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  Before Jeffries disappeared down the hall, he indicated that they were to enter a room that was already studded with a few other people.

  She felt Titan hesitate at the door. They each silently surveyed the room, taking in the odd mix. There were four other people who looked as out of place and uncomfortable as Dymphna felt. Besides Titan, there was a young Asian man Dymphna guessed to be about twenty years old. He glowered at everything and everybody. There was a young woman, probably younger than Dymphna, dressed in all black—except for her white lipstick—and an older woman, a senior citizen at the very least. With her steel-gray bun, ample middle, and wrinkled face, the older woman bore an uncanny resemblance to an apple doll. Finally, tucked into a wing-backed chair, looking most uncomfortable of all, was an older man with russet hair. He pushed back into his seat every time someone entered, as if he didn’t want anyone to know he was there.

  There were two other people in the room, but they looked like they belonged there. Although the man about her own age, wearing round glasses, was certainly not dressed particularly well in his Dockers and polyester no-iron shirt, which he had rolled to the elbow, he didn’t wear the shell-shocked look of the other guests. His hair was thick and unruly. He looked the way she envisioned Harry Potter to have looked as a grown-up, until Daniel Radcliffe changed everyone’s mind.

  From her Internet research, she knew that the last man in the room, the one with the perfectly styled salt-and-pepper hair and understated suit was Wesley J. Tensaw himself.

  Dymphna was momentarily distracted from her nervousness, taking in the mystifying assortment of people gathered together by a dead man. But Titan’s voice brought her back.

  “Now it’s off icial,” he said, taking Dymphna by the arm and guiding her into the room. “We are not in Kansas anymore.”

  Dymphna looked around the room. There was a sideboard with bagels, cream cheese, and assorted jams; a tray of perfectly presented pastries; pitchers of orange, grapefruit, and tomato juice alongside a silver tea and coffee service. There was also an array of purposefully mismatched teacups and crystal juice and water glasses. None of the food had been touched. If it weren’t for the fact that a few of the teacups were absent from the lineup, there would be no indication that the library was already full of people.

  Dymphna fleetingly thought of her friend Suzanna’s teashop in Venice. Suzanna could give this household a tip or two about throwing a brunch. Suzanna, who was Erinn’s sister, effortlessly made every day seem like a celebration at the Rollicking Bun . . . Home of the Epic Scone. Nothing was picture-perfect at the Bun, but everything was inviting. Everything in this room was picture-perfect, but nothing was inviting.

  “Is this a party?” Titan whispered.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know what this is!”

  Dymphna spotted two beautifully upholstered chairs on either side of a small table in a corner of the room. She pointed to them. Relief flooded over her when it became clear that Titan was content to stay with her rather than mingle. As they made their way to the chairs, it occurred to her that Titan didn’t really look like the mingling type. Settling in one of the chairs, it startled her to realize that no one in the room appeared to be socializing at all. The room was completely quiet except for the attorney’s shuffling of papers on an expensive looking desk and the occasional clink of a porcelain teacup making contact with its saucer.

  Dymphna sipped her orange juice. She wanted it to last. She couldn’t imagine anything worse than having to stand up and walk over to the buffet table at this mad tea party. She looked over at Titan, who was sitting as straight as a schoolboy, a tight smile on his face. She patted his knee and smiled. She felt his leg tense and she wondered if she had overstepped her bounds. She froze. She felt his leg twitch. She looked at him. He was biting hard on his knuckle.

  Oh no—is he about to cry?

  She removed her hand, appalled at herself for being so intrusive. She was just used to comforting skittish rabbits by petting them. She turned to him and reached out to touch his shoulder, then reconsidered. “Are you all right?” she asked, deciding on the direct approach.

  Titan nodded. “This is so crazy. What am I doing here? I hate rich people.”

  Dymphna realized he wasn’t about to cry—he was on the verge of laughing hysterically. She surveyed the room again, taking in the magnificent furniture, the priceless collection of books, the untouched buffet, the crazy-quilt assortment of guests. She felt the church-giggles welling up in her throat.

