Authors: Perfect
The only reason I'm involved now is that I've handled
your husband's financial matters for years and since you're now married, there are questions of joint income tax returns and so forth."
"My father couldn't possibly have realized that Tony Austin was TA Productions," Emily stated firmly.
Fairchild's white eyebrows rose at what he clearly thought was incorrect. "If that is what you prefer to believe."
"It's not a question of what I prefer to believe," she said with a ragged laugh, "it's just that my father being tricked into buying stock in Tony's company is utterly … Machiavellian. He despised the man."
"I can't see how he would have been tricked," her husband told her in a carefully neutral voice, knowing
how sensitive she was about her father. "Edwin and I discussed this earlier on the phone today, and it's clear your father had to have purchased the stock directly from Austin."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because TA isn't traded on the stock exchange. As Edwin mentioned a few minutes ago, it's a privately held company, and the only way to buy stock would have been from Austin or his representative."
Emily looked from her husband to his accountant.
"Did he have any representatives?"
Edwin Fairchild shook his head and put on his glasses, perusing a photocopy of some document.
"He
certainly never paid anyone to represent him or work for him in any capacity. According to TA's corporate charter, which is a matter of public record in Sacramento, Austin was the only officer, director, and shareholder. I checked some sources of mine, and he was also the only employee." Removing his glasses, he glanced at the heavy gold Rolex on his wrist and said, "I see it's already after six o'clock. I didn't mean to keep you so late, but we've gone over everything that needed to be discussed. If you intend to try to sell the TA stock back to Austin's heirs, the sooner you approach them the better, otherwise they'll very likely be all wrapped up in probate court proceedings. As soon as you let me know
whether you intend to keep or sell the stock, I'll be able to finish your tax liability projection for the next year."
Dick nodded and Fairchild turned to Emily, his tone conciliatory. "Don't look so upset, Miss McDaniels.
Even though your father lost $4 million of your money in Austin's company, we'll be able to take that as a
tax loss against profits from your other investments.
The tax benefits from doing that will reduce your loss
to less than $3 million."
"I don't understand finances or taxes," Emily told them both. "My father's always handled all that for me."
"Then you ought to discuss the TA stock with him.
He made almost twenty separate purchases over the last five years, and he must have had some profit motive in mind that we don't know about. Perhaps he'll
be able to give you some reason why it would be wise to hold the stock a little longer."
Reaching out, Emily shook his hand. "Thank you, Mr. Fairchild, I'll do that."
"Before you go," Fairchild said as Emily tucked her hand in her husband's arm, "I want to make it clear that in every other respect, your father's trusteeship over your funds has been above reproach. He's
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invested your money wisely and accounted for every penny that was spent for the last fifteen years, including the money invested in TA Productions."
Emily's face stiffened. "I don't need you or anyone else to tell me that my father has acted in my best interests. He
always
has."
In the car, Emily watched her husband maneuver the shiny BMW through rush hour traffic. "I was rude to him, wasn't I?" she asked.
Dick shot her a wry look as they stopped for a red light. "You were defensive, not rude. But then you're always a little defensive where your father's concerned."
"I know," she sighed, "but there's a reason."
"You love him and he devoted his life to you," Dick recited.
Emily lifted her gaze from his hand on the gear shift.
"There's another reason, too. It's been a well-known scandal that, in the old days, a lot of the parents of child stars squandered, and even stole, every dime the
child earned. My father was just the opposite. Even though there are laws to prevent all parents from doing that now, a lot of people have still treated my father as if he lives off of me and very grandly."
"Obviously, they haven't seen his condo, or they'd know better," Dick said, shifting from second into third gear as traffic began to move again. "He hasn't painted a wall in ten years, and he needs new furniture. The neighborhood is on the downslide, and in a few years it's not going to be safe to live there."
"I know all that, but he hates to spend money."
Reverting to the earlier topic, she continued, "You can't
imagine how humiliating it's been for him at times to be my father. I can still remember when he went to buy a car five years ago. The salesman was happy to sell him a Chevrolet until I got there to help Dad pick out a color. As soon as the guy realized who I was, ergo who Daddy was, he said in this
nauseating,
presumptuous voice, 'This changes everything, Mr.
McDaniels! I'm sure your daughter would rather you have that sharp Seville you liked, wouldn't you, honey?""
"If what people thought of him bothered your father," Dick said, forgetting for the moment to hide his
distaste for the man, "he could have gotten a nice, respectable job doing something besides looking out for his little Emily. Then maybe he'd have something to do besides get drunk and wallow in self-pity because little Emily grew up and got married." From the corner of his eye, he watched her face fall and he stretched his arm across the seat, curving his hand around her stiff shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said. "I am obviously a jealous jerk who gets bent out of shape over my wife's unusually close relationship with her father. Forgive me?"
Nodding, she rubbed her cheek against the back of his hand, but her pretty face remained pensive and he saw it.
"No, you haven't," he said, trying to tease her out of her unusually somber mood. "An apology wasn't enough. I deserve a kick in the ass. I deserve"—he hesitated, thinking—"to have to take you to Anthony's tonight and buy you the most expensive dinner in Los Angeles and sit there while everybody gapes at my wife!"
She smiled at him, her famous dimples peeking out, and he touched his hand to the side of her face and said quietly. "I love you, Emily." Jokingly, he added,
"Even though you've got those funny dents in your face, I love you anyway. Not every guy would be able to overlook a manufacturing defect like that, but I
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can."
Her laughter bubbled out and he grinned at her, but his grin faded as she challenged, "Do you love me enough to take me by my father's place before we go to dinner?"
"Why?" he said irritably.
"Because I have to talk to him about the money he invested with Tony. I can't figure it out, and it's driving me crazy."
