That evening, after Julia went out, Sally examined the box of clippings again. She took out a recent newspaper article mentioning that the Stanford heirs had gone back to Rose Hill for the funeral services.
If the princess won’t go to them, Sally thought, they’re going to come to the princess.
She sat down and began to write a letter. It was addressed to Judge Tyler Stanford.
Chapter Twenty-one
Tyler Stanford signed the commitment papers putting Margo Posner in Reed Mental Health Facility. Three psychiatrists were required to agree to the commitment, but Tyler knew that that would be easy for him to handle.
He reviewed everything he had done from the very beginning, and decided that there had been no flaws in his game plan. Dmitri had disappeared in Australia, and Margo Posner had been disposed of. That left Hal Baker, but he would be no problem. Everyone had an Achilles’ heel, and his was his stupid family. No, Baker will never talk because he couldn’t bear the thought of spending his life in prison, away from his dear ones.
Everything was perfect.
The minute the will is probated, I’ll return to Chicago and pick up Lee. Maybe we’ll even buy a house in St.-Tropez. He began to get aroused at the thought. We’ll sail around the world in my yacht. I’ve always wanted to see Venice…and Positano…and Capri…. We’ll go on safari in Kenya, and see the Taj Mahal together in the moonlight. And who do I owe all this to? To Daddy. Dear old Daddy. “You’re a queer, Tyler, and you’ll always be a queer. I don’t know how the hell anything like you came from my loins….”
Well, who has the last laugh now, Father?
Tyler went downstairs to join his brother and sister for lunch. He was hungry again.
“It’s really a pity that Julia had to leave so quickly,” Kendall said. “I would have liked to have gotten to know her better.”
“I’m sure she plans to return as soon as she can,” Marc said.
That’s certainly true, Tyler thought. He would make sure she never got out.
The talk turned to the future.
Peggy said, shyly, “Woody is going to buy a group of polo ponies.”
“It’s not a group!” Woody snapped. “It’s a string. A string of polo ponies.”
“I’m sorry, darling. I just—”
“Forget it!”
Tyler said to Kendall, “What are your plans?”
“…we are counting on your further support…We would appreciate it if you would deposit 1 million U.S. dollars…within the next ten days.”
“Kendall?”
“Oh. I’m going to…to expand the business. I’ll open shops in London and in Paris.”
“That sounds exciting,” Peggy said.
“I have a show in New York in two weeks. I have to run down there and get it ready.”
Kendall looked over at Tyler. “What are you going to do with your share of the estate?”
Tyler said piously, “Charity, mostly. There are so many worthy organizations that need help.”
He was only half listening to the conversation at the table. He looked around the table at his brother and sister. If it weren’t for me, you’d be getting nothing. Nothing!
He turned to look at Woody. His brother had become a dope addict, throwing his life away. Money won’t help him, Tyler thought. It will only buy him more dope. He wondered where Woody was getting the stuff.
Tyler turned to his sister. Kendall was bright and successful, and she had made the most of her talents.
Marc was seated next to her, telling an amusing anecdote to Peggy. He’s attractive and charming. Too bad he’s married.
And then there was Peggy. He thought of her as Poor-peggy. Why she put up with Woody was beyond him. She must love him very much. She certainly hasn’t gotten anything out of her marriage.
He wondered what the expressions on their faces would be if he stood up and said, “I control Stanford Enterprises. I had our father murdered, his body dug up, and I hired someone to impersonate our half sister.” He smiled at the thought. It was difficult holding a secret as delicious as the one he had.
After lunch, Tyler went to his room to telephone Lee again. There was no answer. He’s out with someone, Tyler thought, despairingly. He doesn’t believe me about the yacht. Well, I’ll prove it to him! When is that damn will going to be probated? I’ll have to call Fitzgerald, or that young lawyer, Steve Sloane.