  “Heeheeheeheehee,” Dymphna croaked, staring at her shoes.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” Titan said. “Don’t you start!”

  Dymphna tried to stifle her laughter, but as she took a deep breath, she snorted. For a brief instant, the two of them stared at each other, wild-eyed. They looked around the room, but no one was paying them any attention.

  Their laughter, cathartic as it was, came to an abrupt halt as the library doors swung open. A woman entered with such authority that Dymphna knew instinctively that this was the Lady Of The House. She was wearing a white pantsuit with simple gold jewelry. Beige heels completed her outfit. Dymphna appreciated beautiful clothes and had to hand it to this woman—she knew how to pick an outfit for a grand entrance. Dymphna didn’t want to stare at her, but she felt she knew this woman—or at least had met her before.

  “Good morning, everyone,” the woman said, tossing her custard-colored hair off her shoulders. “Welcome to my home. I’m Cleo Johnson-Primb. I know most of us have never met, but please make yourselves at home.”

  Dymphna watched the woman in the white suit go to the buffet table. She took the coffeepot and Dymphna could see a slight tremor in her hands. Dymphna could also see that the woman was barely in control of her emotions. When the well-manicured hand lifted the cup to her lips, Dymphna saw it. The ring sitting oddly on the index finger of her left hand. C. J. Primb, from the farmers’ market! Cleo Johnson-Primb. A cold chill went up Dymphna’s spine.

  Those church-giggles were now over.

  CHAPTER 4

  Cleo peered over her coffee cup, staring into middle space. Her father had taught her many lessons in life, but the ability to take in a room without actually looking at—or talking to—anyone was one of the most useful. She started clicking off the invitees—there was Dymphna Pearl; the bodybuilder with a name like some sort of metal. Alloy? Steel? Titanium? Yes, that was it—Titan; the old woman, Bertha; the Asian gangster, Wally; that other young woman, Something-or-other Orchid; and her late brother’s son—her nephew—Professor Elwood Johnson.

  Languidly sipping at her coffee, she studied the professor. He’d grown into a somber, good-looking man. Intelligent in his way, but he certainly didn’t have his grandfather’s head for business. And he militantly didn’t have a taste for the finer things in life—what in God’s name was he wearing? She felt a flash of annoyance as she realized he’d ignored the cashmere sweater-vest, merino wool trousers, French-cuffed shirt and Italian leather shoes she’d left for him in the guest room. Cleo could not understand his aversion to first-class cars, nice clothes, and good wine. Someone at the club had suggested that it might be a reaction to the fact that his parents died young and needlessly—the fast lane taking its toll. She dismissed that theory immediately. Hadn’t she done her best for him—sending him to elite boarding schools around the world, and then spending scads of money at various universities—Yale for undergrad, Georgetown for his masters, Harvard for his PhD? She couldn’t for the life of her remember what degrees he held—only that they were nothing sensible. If he wanted to spend so much time in school, at least he could have had the practicality to get a degree in business or law—something useful to the family.

  If you’d become a lawyer, Elwood, she thought, perhaps we wouldn’t be at the mercy of this one.

  She looked over at Wesley. Weren’t family lawyers supposed to protect the heirs of a man who had obviously been off his rocker? How could her father have gotten around Wesley and
insisted on this crazy party? She tried to curb her annoyance. Wesley might be her only ally in the room, so perhaps she should cut him some slack.

  She noticed someone she had missed during her initial survey of the room. He was sitting too far back in one of the wing chairs to get a good look at him. All she could see were his very long legs, which were crossed at the ankles. The heels of his boots were worn down—a sign of plain old slothfulness, if you asked her. Her father had specified only six people, and they were accounted for. So who could Daddy Long Legs be? She tried to catch Wesley’s eye, but the attorney was busy pulling documents out of his briefcase and didn’t seem to know she was trying to get his attention. On the other hand, maybe her father had also taught Wesley the valuable skill of keeping people invisible until you needed them.

