“He wouldn’t, Pam.That’s illegal.John wouldn’t have risked his career that way, much less his reputation.Changing a will is premeditated.It’s a blatant violation of the law.Are you sure, Pam?”
“I was there when the will was read,” Pam insisted.
“And there was no mention of Cutter?”
“No.”
“Or of Little Lincoln?”
“No.”
Still Hillary resisted.She didn’t want to think of John as a felon.“Maybe that part of the will was handled privately.Maybe Eugene had instructed that the bequest should be between the lawyer and Cutter.Maybe he got Little Lincoln and turned right around and sold it.”The eventual development had been done by St.George Mining.“John must have bought him out.”
“Sorry, Hillary.”
“Are you sure?”
“Cutter didn’t get anything.I know.”
“Maybe there wasn’t a bequest to begin with.”
“I heard them talking.Clear as day that time in Maine, I heard it.Daddy was firm.It wasn’t something they were discussing for discussion’s sake.It was a fait accompli, and nothing happened after that that would have changed Daddy’s mind.He and Cutter were on the best of terms right to the end.”
They walked on in silence for several minutes before Hillary murmured, “The bastard.”
“Uh-huh.”
Several days later, Hillary went to see Arlan Mc-Gregor.He was her editor, the man she had worked with on two previous books, and a friend.Looking up to find her at the door of his office, he flipped the glasses fromhis nose, sat back in his chair, folded his hands over a middle that had grown some of late, and grinned.
“Glad to see me?”she asked with a grin of her own.She had forgotten how much Arlan liked her, but the reminder was spreading from his grin to his eyes.No look could have been more welcome.
“Damn glad.I was beginning to think you’d dropped off the face of the earth.Or moved from New York.I’ve missed you something fierce.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I have.But a guy can only deal with unrequited love for so long.”He gave her an appreciative once-over.“You’re looking good, Hillie.”
If there was one thing John had taught her, it was to project herself as she wanted to be perceived.She was wearing a chic, man-tailored suit that was all business.She wanted to look competent, confident, and in control.
“Thanks, friend,” she said, then paused.Something was different.Something smelled different.Then it hit her.“No smoke?”
“Gave it up.”
“Good for you, Arlan!I’m proud of you!”
“I miss it like hell.”
“You’ll get over that.You’re looking good.”In a more professional tone, she asked, “How’ve you been?”
He shrugged.“Pretty good.”He glanced at the manuscript he had been reading.“Busy.”After a few seconds he rocked forward and put his elbows hard on the desk.“Bored.I’ve been doing all kinds of fascinating stuff—a biography of the guy who invented sneaker deodorants, a collection of short stories written by gays about theirmothers, a how-to book on keeping raccoons away from bird feeders, and self-help books on everything from peace of mind to gas pains.We’re talking dry, here.Real dry.”He widened his eyes.“I need something good, Hillie.My mind is shriveling.I need something with meat, something I can sink my teeth into.When are you going to give it to me?”
Smugly, she patted the briefcase that hung from her shoulder.
His eyes widened even more.“Are you serious?”
“Very.”
“You’ve done something more than those crap magazine pieces?”
