Chapter Seven
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’re not on the list,” said the older gentleman at the door of the estate. “I don’t have any Juliette Winters listed here.”
“It’s a funeral,” Juliette said flatly. “Since when do they need bouncers and a guest list?”
“Mr. Ellingham was a highly sought-after public figure with incredible reach and resources,” the man said. “His service would naturally attract a great deal of attention, and the family wished to preserve their privacy by limiting public access.”
“I worked with Mr. Ellingham,” Juliette said, trying and failing to keep her patience with this glorified Beefeater in his pompous costume of coattails and what looked to be a top hat. “And I have ongoing business with the new Mr. Ellingham. At least let me talk to him.”
“I’m afraid that’s not suitable today,” said the implacable man, holding his place at the door. “It is, after all, his father’s funeral. Perhaps you should try his office on Monday.”
She’d tried his office—every day, multiple times a day, until she was sure his new secretary had blocked her phone number.
She’d tried going in person, she’d tried making an appointment, she’d even tried lurking outside the office to catch him on an errant coffee run, but with no luck.
Brad Ellingham had become a ghost in the last two weeks, much like his father’s missing manuscript.
She’d been reduced to stalking him at his father’s funeral.
“If I could just get five minutes,” she said, trying to maintain her cool. “That’s all I need. Faster than a smoke break, or a tipple of whatever you’re hiding in your front pocket.”
“I beg your pardon?” said the man, clapping a hand unconsciously to his chest. “I would never—”
“She’s with me, James,” said a crisp voice just over the butler’s shoulder. Clayton Westminster came into view, smiling apologetically. “I forgot to add her, I hope it won’t be a problem?”
“Of course not, Mr. Westminster,” said the butler, reluctantly dragging himself out of the way enough to let Juliette pass.
“Thanks, James,” she said, giving him a sharp smile as she slipped into the cool interior. She followed Clayton, waiting until they were a few paces away before speaking. “You saved my ass there, thanks.”
“An ass like that is always worth saving,” Clayton said with the faintest hint of a smile.
She certainly knew an open invitation when she heard one, and Clayton Westminster was definitely interested.
Good, he could prove useful to her in her dealings with Brad Ellingham.
And maybe after she recovered the manuscript and salvaged the publishing house, he could prove useful in other arenas. When she actually had the time.
Warren Ellingham had amassed an unfathomable fortune in his seventy years of living, and the estate he had specially constructed for himself showed every inch of it.
Imported marble floors, gold fixtures, animal-print rugs, and flowing drapes in a lavish white satin.
Everything smelled of leather and lemon polish, the floral wallpaper was a garish eyesore, and the chandeliers were more ominous than a Phantom of the Opera staging.
Only the artwork seemed to have been tastefully curated—high-quality oil paintings, beautifully crafted metal statues, a mix of more modern pieces with classics from the masters, all of them as artfully framed and arranged as the works themselves.
She hadn’t pegged Warren as an avid collector, but his home looked like a museum.
“This is quite the collection,” Juliette said, stopping before a small portrait of a girl pulling on ballet pointe shoes, her long and graceful limbs so painstakingly rendered that it looked as if she might rise up on her toes at any moment.
Juliette had been the youngest girl in Madame Fauvel’s Ballet Academy to go en pointe at ten years and eleven months old.
Then she’d met a prima ballerina in an international company whose toes had been broken and improperly set so many times she had to take a year off for surgical reconstruction.
That had put an end to any of Juliette’s dance dreams, and she’d signed up for track the next day.
She went all-state without breaking a single toe for the effort.
“That’s my favorite,” said Clayton, breaking into her reverie of dance recitals past.
Clayton stood shoulder to shoulder with her as his gaze lovingly caressed the painting.
He still looked as well put together and charming as he had the night of the party.
Juliette didn’t mind the friction of his jacket coat (another tailor-made number, from the looks of it) against her bare arm, or the fine cut of his aristocratic features.
She might actually like him too much to consider hooking up with him, though.
She preferred to keep her attachments physical; so much less mess that way.