  As if Wesley had read her mind, he suddenly looked straight at her and gave her a brief nod. Cleo thrust her shoulders back and headed to the fireplace. She had decided that this was the perfect spot from which to greet her guests. Last night, she had practiced casually leaning one elbow on the mantel shelf, made of a smooth, dolomite white marble. As she walked to it, she realized that she was wearing all white and standing next to the snowy mantel would rob her of all authority—she would look like a talking head! Switching gears—and locations—she put her coffee cup on a tray and perched on the edge of the polished desk instead. She displaced Wesley, but so be it. Her father had left her in this uncomfortable position and she would handle it her way. She had a practiced speech and was about to ask Wesley to call everyone to attention, but realized that everyone was already quietly staring at her. She plastered on a smile.

  “I suppose you are wondering why I called you all here,” she began, warming up to her well-rehearsed icebreaker. “I’m wondering that myself!”

  She waited for the titter of laughter she was expecting, but her guests continued to stare at her. Most stared blankly, but she noticed that Dymphna Pearl was wearing an encouraging half smile. That absolutely infuriated Cleo. How dare her father put her in the position of being pitied by a knitter!

  She looked around the room and took in the curiosity on her guests’ faces. They were as in the dark as she, that much was evident. She tried to get a peek at the man with the long legs and worn boots in the wing chair, but he was still hidden in shadow. Well, she had more urgent problems than identifying the strangest of the strangers in her library.

  “Well, luckily for all of us, we’re about to be enlightened,” Cleo said. “I’m sure there is no need to introduce Mr. Wesley Tensaw. Wesley, I know we all look forward to hearing what you have to say.”

  Cleo stood up and stalked over to the French doors at the side of the library, in case she needed to make a quick escape.

  “Everyone—” Wesley nodded to the assemblage as he gave the tiniest signal to Jeffries, who had magically reappeared. Jeffries used a remote control to trigger a large flat-screen, which lowered from the ceiling over the mantel. He then loaded a disc into the DVD drive. Jeffries passed the remote to Wesley much like a big spender would hand over a tip—almost by sleight of hand. As Wesley addressed the guests, Jeffries silently left the room.

  “I have instructions to play a DVD for you,” Wesley continued.

  All eyes turned toward the screen as curtains were drawn and the lights were lowered. Cleo gasped as her father’s gaunt face appeared on-screen. He was inches from the lens, obviously operating the camera himself. When he appeared to be satisfied, he wobbled to a chair strategically placed in front of the camera. Picking up some papers, he began to read.

  “My name is Clarence Johnson. If you’re watching this, it means I’m dead. There has probably been some celebration over this news—I made a few enemies in my day. And I make no apologies for that! I’ve always believed you have to have a tough hide to succeed.”

  Cleo glanced around the room as the identity of her father settled over the people in the room. She could hear whispers about “Cutthroat Clarence,” the billionaire who always seemed to land on his feet, no matter what the stock market was doing.

  “When I first heard that this cancer was inoperable, I refused to believe it. I know that sounds arrogant. It was arrogant! I was almost ninety, I had to die from something. But I had spent my life bending people and situations to my will and I was accustomed to winning. It took me a while to admit that I wasn’t going to win this one. I have more money than anyone would know what to do with, but not enough money to buy even one more day of life for myself. Those five stages of grief? I’ve been through them, all right. Denial that my money wouldn’t buy me more time, anger that my money couldn’t buy me more time, bargaining that if I gave enough money to research I’d have more time, depression that my money was not going to extend my life. And then, finally, acceptance.

  “Acceptance was the tough one. Because not only did I accept that my days are running out, I also accepted that I made some bad choices in my life. I would do anything, cheat anybody, to make more money. Did I need more money? I haven’t needed more money in fifty years! I realized I was an addict. Not to drink or to sex, but to power. And so, I went through the addict’s twelve-step program. Not officially. There isn’t a support group for power mongers. But on my own. And, OK, some of those steps seemed like hogwash and I ignored them. I’ve always done things my own way. But, hey, that ‘make amends’ thing . . . that really hit home. I don’t have time to make amends to everyone I’ve wronged in this life. Hell, I don’t even know who most of them are.”

  Cleo was mesmerized. She forgot about everyone else in the library and watched the screen as if he were talking only to her. On screen, her father put the papers on his lap and looked right into the lens.

