronica Harrison, all five-feet-eight sinuous inches of her strode into his hotel room the second he pulled open the door and headed to the kitchenette and wet bar, shoulder-length auburn waves flying like Medusa in a rage.

  Ten seconds and two fingers of Scotch later, she dipped out of her skyscraper high heels, plopped herself on one of the two love seats bookending the gas fireplace and kicked her feet up on the coffee table. “I thought you’d been exaggerating all this time, but guess what?” She toasted him with her glass. “Your father really is an arsehole.”

  “Careful, Veronica.” Malcolm scooped up the paperwork he’d been rifling through and joined her in the sitting area. The British always came out when her temper had been tweaked. “Talk like that might just make me fall in love with you.”

  Veronica smirked and laughed, the sound a massive contradiction to the image she projected. His elegant and sophisticated VP might look the part of the consummate professional businesswoman—with a law degree to boot—but she’d drunk him under the table more often than he cared to admit and provided a shoulder more times than he could count. Any other time, any other life, things might have been different for them, but from the moment they’d met, Malcolm hadn’t been able to view her in any other way than a kid sister. A very mature this-girl-could take-care-of-herself sister.

  “According to Chadwick Oliver,” Veronica said, “everything at Oliver Technologies is sunshine and roses. Not a penny out of place. And those beautiful spreadsheets he provided? Stephen King couldn’t have created more perfect fiction.” She ran her finger around the rim of her glass, casting her gaze out to the mid-afternoon sun with a heavy sigh. “It was almost Shakespearean, watching him wax poetic about the strength of the company, convincing his shareholders that within six months to a year they’ll see a double down on their current investments.”

  “They believe what they want to.” Malcolm settled in the corner of the loveseat, narrowing his gaze at his phone as it buzzed for the fifth time that day. He should turn it off, but that would feel like an amputation. “They have no idea he’s been selling off shares at a record pace, or that he currently owns less than fifteen percent of the company.”

  “Or that you and your subsidiary companies have bought up all those lovely shares.” She toasted him again. “Another eight percent and you’ll have controlling interest. You’ll have him right where you want him.”

  “Yeah. Right where I want him.” Taking down the company was one thing. What he’d do with it after, that was another question. At least he’d be able to protect Ty and his grandmother from the buyout effects.

  “You going to answer that?” She reached out her foot and nudged his vibrating phone toward him with her toe.

  “No.”

  “You’re going to have to at some point.” The unspoken words hovered heavy between them until Malcolm couldn’t do anything but respond.

  “I will.”

  “Doc Chapman is on your side, Malcolm. She was three years ago when you were sick, she will be again if you need her to be. But nothing’s going to happen if you don’t answer that call.”

  “I know what she’s going to tell me. The cancer’s back.” The headache beat behind his eyes like a Scottish Tattoo, thundering, ear shattering. “I don’t have time to deal with it right now.”

  “First of all.” Veronica heaved herself up and knocked her knees together as her pale lavender skirt shifted around her knees. “You don’t know that for sure, and secondly, postponing treatment will make things worse down the road.”

  “I wasn’t aware you could get a medical degree in law school.”

  “Really?” Veronica’s eyes sparked. “After the day I’ve had watching your son-of-a-bitch of a father pontificate about imaginary investment numbers, you’re going to pick a fight?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Men. You know I should answer the next time she calls, get the test results myself, and then hold them over your head like a water balloon. Kablam!” Her fingers shot out like maniacal jazz hands. “I have your power of attorney you know. I could do it.”

  “Yes, you could.” Malcolm nodded and tapped his papers into a neat stack before pushing them toward her. “But before you take my medical destiny into your hands and I take my grandmother to dinner, would you please look this over?”

  “What is it?” Veronica grumbled. “I was hoping to avoid any more paperwork in favor of a large bottle of Merlot and a pizza from that Italian market you’ve been banging on about.”

  “A new draft of my will.”

  A good ten seconds passed with her staring at him. “Well, shit.” She tossed back the last of her Scotch, set her glass down, and picked up the papers. He could see her fighting to keep the sympathy he knew she was feeling out of her eyes. And he loved her for it. “I guess you’re ordering my pizza.”

  Chapter Six

  “Liza, any luck?” Sheila scrambled on all fours across the coffee-colored office carpet, peering under chairs, her desk, beside the brocade sofa against the far wall. Nothing. She sat on her heels and tried not to panic. “Karma, you need to stop paying me so much attention.”

  “No sign of it?” Liza crouched down to scan the same area that had proved fruitless for Sheila, blond hair skimming the carpet before she stood up, her navy blue maxidress brushing against the straps of her black sandals. “When was the last time you saw your bracelet?”

  She pressed fingers into her temples and closed her eyes. Chadwick’s office. Dammit. She couldn’t very well have Liza call and ask if someone had found it. That wouldn’t be awkward to explain. “Don’t worry about it.” Sheila sighed as she got up and brushed at the belted navy dress. “Did you confirm my reservations for dinner?” She retrieved her bag from behind her desk.

  “Sure did. Six thirty. I also might have suggested your guest be paid some extra attention since he’s so well followed on social media. Can’t hurt to get his name connected with the center and the opening gala, especially since he’s going to be helping get out the word about that and the art auction.”

  “Excellent.” No wonder she and Liza got on so well. Their thoughts ran on the same track. “Caprianos is already on the short list for the catering for both events, but it can’t hurt to give them a boost since I have to decide this week. Any messages?”

  “Yeah. A Joseph Delaware called from Valley Wireless, something about
the pending contract they have with the center.”

  “Finally.” Sheila reached for the note Liza held out. “They were supposed to start wiring up the Internet feed for the activity facility last week.”

  “Gina’s waiting on the final list of sponsors before she puts together the media package for the gala.”

  “How many sponsors are we waiting to hear from?” Sheila picked up the phone, shouldered the receiver until Liza was finished.

  “Three, and I already called and left messages giving them a deadline of Friday.”

  “And?” Sheila recognized that self-satisfied glimmer in the soon-to-be senior’s baby blues.

  “I might have said something about a long waiting list given the additional promotional opportunities.”

  Sheila chuckled. Knowing Liza, they’d have the last of the sponsors locked in well before the deadline. “We want to get that media kit printed and online—”

  “By the fifteenth. Don’t worry. We’re on it.”

  “What would Morgan and I do without you two?”

  “Fall apart obviously.” Liza beamed. “Thanks again for giving us each our own office.”

  “Both of you do enough work. You deserve it.” One of the bonuses of Morgan’s impending marital merging with the Juliano clan was the addition of youngest sibling twins Gina and Liza to the center’s roster of employees. Originally both girls had been working for Sheila, but there was a natural alliance between Gina and Morgan that mirrored the one Sheila and Liza shared. “Just glad we took your mother’s advice to keep you separated,” she called after Liza.

  She and Morgan might have had their moments of sibling argumentativeness, but they paled in comparison to the Juliano girls. And yet, they managed to work around their frustration with each other. Sheila had to admit Liza was as much a younger version of Sheila as Gina was to Morgan. Sibling rivalry aside, both girls were devoted to the Tremayne Foundation and getting the Pediatric Cancer Treatment Center up and running. They got along well enough at work that the load off Sheila’s and Morgan’s shoulders had been life changing. The opportunity to be home by six most nights? Who knew it was possible? Not that she ever was.