Imperfect Strangers Read online

  "She has."

  "Well, you're not alone, Sandy. I've been building my gallery for eighteen years, and it's become a regular cash cow. However, my wife of three years has just announced her intention to divorce me and marry a painter who I made into a giant of the art world."

  "I'm sorry, Peter, that's a tough break."

  "Tougher than you know. California is a community-property state."

  Sandy let out a short, ironic laugh. "Believe me, if New York were a community-property state, I'd divorce Joan."

  "It gets worse," Peter said. "Her new husband, the painter, will take most of my good artists with him, once the divorce and settlement are final. She'll take half the business, and then, together, they'll gut my half."

  The captain came onto the loudspeaker system and announced their approach into Kennedy Airport.

  "Sandy," Peter said, "did you enjoy the movie?"

  "Strangers on a Train? Loved it. I must have seen it half a dozen times."

  "Tell me, what went wrong with Bruno's plan for him to murder Guy's wife and for Guy to murder Bruno's father?"

  Sandy thought for a moment. "Two things, I think; first of all, Guy didn't take Bruno's proposal seriously until it was too late, and second, and most important, Bruno was crazy."

  "What do you think would have happened if Guy had taken Bruno's proposal seriously, and if Bruno hadn't been crazy?"

  "Well, I think they would have pulled off two perfect murders." Sandy stopped talking and looked at Peter with new, if somewhat drunken awareness.

  "Sandy, do you think I'm crazy?" Peter asked.

  "I don't believe you are," Sandy replied.

  "Do you think I'm a serious person?"

  Sandy looked at Peter for a long time. "I believe you are," he said, finally.

  The airplane touched down and taxied to the gate before anyone spoke again.

  Peter stood up and stretched. "Perhaps we should talk again," he said.

  "Perhaps we should," said Sandy.

  CHAPTER 3

  Sandy sat next to the hospital bed and looked into Jock Bailley's clear blue eyes. The two of them were alone.

  "Jock, can you understand me?" Sandy asked.

  The eyes gazed into his, innocent, childlike, expressionless. Jock's face had relaxed from its usual hauteur into the soft, unwor-ried face of an infant.

  "Jock, I just wanted you to know that I'm here, and that we all want you to get well," Sandy said.

  A doctor entered the room and walked to the bedside. "I'm Stan Warner," he said, offering Sandy his hand. "You're Mr. Bailley's son-in-law, aren't you?"

  "Yes, I'm Sandy Kinsolving. Doctor, is he conscious?"

  "He is, but he's aphasic."

  "What does that mean?"

  "He's unable to move very much or communicate in any way."

  "Does he understand what I say to him?"

  "I'm afraid I can't give you a definitive answer on that. He may very well understand everything, or he may understand nothing; he may not even know who you are."

  "Is he likely to recover to any extent?"

  "Again, there's no definitive answer. He could improve dramatically over the next few weeks, or he could remain as he is until death."

  "Is he out of danger?"

  "He's stable for the moment, but at his age anything could happen."

  "What is your experience of people his age recovering from something like this?"

  "Let's step out into the hall, shall we?"

  Sandy followed the doctor from the room.

  Warner motioned Sandy to a bench and sat down beside him. "I'm told that Mr. Bailley was an extraordinarily vigorous man before his stroke."

  "That's perfectly true," Sandy said. "I know sixty-year-olds who aren't as acute."

  "That stands in his favor, of course, but you asked what my experience of this condition was in people of his age."

  "That's what I want to know."

  "Not good. Of course, few people his age are in as good a condition, so it's hard to apply my experience. I just haven't had a patient like Mr. Bailley before."

  "I see."

  "I wish I could give you more solid information, but the statistical likelihood is that he will decline over a period of weeks or months, then die peacefully. Of course, he could have another stroke at any moment, and another one would likely kill him immediately However, there's no accounting for the human will. From what I've heard of Mr. Bailley, he could still have the resources to make a significant recovery and live for years more. There's no way to tell how much brain damage he's suffered, so he might need considerable rehabilitative therapy in the event of a partial recovery"

  Sandy looked up and saw his wife and son coming down the hallway. He stood up, kissed Joan on the cheek and hugged Angus. "You've both met Doctor Warner?"

