Chapter Two
TWO
The Baystate Entertainment Corporation building was easy to spot, housed in one of the tall metal-and-glass almost-skyscrapers towering over Boston.
Maggie loved her city. She loved the mix of new and old, the historic architecture alongside the new construction, the quirky people and myriad Dunkins.
She had a love-hate relationship with other aspects of Boston living, like the late-summer heat, the erratic drivers, the endless construction.
Maggie’s phone buzzed right as she was digging out her identification for the front security guard.
The caller ID was for James Holt, her finance manager.
Weird. He never called her out of the blue.
She checked the clock and calculated, but she didn’t have time to take this call now and still be on time for her meeting with Chauvel.
Reluctantly, she let it go to voicemail.
She had to leave her phone behind in exchange for credentials—actual credentials—to let her into the building.
Security delivered news of her arrival into a telephone, and she was sent up to the tenth floor.
It was all very austere, the secretary working behind an empty desk: only a computer, a single legal pad, and a steel cup of disposable pens.
Two generic black chairs marked the rest of the waiting area.
The door behind her bore a placard reading “Arnold Chauvel: Chauvel Enterprises.”
The door opened and Arnold Chauvel entered, tanned and glowing like he’d just stepped off a yacht.
He was younger than she’d expected—maybe late thirties or early forties, a few strands of gray threading through his dark brown hair, but with the commanding presence of someone much older.
“Marguerite!” He took her hand in both of his, bringing her forward, and she was in his office before she’d realized it.
“May I call you Marguerite, or would you prefer Ms. St. Claire? It’s lovely to meet you face-to-face. I’m a big fan of your work.”
“Really?” She hadn’t expected him to have read any of her articles.
Business owners didn’t concern themselves with the individual journalists under their employ, did they?
“Marguerite is fine,” she added after a moment, although she couldn’t think of him as Arnold.
He didn’t seem like an Arnold. He seemed like a Chauvel: powerful, confident, compelling.
By the time she got her bearings, he’d already taken a seat behind his large desk.
He had a breathtaking view behind him, the corner office looking out on downtown Boston through floor-to-ceiling windows.
“It’s something, isn’t it?” He spun in his chair to look at the view, then turned back around to face her again. “I get so used to it, I forget how it looks to others. Please, sit.”
Maggie sat in the plush leather seat, sinking in slightly.
The entire office had the aura of professional elegance, from the broad mahogany desk with filigree accents to the sitting area off to one side with a chair, ottoman, and reading lamp.
Large potted plants filled out the space, too.
His monitor was off to one side, and a neat stack of paperwork rested in a single tray, held down by a heavy-looking pen.
Something was unsettling about the space, though, and Maggie looked around but couldn’t get a good sense of it.
“I appreciate your coming into the office today.” He folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward slightly. “I know most people conduct these conversations online, but I’ve never been a fan of too much screen time. I think it’s bad for business, don’t you?”
Maggie opened her mouth, but Chauvel kept talking. The question must have been rhetorical.
“I think I can get a better understanding of a person by sitting with them. It’s more personal.” He smiled. “Although I know quite a bit about you already.” His smile broadened, getting toothier, suddenly more predatory than welcoming. If he was the predator, she was the prey.
“Oh?” She tried to keep her tone neutral.
“Yes. You probably don’t know this, but your father and mine were business associates back in the day.
” Chauvel kept his hands folded as he spoke.
There was no fidgeting or unnecessary movements, the kind that made a person seem relaxed.
Instead, he kept watching her with that unnatural stillness.
“Co-investors in a few different projects. I found records of their partnerships when I inherited Chauvel Enterprises.”
“Interesting.” She wasn’t sure it really was interesting, but that seemed like the right way to respond.
“Yes, you see, we have a number of connections.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Your job here as one of our journalists, our shared family business legacy, and your sister Coralie’s research job as well.”
Maggie didn’t like the sound of Cora’s name in his mouth. “What about my sister’s job?”
