Carved in Stone, page 5
She flinched and turned away. There would be no miraculous salvation for the college from writing a few bank checks. She braced a hand against the garden wall, gathering her thoughts. She had to try again. She had to try again now, because Uncle Oscar’s decision simply could not stand.
She turned back to the children still clustered around the koi pond. “Time for you to head back to your house,” she said to the boys, scooting them toward a low-hanging branch they used to climb over the fence separating their yards. She held the vine of wild jasmine aside so they wouldn’t crush the blooms and helped them over.
Mimi reached for her walker. “Do I have to go too?”
“Yes, sweetie. I’ll take you back to your mother.” She glanced at Mr. O’Neill. “Will you walk with me to campus? You and I need to speak privately.”
“I’m not sure what we have left to discuss,” he said. “My client was firm in his decision.”
She liked his voice. Gentle but firm and with a hint of an Irish accent. He wasn’t particularly handsome but still enormously attractive. His face was rugged, as though carved by an axe. His hair looked like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to be light brown or blond, and his nose had been broken at least once, but none of it lessened his appeal. He looked strong, like a protector, and all women secretly liked that in a man.
She led him and Mimi down the brick path to the front of the house and then on the one-block walk to the campus. Mimi’s lumbering gait made for slow progress, but Mr. O’Neill seemed to enjoy craning his neck to admire the buildings and the natural beauty of campus. He even came inside the administration building when Gwen escorted Mimi to the office where her mother worked. The building’s arched hallways and wood paneling made it feel like an old-world castle, and she squinted once they emerged back into the sunlight.
“Have you ever been to Blackstone College?” she asked. He hadn’t, so she pointed out the various buildings and the fountain splashing in the center of the quadrangle.
“What is your role on campus?” he asked. “Do you teach?”
Gwen’s lifelong dream had been to become a professor here, but that was reserved for people with doctorates. She once contemplated enrolling at New York University to get her doctorate in botany but had balked at the prospect of living in downtown Manhattan, surrounded by towering skyscrapers, the noise, the traffic. Just . . . no. It wasn’t possible.
“My husband was the head of the biology department,” she said simply.
“Was?”
“He died two years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You chose to stay on campus?”
“Oh yes, I’ll never leave this place.” Her reply was instinctive. This college was her home, and she had never even considered leaving it. “I teach a class on botany each semester, but mostly I enjoy tending the gardens and looking after the students. They get dreadfully homesick, even though they’d die before admitting it, and I like mothering them.”
His gaze roamed across the ivy-covered buildings and manicured lawns. “This isn’t anything like where I went to college. It’s a good thing your family has money.”
She sent him an amused half smile. “I’m afraid this college is the only investment our family made that reliably loses money every year.”
“Maybe a little less money spent on fancy buildings would have been prudent.”
Like many people, Patrick O’Neill didn’t look beneath the trappings to see the miracles that were the true beating heart of this college.
She gestured to the building directly behind her, a four-story granite masterpiece with windows that sparkled in the sunlight. “Do you think the buildings are where our money goes?”
He looked at her blankly. “I’m sure they cost a pretty penny.”
They could have been built with my father’s pocket change, she silently thought. “Come with me, and I’ll show you the college’s real treasure,” she said. “It has nothing to do with fancy buildings or pretty landscaping. The amount we spend on it dwarfs everything you can see with human eyes. Are you willing to open your mind and heart to learn about it?”
A glint of curiosity sparked behind Mr. O’Neill’s big, strong face. “Lead the way.”
Against his better judgment, Patrick was intrigued. Sparring with the Blackstones was a dangerous undertaking, and he was already powerfully attracted to this woman. Now that he knew she was a widow, he was even more intrigued.
“This is the jewel in our crown,” Mrs. Kellerman said as she led him into the cool interior of the chemistry building, where their footsteps echoed in the hallway. “Our research focuses on diseases like botulism and tetanus. These are rare diseases that only afflict a few people each year, but the victims tend to be poor with little hope for a cure. Most colleges are researching treatments for the big diseases like tuberculosis where there’s far more profit.”
She stopped before the open door of a laboratory where several men and two women were bent over microscopes and lab books. The blackboard behind them was covered in what looked like hieroglyphics.
“My father’s dream was to cure the diseases of the lame, the halt, and the blind,” she said. “Every person who walks through the gates of Blackstone College feels the same, even though we know it’s going to be a steep road. If finding a cure was easy, it would have already been done. So we chip away at the problem, year after year, decade after decade. We lose more battles than we win, but we don’t give up, because each failure means we are one step closer to the finish line.”
Next she took him to a room with a wall of refrigerated cases, briefly opening them to reveal test tubes of serums and samples.
“These are strains of cowpox, chicken pox, and smallpox,” she explained. “We send professors and graduate students to India and China to collect additional strains of the diseases as they evolve, trying to stay one step ahead and mass produce vaccines that will treat these diseases anywhere in the world. The college has already vaccinated almost half a million people for smallpox in India.”
She led him to the next room, which looked like a library, but instead of bookshelves it held rows of maps and floor globes. “This is where we track disease,” she said, showing him how colored thumbtacks pushed into the maps indicated disease outbreaks.
