The Golden Chance

  He took a firm grip on his patience and chose his words carefully. “Let's just say that military contracts are often more trouble than they're worth from a business point of view. It's a damned nuisance having to get security clearances for so many employees, there's too much interference from bureaucrats trying to make brownie points by playing the role of government watchdog.”

  Disappointment dawned immediately in her expressive eyes. “Those are the reasons you wanted your firm to stop working for the government? You didn't like the paperwork?”

  His lips curved slightly. “You want me to tell you that I suffered a liberal conversion and saw the light?”

  “I'd like to think that there was some vague form of ethics involved in your decision, yes.”

  “Well, there may have been a few other reasons besides the paperwork problems, but as I recall they didn't carry much weight with the other members of the families.”

  “What reasons?” Phila demanded, on the scent again.

  “I don't think this is a good time to go into them,” Nick said smoothly. “Let's talk about you for a while. Tell me why you quit your job. You were a social worker or welfare worker or something, I take it?”

  “I was a caseworker for CPS,” she said, her voice cooling.

  He tried to place the initials and failed. “CPS?”

  “Child Protective Services.”

  “Foster homes? Abused kids? That kind of thing?”

  “Yes,” Phila said, her voice growing even colder. “That kind of thing.”

  “Your ex-supervisor said something about your trying to avoid interviews. What was that all about?”

  “There was a trial involving a foster parent. I had to testify. After the trial a lot of people wanted interviews.”

  The more reticent she became, the more curious Nick grew. “You decided to quit your job after the trial ended?”

  “People in my line of work have a high rate of burnout.” She smiled gratefully at the waitress who arrived to take their order. “Oh, good,” she told him. “I'm starving.”

  Nick watched her make a major production out of ordering the chicken and sensed he wasn't going to get her back on the topic of her former job.

  “I'll have the special,” Nick told the waitress.

  The woman looked up from her order pad. “It's macaroni and cheese,” she said in a warning tone.

  “Fine.”

  “Macaroni and cheese?” Phila murmured in deep wonder as the waitress left.

  “I happen to like macaroni and cheese. I'm a man of simple tastes.”

  “Sure. That's why you drive a Porsche and drink scotch.”

  “Having simple tastes does not imply a lack of standards,” Nick said blandly. “I also like beer. Now, where were we?”

  “I'm not sure. I think you were trying to get the story of my life so you could figure out how to use it to convince me to turn over the shares. That's your way, isn't it? You're sneaky.”

  “You flatter me.”

  Phila tilted her chin aggressively. “Not likely. I wouldn't go out of my way to flatter a Lightfoot or a Castleton. In fact, I think it's time we put our cards on the table.”

  “What makes you think I'm holding any cards?”

  “Because you're the type who always keeps an ace up his sleeve. Now, then why don't you just be straightforward with me, Mr. Lightfoot? And whatever it is you're going to offer or threaten, you can rest assured I'll give you a straightforward answer in return.”

  “And that answer will be no, right?”

  “Right.” Phila's eyes were alight again with the promise of battle. She started to say something else but stopped abruptly, her gaze going to the door behind Nick. The gleam went out of her eyes instantly, to be replaced by a wary, almost nervous expression. “Oh, damn,” she said very softly.

  Curious, Nick glanced over his shoulder, wondering if he was about to encounter an irate boyfriend of Phila's. What he saw was a thickly built woman in a faded, tie-dyed cotton dress. She must have been around forty but she was wearing her thin, graying hair in braids that hung to her waist. Her face was singularly lacking in character, showing no signs of maturity or past beauty. She wore no makeup to compensate for the unusual lack of color in her skin and lips. Her small eyes took in the crowd in one glance and alighted on Phila. She started down the aisle of booths.

  “Friend of yours?” Nick asked, turning back to Phila.

  “No.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Probably.” Her fingers were clenched around the edge of the table.

  Nick wasn't sure what to expect of the coming confrontation. The last thing he wanted to get into was a cat fight between two women. Nor did he want to see Phila get hurt. “Does this by any chance involve a man?” he asked.