“It’s called Girl in Youth,” he said, “by a Russian painter named Yuli Dostoyevsky. He was the resident painter to Czar Nicholas II, and supposedly this was a portrait of his youngest daughter, Anastasia. There was a woman in the seventies who tried to use the portrait as proof that she was the long-lost daughter of the czar, though obviously those claims were proven a fraud. But the portrait is authentic, that much I can verify.”
“I didn’t realize you knew so much about art history,” Juliette said.
“It was my major at university,” Clayton replied.
“A family emergency forced me to take an extended leave of absence. My mother had been unwell for quite some time, unfortunately, and my father no longer had the means to care for her. That’s how I came to work for Warren, actually.
Purchasing this very portrait. I suppose that’s why it’s my favorite.
He gave me a chance when my family needed it most. And now he’s gone. Strange the turns that life takes.”
“Do you ever think about going back?” Juliette asked. “Finishing your degree?”
“Hmmm?” Clayton looked at her as if he’d forgotten anyone else was there.
“Ah, that was someone else’s lifetime ago.
And besides, I’ve been able to purchase any piece of artwork I want with Warren’s blessing.
I curated a collection that rivals any of the galleries and museums in the world. What more could I want?”
Based on the purposefully smooth planes of his face, he could want a lot more.
Her parents had taught her to read between the lines, and Clayton had very carefully erased all of his.
Curating a collection and owning a collection were very different things.
The combined wealth of the mourners in the building could probably power the entire European Union for the next seven decades.
Few if any of them even glanced at the art, much less stopped to appreciate the brushstrokes and artistry that went into each piece.
They were used to such finery; it probably hung over their high-tech Japanese toilets and adorned the walls of their private jets.
It meant nothing to them. But it clearly meant everything to Clayton Westminster.
“I didn’t get a chance to talk to you the night of Warren’s party,” she said, keeping her voice low.
“After … well. I wanted to say, I’m so sorry.
I know you and Warren were close. I still can’t quite believe he’s gone.
I keep expecting to get one of his inscrutable text messages followed by a phone call five seconds later complaining that they don’t make phones for stubby fingers. ”
Clayton let out a laugh that startled the nearest women in furs like a warren of bunnies. They blinked in disgust, transmitting their disapproval with sniffs and huffs.
“Technology was the one thing Warren never could get a handle on,” Clayton said, shaking his head with a lingering smile.
But the smile faded, his deep brown eyes turning melancholy.
“Even the night of his party, with the microphone, I keep thinking … I don’t know.
Maybe if I’d tried harder to fix it when it was clearly shorting out.
If he hadn’t touched the amplifier … Maybe I could have … I don’t know.”
“Is that what the police think killed him? The microphone shorted out?” Juliette asked.
This was the first she was hearing of any cause of death.
She’d been scouring the papers and pestering the police over it, but they’d been awfully tight-lipped about the whole thing. Like someone had something to hide.
“Oh, I have no idea,” Clayton said, shaking his head.
“I’m only speculating. We always think we can do something different, change some behavior that would have prevented the whole thing.
The truth is, there were plenty of us handling the microphone that night without any issues.
As far as I know, he had a heart attack of natural causes.
At his age, those kinds of things happen.
I know Warren thought of himself as invincible, but he’s flesh and blood, same as the rest of us.
Brad is handling everything with the police, though.
It’s a routine thing. Apparently, the detective in charge of the matter requested an autopsy, and Brad completely lost his mind.
Threatened to sue the whole department.”
“Have you seen Brad lately?” she asked, before realizing that might sound a little too forward. “I mean, to pay my respects. I haven’t seen him since the night of the party, either.”
“Brad,” Clayton said, communicating plenty in that one word.
“I don’t expect anyone has seen much of him lately.
I’ve been keeping things together with the board, running the meetings and fielding the calls from the press in his absence.
But there have already been rumblings about emergency voting sessions and potential lawsuits.
He’s meant to give the eulogy today, though if it’s anything like the speech he gave at Warren’s party, we’d be better off skipping straight to the interment.
Still, I have to hope for the company’s sake that he can step up.
And I’ll help any which way I can, of course. I can’t see the Group fail now.”
Juliette knew the strain of carrying the weight of an entire company on your back. Which meant she had to hope Brad Ellingham could step up, too. Or she risked losing everything.