They came together at the dinner table, strangers to one another, seated in an uncomfortable silence, their only connection, childhood traumas.
Kendall looked around the room. Terrible memories mingled with an appreciation for its beauty. The dining table was classical French, an early Louis XV, surrounded by Directoire walnut chairs. In one corner was a blue-and-cream painted French provincial corner armoire. On the walls were drawings by Watteau and Fragonard.
Kendall turned to Tyler. “I read about your decision in the Fiorello case. He deserved what you gave him.”
“It must be exciting being a judge,” Peggy said.
“Sometimes it is.”
“What kind of cases do you handle?” Marc inquired.
“Criminal cases—rapes, drugs, murder.”
Kendall turned pale and started to say something, and Marc grabbed her hand and squeezed it as a warning.
Tyler said politely to Kendall, “You’ve become a successful designer.”
Kendall was finding it hard to breathe. “Yes.”
“She’s fantastic,” Marc said.
“And Marc, what do you do?”
“I’m with a brokerage house.”
“Oh, you’re one of those young Wall Street millionaires.”
“Well, not exactly, Judge. I’m really just getting started.”
Tyler gave Marc a patronizing look. “I guess it’s lucky you have a successful wife.”
Kendall blushed and whispered in Marc’s ear, “Pay no attention. Remember I love you.”
Woody was beginning to feel the effect of the drug. He turned to look at his wife. “Peggy could use some decent clothes,” he said. “But she doesn’t care how she looks. Do you, angel?”
Peggy sat there, embarrassed, not knowing what to say.
“Maybe a little waitress costume?” Woody suggested.
Peggy said, “Excuse me.” She got up from the table and fled upstairs.
They were all staring at Woody.
He grinned. “She’s oversensitive. So, we’re having a discussion about the will tomorrow, eh?”
“That’s right,” Tyler said.
“I’ll make you a bet the old man didn’t leave us one dime.”
Marc said, “But there’s so much money in the estate…”
Woody snorted. “You didn’t know our father. He probably left us his old jackets and a box of cigars. He liked to use his money to control us. His favorite line was ‘You don’t want to disappoint me, do you?’ And we all behaved like good little children because, as you said, there was so much money. Well, I’ll bet the old man found a way to take it with him.”
Tyler said, “We’ll know tomorrow, won’t we?”
Early the following morning, Simon Fitzgerald and Steve Sloane arrived. Clark escorted them into the library. “I’ll inform the family that you’re here,” he said.
“Thank you.” They watched him leave.
The library was huge and opened onto a garden through two large French doors. The room was paneled in dark-stained oak, and the walls were lined with bookcases filled with handsome leather-bound volumes. There was a scattering of comfortable chairs and Italian reading lamps. In one corner stood a customized beveled-glass and ormolu-mounted mahogany cabinet that displayed Harry Stanford’s enviable gun collection. Special drawers had been designed beneath the display case to house the ammunition.
“It’s going to be an interesting morning,” Steve said. “I wonder how they’re going to react.”
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
Kendall and Marc came into the room first.
Simon Fitzgerald said, “Good morning. I’m Simon Fitzgerald. This is my associate, Steve Sloane.”
“I’m Kendall Renaud, and this is my husband, Marc.”
The men shook hands.
Woody and Peggy entered the room.
Kendall said, “Woody, this is Mr. Fitzgerald and Mr. Sloane.”
Woody nodded. “Hi. Did you bring the cash with you?”
“Well, we really…”
“I’m only kidding! This is my wife, Peggy.” Woody looked at Steve. “Did the old man leave me anything or…?”
Tyler entered the room. “Good morning.”
“Judge Stanford?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Simon Fitzgerald, and this is Steve Sloane, my associate. It was Steve who arranged to have your father’s body brought back from Corsica.”
Tyler turned to Steve. “I appreciate that. We’re not sure what happened exactly. The press has had so many different versions of the story. Was there foul play involved?”
“No. It seems to have been an accident. Your father’s yacht was caught in a terrible storm off the coast of Corsica. According to a deposition from Dmitri Kaminsky, his bodyguard, your father was standing on the outside veranda of his cabin and the wind blew some papers out of his hand. He reached for them, lost his balance, and fell overboard. By the time they recovered his body, it was too late.”