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“Yes, Rowena. It was I who gave her the money and the send-off. You were nothing but a bystander during the transaction. So, yes, my dear, I do recall.” He was losing his patience at record speed.
Randolph Millstone had been the CEO and majority stockholder in Millstone Enterprises, a global business started three generations before. Arthur’s mother had died when he was twelve, and his father had indulged him ever since. Arthur had dropped out of college a few times, wrecked expensive sports cars, and spent two years as a world traveler. He had played the role of playboy rather well. But pressure had been put on him to settle down. When Arthur met his first wife, Sylvia, Randolph thought he would settle down, so he gave him a job at the family business, hoping it would inspire and motivate him.
At present, Arthur was sixty-three, almost sixty-four, overweight, and out of shape. His once full head of wavy hair had receded to parts unknown. He wasn’t aging well. Arthur was standing on the precipice of total failure or serious bodily harm.
He furrowed his brow at the sound of his cell phone, which had landed on the sofa. He lumbered over to pick it up. “What now?” he growled.
Chapter Five
Boston, Massachusetts
Millstone Manor
Rowena didn’t think it possible, but Arthur was in a worse mood than he had been earlier in the day. He had received a phone call from Jerry Thompson, a private detective on the Millstone payroll, that was disturbing. Arthur gave him the assignment to find out where the estate furniture had landed. Arthur was convinced his father had left a copy of his latest will somewhere in the house. But his father had suffered the heart attack in the garage. He should have had the will on his person. But no document was found, and the Petrov woman claimed she had never seen the document again after she had witnessed his father’s signature. She insisted she hadn’t read it. Simply witnessed his signature and signed on the dotted line.
Arthur was pacing the floor with a glass of single-malt scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other. Ordinarily, he would be sitting in his Eichholtz Highbury Estate tobacco-colored leather chair, puffing away on the hand-rolled Cuban. Rowena thought Arthur was so cliché. God, how she hated his old-fogey tastes. He should have kept all of his father’s furniture. But his father, Randolph Millstone, had not been an old fogey. He was one of the last members of the Greatest Generation. His style was fashioned after Winston Churchill and Ernest Hemingway. It was a man thing. Back then, it was fine. Now? Why couldn’t he get over it? What was the point in selling his father’s furniture if he was only going to replace it with some of the same or similar things? If anyone was to blame for the will’s going missing, it was Arthur. Had he not been in such a hurry to scrape up some cash, maybe they would have found the missing document already.
It hadn’t taken long—a little over two years of married whatever—before Arthur was constantly getting on Rowena’s nerves with his pompous attitude and constant reprimands about her spending habits. She put up with his gambling and cavorting, which she figured was a fair trade-off for being a rich man’s wife. Yes, she knew about his extracurricular activities. Hadn’t she been one of them when he was married to Sylvia? In truth, Rowena was grateful for his dalliances. Though she had no plans to have sex with him again, she still hoped he had the good sense to use a condom, if only to protect his partners and avoid lawsuits.
Thanks to his many affairs, Rowena no longer had to sleep with the boor. Arthur was a lot of things, but a passionate lover was not one of them. Another cliché, she thought. Fat, rich, and bad in bed. At least that was her experience with the many wealthy men she had had affairs with before she married Arthur. And now she settled for being a trophy wife. She was in her midthirties when she had met Arthur and was seeing a new generation of gold diggers snapping at her heels. Younger, more nubile, a lot dumber, but smart enough to know what an older man wants. Damn that little blue pill.
She had been acutely aware that if she didn’t land some old bag of wind with money soon, she could be looking for a real job in the not-too-distant future. She had to admit, she was just as much a cliché. Rowena calculated how long she would have to live the stereotypical life of a trophy wife before she could depart with a nice sum of money, assuming that Arthur did not blow it all first. The estate sale was supposed to help pay off some of his debts, but then he had gone and spent the money onthings. Lots ofthings. And he had the audacity to chastiseherfor her extravagance? Some nerve.
Rowena thought about Arthur’s ex. She wondered who had gotten the better end of the deal. Sylvia Millstone had received a very hefty settlement upon becoming the ditched wife—the equivalent of a golden parachute. She appeared to be extremely content to leave with a settlement of ten million dollars. It was half of Arthur’s net worth at the time, most of which consisted of his stake in the family business, which itself depended upon the provisions of his father’s last will and testament.