  Phila's gaze met his. Her eyes were bitter. “In a way. Her name is Ruth Spalding. Feel free to leave.”

  “Not yet. I'm hungry, and here come our salads.” He glanced at the waitress who was bearing down on the booth at the same rate of speed as the woman with the braids. With any luck the salads would get to the table first.

  They did—or rather, Phila's did. Ruth Spalding spotted the tray and leaped for it with a muffled cry of rage. She seized one of the platefulls of iceburg lettuce, swept it off the tray and hurled it straight at Phila.

  Nick managed to reach out and intercept the heavy plate before it struck Phila but the lettuce, together with its blue-cheese dressing and cherry tomatoes, cascaded down over her bright pumpkin blouse. Phila did not move. She simply sat staring at Ruth Spalding with an expression of resigned sorrow in her eyes.

  “Bitch. Lying, scheming bitch.” There was an ugly mottling of red in the Spalding woman's thick face now as she screamed at Phila. Her eyes were feverish with hatred. “You lied, damn you. You lied and they came and took the children away. Those kids were all we had. He loved those children. And now they're gone. Now my husband's gone. And it's all your fault, you rotten, lying whore!”

  Phila was shaking as she slowly got to her feet. Nick saw the fine trembling in her fingers and he slid out of the booth to stand beside her. He was startled by the fierce, protective instincts that were suddenly surging through him. Nobody else in the restaurant had moved, but all eyes were on the scene taking place in front of them.

  “I'm sorry, Mrs. Spalding.” Phila spoke with a calm gentleness that amazed Nick. She took a step toward the heavy woman. “More sorry than I can say.”

  “You're not sorry, you meddling bitch,” Ruth Spalding hissed through her teeth. “You did it on purpose. You ruined everything. Everything, damn you!” She swung a huge hand in a wide arc.

  Phila did not even try to duck the blow. Ruth Spalding's palm cracked against the side of her face with enough force to make Phila stagger backward a step.

  “Jesus. That's enough.” Nick spoke very softly. If a man had acted this way toward Phila he knew he would have thrown a punch by now. He moved in front of the Spalding woman, looming directly in her path. She did not appear even to see him. She was staring rigidly over his shoulder, her entire attention focused on Phila.

  “It's all right, Nick. Please. I'll handle this.”

  Phila stepped around Nick, reaching out to the other woman. Nick watched in amazement as Phila put a hand on Spalding's plump shoulder. Spalding flinched as if she had been struck.

  “Don't you dare touch me, you bitch.”

  “I'm sorry, Ruth. I know you're hurting.”

  Huge tears formed in Ruth Spalding's tiny eyes and coursed down her cheeks. “Bitch,” Spalding whispered again, her large body shaking with barely stifled sobs. “He was doing okay. We were gonna make it. He was doing good until you came along and messed it all up.”

  “I know. I know.” Phila moved closer, putting both arms around the big woman. “I'm sorry, Ruth. So sorry.”

  For a few seconds Ruth Spalding simply stood there, her head against Phila's shoulder as she sobbed heavily. Then she jerked herself back a step, as if ash
amed to find herself taking comfort from the enemy. She pushed Phila away and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes.

  “You'll pay for what you did,” Spalding said as she backed slowly away down the aisle. “I swear to God you'll pay for ruining everything.” Then she turned and lumbered awkwardly out of the diner.

  Nick took one look at Phila, who was standing very still as she watched Ruth Spalding leave the diner, and he pulled out his wallet and threw enough cash on the table to cover the tab.

  “Let's go.” He took Phila's arm and steered her firmly toward the door.

  She did not resist. Every eye in the restaurant was on them, but she appeared oblivious as Nick urged her out into the warm night. He helped her gently into the Porsche and leaned down to study her face in the harsh neon light of the diner sign. She looked exhausted. All traces of the battle flags that had been flying earlier were gone. Without a word he closed the car door and went around to the driver's side.