"I guess," Dick said, flipping on his turn indicators and changing lanes so he could make the turn toward her father's neighborhood, "I even love you that much."
* * *
an unshaven face bearing a three-day growth of beard. "I didn't know you were coming by tonight."
Completely ignoring the presence of her husband, he looped his arm around her shoulders and drew her inside.
He was drunk, Emily realized with a pang of frustration and sorrow as she looked around at the gloomy
interior of his place, not dead drunk but stumbling drunk. Once, he'd been a virtual teetotaler, but during
the past several years, his bouts of drunkenness had been occurring with increasing frequency. "Why don't you turn on some lights," she suggested gently, reaching out and turning a single lamp on in the living
room.
"I like the dark," he said, reaching behind her and turning the lamp off. "It's safe and sweet."
"I prefer a little light so Emily doesn't fall over something and kill herself," Dick said firmly, reaching out
and switching the lamp back on.
"What made you decide to come by?" he asked Emily as if Dick hadn't spoken. "You never come to see
me anymore," he complained.
"I was here twice last week," Emily reminded him.
"But to answer your question, I came to talk about business if you're up to it. Dick's accountant has some questions he needs answered before be can prepare tax estimates or something."
"Sure, sure. No problem, honey. Come on into my study where I keep all your files."
"I have several phone calls to make," Dick told Emily. "You talk to your father and I'll use the phone in
the—" He looked around for a phone and couldn't see one in the living room.
"In the kitchen," she explained, and he nodded, already heading off in that direction.
Emily followed her father upstairs into the bedroom he'd converted to an office years ago, and he sat down behind his desk, which was the only clear surface in the house, if one discounted the coating of dust. The credenza and file cabinets that lined the wall behind him were covered with dozens and dozens
of framed photographs of Emily—Emily as an infant, a toddler, a child of four, Emily in her ballet tutu, in
her Halloween costume, in the costume she wore for her first starring role; Emily at thirteen with her hair
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in a pony tail, at fifteen with her first corsage from a boy. Now, as Emily looked at the photographs, she realized for the first time that he was with her in nearly all of them. And then she noticed something else—the light from the lamp on his dusty desk was shining brightly on the glass inserts in all the picture frames as if they'd been recently cleaned.
"Whadyou want t'know about, honey?" he asked, taking a swallow of his drink.
Emily considered mentioning his need for some sort of treatment for what had clearly become an alcohol addiction, but the last two times she'd brought that up, his reaction had been first crushed and then enraged. Summoning her courage, she plunged tactfully into the matter at hand. "Dad, you know how
grateful I am for the way you've put all my money into a trust fund and managed it for me all these years.
You do know that?" she prompted when he crossed his arms and seemed to stare through her.
"Sure, I do. I've socked away every cent you made and guarded it with my life. I never took anything for
myself but an hourly wage of twenty dollars and only when you insisted I had to do it. You were so cute
that day," he said wistfully. "Sixteen years old and confronting your old dad like a mature woman, telling
me that if I didn't draw a larger salary, you were going to fire me."
"That's right," Emily said absently. "So I don't want you to think for a moment I have any doubts about your integrity when I ask you the next question. I'm only trying to understand your reasoning. I'm not complaining about the money I lost."
"Money you lost?" he said angrily. "What the hell do you mean?"
"I mean the $4 million you invested in Tony Austin Productions over the past five years. The stock is worthless. Why did you do it, Dad? You know I hated him, and I always had the feeling you despised him even more."
For a moment he didn't move, then he slowly raised his head, his eyes like sunken, burning coals, and Emily unknowingly pressed back into her chair.
"Austin…" he said softly, his smile turning first malicious,
then soothing. "You don't have to worry about him anymore, honey. I took care of him. We won't have to buy any more of his phoney stock. We'll keep it all our little secret."
"Why did we have to buy his phoney stock in the first place?" Emily said, unaccountably nervous about
his expression, his voice, and the gloom of the poorly lit room.
"He made me do it. I didn't want to. Now, he's dead, and I don't have to."
"How could he possibly make you invest $4 million of my money in his company if you didn't want to?"
she demanded more sharply than she intended.
"Don't you use that tone on me, Missy!" he snapped in a sudden rage. "I'll show you the back of my hand."
Emily was so startled by this unprecedented threat from a man who'd never raised a hand to her in her life that she stood up. "We'll discuss this some other time when you're rational!"
"Wait!" With surprising speed, he reached across the desk and grabbed her arm. "Don't leave me, honey. I'm scared. That's all. I haven't slept in days because I'm so scared. I'd never hurt you. You know that."
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He looked suddenly and truly terrified, and Emily was shaken by that. Patting his hand, feeling like the parent, not the child, she said gently, "I won't go, Daddy. Don't be scared. Tell me what's wrong. I'll understand."
"You'll keep it a secret? Cross your heart?" She nodded, wincing at the childlike plea. "Austin made me
buy that stock. He—he was blackmailing us. For five long years, that bastard has been bleeding us for money."
"Us?" she blurted with a mixture of disbelief and impatience.
"You and I are a team. What happens to one, happens to the other, doesn't it?"
"I—I guess so," she said warily, trying to keep her inner shaking from affecting her voice. "Why was Tony blackmailing … us?"
"Because," her father said, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "he knew we killed Rachel."
Emily lurched out of her chair and stood stock still, gaping at him. "That's crazy! You—you must be so drunk you're hallucinating! What possible reason could you have had for killing Zack's wife?"
"None."
Emily braced her flattened hands on his desk. "Why are you talking like this? It's crazy."
"Don't ever say that to me! That's what he said, and it's a lie! I'm not crazy. I'm scared, why can't you understand that?" he said, his voice switching to a whine.