He’d never heard of most of them. Beriberi, pellagra, yaws, and pertussis were all unfamiliar words to him, but apparently the college had teams of people working on each disease. Each year they spent a fortune sending their scientists abroad to gather samples and bring data home to analyze. They sponsored conferences and scientific journals to share information. They had an alert system to communicate news of outbreaks that might occur anywhere in the world. Chemists could swing into gear to mass-produce vaccines and then transport them to people in need.
“We are on the cusp of something wonderful,” Mrs. Kellerman said. “The lame, the halt, and the blind can be cured. We can move the unmovable object. We’re fighting against all odds to accomplish something that’s never been done before. This is where our treasure lies. This is what I’m fighting for.” The radiance in her face dimmed. “And when someone smears the Blackstone name, this is what they’re smearing.”
It felt like she’d struck him, and in a way she had. He was paving the way for a seedy memoir to pollute the air with old grievances against the Blackstone family. It wasn’t something he could be proud of.
“For what it’s worth, I wish Malone had taken your offer.”
“I do too,” she said softly. She looked around the strange library, filled with maps and globes that tracked human suffering around the world, then back at him. “I want you to remember this. What you see in this room is hope. It’s hope for millions of forgotten people in the world who need someone to extend a hand of compassion. We are good people. When you use your time and skills to help a man like Mick Malone, you are working against this.”
Before he could defend himself, she turned to walk away, leaving him at a loss. He’d never had such a humbling set-down before, even more effective because of her quiet grace.
Somehow he had to gain Gwen Kellerman’s respect, but he had no idea how to do it without betraying a client.
6
Each morning when Gwen awoke, she enjoyed a blissful few seconds of peace while listening to the meadowlarks in her garden.
Then she remembered the threat to the college, and the fear set in. She couldn’t leave this place. She couldn’t let the college fail. Her ploy with the lawyer had failed, so now her best hope was to convince her grandfather to override Uncle Oscar’s decision.
Normally her uncle and grandfather moved in lockstep accord, but if she could get Frederick away from the office and into the scholarly oasis of the college, he might soften. Frederick was meeting her for tea this afternoon in the college’s outdoor café, and Gwen prayed she could earn his support.
Her former bodyguard, Zeke Jankowski, now worked at the café that was surrounded by manicured box hedges to create a private haven from the rest of campus. Only a handful of students remained on campus during the summer, so the café was empty.
Except for a single woman nursing a cup of coffee in the far corner. She wore an immaculate white linen gown that ought to make her look washed out against her white-blond hair, but Vivian Chastain always looked magnificent.
“I didn’t realize you were coming, or I wouldn’t have let her in,” Zeke said as Gwen arrived at the café. “You shouldn’t have to put up with that woman.”
Gwen squared her shoulders. A better person might let Zeke tactfully handle the matter, but she had been far too tactful over the years.
“I’ll be all right,” she said quietly to Zeke, then headed toward Vivian, who looked up in surprise. Gwen would sound dignified and ladylike if it killed her. “I’m meeting with my grandfather in a few minutes, and it would be best if he didn’t see you. I think you should leave.”
Vivian’s tone was also coolly polite. “I’m not finished with my coffee.”
Gwen lifted the cup and tipped its contents into the nearby planting bed. “Now you are.” She set the cup down with barely a click, and Vivian wasn’t so cool anymore.
“That coffee cost ten cents!”
“Are you expecting me to pay for it?” Gwen asked. “I won’t.”
Vivian stood, her eyes narrowed. “But you’re so good at paying for things,” she said, hostility beginning to crack her voice.
Zeke immediately stepped between them. “Let’s settle down,” he said. “Miss Chastain, it’s true. Mr. Blackstone is on his way, so you ought to leave if you want to keep your job here.”
Vivian’s expression did not waver as she glared at Gwen. “Did you buy him too? Poor Gwen only has friends who are on her payroll. Maybe someday you can buy yourself another husband.”
“Shut up,” Gwen said. She managed to keep her tone quiet, but her fists instinctively clenched. “Shut up and leave.”
Vivian turned away and collected her handbag. It was a pricey one, lavishly embellished with seed pearls and a gold clasp. It was surely a gift from Jasper. Before leaving, Vivian leaned in for a final barb.
“He loved me,” she whispered. “He always loved me, even on the day he walked down the aisle with you.”
Gwen remained motionless as Vivian departed, hoping Zeke didn’t sense her mortification.
“I don’t know why you tolerate that woman,” Zeke said, holding out a chair for Gwen.
She sat. “We all have our crosses to bear. Mine is named Vivian Chastain.”
“You could have her fired. The college doesn’t even teach music anymore, but you found her a position in the accounting office.”
It was the ultimate irony. Blackstone College had been established to pursue excellence in scientific research, but Jasper had always pushed for the addition of a music department, claiming there was an intersection between mathematics and music. Vivian was their first hire to teach classes in piano.
During those early years, Gwen had no idea Vivian was Jasper’s mistress. How many times had she welcomed Vivian into her home for her Friday night soirees? Even after Gwen learned the truth, she still fought to maintain a façade of domestic harmony.
