The Big Steal (7 page)

“Oh, it's OK,” I said, still laughing.

“I'm not speaking badly about the Glasses. They are good people, a good Virginia family. But you've divorced. And you've not remarried.”

“No I haven't.”

“Any plans?”

It was Matt Yardley whose handsome face had flashed before my eyes. I was about to speak when I realized it would hardly be appropriate to say anything about the man who had hired me for the Wynderly job. I didn't waste a moment. I waved his question away.

“Speaking of people, we certainly saw a war of the wits today, didn't we? Tracy DuMont and Houseman—” I stopped, hoping Worth Merritt would take it from there.

“Indeed,” Worth said. “And by the way, don't let Peggy Powers pull the wool over your eyes,” he warned. Catching my puzzled look, Worth said, “Remember. Mrs. Z. for Zachary Harrison Powers. That's Peggy. She's the one who spoke up about the settlement she and Zachary got from Babson and Michael after their burglary.

“At the time, Peggy and Zach ranted and raved over how they were shortchanged by their insurance company. Nobody pays much attention to Peggy or Zach. They didn't after their burglary, and they didn't today. The Powerses are known for leeching. Not bleeding,
leeching
the last drop of blood out of any turnip they can.” Worth rubbed his thumb against his second and third fingers in that universal sign that translates into moneygrubbing.

“Then why did she say what she did?” I asked.

“You're the new kid on the block, my dear. To get in your good graces. That's Peggy Powers's way. A cunning but aging Venus flytrap, she'll court you all sweet and nice till she's got you in her clutches. She was just laying the groundwork today. Who knows, she might need you later.” He lowered his eyes and wrinkled his brow. “She's not the only one who'll use that tack.”

I looked at my half-empty glass. Too much information was coming at me too fast. Plus, it had been a long, tiring day. My instinct was to pick it up and drain it dry.

Much drinking, little thinking
, Mother often said the morning after, quoting Jonathan Swift. I sat back in my seat and an unexpected pain between my shoulders reminded me of the tumble I'd taken in the attic. I reached for my glass. Then again, I needed a clear mind if for no reason other than to keep the people and their names straight. I swirled the wine around.

Worth Merritt obviously had the goods on everyone and showed no hesitancy—even seemed to enjoy sharing it. But why with me, a stranger? He had met and liked my parents and knew my former in-laws. To him, that was reason enough to take me into his confidence. I took a small sip of wine.

Loose lips sink ships
.

This time Mother's words, though intended as a warning, served to trigger another thought. Maybe Merritt was the town gossip. Taking a chance, I forged ahead.

“What about Frederick Graham? He's the banker, head of the trust department, right? What I heard today sounded to me as if there might be some, ah, conflict of interest there. I
mean, how can he direct money from the bank he
works
for into a foundation when he's on that foundation's board? Isn't that a bit—”

“Come now, Sterling,” Worth Merritt said. There was no mistaking his patronizing tone. “You were married to one of those wealthy old Virginia families.
You
know how the world works. You know the influence that moneyed people in positions of authority wield,” and he quickly added, “Take your former husband's family. They were, and still are, admirable in their philanthropy and leadership.
But
… you
have
to know the wheeling and dealing that
others
of their type do, especially those who think their birthright puts them above the law, so to speak. The higher they're born, the more money they have, the more they think they can do whatever they wish … and get
away
with it.”

I chuckled. “Well, Hank's current matrimonial record might not be exactly
admirable
.”

No more had I opened my mouth than I could have kicked myself. Why had I said that? I backtracked. “Not that Hank's a bad guy. We got on very well for twenty years. Even now we put our children's feelings and well-being first when we're together. I'll give Hank Glass this—he's always been a good and responsible father.”

The puzzled look on Worth Merritt's face made me all the more sorry that I'd mentioned Hank's wandering eye.

