“I assume that you’ve heard about the reading of Hale’s will this morning.” He selected the carton of chicken and pea pods and dumped some onto his plate.

  “No,” she said, continuing to sip her wine. “Other than what you just said. About Mr. Squire.”

  “Hale left Ivy one dollar.” He laughed.

  “You’re kidding!”

  He shook his head. “That bastard. That stinking, slimy, arrogant bastard! He left everything to some old woman. Ivy didn’t inherit a penny.”

  Rhea stared at him. “Why do you hate him so much?”

  “Me? Who said I hated him?”

  “It’s the way you look every time his name is mentioned.”

  “You’re crazy. I just don’t like to be shafted in a business deal.”

  “No, it started before that.”

  “Eat your pepper steak.” He popped a piece of the shrimp toast into his mouth.

  After a few minutes of total silence, he said, “Now who’s acting funny?”

  She felt a chill in the room. “I’m just not very talkative tonight.”

  “Well, then I’ll do the talking. First order of business is” — he made a trumpeting sound — “I may have a solution to all your financial problems.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know a way to get my hands on the money you need to sponsor a tour for your dance company.”

  “Ben —”

  “Now,” he said, holding up his hand, “don’t worry. It’s all legit.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “You wound me when you say things like that, Rhea. Sometimes business … has rough edges. But we can’t let that stop us. It never stops the big boys. Just wait and see.”

  Ben had always wanted to play in the big leagues, as he called it. One day she hoped he’d finally grow up and realize that wheeling and dealing weren’t going to get him anywhere. It was his talent he needed to rely on. Maybe she was naive, but that’s what she believed. “Are you going to tell me what you and Sophie Greenway were talking about?”

  “Eventually.”

  “But it has to do with Hale’s death?”

  He nodded, his mouth too full of food to talk.

  She stared off into space.

  “Say, what is wrong with you tonight? You’re a million miles away.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “Care to talk about it?”

  “Not really. Except —”

  “What? You can tell me anything.”

  She finished her glass of wine. She was beginning to feel a slight buzz. “Well …”

  He poured her more wine.

  “To be honest, I know something about the night Hale died.”

  He stopped chewing. “Like what?”

  “It’s a secret.”

  He became instantly angry. “No secrets, Rhea. That’s what got us in trouble last time.”

  “What are you talking about? Secrets had nothing to do with our breakup. Why are you getting so hostile?”

  “Just tell me!”

  She finished the second glass of chardonnay. God, she loathed white wine. She wished he’d opened a bottle of cabernet. “If you must know, I saw someone.”

  He stared at her. “Define saw someone.”

  “I saw someone outside the night of Hale’s party.”

  “Who?”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “This isn’t a game!”

  “I know that!”

  “Then tell me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I promised this person I wouldn’t say anything until we had a chance to talk.”

  “You’ve already talked to … someone?”

  “Briefly.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “What are you up to?”

  As she picked up her chopsticks, she realized that she’d completely lost her appetite. “I want some information.”

  “About what?”

  “Look,” she said, leaning back in her chair, “I’m simply not going to talk about this anymore. I should never have brought it up. It’s just, you were being so smug about that conversation you had with Sophie.”

  “And you’re too damn competitive to ever give me an edge.” His smile returned.

  “I hate it when you wax psychological.”

  He slipped his hand over hers. “All right I’ll stop.” His expression turned serious. “Want to see my new rubber ducky?”

  “Huh?”

  He wiggled an eyebrow.

  “You mean a bath?”

  “If you’ll join me.”

  She hesitated. She’d never felt so torn in her entire life.

  “I’ve got the music all selected. The sandalwood incense is waiting to be lit. And I have a bottle of merlot and two glasses waiting for us tubside.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “I know.”

  “I should go home, take a quick shower, and hit the sack.”

  “Oh, no,” he said, beating his chest and shrieking, “another attack of the shoulds!”

  She started to laugh.

  “Come on,” he said, pulling her to her feet. He put his mouth next to her ear and whispered, “I love you, you know? I never stopped.”

  She felt his arms slip around her body. There was no use arguing. She didn’t want to leave. She simply had to put all her questions on hold. If everything went as she hoped, in a matter of days she’d know the truth.

  28

  Ivy dialed Louie’s home number. It was nearly midnight. Thankfully he rarely went to bed before one. As she switched off the sound on the TV with the remote, she heard him answer, “Hello? State your name, rank, and serial number.”

  “Hi. It’s Ivy.”

  “Hey, kiddo! Good to hear from you. I called your house earlier today, but you must have been out. Since I didn’t feel like shooting the breeze with the machine, I hung up.”

  She could hear him crunch something. “What are you eating?”

  “None of your business. I will say, since I’ve withdrawn my membership from teetotalers of America, I have developed quite a penchant for junk food. But, disciplined man that I am, I’m limiting my intake. Only so much a night.”

  He sounded high. “If you won’t tell me what you’re eating, then what have you been drinking?”