  "Yes," Joan said. "I came straight here from the airport," Sandy said. "I was I afraid-"

  "Have you seen him?" Joan asked.

  "Just for a moment. He's awake, but-"

  "Aphasic," Angus said.

  "Yes, Doctor Warner has been explaining his condition, It seems that it's difficult to predict what will happen."

  "His heart's still strong," Angus said. "I'm betting on some kind of recovery."

  "I hope that happens," Dr. Warner said. "Well, if you'll all excuse me, I have some patients to see. Page me if you need anything at all." He walked away down the hall.

  "He seems like a good man," Sandy said.

  "The best," Angus agreed. "Grandad's lucky to have him."

  "There doesn't seem to be anything I can do here," Sandy said. "I think I'll go home. Joan, will you come with me? Albert's still downstairs."

  "Yes, I think so," his wife replied. "Angus, you'll call us the moment there's any change?"

  "Of course, Mother."

  Sandy took his wife's arm and walked her to the elevators.

  Albert, Jock Barney's longtime servant, stopped the car in front of the Fifth Avenue apartment and opened the trunk for the doorman to collect the bags.

  Sandy greeted the doorman and the lobby man, then got into the lift. Joan was silent all the way to their floor. The elevator opened directly into their foyer, and Sandy used his key to let them into the large apartment. It had been bought with money from a trust that Jock had established for Joan when she was born. Although Sandy was well paid at Bailley amp; Son, he never would have managed anything on the scale at which they were now living. There were fourteen rooms in the apartment, and three maid's rooms. Today, the servants were nowhere to be seen.

  Sandy followed Joan into the bedroom, undoing his tie and getting out of his jacket.

  "You must be tired," she said solicitously.

  "Yes, I think I'll sleep for a while."

  "You should have taken the Concorde," she said. "You'd have been here earlier and you'd have been a lot fresher, too."

  "Tell you the truth, it never crossed my mind. Anyway, Jock would have had another stroke if he'd thought I'd spent that much money on a flight to see him."

  She smiled. "You're right about that, I guess."

  He sat down on the edge of the bed and untied his shoes. "I still can't believe it's happened."

  "Neither can I."

  "How's Laddie taking it?"

  "Like a Scot. He's worried, of course, but he's at the office today."

  "I guess I'd better go down there tomorrow and talk to him about what to do."

  "What to do?"

  "About the business; how to divide up the responsibilities. With Jock out of the business, it's going to take some redrawing of the lines of authority. I mean, Jock was doing as much as ever, you know, running the place with an iron hand."

  "Yes, I suppose he was. Well, Laddie can handle it, can't he?"

  "He won't have to handle it all, you know. I can take up a lot of the slack."

  "Mmmm, I suppose," Joan said absently. "You get some sleep. Shall I wake you for some dinner?"

  "No, let me sleep straight thro
ugh, if I can. I'll be fine tomorrow."

  "As you wish." She left the room, closing the door silently behind her.

  Sandy hung up his suit in his dressing room, stuffed the trees into his shoes, got into a nightshirt and went to bed.

  His last conscious thought was of Jock's shining infant's eyes.

  Sandy woke in a dark room and got up to go to the bathroom. He didn't notice until he returned that Joan had not been to bed. He picked up the bedside clock and looked at its luminous face. Just after 3:00 a.m. He switched on a lamp and saw a folded note on his bedside table.

  I'm at the hospital. J.

  Sandy started getting dressed.

  As he got off the elevator Sandy saw the little group standing in the hall outside Jock's room. Joan, Laddie and his wife, Betty, and Angus, still in his white coat.

  "What's happened?" he asked as he walked up to them.

  Nobody seemed inclined to reply.

  "Daddy had another stroke," Joan said, brushing away a tear.

  "Why didn't you wake me?"