“I spoke out of turn,” I said. “Forgive me. It's just that Hank's getting married, again. Third time, and yes, to another younger woman.” I shrugged. “I don't know. That's his business. This quick divorce and remarriage game seems to be a new hobby of his. He used to like boats. Always selling
one, buying another. Guess he's just traded one commodity for another.”

“Seems to be the way these days. Trophy wives.” Worth Merritt winked. “Well, I certainly wouldn't let it bother me if I were you, my dear. Not you.”

At that moment our dinner appeared. The timing was perfect.

“Another glass?” Worth asked.

I didn't wait for any objections from Mother or my own conscience. “Why not?”

“Back to your earlier question.” Worth Merritt's tone turned serious again. “The one about Frederick Graham,” he said between bites, adding, “And don't make the mistake of calling him anything but Frederick. His family is as well established in
these
parts of Virginia as your former husband's family is over Leemont way.”

“That doesn't surprise me,” I said.

When Worth Merritt put his fork down and said, “Now let's see,” I knew I was in for a detailed explanation.

“Henry VII was also the Earl of Richmond. Since Frederick Graham's mother's ancestors descended from Henry VII, around here that means he and his kin are
our
royalty. Lots of our old families live on land grants from the Crown. But
direct
blood lineage? Now that's something not
every
one has. Years ago, when Prince Charles came to America, Frederick Graham's parents were invited to
all
the royal events—not just the public Williamsburg one. Can't say that for the rest of us.”

Worth Merritt smiled ever so slightly. “How does all this tie in with Wynderly? Well, this is the way I see it, Sterling. This whole Wynderly thing is a mess. Especially after today.” He
paused as if remembering Tracy's tirade. When he spoke, it was with a heartfelt passion I had not seen in him before.

“It's not like Wynderly was Mount Vernon. Wynderly's hardly an eighteenth-century monument frozen in time, pristine and perfect. It's a huge early-twentieth-century mansion filled with a little of everything from all over the world. But in what other Virginia house museum can you find gilt French furniture and ornate boulle work like you see in the castles and palaces of Europe? Is Wynderly the greatest and grandest house in these parts? No. And it's certainly not the oldest. But,
I
think Wynderly is wonderful. And Frederick Graham's being on the board endorses its validity and importance.”

“Still though,” I said, “if being on the board at the same time he's head of the trust department that's responsible for Wynderly's finances means there's potential for scandal—”

“I don't think so,” he said kindly but firmly.

Maybe it was the second glass of wine after such a harrowing day. Or maybe it was Worth Merritt's earnest frankness that got to me. I let go of my suspicions, at least for the moment.

“So tell me more about Hoyt and Mazie,” I said cheerfully. “And Tracy DuMont,” I added with a smile.

“Tracy?” He laughed. “I don't know her
terribly
well, though we're certainly friends. From the times I've been thrown with her, I'd say she was pretty true to form today. Believe it or not, she's neither mean nor vicious. She's a very bright woman. One of those who would have broken the glass ceiling …”

He paused and glanced away, as if calling up years of memories. “Yes, Tracy would have risen to the top even if she'd been born an orphan. She has that kind of drive. Then again,
her money, her
old
money, gave her”—he smiled slyly—“a leg up. But the truth is—”

Worth Merritt turned suddenly somber. “Tracy's money has been as much a curse as a blessing. Which may explain why she acts the way she does. God knows Tracy's generous. But she's had to grow a hard, thick shell to shield herself from rascals trying to separate her from her millions. Combine her natural drive with the problems of having too much money, and well, there you have Tracy. But she isn't mean-spirited, Sterling.” Worth spoke kindly, yet emphatically. “I didn't like some of the things she said today. On the other hand—” He looked long into his almost empty glass. “I can't deny the truth of any of them.”

He brightened. “And if, for any reason,
you
get a chance to spend time with her, take it. It won't be time misspent.”

“Oh, I doubt I'll have that opportunity,” I said, secretly wondering if I would ever really
want
the opportunity.

