The Playboy Assignment

“I don’t think he can tell you anything,” she said as he dialed. “What a client puts in his will is a confidential matter.”

“I’m not going to ask what’s in the will, just whether Cyrus made any changes recently.” He spoke into the phone. “Pierce Reynolds calling for Mr. Joseph Brewster, please.”

The way Pierce’s voice deepened whenever he wanted to impress someone had never failed to amuse Susannah, and even now a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She wondered if Pierce knew what he was doing. Probably not, she decided; the habit could well be so ingrained he was no longer aware of it.

As Pierce asked his question, he began to tap a pencil on his desk blotter at even intervals, and by the time he put the telephone down the steady rhythm had almost driven Susannah mad. She took one look at his glum face and forgot the tapping. “I told you he wouldn’t answer the question.”

“Oh, he answered.” Pierce tossed the pencil aside. “Cyrus hasn’t changed his will in years.”

Susannah sighed. “I guess that’s that.”

“Unless he went to some other attorney, of course.”

“Come on, Pierce—how likely is that? Maybe we should look on the positive side of this whole thing.” Susannah tried to laugh, with little success. “With all those valuable paintings, and the publicity we expected to get, security would have become a massive problem. We’d have been begging for handouts in the street just to pay guards.”

Pierce didn’t hesitate. “We wouldn’t have any trouble fund-raising for security.”

Didn’t the man have any sense of humor? “Okay, so it was a bad joke. But you may as well accept the facts.”

“And if things had gone right we wouldn’t have had to worry about securing this place at all.”

Susannah frowned. “What does that mean?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.” Pierce looked a bit shamefaced. “But—oh, what difference does it make now? I’d hoped that Cyrus would give his house to the museum, too.”

Susannah had never seen Cyrus’s home, but Pierce had told her about the huge old Queen Anne house, featuring all the grandeur of the high Victorian style, furnished with solid old walnut and located on a half-block square lot in one of Chicago’s oldest and finest suburbs.

“And move the present collection there?” She shook her head. “It certainly makes our current troubles with access for the handicapped look like peanuts.”

Pierce dismissed the problem with a wave of the hand. “Cyrus installed an elevator just last year.”

Susannah rolled her eyes. At least, she thought, that harebrained scheme would never come to pass. Surely the board of directors would never have gone along with it...

On second thought, however, she realized that there was method in Pierce’s madness. In fact, the idea made an odd sort of sense. In its downtown location, the Dearborn would always be just one among Chicago’s several prominent art museums. But in the suburbs, it would stand alone, surrounded not by competition but by middle class families with time and money for cultural activities—not only visits but art classes, lectures, tours... Possibilities poured through her mind.

“Well, why not?” Pierce said defensively. “It’s not as if Cyrus had a family to leave it to. Besides, his pictures were the most important thing in his life. Why not leave them in the setting he created for them?”

Reluctantly, she pushed the stream of ideas aside. It was too late for them. And too late, Susannah thought, for sympathy to do Pierce any good, either. She said, finally, “What about the funeral? Shall we go together?”

For a moment, she wasn’t certain whether Pierce hadn’t heard her or if he intended to refuse. Then he gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Oh, why not?” he said. “Doesn’t every fisherman like to get a last glimpse of the one that got away?”

Susannah was on the telephone when Alison tapped gently at her office door and put her head in.

Susannah beckoned her in and said, “Yes, Mrs. Adams, I know exactly how disappointed you are. I’ve found, however-”

Alison sat down on the edge of a chintz-covered chair, looking half afraid that the deep, soft cushions would drag her down like an undertow. Funny, Susannah thought, with half her mind still on Mrs. Adams, how different the partners were. Alison could sit like that, hands folded like a studious schoolgirl, for hours. Kit, if forced to wait, would probably have reorganized the bookshelves. Susannah would have flung herself on the overstuffed plaid couch and at least pretended to take a nap.