  “But I know who you are, and that’s why I’ve asked my attorney to gather you all here today in my daughter’s house. Cleo, you might be wondering why I put you to the trouble of hosting this little get-together.”

  Cleo gripped the doorknob. She didn’t usually mind having all eyes on her, but even in the dark, she could feel the roomful of confused eyes turning in her direction.

  “I was hoping that you’d start to see these people as just that—people,” Cutthroat continued. “Instead of just a bunch of obstacles standing in the way of your inheritance. Did that happen, Cleo? Even for a minute?”

  No, actually.

  “Well, if that happened, I’m glad, but I suspect it didn’t. You are my daughter, after all.” Her father laughed, which sent him into a coughing fit. When his breathing settled down, he continued. “I know you’re probably pretty steamed at your old man right now.”

  Cleo started to speak to the screen but caught herself in time. She tightened her grip on the door to the outside, not sure if it was to steady herself or force herself to stay inside.

  Her father continued. “Cleo, I know I passed on to you my passion for getting what you want, so I have no doubt that all our guests are here. But for the seven of you gathered here . . .”

  Seven? Who is this seventh person? Daddy had only told her to track down six.

  The DVD continued. “Wesley has all my philanthropies covered and I won’t bore you with details that don’t concern you. I know you are all wondering what this meeting is about, so I’ll get right to that.”

  There was a murmur spreading throughout the room like thick, hot lava. Cleo tried to see Wesley’s face in the dark, but it was impossible. All she could see were his diamond cufflinks catching the light from between two of the drawn curtains.

  “Here’s the thing,” Cutthroat continued. “I lived the American Dream. I’m not talking about just owning your own home. I own . . . well . . . I guess now that’s ‘owned,’ since I’m dead . . . ten of them. After four, it just kind of bogs you down. No. I’m talking about the opportunity to make something of yourselves. I took that opportunity away from a lot of people. My gain was very often someone else’s loss—either directly or indirectly. And that includes all of you in this room.”

  Cutthroat stopped
speaking. Cleo stared at the screen. Her father appeared to be choked with emotion, but she couldn’t say for sure. She’d never seen her father choked with emotion.

  He continued. “I intend to give you people back your chance at the American Dream.”

  Cleo wondered, not for the first time, if her father had lost his mind before he died. What did any of this mean?

  “Let’s start with Wallace Watanabe. Wally, wave to everybody so they know who I’m talking about here.”

  Cleo could barely make out everyone turning to the sullen young man slumped on the sofa. Wally gave a flick of his index finger, which in the dark was easily missed.

  “Wally,” Cutthroat Clarence continued, “you are a disgrace to your family.”

  “This is bullshit,” Wally said as he sprang from the couch and pointed at the screen.

  Cleo was horrified by this raw display of temper in her home, but had no idea what to do. Luckily, her father kept talking.

  “A disgrace! You should be ashamed of yourself. But I blame myself for that,” Cutthroat said. “Please hear me out.”

  Cleo was relieved to see Wally sit back down.

  “I don’t know how much you know about your family’s history,” Cutthroat continued. “Many of the Japanese-Americans who were forced into internment camps during World War II never discussed it. I was always happy that many wanted to keep that part of their story under wraps, because I never wanted to face up to my part in it. You see, Wally, I bought your great-grandfather’s store in Oakland, California, in 1942. I was sixteen and was friends with his son, your granddad. I couldn’t believe that my friend and his family were going to be sent away. I lied about my age—the officials never questioned me—and I bought the little grocery store for a few dollars. I promised. . . I promised . . . that I would watch over it and return it as soon as that—craziness—was over. Well, I’m not here to give you a history lesson. Everybody knows that the war ended and the Japanese left the camps. Many of them returned to the lives they’d been leading previously, but many of them didn’t. Couldn’t. Your family, Wally, had nothing to return to, because I got an offer on the grocery store and sold it. I realized very young that money was easy to come by if you just didn’t take people into account. I’m ashamed to say it, but I never gave another thought to your family from the day I took that check.”