Sylvia might have seemed to be the silent, dutiful, and now-scorned wife, but she was shrewd. Sylvia had moved to Portugal with her substantial settlement. For one thing, Rowena knew that Sylvia wouldn’t want to be hanging around town while she and Arthur were the new “it” couple. Little did anyone know that Sylvia would be doing cartwheels if she hadn’t torn her rotator cuff. Sylvia was fifty-five years old and had a whole lot of living ahead of her. She had bought a villa, drank wine, ate good food, and had the company of a man ten years her junior.
Rowena suspected that Sylvia had known about Arthur’s serious gambling problem. Sylvia must have sensed the oncoming train wreck Arthur Millstone represented and had probably been greatly relieved to get off those tracks. Thinking about her current situation, Rowena was almost envious of Sylvia.
Rowena was beginning to wonder how long Arthur could sustain his lifestyle, andherlifestyle, before his debts caught up with him. At the moment, Rowena couldn’t dump Arthur. There was a little matter of the prenup. Sure, she’d get a tidy figure, but at present she had access to the wealth of the family business, Millstone Enterprises International. Rowena suspected that Arthur was dabbling in the culinary art of cooking the books. There was no other way he could cover the tens of thousands he lost every month. Of course, she wasn’t supposed to know about Arthur’s association with the Irish mob, but she had overheard more than one conversation. At the moment, as she watched her husband pace the floor, she knew that her future was hanging in the balance. Pulling another cigarette from her inlaid mother-of-pearl-and-silver case, she thought,Arthur is right.If they didn’t find and destroy that second will, or Colette Petrov, Randolph’s girl Friday, they both could be checking in to the Graybar Hotel.
Rowena sat on the arm of the leather chair and took a long drag. “I think we should call Amber. I know we scoured the receipts, but maybe she’ll remember something. Something someone said. It’s worth speaking with her.”
Arthur stopped abruptly. “You were supposed to handle this.”
“I know. I know. But, like I said earlier, using her wasyouridea. Maybeyoucan jog her memory.” She let out a plume of smoke.
Arthur looked as if he were going to snarl, but immediately thought better of it. He needed to think. Get a grip. He knew there was an imminent deadline in the murky future. Even though the deadline hadn’t been revealed, it was out there. Looming, like a large, dark shadow.
“Call her,” he barked.
Rowena flinched. Again. The second time in one day. That was a record. If she flinched once in a decade, that was one time too often. The fact that she was thirty-eight meant she didn’t do it often. She stared blankly into space.
“Rowena!” Arthur screamed at her. “Get on the damn phone and get Amber in here!”
“But I thought—” Rowena tried to interrupt him.
“Damn it! Do I have to do everything?” Arthur yanked the telephone handset off the cradle. He punched a few buttons on the phone.
Like a coin flip, Arthur’s tone changed. “Hello, Amber dear. How are you?” Rowena felt the bile sour in her throat.
“I’m very well, thank you.” He paused a moment. “I realize it’s a tad late, but would you be available to stop by this evening? Rowena and I were going over the receipts for the estate sale and we have a few questions.” He listened, frowned, and responded, “Tomorrow morning? How early can you get here?” Another pause. “Yes, eight o’clock will be fine. I’ll have Rowena fix us something to eat.” He glanced up at his wife. Her mouth dropped. She gave him an incredulous look. Arthur waved her off. “Yes. We’re on a limited staff now. We are reevaluating our needs.” He listened again. “It’s no trouble at all. Fine. See you in the morning.”
Rowena was livid.Rowena will fix us something to eat?“When did I become the chief cook and bottle washer around here?” She stomped over to the credenza and poured herself some good old Kentucky bourbon. Three fingers’ worth.
“Listen, Rowena, we need to figure this out before Clive tracks down that Petrov woman, or worse, that document turns up somewhere. So you’re just going to have to play the happy little housewife for a while.” He clasped his hands and tightened his fingers. “We can’t let anyone wander around this house until we resolve this mess. I don’t want anyone having access to anything.”
“What about the cleaning people?” Rowena’s voice had gone up an octave. “Certainly, you can’t expect me to mop the floors and dust?” She was close to shrieking. “Look around. Marble floors. Twenty thousand square feet. More pieces of furniture than you got rid of. No, sir. You need to come up with a better plan than making me Cinderella before her fairy godmother showed up.” She stomped back to the chair and flopped into the big leather seat.
