“It’s odd to get a letter from someone who is dead.” Her dark-lashed eyes had lost that giddy spark and were now soft; even reverent.
A curious woman: one moment, carefree and flighty, the next subdued and thoughtful. Gideon didn’t know how to respond, so he silently offered her the gold-plated letter opener from his desk.
Ms. Murphy took the opener and slipped it under the envelope’s flap. He watched as she pulled out a single sheet of matching cream paper—he recognized Nevio Valente’s personal stationery; God knew he’d seen enough memoranda and letters on it—and looked down at the spidery writing. She stared at it for a moment, peering, squinting, and then finally, with a rueful smile, began to dig in her huge leather bag.
Gideon found himself suppressing his own smile when she pulled a pair of brightly patterned cheaters from the depths of her bag and slipped them apologetically onto her nose. “Much better,” she murmured, looking back down at the letter.
There was silence for a moment as she read the letter, and Gideon directed his attention to the rest of the file on Fiona Murphy. He still didn’t understand why Valente would make such a significant bequest to a woman hemighthave met once. And there was nothing in the will to indicate the old man’s reasoning. Not that it was any of his business anyway.
He could only assume the missive Valente left for Ms. Murphy at least gave her some explanation.
Fiona looked up from the letter at last, and he saw that her eyes glistened. “Thank you. When is the reading scheduled? I’ll certainly plan to be there.” To his surprise, her tone was modulated and almost businesslike.
“Next Tuesday, at four o’clock. It will be here. I do hope your schedule can accommodate that time slot. Is…there anything I can get for you?” he felt compelled to ask in light of her obvious emotion.
“No thank you. Well, Mr. Nath, if there’s nothing else?” She gathered up her bag as if preparing to rise.
“No, no there isn’t, Ms. Murphy.” Gideon stood and extended his hand to shake hers. “I’ll see you next week. Have a nice evening.”
She clasped his hand with a firmness that surprised him, and held it for a moment, looking down as though examining something fascinating.
“Such long fingers,” she murmured, then, as though remembering where she was, looked up at him, smiled. “Henry?”
“Pardon me?” She was still holding his hand, and he was very aware of how…interesting it was to have that connection.
“The H. Is it for Henry?”
Gideon withdrew his hand, feeling even more unsettled. “No.” He couldn’t help that his voice was clipped; he simply didn’t know what to make of this woman.
“Howard?”
“No. Ms. Murphy, I—” He stopped himself from commenting that it was none of her business what awful name with which he’d been saddled. “I do hope you have a good evening.”
She grinned up at him, and he saw something in her eyes that glinted like a sassy sprite. “Have a nice evening yourself.”
He stared after her when she left, flowing skirts and gypsy hair, suddenly feeling like he’d been blindsided by the sun.
Two
The readingof the will was as tedious and boring as Fiona had anticipated. She sipped from a goblet of sparkling water studded with a lemon wedge and surveyed the cluster of people around the great mahogany table. There were only four people other than H. Gideon Nath, theThird, and his blond assistant, whose name she’d learned was Claire.
The rest were somehow related to Nevio Valente, and Fiona spent her time observing them as H. Gideon droned on, reading the long (so long!)document left by Mr. Valente.
Her will—should she ever have occasion to make one—would be one page long, and bullet-pointed.
There was Bradley Forth, the youngest of the bunch, who appeared to be either a grandson or grandnephew of the deceased—she hadn’t quite figured out which—and was not much older than Fiona herself. He wore his designer suit with the same confidence and air of professionalism as Nath, and constantly cast his gaze in her direction. His dark brown hair was brushed back from a handsome, sharp-featured face with a cleft chin. He held one end of a marbled fountain pen between each forefinger and thumb, his short fingers spread gracefully on the boardroom table. Square index fingers, Fiona noticed automatically. Must be a lawyer or an accountant. He didn’t wear a wedding band, and presumably if he had a spouse, she’d have been there at the reading of the will, so she could safely assume the interested looks he kept casting her were legitimate and not creepy. Plus,hisname was vaguely familiar.
She slipped out her mobile phone and, holding it in her lap beneath the table, stealthily tapped out the keys to Google him.
Next to Bradley Forth sat an older man, perhaps in his late fifties. Except for the greased back hair, he was a dead-ringer for how Fiona had imagined H. Gideon Nath, III, to look when she’d first talked to him on the phone.
His name was Arnold Sternan, and he wore wire-rimmed glasses that settled into little indentations in his cheeks and had spatulate, manicured fingernails that gleamed while he played with a gold-plated fountain pen. His hair was dark, its exact shade uncertain because it was slicked back with some sort of gel and appeared wet. It was a bit too long so it curled up damply at the nape of his neck. Judging from his age, he was probably a son or nephew of Nevio Valente. She gathered during the general conversation that he was some sort of investment banker or venture capitalist. She thought he looked like an aging mobster.
The two others at the table were obviously a couple, a man and woman of advanced middle age and poor taste—at least in Fiona’s opinion.
The woman’s clothing, though obviously expensive, was loudly decorated with beads, lace, and satin-stitch embroidery, and seemed to have no rhyme or reason in its pattern. Aside from its overdone decor, the color of the dress itself was enough to make Fiona feel nauseated: it was the hue of a perfectly ripe navel orange. She’d bet it had been purchased at an exclusive shop in Chicago.
The husband’s fashion sense was no more commendable, for, although he wore an unexceptional dark suit and white shirt, his tie looked like a long, narrow quilt. He had a fringe of grey hair that circled his scalp, and the crown of his head shined like a cue ball under the bright lights. The couple was finally identified as Viola Ruthven, Nevio Valente’s niece, and her husband Rudy.