  He laughed. “Well, let’s see here. Ah, yes. The label on the bottle says rye whiskey. It’s quite good — at least, it has the desired effect.”

  Ivy wondered if she should be worried about him. Alcohol and grief were often a potent combination. “How are you … feeling?”

  “I’m holding up. But my stomach has been acting funny. I talked to my doctor and he said to try an antacid. To be honest, I was a little embarrassed when I bought the bottle. I’ve never had trouble with my digestion before.”

  “Age gets us all in the end.” She could hear him crunching again.

  “Hey, where’s my mind?” he exclaimed. “What happened this morning at the lawyer’s office? Am I now speaking to a genuine heiress?”

  Ivy could feel her stomach tighten. “Oh, Hale was very generous.”

  “Really? What’s the bottom line?”

  She closed her eyes. “One dollar.”

  The line was silent. “Pardon me?” he said after a long pause. He started to laugh. “This connection is bad. I thought you said one dollar.”

  “I did.”

  Again, silence. “How — how is that possible? You’d seen his will, hadn’t you? I remember years ago you mentioned he’d shown it to you.”

  “He must have changed it.”

  A more thoughtful crunch this time. “But he can’t do that. This is a community property state. You’re entitled to half his estate.”

  “Max is checking into that with his lawyer, but it doesn’t look promising.”

  “Why? I don’t understand.”

  “It’s that prenuptial agreement we signed.”

  “But that was in case of divorce.”

  “Not according to Hale’s lawyers.”

  “God, I suppose that does muddy the waters. Ivy, I’m so sorry. I really am. This is terrible. I should have seen it coming. I should have found a way to protect you!”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “But it is. I helped write that damn thing!” More silence. “Maybe there’s something I can still do — legally.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But I have to try!”

  “Max wants to handle it.”

  “But if there are loopholes, I’m best qualified to find them.”

  How was she supposed to tell him that Max had insisted she find herself a new lawyer? No, not insisted, demanded. She was squarely in the middle — between the two men she loved most in the world — though she cared about them very differently. Max was her passion. But Louie had been a friend and ally since her youth. How could Max place her in such an unconscionable position? It was so callous of him.

  “Ivy? Are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll start tomorrow, then. I’ll force the court to see it our way, don’t worry. I’m every bit as good an attorney as those jackasses Hale hired. You’ll see.”

  “Louie?”

  “What?”

  She had to stall. She couldn’t deal with this tonight. She got an idea. “Listen, tomorrow morning I was going to visit the Times Register offices and talk to Hale’s editor.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, to be honest, Hale never actually wrote that column in the paper. I did.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Ivy, that’s incredible. That guy was a phony from the word go. Does anyone else know?”

  “No. I promised to keep it a secret. But now that he’s dead, I want the paper to recognize me. I think once they understand, they’ll offer to let me continue the column. I can use the money.”

  “Don’t worry about finances, kiddo. I’ll break that will if it’s the last thing I do.”

  She felt warmed by his concern. “Maybe you’d like to drive over to the paper with me. I could use the moral support. Are you free tomorrow morning?”

  “Completely. I’ve taken a leave of absence from the firm. Shall I pick you up?”

  She smiled. “That would be great.”

  “How does ten sound?”

  “Perfect. And Louie?”

  “What?”

  “Thanks for always being on my side.”

  “Always, Ivy. Always.”

  By morning, after a long, sleepless night, Ivy had made a decision. When it came to Louie, Max was simply going to have to stuff his jealousy. She would not find another lawyer. She would not dump him as a friend. And that was all there was to it.

  Louie arrived promptly at ten. By ten-thirty, they were seated outside the office of Aaron Johanssen, arts editor for the Minneapolis Times Register. Ivy had known Aaron for many years. She found him to be fair and generally quite pleasant. Ever since she’d made up her mind to tell the truth about Hale, and about her own complicity in his lie, she’d felt a sense of relief. She also relished the idea of exposing her husband as the fraud he was. It was like that fairy tale: The Emperor’s New Clothes. She couldn’t wait to show the world how naked Hale had been all these years.

  As she waited, she glanced at Louie. He didn’t look good. She wondered if he had a hangover. “How are you feeling?” she asked softly.

  “So-so.” He placed a hand over his stomach.

  “It’s not a hangover?”

  “Who made you my mother?” His frown turned immediately into a smile. “No, Ivy. It’s not a hangover. The night after your party, to be honest, I did have a doozer.”

  “I wondered where you’d gone that night. I didn’t see you for such a long time. Then, when the police were searching the house, there you were, upstairs in your room.”

  “And until I was so rudely interrupted, I was sleeping like a baby.”

  “More like a drunken sailor.”

  He sniffed, raising an eyebrow. “I decided next day that I was never going to do that again. Champagne can sneak up on you.” He reached into his pocket and took out several antacid tablets, popping them into his mouth.

  “Your digestion is still giving you problems?”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, squeezing her hand. “But thanks for worrying.” He chewed for a moment and then said, “How’s Max?”