“You might be surprised, my dear.” He leaned across the table and spoke softly. “Tracy likes bright people and you certainly fit that description. She said she reads your column, remember?”

Our momentary silence was broken by sirens whizzing by.

Worth laughed. “Barney Fife to the rescue. That's what I call our deputy sheriff. Used to be this was a quiet town except on Saturday nights. These days there's a rough element on the south side that can get out of hand, even on weeknights.”

I glanced at my watch, our empty drink glasses, and as discreetly as possible at my companion's plate.

“How are we on time?” I asked, still dying to know more about the Wyndfields.

“We're fine. You said you're at Belle Ayre. That's four or five minutes from here. I'm maybe two minutes from my house, in the other direction. We can even have another drink before closing.”

“Oh … I don't think so,” I was saying just when our waitress arrived.

“Going to make it your usual three, Mr. Merritt?” she asked.

I took that as a green light, sighed, and relented. “And a glass of water with lots of ice,” I said.

“So … about the Wyndfields,” I asked.

“Which ones? The public, or the private, Hoyt and Mazie Wyndfield?”

“Have we
time
to hear about both?”

Worth laughed heartily and playfully shook his finger at me. “Not in this lifetime.”

Saying that, Worth turned and casually looked around the dining room. Satisfied all was secure, he leaned forward and rested his chin in his hand, his elbow on the table. “Well …”

Loose lips sink ships? They weren't my lips and it wasn't my ship. Full steam ahead.

Dear Antiques Expert: I recently saw a nest of tables that is just right for my small den. I especially like the fact that I can keep them stacked as one table when not in use, but move the smaller tables around the room when needed. The dealer says this set dates from the 1910s or 1920s, but that nests of tables have been made since the 1800s. The concept seems very modern to me. Was she right?

Absolutely. Thomas Sheraton included an illustration of these stacked tables in his 1803
Cabinet Directory
. Back then, though, the grouping was called “quartetto tables.” That's because there were four tables in the “nest” that appeared to be only one table when the three smaller tables were slid beneath the largest one. These days some nests of tables come with only three, rather than four tables. Regardless, nesting tables (as they are sometimes called) are so serviceable they are even made for patios and decks, as well as for inside the house.

W
ORTH
M
ERRITT ONCE AGAIN
cast an over-the-shoulder glance around the room, which was starting to empty out. “Can't be too careful. You never know—”

Worth's cautiousness puzzled me. He had openly chatted away about Tracy and the Powerses, even Frederick Graham, all whom everyone in this small community could recognize by name, face, and reputation. Why this sudden secrecy? He leaned across the table and mouthed his words. “There
has
to be more
out there
than anyone knows.”

“
Out
there? Do you mean in the house? At Wynderly?” I asked, barely speaking above a whisper myself. “Or do you mean,
out there
?” I waved my hand into the air. “You know, as in things people don't know about the Wyndfields?”

“Ah-ha! Caught me at my own game.” Merritt's loud burst of laughter would have turned heads under normal circumstances. I wondered if he might have had a little more to drink than he realized. “Wynderly. The Wyndfields.” A faraway look crossed his face. “Who can separate the one from the other? Hoyt and Mazie lived for their …” He pressed his lips together and nodded his head as he wandered back in time. “Their showplace. Their obsession. Their baronial playhouse.”

Worth's eyes grew sad. “But, I think I understand. These days Sally's gone and our children scattered. I only see the grandkids every so often. Some nights I sit in our home that was once so lively, look around, and realize my old
things
have become my old friends.” Worth Merritt heaved a heavy sigh and shifted about in his seat. “But enough … So. What do
you
know about the Wyndfields?” he asked.

“Little more than what's in the brochure,” I said, reaching for my pocketbook to retrieve the out-of-print brochure I'd picked up at the tourist bureau back in Leemont. “I know the house was built over a two- or three-year span and the Wyndfields moved in around”—I checked to be sure—“1924.” Trying
to lighten the moment, I added, “At least they had a few years before the great crash to enjoy their great wealth.”