Dora sighed. "I hate these family affairs. They always turn out to be snarls of string. It's so sad. You'd think a family would try to get along."
The detective laughed. "Most homicides are committed by a family member or a close friend. You talk to the attorney yet?"
"No, not yet."
"A nice old guy. He was Lewis Starrett's lawyer from the beginning."
"Who inherits?" Dora asked.
"The wife," Wenden said. "For tax reasons. About eighty million."
"Wow! Nothing to the son or daughter?"
"Well, you say they'll each be getting a million in insurance money. And I guess Lewis figured Olivia would leave everything to the children when she shuffles off."
"What's she like?"
"Olivia?" He grinned. "I'll let you make up your own mind. The daughter, Felicia, is the one to look out for. She's off the wall."
"How so?"
"Crazy. Runs with a rough downtown crowd. But I'll say this for her: She seems to be taking her father's death harder than any of the others."
"What about Clayton's wife?"
"Eleanor? A social butterfly. She's on a zillion committees. Always planning a party for this charity or that. She loves it. Maybe because she can never wear the same dress twice. Listen, I've got to split. Where do you live?" "Hartford." "Going home for the weekend?"
"I doubt it. My husband may come down if he can get away."
"What does he do?"
"He's a dispatcher for a trucking company. Works crazy hours."
"Well, if he doesn't show up, maybe we can get together for a pizza."
She stared at him. "I told you I was happily married."
"And I heard you," the detective said. "What's that got to do with sharing a pizza?"
"Nothing," Dora said. "As long as we keep it on a professional level. Maybe we can compare notes and do each other some good."
"Sure we can," Wenden said. "Here's my card. If I'm not in, you can always leave a message. Thanks for the lunch."
"My pleasure," Dora said and watched him move away, thinking he was an okay guy but he really should get his suit pressed and his shoes shined. She knew he had to deal with a lot of scumbags, but he didn't have to dress like one.
CHAPTER 4
The flagship store of Starrett Fine Jewelry, Inc., was located on Park Avenue just south of 57th Street. It occupied one of the few remaining town houses on the Avenue in midtown Manhattan, surrounded by steel and glass towers. The baroque six-story structure, built in 1896 as the family home of a shipping magnate, was designed by a student of Stanford White, and the exterior had been cited by the Landmarks Preservation Commission.
The jewelry selling area was on the ground level, with silverware, crystal, and china on the second. The third and fourth floors were designers' studios and shops for engraving and repairs. Executive offices filled the top two stories. Starrett's main workshop for the crafting of exclusive designs was in Brooklyn. The company also purchased quantity items and gold chains from independent suppliers in Taiwan and South Korea.
In addition to New York, Starrett stores were located in Boston, Chicago, Beverly Hills, San Francisco, Atlanta, Dallas, Palm Beach, London, Paris, Zurich, Hong Kong, Honolulu, Cancun, Rome, and Brussels. Starrett did not have a mail order catalogue but sometimes sent favored customers drawings of new designs before they were made up and offered to the general public. Many of these were one-of-a-kind pieces: brooches, bracelets, rings, necklaces, tiaras.
Generally, all the Starrett stores, worldwide, offered the same merchandise, although the mix was often varied. The general manager of each shop ordered the items from New York that he thought would sell best in his area. In addition, every Starrett store had its own workshop and was encouraged to produce jewelry on special order for valued clients, usually personalized items designed to the customer's specifications.
During the last year, Clayton Starrett's second as president and chief executive officer, he had replaced the general managers of nine of the sixteen Starrett stores. Some of these men (and one woman) had been with the company for ten, fifteen, twenty years, and their termination had been the cause of the violent disagreement between Clayton and his father.
The late Lewis Starrett claimed they were all experienced, loyal employees who had proved their competence, and firing them was not only an act of ingratitude but, more important, would have an adverse effect on revenues and net profits.
But Clayton was adamant. The veterans would have to go because, he said, they knew little about modern merchandising, advertising, promotion, and public relations. They were content to cater to an aging clientele and made no effort to attract a new generation of Starrett customers.
The argument between father and son became so fierce that it began to affect the morale of personnel in the New York store. It was only resolved when Clayton, white-faced, threatened to resign and move out of his parents' apartment. Thereupon the old man backed down, and the son became the recognized and undisputed boss of Starrett Fine Jewelry, Inc.
The new general managers he hired for the subsidiary stores were mostly hard young men, smartly dressed, with an eye on the bottom line and a brusque manner with subordinates. A few were reputedly MBAs, and several were foreign-born. All seemed possessed of driving ambition and, shortly before his death, Lewis Starrett had to admit that revenues and net profits were increasing spectacularly.
When Lewis ran the company with iron fist and bellows of rage, he arrived for work each morning at 7:30 and frequently put in a twelve-hour day. Clayton's style of management was considerably more laid-back. He showed up around ten o'clock, took a lengthy lunch and, if he returned from that, was usually out of the office by five.
On this day he stepped from his chauffeured stretch limousine (a presidential perk) and entered the Starrett Fine Jewelry Building a few minutes before ten. He hardly glanced into the selling area, almost devoid of customers. He was not dismayed; Starrett's patrons were not early-morning shoppers; they preferred late afternoon.
A small, elaborately decorated elevator lifted him slowly to his private office on the top floor. His secretary, an English import hired more for her accent than her ability, took his homburg and chesterfield. A few minutes later she returned with a cup of black coffee and a toasted bagel.
This minibreakfast was served on bone china in an exclusive Starrett pattern called Belladonna.
As he gnawed his bagel, he reviewed the day's schedule. There was nothing that seemed to him of monumental importance, and he wondered if, about four or four-thirty that afternoon, he might call Helene Pierce and ask if she was willing to receive him.
He was paying $5,400 a month for her apartment, giving her $1,000 a week walking-around money, and occasionally bringing her small diamonds for her collection. But in spite of this largesse, he had to obey her rules: no unexpected visits, limited phone calls, no questions as to how she spent her time. He accepted these dictates cheerfully because, he admitted to himself, he was obsessed. Helene was half his age, had a body that never failed to arouse him, and was so practiced in the craft of love that he never ceased to wonder how one so young could be so knowing and experienced.
His first task of the morning was to review, on his desktop computer, the previous day's sales at the sixteen Starrett stores. It was then the height of the Christmas shopping season, a period that usually accounted for thirty percent of Starrett's annual revenues. He punched the keys and watched intently as numbers filled the screen.