  Not the topic she would have picked, but she knew she had to say something. “Fine. He’s in surgery all day today.”

  Louie winced. “What a profession.”

  “Yeah.” The truth was, Max was beginning to worry her. He seemed to think, now that Hale was out of her life for good, that he had a right to make demands — unreasonable demands from her standpoint. After all, as he’d begun to point out almost hourly, he’d risked everything for her. That kind of talk made her uneasy. She’d risked every bit as much — even more. And his jealousy was beginning to frighten her.

  The secretary at the desk put down the phone and said, “Mrs. Micklenberg? You can go in now.”

  She looked at Louie. “Wish me luck.”

  “You don’t need it. Just tell them the truth, kiddo.”

  She hoped it would be that easy.

  “Ivy,” said Aaron, rising and motioning her to the chair across from him. “How nice to see you. I was so terribly sorry to hear about Hale. I’m sure the police will find out who did it. It’s not much of a consolation, but it’s something.”

  She nodded and sat down.

  “How are you doing?”

  “It’s been hard.”

  “I don’t doubt that.” He dropped a file into a wire basket on his desk and leaned forward, studying her. He was a small man in his mid-forties. Mousy brown hair and eyes. “Well. So. What can I do for you?”

  She decided to make this encounter as brief as possible. No extraneous details. Nothing but the facts. “I need to tell you something. Something important.”

  “Yes?”

  “Hale never wrote the column that appeared in your paper. I did.”

  He stared at her.

  “My husband and I made a pact years ago. I would write the column in an effort to further his career. In return, I would reap the benefits as his wife. Not a very liberated arrangement, I grant you, but then, I was quite young at the time. I also promised total secrecy.”

  “I … don’t know what to say.”

  She held up her hand. “Let me finish. I’ve come to ask you to put an end to this charade. Hale’s column will be up for grabs now. I’d like you to know that it can continue as it always has, but I want my name on it. I am a tenured professor of art history at Morton, so I bring my own credentials to the job. You can tell the truth about this matter — or not — however you want to play it. But I want to be free to discuss it with the art community. I think, after all these years, I deserve that much.”

  Aaron picked up a pencil and began to twist it between his fingers. “Ivy, I —”

  “You believe me, don’t you?” She watched him fidget. His body language told her he didn’t.

  “To be honest I don’t know what to think.”

  “I wouldn’t make something like that up!”

  He sighed. “We … I don’t know that. And, well, I did hear that Hale was not very … liberal in his bequest toward you.”

  Her mouth set angrily. So. The gossip mills were already grinding their venom.

  “I can see why you’d be angry,” continued Aaron. “Don’t get me wrong. But… as far as your taking over the column, I don’t think that’s possible.”

  “Why?” She perched on the edge of her seat. ‘Tell me why, Aaron. I’m the best qualified! I’ve been doing it for years!”

  “That remains to be seen.” He leaned back in his chair. “Even so, the fact is we’ve already offered the job to someone else.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Charles Squire.”

  She felt as if he’d slapped her across the face. ‘Tell me this is a joke. You can’t be serious.”

  “Indeed we are. We felt he was perfect for the job. When he came to us yesterday afternoon —”

  “He came to you?”

  Aaron nodded. “He explained that he’d been the managing editor of Squires Magazine for several years before Sophie Greenway took it over. He left to pursue other interests.”

  “He left because his father realized he was an inept idiot and fired him!”

  Aaron gave her an indulgent smile. “He’s now the CEO of IAI. As I see it, he has ample qualifications.”

  He rested his hands on the desk, palms up. “I think, in a more sane moment, you would agree.”

  “Never!” she said, rising from her chair. “Not in a million years.”

  Charles Squire — everywhere she went, he was there supplanting her. If anyone had benefited by the death of her husband, it was Charles Squire.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” said Aaron, touching the tips of his fingers together.

  Ivy started for the door.

  “Do keep in touch.”

  “Go to hell,” she said, slamming it behind her.

  29

  The gate house door creaked open. “Oh,” said Charles, standing behind it, the edges of his mouth turning down in disappointment, “it’s you.” He gave a weary sigh, adjusting the flower in his lapel. “I thought you might be Mrs. Malmquist and her grandson.”

  “You should oil those hinges.” Ben smiled. “Well,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “I’m right on time. May I” — he twirled his finger — “come in?” He’d always been amused by people like Charles, men and women who wore their ennui like a fashion statement. He moved silently into the first-floor gallery.

  “Come with me,” said Charles, switching on the track lighting. Mozart’s Requiem played from two speakers at the far end of the room.

  Ben decided Mrs. Malmquist and grandson must be

  potential clients. The gallery was being readied for a showing.

  Once upstairs, Charles took a seat behind the desk and waved Ben to a chair. He looked perfectly at home in Hale’s old office. He’d even made a few changes. Gone was the gaudy brass ashtray. In it’s place was a cut-crystal bowl filled with miniature chocolates. And the modern leather chairs had also been replaced, this time by two elegant antique wing backs covered in a subtle, mauve silk.