He inclined his head. “We received a sponsorship request from her lab. It seems their grant funding has fallen through, and they’re searching for donations to keep their research afloat. Another way in which you and I are connected.”
Cora hadn’t told Maggie the grant funding had fallen through. Something else they’d have to discuss at dinner.
Chauvel seemed pleased they had all this in common. Why list these connections between them, if not to take advantage of them in some way? To take advantage of her? She had barely met Chauvel, but she didn’t trust him. “I see,” she said, although she didn’t.
“I’ve called you in because I wanted to give you fair warning about some … challenges you might be encountering in the next few weeks.” He paused for a moment before the word “challenges,” like he was considering other options. “And to offer my help.”
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. “What kind of challenges?”
Chauvel picked up the heavy pen from the stack of papers and began spinning it over his knuckles, catching it each time it looped around the back of his hand. “My lawyers have let me know that there’s a forensic accountant who’s taken an interest in some of the shared investments of our past.”
Maggie frowned. “A forensic accountant?”
“They investigate financial crimes.” His tone remained light. “I’m sure you’ll hear about it from your own financial team soon enough. Even a whiff of impropriety and these vultures swoop in to pick through the carcass. Pardon the expression.”
Maggie’s heart rate quickened, along with a queasy feeling in her stomach.
That missed call from James felt far more ominous now.
She didn’t have a good sense of her family’s financial history.
Her parents had always been very private about money.
It wasn’t until they’d died that she’d even learned how wealthy they were, and the breadth of their investment portfolio had been too much for her to fully understand.
Their business manager retired immediately thereafter, and she’d been left in the thick of estate managers and lawyers and financial consultants.
It had taken months working with a finance manager to get everything set up for her and Cora to live in moderate stability.
She didn’t want to dig into the weeds of their past. She didn’t want to think that there might be weeds in their past.
“Financial crimes,” she repeated, almost to herself. “What will they find?”
Chauvel let the pen roll off his fingertips.
“Probably nothing. I’ve been through this before, and I’ve got a team who specializes in making sure everything turns out all right.
But in the meantime, you could be looking at frozen assets for however long they investigate.
Weeks, months, maybe years, if it’s a federal situation. ”
“Years,” Maggie parroted, her head spinning. She’d never had her assets frozen. She and Cora lived mostly on the dividends from their investments. What if that was all cut off? She forced her attention back to Chauvel. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I thought you and I could help each other out.” He smiled, but it didn’t put her at ease.
“Like I said, I’ve been through this a time or two before, and it’s been essential for me to retain access to capital.
I have some very useful connections. I’m sure I could pull a few strings to keep your assets liquid while this mess resolves itself. ”
Maggie didn’t understand what that might entail, and she didn’t want to be in this man’s debt. “And you’ll want something in return.”
Chauvel considered her, his gaze alert and focused.
Maggie resisted the urge to squirm. She wasn’t accustomed to the attention of someone like Arnold Chauvel.
She glanced off to the side, to the neutral wall with framed neutral art next to a nondescript wall clock.
She might as well be in a museum replica of American Business Office.
Maybe that was the source of her discomfort: there were no personal touches anywhere in this room.
Chauvel had no framed photographs of family members or friends, no newspaper clippings or diplomas, nothing at all to indicate this was even his office except the name plaque on the wooden door. Generic and impersonal.
“I want an article written. An exposé, sort of a pet project of mine. Needs some good investigative research.” He tipped his head to the side. “Tell me, Marguerite, have you ever heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel?”
She shook her head, mind still spinning off on tangents while she tried to focus.
Chauvel continued. “The Scarlet Pimpernel is the name—nickname, pseudonym, what have you—of an anonymous erotica writer and kink practitioner. We know he’s local to Boston, and that he’s been active in kink scenes in the past. I’ve been looking for someone to write a piece about him. I want you to find out who he is.”
Maggie frowned. “An exposé?” The queasy feeling intensified. “That isn’t something I really do.”