  "I didn't think it was necessary."

  "Well, how is Jock?"

  Angus spoke up. "Dad, the stroke cost Grandad even the most basic functions; we had to put him on a respirator."

  "Oh, no," Sandy breathed.

  "We disconnected the respirator ten minutes ago. Grandad died almost immediately."

  "What?" Sandy said.

  Joan spoke. "Daddy had a living will; it expressly said that he wanted no dramatic measures to keep him alive. We all talked about it and decided to honor his wishes. Doctor Warner agreed."

  Sandy sank onto a bench and stared at the wall opposite him. "Poor Jock," he said.

  Laddie spoke for the first time. "He had a long and productive life, and he was never ill, until the end. I think this is exactly how he would have wanted to go."

  "Perhaps you're right," Sandy agreed.

  "I think we should all go home and rest," Laddie said. "I've already phoned the funeral directors, and they'll collect the body in the morning. Let's meet tomorrow for lunch and discuss the arrangements."

  "Fine," Sandy said.

  "Come to lunch at our place," Joan said.

  Laddie nodded his agreement and bade them goodnight.

  Sandy stood and put a hand on his son's shoulder. "If your shift is finished, why don't you come home with us and stay for lunch tomorrow? You should be in on this."

  The three of them took a cab back to the Fifth Avenue apartment. All the way, Sandy tried to think about the future, but he couldn't manage it; he was too sad.

  The following morning, Sandy rose early, slipped into some jeans and went for a walk. A couple of blocks away he stopped at a pay phone and dialed a number.

  "Hotel Pierre," the operator said.

  "Mr. Peter Martindale," Sandy said.

  "Hello?" Peter's voice.

  'It's your traveling companion of yesterday."

  "Oh, yes, how are you?"

  "I'm not sure. Perhaps we could meet? Very discreetly?"

  "Of course," Peter replied. "I'm looking out the window at Central Park. If you enter the park from the corner of Fifth Avenue and Central Park South, you come to a long row of benches. I'll be sitting on one at four o'clock; you sit at the other end and read a newspaper; don't acknowledge me at all."

  "Four o'clock, then," Sandy said. He hung up the phone and walked slowly back to his apartment house.

  CHAPTER 4

  They sat down to lunch at one o'clock. When the food had been served the servants left the room and the family was alone. They ate nearly silently, and when the dishes had been cleared and coffee served, Laddie, who sat at the head of the table, in Sandy's usual place, took a document from his pocket.

  "Father left explicit instructions," he said. "They're brief; I'll read them to you: 'I wish my body to be cremated as soon as possible after my death and my ashes to be buried in my family's plot in Aberdeen, Scotland, without ceremony. If my family and friends wish to hold a memorial service at a later date, they may do so. All my other intentions have been outlined in my will, which is in my office safe, and a copy of which has been deposited with my attorney.' It's signed and dated January first of last year."

  Laddie laid the document on the table. "I have already given the funeral directors their instructions. The ashes will remain with them until I can get away to take them to Aberdeen. I'll try to do it next week.

  "I went to the office this morning, and in the presence of Father's secretary and two other employees, opened his safe and removed the will." He removed another document from his pocket and laid it on the table. "I don't know that we need a formal reading, as its instructions are very simple. There are approximately a million and a half dollars in bequests to servants and charities. Apart from that, there is a bequest to Angus of five million dollars, in trust until his thirtieth birthday, and one to Sandy of half a million dollars, to be paid outright. He left the company to Joan and me in equal shares. I am his executor. I will set up your trust as soon as possible, Angus, and I'll disburse your bequest as soon as the will has been probated, Sandy. Does anyone have any questions?"

  Everyone was silent.

  "The will is here, if anyone wishes to read it," Laddie said. With that, he rose. "If you'll excuse me, I think I should get back to the office to begin overseeing the necessary changes there." He nodded to them all and left, his wife on his arm.

  Angus rose and kissed his mother on the cheek. "If you'll excuse me, Mother, Dad, I have to be back at the hospital." He left Sandy and Joan sitting at the table.