Then Jasper died, and the music department soon closed. It was never a good fit for Blackstone College, but Gwen found a position for Vivian in the accounting office. Did that woman even know what Gwen had done on her behalf? Would she be less nasty if she did?
“I don’t want her fired,” she said in a gloomy voice. “There is a child to consider.”
Mimi was Jasper’s only child. Life was going to be hard for Mimi, and Gwen intended to help the sweet girl who’d been born with such challenges. Mimi spent most of her time in the safe cocoon of Blackstone College and didn’t yet understand how different she was. Gwen wanted that to continue for a few more years, which meant she had to tolerate the girl’s mother.
“Here comes my grandfather,” she said. “Please say nothing about Vivian. Her presence is an irritant to him, and he’s been pestering to have her fired ever since . . . well, for a long time.”
“I hear you, Mrs. Kellerman. You’ve got a bigger heart than me.”
Not really. She hated doing the right thing where Vivian was concerned, but she had more important battles to fight. Her grandfather was heading her way, and funding for Blackstone College was on the line.
She stood as Frederick strode toward her with remarkable vigor for a man about to celebrate his seventy-eighth birthday. She’d always been mildly intimidated by her grandfather. Frederick’s ramrod-straight posture, sharp eyes that missed nothing, and the iron mask of his expression that never showed emotion were intimidating.
“Have a seat,” he ordered once he arrived at the table. “We have much to discuss. Have you read that vile memoir by Mick Malone yet?”
Gwen was taken aback. “I would rather weed the area around the college’s septic tanks. It seems less distasteful.”
“I gather your mission to dissuade the scoundrel’s lawyer did not succeed.”
“He turned down my first offer,” she admitted. “I haven’t given up hope, but are you truly going to let Uncle Oscar make good on his threat to cut our funding?”
“It doesn’t matter what I want. Oscar commands more votes than me.”
That was true. Frederick controlled thirty percent of the bank, while Oscar only held twenty percent, but Oscar commanded the allegiance of the other shareholders. Oscar had a proven track record of astounding financial success, and the remaining shareholders were intensely loyal to him.
“Could you try?” she asked. “If I can count on your thirty percent stake, perhaps some of the other shareholders would side with you.”
“Or perhaps you can deliver on your promise to scuttle the memoir. If you can’t, Oscar goes to court next week to argue for an injunction against it. It’s only a court hearing, so there won’t be many people there, but I don’t like it.”
One week didn’t leave her much time, and her anxiety ratcheted higher. “What are his odds of winning?”
“Not good. What makes it even more galling is that the book is a pack of lies.” He took the slim advance copy of the memoir from his suit jacket and handed it to her. “I read it last night. Most of it is nothing more than Malone boasting about his life of crime, mixed with vitriol against our family. He still claims innocence and that the real kidnappers planted the bills from the ransom payment in his room. The only new information is that Malone finally admitted he is a thief and was planning a midnight heist of a jewelry store around the time William disappeared. What he writes in chapter five has a ring of truth to it. Start on the second paragraph.”
Gwen didn’t even want to touch the book, but she swallowed her distaste, opened it to the marked page, and began reading.
New York in February can be bitter, and the winds sweep through the city, sending sleet and misery straight into a man’s soul. I remained at my post, hour after wretched hour, watching and learning the behavior of the night watchman who patrolled the streets around the jewelry store.
The time was ripe for a heist. It was a week after someone had kidnapped the Blackstone boy, and the police were distracted searching for him. That meant the night patrols were thin, and there would never be a better time for a late-night robbery. After a few more nights of careful observation, I would make my move, and my beloved Ruby would never need to work another day in her life.
I was half-frozen to death when I got back to my boardinghouse. In those days the rooms didn’t have heat, but it was always warm in the boiler room. It was three o’clock in the morning, and I hobbled on frozen feet to the boiler room to thaw out. That was the plan, but a gang of tough-looking men were already in there. They had a little kid with them, about the same age as the missing Blackstone boy, held up close to the furnace.
The kid looked half-dead. His skin was pasty white and covered in sweat. His eyes stared off into space like they didn’t see anything anymore. He was wheezing, and it sounded like death had already settled in his lungs. The men spoke in Italian, and I couldn’t understand a word they said, but I knew that boy was in trouble. I also knew he was the Blackstone boy because he had those pale green eyes like all the reward notices wrote about. I risked my life by stepping forward and offering to fetch a doctor for the lad. It took the men by surprise. One of them dropped the kid, and another came at me swinging. I ducked, but someone clobbered me from behind, and it was lights out after that. When I came back around, I’d been hauled out into the alley like yesterday’s trash and left to die in the cold. The men and the kid were gone. That was the last I saw of the Blackstone boy.
A crushing weight of sadness settled on Gwen’s chest, and the book slipped from her fingers. Her grandfather was right. The passage in the boiler room felt real. It had been brutally cold the week her brother was taken. Maybe his kidnappers intended to return him, but when he sickened, it became too risky. They let her brother die rather than fetch a doctor.
