Elements of Chance. Barbara Wilkins
one changed. Managing Victor Penn’s estate certainly wasn’t the future he had seen for himself when he was editor of the Law Review at Harvard. His dream then had been to sit on the United States Supreme Court. But after he had graduated with honors, he had been courted by some of the country’s leading law firms. The Supreme Court could wait a few years, he’d decided. First, get some bucks in the bank.
He accepted an offer from the firm that handled the affairs of Penn International in New York. He was already a partner when he met Victor, who liked him at once. When Victor decided to make the Beverly Hills estate his main residence, John was reassigned to the firm’s Los Angeles office to handle Victor’s affairs. As he became more involved with them, John found that his principles were being compromised in direct proportion to his raises, bonuses, and other perks, which came often and in gratifyingly large amounts.
Thinking about his early idealism, which he described to himself as his early pomposity, made him smile these days. What counted, he often told himself in the mirror as he shaved in the bathroom of his half-million-dollar condominium in Beverly Hills, was the bucks. Oh, he was in good shape, with investments, a stock portfolio, and the condominium at Aspen. But it still wasn’t big, big money. Kyle and Mary and pretty Valerie weren’t the only ones who were praying that Victor was alive.
Valerie awoke slowly at three o’clock that morning. Fighting her way out of her drugged sleep, she instinctively reached out for Victor. The bed beside her was empty, the Porthault sheet soft and smooth to her touch, its scent only her own perfume. She lay there for a moment and looked around the huge, silent room faintly illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the curtains. Unconsciously, she ran her hands over her small, firm breasts, her flat stomach, before the horror of the day before flashed through her mind.
Oh, God, Valerie thought. My darling. My love. I’m barely alive when I’m not with you. Those had been Victor’s words to her on the phone from New York only the morning before. Dear God … I have to be strong. Victor would want me to be strong, Valerie thought, pulling herself out of bed. In the bathroom, she took a hot shower, wondering how her body could feel so bruised. Then, dressed in a caftan, she walked slowly down the winding staircase and into the music room. Two hours later, as the first rays of sun crept into the room, Mary found Valerie huddled in the corner of the sofa, an old black-and-white movie flickering on the television set.
“Mary, I didn’t know you were here,” said Valerie.
“I thought I should stay in case you needed some company,” Mary covered a yawn with her hand.
“That’s really very nice of you,” Valerie said shyly.
The words “You’d do it for me” were almost out of Mary’s mouth when she stopped herself. It wasn’t true, of course. She and Valerie weren’t friends, and Valerie wouldn’t do it for her. She was a paid employee. Staying overnight in an emergency was just the same as staying late at the office. Part of the job.
“Is there news?” Mary gestured toward the television set.
“Just what they were showing yesterday,” Valerie said, shaking her head.
“How do you feel?”
“As well as can be expected, I guess.”
“Is anybody up yet? Do you think we could get some coffee?”
“Nobody’s up, but we can make some coffee. I just didn’t think about it.”
“Do you think we can find the kitchen?” Mary asked.
“Well, I saw it once,” Valerie smiled. “I think it’s somewhere around the dining room.”
“John stayed too,” Mary said. “He’s upstairs in one of the guest rooms. He’s in the command post. Raymond’s orders.”
“Raymond,” said Valerie, her voice filled with contempt and fear. “I suppose he’s on his way.”
“He’s going right to Acapulco.”
“I don’t see why. Victor wasn’t on the plane.”
“Valerie, you’d better be prepared,” Mary said as they walked through the dining room and pushed open the swinging door leading into the hotel-sized kitchen. “Even if you’re right and Victor was kidnapped, he still could have been on the plane.”
“He can’t be dead, Mary. He’s my life.”
“I don’t think that comes into it,” Mary said gently.
The two women were on their second pot of coffee when John, wearing a pair of chinos and a blue polo shirt, came into the room.
“How do you feel?” he asked Valerie, then nodded to Mary.
“Better. It was just the initial shock.”
“Has there been anything yet?” he asked, thinking how pretty she was, how natural and young she looked without makeup, like a girl.
“Not yet.”
An hour passed before there was a news brief at five minutes to nine. “Ladies and gentlemen,” began the anchorman, “there have been sensational developments in the ongoing Victor Penn story. Five badly burned bodies, one a woman’s, are just being removed from the plane belonging to Penn International which crashed yesterday in the rugged jungle a hundred miles northeast of Acapulco. The rear door of the 727 was open, with the stairs extended, according to reports from the scene. Although six people were assumed to have boarded the aircraft at its point of origin, five bodies—I repeat, five bodies—were found. Raymond Penn, the brother of Victor Penn, chairman of the board and chief executive officer of the corporation, has just arrived by chartered jet at the Acapulco airport. He declined to be interviewed before being driven away, with his aides, to meet with authorities.”
“Holy Jesus,” somebody whispered.
Everybody in the room turned to look at Gregson.
Mary and John, just off the tennis court, sat at a table under a yellow and white striped umbrella sipping iced tea from frosted glasses. It was a sunny morning and the clear blue sky was punctuated only by one of the television station’s helicopters hovering overhead.
“You play well,” John said, wiping the sweat from his tanned face with a towel.
“Just another social skill,” Mary smiled. “It’s just like making polite chitchat at a dinner party, or holding your own at backgammon.”
“Yeah, engaging the attention of the rich. I guess we all do it in our own way.”
“Your way is more profitable,” Mary laughed.
“What about your way?”
“Well, it’s a good living. I’m sure you have some idea of what Victor pays me.”
“And I’m sure you receive finder’s fees, shall we say, from the stores and the jewelers.”
“That’s unkind,” she protested, running her hand through her blond hair.
“But true?”
“Of course,” she said. “Every single time anybody who works for Victor buys anything from anybody, there’s a finder’s fee.”
“What’s the justification?”
“We’re agents.” Mary shrugged. “We’re hired because we’re the best at what we do.”
“What’s your bottom line?” he asked between sips of his iced tea.
“What’s yours?” she asked.
“Well, money,” he admitted. “I’m sure you can imagine what having control of this