  Phila said nothing until he parked the Porsche in front of the little white house. Then she seemed to come slowly back from some distant place as she realized she was home.

  Nick turned off the engine and shifted slightly in his seat. “You want to tell me what that was all about?”

  “Not particularly. It's none of your business.”

  “Somehow I had a hunch you'd say that. You okay?”

  “Just tired.” She massaged her temples. “I've been feeling very tired lately.”

  “Who was that woman?” Nick persisted gently.

  She hesitated, her eyes drifting to the front steps of her house which were illuminated by a pale light. “Ruth Spalding. She and her husband used to run a foster home on their farm outside of town. I…didn't like the way things were going for the kids. I was responsible for taking the children away and putting them in other homes. She hasn't forgiven me, as you can see.”

  “What I saw was you trying to comfort a woman who obviously hates your guts. You do that kind of thing a lot? If so, I can see why you got burned out. Sort of a thankless job, isn't it?”

  “It gets to you.” Phila shook herself like a small terrier throwing off water after falling into a cold stream. She blinked twice and opened the door. “Guess I really do need a vacation.” She climbed out of the car.

  Nick immediately slid out from behind the wheel and followed Phila up the path to her door. “Phila, wait.”

  She was fumbling in her shoulder bag for her keys. “I don't feel like talking any more tonight, Mr. Lightfoot.”

  “I do.” He removed the keys from her hand, deliberately taking advantage of her distracted state. He was good at taking advantage. He shoved the key into the door and stood aside.

  “Are you always this obnoxious?” Phila asked as she stepped into the hall and turned on a light.

  “Yeah. So I've been told. Sit down and I'll fix us a tuna-fish sandwich.” He headed for the kitchen without waiting for permission.

  Phila trailed after him and sat down in one of the small kitchen chairs. She scowled. “You think this is amusing?”

  “No. I think I'm hungry and I think I've got a few more questions. That's all.” He opened a cupboard door and located a bowl. Tried another drawer and discovered a can opener. He was on a roll.

  Phila's eyes followed him without much enthusiasm, but her shoulders had already relaxed a bit from the hunch of tension and depression she'd been sitting with in the car. “What questions?”

  “Let's see. How about we start with how long did you know Crissie Masters?” he asked casually.

  The vibration she'd emanated earlier abruptly returned. He was not even touching her, but he could feel her immediate reaction. She was on the alert again; the exhaustion cleared from her eyes.

  “I met Crissie when I was thirteen.”

  “You know she raised hell when she descended on the families last year, don't you?” he said quietly, spooning mayonnaise out of a jar. He remembered the barely concealed despair in Eleanor's gracefully accented voice when she had phoned to tell him of the trauma the family was experiencing at the hands of Crissie Masters. No one had suffered as much as Eleanor Castleton during the time Crissie was on the scene.

  “I know she raised hell, but I'm sure they deserved it. She only wanted what she felt was rightfully hers. After all, she was Burke Castleton's daughter.”

  “A daughter he never knew he had.”

  “Hardly Crissie's fault. Did you know she spent years looking for him? She used to fantasize about him all the time when she was a teenager. I remember lying awake in bed at night listening to her make up elaborate tales of how he must be searching for her and how he would find her someday. He lived in a mansion, she would say. And he was handsome and rich and dynamic.”

  “She wasn't far off,” Nick admitted.

  “I know.” Phila smiled wistfully. “Except for the part about his actively searching for her. He never bothered to look, did he? I still remember the day she phoned to tell me that she had finally traced her father and that he had turned out to be everything she had fantasized he would be. Wealthy, attractive and dynamic. And to top it all off, he welcomed her with open arms.”

  “He was the only one who did, from what I hear. What did you say when she told you the good news?”

  Phila's mouth tightened. “I pointed out that since he hadn't even been aware of her existence, he was probably an irresponsible bastard by nature. Any man who goes around fathering children and not being aware of it has a serious character flaw.”

  “I can hear the lecture now.”