Finally she soothed Mrs. Adams into hanging up, and rubbed her ear as she put the telephone down. “Someday,” she said, “I’m going to try to hang up the phone and discover that I can’t because it’s melted into my ear and become part of me.” She looked longingly at the couch, but she knew better than to chance wrinkling her skirt. Linen—even black linen—showed every crease.

Alison smiled in sympathy. “Rita told me she’d put through calls from every single member of the Dearborn’s board of directors today.”

“Oh, she has. I can’t decide whether to thank her for being such an efficient secretary, or yell at her—for exactly the same reason.” Susannah’s voice was dry. “Thank heaven that was the last of them—at least for this round.”

“What’s on their minds? Or did they all know about Cyrus?”

“No. Not by name, at least. But the news seems to have leaked just this morning that all hope of getting the collection has gone up in smoke, and every person who isn’t running for cover is making threats instead.”

Alison’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “What kind of threats?”

“Oh, the usual noises about hiring a new director.” Susannah waved a hand. “I think I got most of the feathers soothed. Eventually they’ll realize it wasn’t Pierce’s fault—and also that they can’t hire anyone else for what they’re paying him—and everybody will be back on good terms. What’s up, Ali?”

“Pierce, actually. Rita sent me up to tell you that he’s waiting downstairs.”

Susannah stood up, smoothed her skirt, and slipped her black jacket on over her snowy white blouse. “Good. I mean, I’m not looking forward to Cyrus’s funeral, but it’s better than dealing with the phone.” She picked up her wide-brimmed black hat and glanced in the mirror mounted on the back of her office door.

“I know. That’s why Rita asked me to come up and tell you—because she didn’t want to break into your call.” Alison paused in the doorway. “You and Pierce look like a matched set, by the way, except you don’t have a black tie and he wouldn’t look nearly as good as you do in that hat.”

Susannah paused as she adjusted the tilt of her hat. “You’re sure it isn’t just a little over the top? I don’t want to look like a professional mourner. But I did like the old man, and as a mark of respect...”

“Looks great,” Alison said. “If I could wear a hat with that kind of dash, I’d never take it off.”

Susannah smiled in spite of herself. “They really get in the way when it comes to being kissed, you know.”

“Just as I said—I’d never take it off.” Alison grinned and started up the stairs toward the top floor production room.

“If you’d stop being quite so practical, Ali, you’d have lines of men wanting to kiss you.”

Alison didn’t even pause. “Really? Well, since I don’t have time for that sort of nonsense, I’ll definitely have to look for a hat.”

Susannah made a face behind her partner’s back and turned toward the staircase to the main floor.

Pierce was standing in the receptionist’s office, hands clasped behind his back, shifting his weight from toes to heels and back again. He was staring at a framed poster which hung near Rita’s desk, but Susannah doubted he’d even seen it, or heard her come in. She was wrong on both counts.

Pierce stepped back from the poster and said, “I could get you something really nice to hang there.”

“On Tryad’s decorating budget? I doubt it.” She let her gaze run over him. In his dark suit he looked taller, but in fact his eyes were exactly on a level with Susannah’s when, as now, she was wearing heels. His tie wasn’t black, it was charcoal; Alison had been wrong: But she’d been correct about the rest. They couldn’t have patched more perfectly if they’d been dressed by a single designer. Rita, she noticed, looked impressed.

Pierce had left his tiny sports car in front of Tryad’s converted brownstone. He helped Susannah into the passenger seat, and she tried to keep her skirt from sliding impossibly high.

“At least it’s a pretty day,” she said as he got behind the wheel. “I wondered why the services were delayed so long, but it worked out beautifully, didn’t it? After the rain yesterday and the day before—” Why was she babbling? The urge to talk simply to fill the silence was a sensation she’d never felt with Pierce before, and it took Susannah by surprise. Theirs had always been an easy and professional relationship.

“The funeral was put off for the heir’s convenience.”

Susannah frowned. “What heir?”

“Didn’t I tell you what I’ve found out? The will currently in force was made more than ten years ago, and—”

Susannah interrupted with a long, low whistle. “You’ve put the delay to good use, haven’t you?”