  Joan spoke first. "I expect this must come as something of a shock to you, Sandy."

  "What?" Sandy said, popping out of a daze.

  "The will, and the bequest to you."

  "Well, it wasn't what he had intended to do as recently as last week," he replied.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that he called me into his office and said that he was grateful to me for my loyalty to him and the company, and that he intended to leave me the wine division. He said he would be making a new will shortly."

  "Did anyone else overhear this conversation?" Joan asked.

  "No, but he said he would tell Laddie about it. And, of course, his lawyer."

  "Laddie has said nothing of this, and when I spoke to the lawyer this morning, he made no mention of it, either. Not that it matters, of course. That document there," she pointed at the will, "is his last and very legal testament."

  Sandy folded his napkin and placed it on the table. "I'd better get down to the office and help Laddie." He started to rise.

  "I don't think that will be necessary, Sandy," Joan said.

  Sandy sat down again. "What do you mean?" he asked.

  "Laddie and I talked this morning. We feel that you should leave the company with immediate effect."

  "What?"

  "We both feel that it would be best if Laddie managed the company alone. I'll be joining the board. We'll buy your three percent of the company at book value, or you can keep the stock and collect dividends, if you wish. We would prefer to buy you out and keep all the stock in the family."

  "Am I no longer in the family?" he asked, as calmly as he could manage.

  "Sandy, our marriage has been an empty one for both of us for years; it's my very strong feeling that we should end it as soon as possible."

  "And how long have you been planning this, Joan?" he asked.

  "It's been on my mind for some time. I'm sure it's crossed yours, as well. I've been seeing someone else for some months."

  "Oh? And who would that be?"

  "Terrell duBois," she said.

  "Holy Christ," Sandy said. Terrell duBois was the chairman of the wine division's principal competitor, duBois amp; Blanche. "Isn't Terrell married?"

  "Yes, but that will come to an end in due course. Sandy, I would very much like all this to be as amiable as possible. You needn't move out of the apartment immediately-shall we say, the end of the month? I
haven't told anybody about this, not even Laddie or Terrell, in any specific terms, and I think it would be in your best interests if we handled this calmly."

  "In my best interests?"

  "Laddie and I are inclined to be generous in the terms of your leaving the company, if you are cooperative. Should you decide to make a fuss, either over the divorce or over this alleged plan of Daddy's, then we will do only what is required of us by law. I hope I make myself clear."

  "You certainly do," Sandy said.

  "Please don't mention this to Angus just yet. Around the end of the month we'll formalize our arrangements, and Angus can be told then. I don't mind if you sniff around for another job between now and then. I'm sure you will find something suitable."

  "You're planning to sell the wine division to duBois amp; Blanche, aren't you?"

  "It crossed my mind. Laddie, as you know, has no interest in wine, and I can't see him paying some expert a lot of money and stock to run a division that has always been something of an embarrassment to him. He was very hurt when Daddy agreed to let you start a new division, you know."

  "He never said anything but congratulations," Sandy said.

  "Laddie always did hold in his emotions," Joan said. "By the way, although you will be, for all practical purposes, a free man at the end of the month, I do wish you to keep up appearances until that time."

  "What sort of appearances?"

  "Well, we do have some dinner invitations this month, and, you will recall, on Saturday night we have the Hamptons Hunt Ball, at the Waldorf. Since we are both on the board of the recipient charity, I think it would be proper to appear there. Do I have your agreement? Will you behave, just until the end of the month?"

  "All right."

  "Thank you, Sandy; I knew you would behave well about all this." She rose and left the room.

  Sandy sat at the table, still stunned. He thought he had been prepared for the worst, but this went far beyond anything he had imagined. They were going to sell his wine division to Terrell duBois, and he was going to be on the street. True, he'd have a million or so in his pocket, from Jock's bequest and the sale of his stock, but that was a fraction of what he'd have had if Jock had lived to keep his commitment. Everything would be gone-his business, the London life, the grand apartment, the social status. He was out, and that was it.