  “Then I asked her how she could be certain he hadn't known about her or even suspected she existed. In which case he was even more of a bastard because it meant he'd deliberately ignored her all those years.”

  Nick took a deep breath, remembering an aesthetically lean, good-looking, charismatic man whose sensual appetites had apparently been inexhaustible. He had rarely been without a cigarette in his long-fingered hands. Burke Castleton had been larger than life, with a beguilingly wicked grin and the kind of eyes that made women catch their breath. The Castletons got the looks and the charm.

  “The bastard, as you call him, is dead, Phila.”

  “I know. Crissie was stunned when she got word of Burke's heart attack a few months ago.”

  “And was she just as stunned when she found out he'd left her a big chunk of his shares in Castleton & Lightfoot?” Nick asked blandly.

  “No. By the time he died, Crissie had gotten to know him well enough to believe he wouldn't leave her out of his will. She was right about that at least, wasn't she?”

  “Yeah. But Burke Castleton rarely did anything out of the kindness of his heart. He always had a motive, and sometimes that motive was nothing more than a desire to stir up trouble.”

  “Sounds like that might have been a family trait,” Phila murmured. “One Crissie inherited.” She watched as Nick spread tuna-fish salad on slices of bread.

  “Apparently so.”

  “Tell me something, Nick. Just how badly did the families hate Crissie?”

  He hesitated, thinking of what he had learned from Eleanor. “She didn't go out of her way to make herself lovable, from what I understand. Why did she leave the shares to you?”

  “I was the sole beneficiary of her will, just as she was in mine.”

  “The two of you made out wills? Isn't that a little unusual under the circumstances? How old were you when you did that?” Nick was amazed.

  “We made them out the day we turned twenty-one. It wasn't that we had much to leave to each other, you understand. It was sort of a symbolic gesture. But the wills exist, and I am Crissie's legal heir.”

  “Okay, okay, I believe you. What were you implying with that question about how much the families hated Crissie?” Nick asked quietly as he served the tray of sandwiches. He sat down at the small table and helped himself to one of his own creations. “You're not crazy enough to think someone might had tried to kill her, are you?”

&n
bsp; Phila made no move to touch the sandwiches. “The thought crossed my mind, so I hired a private detective to look into it. His report says it was clearly an accident. She was driving too fast that night, and she'd had a few drinks. She took a turn too quickly, went through a guard rail and landed in a ravine. There was no evidence of foul play. Just tragedy. Lots of evidence of tragedy.”

  Nick stopped chewing. “I don't believe I'm hearing this. You actually checked out the possibility of foul play?”

  “Of course. I told you. Crissie was like a sister to me. Do you think I'd take a Castleton's or Lightfoot's word that her death had been an accident?”

  “What about the word of the cops who investigated the scene of the accident?” Nick asked with set teeth. He was suddenly feeling angry.

  “Cops can be bought. Especially by people as powerful as your precious families.”

  “Jesus.” Nick forced himself to breathe slowly. “Who the hell do you think you are to hurl those kinds of accusations?”

  “Me? I'm the only real friend the deceased had, remember? Who else has a better right to hurl accusations? Besides, I'm not hurling them. Not any more. I already checked them out. The families are technically off the hook—technically, at least.”

  “Technically? What the hell does that mean?” Nick was having a hard time controlling his rage now.

  “I mean that as far as I'm concerned the Lightfoots and the Castletons bear some moral responsibility for what happened to Crissie.”

  “Moral responsibility.”

  “Oh, nothing that would ever hold up in court, I'll grant you that.”

  “Thank you very much.” He wanted to pick her up and shake her. “You've got a lot of nerve, Philadelphia Fox.”

  “Why? Because I dare impugne the honor of the noble clans of Lightfoot and Castleton? Let me tell you something, Nicodemus Lightfoot, there are plenty of ways to ruin a person's life short of murdering her. Believe me, in my line of work I've seen a whole lot of examples of just how it can be done.”

  “You can't blame us for what happened to Crissie Masters.”