The Playboy Assignment. Leigh Michaels
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bookshelves. Susannah would have flung herself on the overstuffed plaid couch and at least pretended to take a nap.
Finally she soothed Mrs. Adams into hanging up, and rubbed her ear as she put the telephone down. “Someday,” she said, “I’m going to try to hang up the phone and discover that I can’t because it’s melted into my ear and become part of me.” She looked longingly at the couch, but she knew better than to chance wrinkling her skirt. Linen—even black linen—showed every crease.
Alison smiled in sympathy. “Rita told me she’d put through calls from every single member of the Dearborn’s board of directors today.”
“Oh, she has. I can’t decide whether to thank her for being such an efficient secretary, or yell at her—for exactly the same reason.” Susannah’s voice was dry. “Thank heaven that was the last of them—at least for this round.”
“What’s on their minds? Or did they all know about Cyrus?”
“No. Not by name, at least. But the news seems to have leaked just this morning that all hope of getting the collection has gone up in smoke, and every person who isn’t running for cover is making threats instead.”
Alison’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “What kind of threats?”
“Oh, the usual noises about hiring a new director.” Susannah waved a hand. “I think I got most of the feathers soothed. Eventually they’ll realize it wasn’t Pierce’s fault—and also that they can’t hire anyone else for what they’re paying him—and everybody will be back on good terms. What’s up, Ali?”
“Pierce, actually. Rita sent me up to tell you that he’s waiting downstairs.”
Susannah stood up, smoothed her skirt, and slipped her black jacket on over her snowy white blouse. “Good. I mean, I’m not looking forward to Cyrus’s funeral, but it’s better than dealing with the phone.” She picked up her wide-brimmed black hat and glanced in the mirror mounted on the back of her office door.
“I know. That’s why Rita asked me to come up and tell you—because she didn’t want to break into your call.” Alison paused in the doorway. “You and Pierce look like a matched set, by the way, except you don’t have a black tie and he wouldn’t look nearly as good as you do in that hat.”
Susannah paused as she adjusted the tilt of her hat. “You’re sure it isn’t just a little over the top? I don’t want to look like a professional mourner. But I did like the old man, and as a mark of respect...”
“Looks great,” Alison said. “If I could wear a hat with that kind of dash, I’d never take it off.”
Susannah smiled in spite of herself. “They really get in the way when it comes to being kissed, you know.”
“Just as I said—I’d never take it off.” Alison grinned and started up the stairs toward the top floor production room.
“If you’d stop being quite so practical, Ali, you’d have lines of men wanting to kiss you.”
Alison didn’t even pause. “Really? Well, since I don’t have time for that sort of nonsense, I’ll definitely have to look for a hat.”
Susannah made a face behind her partner’s back and turned toward the staircase to the main floor.
Pierce was standing in the receptionist’s office, hands clasped behind his back, shifting his weight from toes to heels and back again. He was staring at a framed poster which hung near Rita’s desk, but Susannah doubted he’d even seen it, or heard her come in. She was wrong on both counts.
Pierce stepped back from the poster and said, “I could get you something really nice to hang there.”
“On Tryad’s decorating budget? I doubt it.” She let her gaze run over him. In his dark suit he looked taller, but in fact his eyes were exactly on a level with Susannah’s when, as now, she was wearing heels. His tie wasn’t black, it was charcoal; Alison had been wrong: But she’d been correct about the rest. They couldn’t have patched more perfectly if they’d been dressed by a single designer. Rita, she noticed, looked impressed.
Pierce had left his tiny sports car in front of Tryad’s converted brownstone. He helped Susannah into the passenger seat, and she tried to keep her skirt from sliding impossibly high.
“At least it’s a pretty day,” she said as he got behind the wheel. “I wondered why the services were delayed so long, but it worked out beautifully, didn’t it? After the rain yesterday and the day before—” Why was she babbling? The urge to talk simply to fill the silence was a sensation she’d never felt with Pierce before, and it took Susannah by surprise. Theirs had always been an easy and professional relationship.
“The funeral was put off for the heir’s convenience.”
Susannah frowned. “What heir?”
“Didn’t I tell you what I’ve found out? The will currently in force was made more than ten years ago, and—”
Susannah interrupted with a long, low whistle. “You’ve put the delay to good use, haven’t you?”
Pierce shrugged. “I don’t know what use it is to know that Cyrus left everything he possessed to the son of an old flame.”
“Well, well,” Susannah drawled. “Who’d have thought it of Cyrus?”
“I know,” Pierce said bitterly. “It’s hard to believe that somebody as savvy as Cyrus was didn’t bother to update his will now and then, even if his financial circumstances hadn’t changed. A ten-year-old will is ridiculous... to say nothing of his leaving everything to somebody who wouldn’t even bother to cut his Hawaiian vacation short so the funeral could be held on time.”
“That wasn’t quite what I meant,” Susannah said. “It just occurred to me that perhaps the son of the old flame might be Cyrus’s son, as well.”
Pierce looked startled. “Oh, I don’t think—”
“Even Cyrus was young once. And now that I think about it, there was a certain twinkle in his eyes sometimes.”
Pierce snorted.
There were to be no church services, only a gathering in the cemetery. A surprising number of cars were already parked along the narrow, winding roads which cut the grand old cemetery into segments, and Pierce had to park at a distance. Susannah glanced from the gravel lane to her shoes, and sighed.
But before they’d gone far, the inconvenience of walking across grass and gravel in heels had given way to Susannah’s love of old cemeteries. She’d almost forgotten how much she loved graveyards, full of elaborate monuments and family histories carved in stone in a kind of shorthand only the initiated could read. She’d been good at that, once, deducing from names and dates what had happened to the people who lay below the quiet sod. But she hadn’t gone exploring for years now. Eight years, to be exact....
“But how do you know?”
The question echoed in her head, in an almost-plaintive baritone that she hadn’t heard in the better part of a decade. Funny, she thought, that she could still hear it so clearly...
“How can you tell from a tombstone that life was rough for women?” Marc had asked on a crisp November day, as he stood beside her in an old cemetery in a far north suburb of Chicago. “It’s a man’s tombstone, at that.”
“That’s right,” Susannah had said. “The monument is for the patriarch, but look on the back at the list of names. His three wives didn’t even get a stone to themselves. He married them one at a time, of course, but now they’re all lying here bedside him, together for eternity.”
“But how?” Marc had asked, very practically. “He’s only got two sides.”
Susannah had found the comment hysterically funny, and she’d finally wobbled over to a low flat stone nearby and sat down to recover from her fit of laughter..But