Chapter 22
J.T. closed the door behind the third trustee they’d entertained, just barely restraining the urge to slam it.
“This is bullshit!” he declared to his fellow welcoming committee, who’d gathered in the foyer to bid their guests adieu.
Trevor gave him a bored stare. Evan fidgeted alongside Margie, who took his hand. Chase’s poker face was intact. At least Moira seemed to agree with him, somewhat—though she was usually as cool and collected as Chase, today her cheeks were the color of red poppies.
“We’re encouraging them to believe Caroline has a conflict of interest by not including her, and I don’t like it one bit! How are they going to have faith in me and her unless they see how smart and professional she is?”
Every day, she briefed him on her progress with the new museum as if it were happening, and every day, he tried to keep his spirits up. For both of them. Dammit, this couldn’t all be for naught.
“I know I thought it was best to keep her out of it,” Moira said, “but I’ve changed my mind. The Op-Ed Arthur wrote has helped, but it hasn’t addressed one of the elephants in the room. Why else would Professor Hockswelter make that comment tonight? Your sister’s recent firing from Leggett Gallery is a serious concern, you understand. We all know Cynthia was the one who orchestrated that in the first place! I wanted to hit him.”
“You can use our punching bag anytime,” Trev told her.
“Calm down,” Chase said. “I’m as angry as everyone else here, but we need to think carefully. We can’t prove Cynthia was behind it.”
“Then let her defend herself at least,” J.T. said, clenching his fists. “I tried to, but Trevor cut me off.”
His brother didn’t acknowledge his glare. “I was in a better position to defend her. If you’d done it, it would have looked self-serving, and the same is true of Moira as her sister.”
Moira put her hands on her hips. “I hate this!”
“Welcome to political wining and dining,” Chase said in a tight voice.
“I love you,” she said, “but if you think I’m going to spend the rest of our married life spending my time with horrible people like that, you’re crazy. They aren’t even interested in art! That jerk just wanted to throw his weight around.”
“I agree with Moira,” Margie said. “My family used to host these kinds of dinner parties. I don’t like watching one of my friends get lambasted like that.”
“No one likes it,” Evan said, raising her hand to his lips. “I’m sorry. This is why I let Chase do all the entertaining.”
Chase set his feet. “Trevor and I are the only ones with the stomach for it, but frankly, we’re not the most effective players here. I thought unity would help, but it seems to me there’s something we don’t know. It’s like the three trustees we’ve had dinner with are—”
“Smug,” Trev said. “I agree. Sin City has something else going on. I think it’s time to change tactics.”
This wasn’t what J.T. wanted to hear. He’d spent three evenings in the last week biting his tongue as he listened to carefully worded slights about himself and the woman he loved. Now they were going to try something else? Terrific!
“What exactly do you have in mind?” he asked his brother. “Is it time to hire an assassin?”
“I’m all for it,” Moira said. “God, I never thought I could get this mad. I mean, I’ve seen crap in human resources, but this kind of steamrolling is a whole new level of shit.”
Trevor walked over and slapped Chase on the back. “J.T. and I really appreciate all of you stepping forward in solidarity to help, but I think your service is up. They know you aren’t going to pull the Artemis Institute from the university, and our strategy isn’t working. J.T. and I need to do some more digging. We need to figure out what’s going on behind the scenes.”
There was a knock on the door. At another time, J.T. might have been amused by the way everyone’s faces scrunched into twin looks of disgust, but he was too busy feeling his own disgust to muster any humor about it.
“Please tell me they didn’t forget anything,” Moira whispered. “I can’t fake smile anymore.”
“Me either,” Margie said.
Trevor opened the hall closet and started handing out coats. “Why don’t the rest of you head out? We’ll handle this.”
The person knocked louder this time, and J.T. made himself cross to the door.
“Think of England,” Trevor quipped in an undertone.
“Yeah, right,” he said, opening the door.
Uncle Arthur and Tanner were waiting on the other side, looking grim.
“Not who I was expecting, but… Come in.”
Trevor got behind their guests and started herding them out as though they were a bunch of Canadian geese. “Seriously, you guys go home. It’s been a long night, and we all know Margie has to wake up in a few hours.”
“Tell me about it,” Uncle Arthur said. “I’d kiss and shake hands but I don’t have the energy. I’m supposed to turn into a pumpkin at nine o’clock.”
Moira still kissed his cheek on the way out, her brow knit with worry. After Trevor closed the door, he took Uncle Arthur’s and Tanner’s coats.
“Well, I know when someone’s died,” Trev said. “What happened?”
“Best sit down,” Uncle Arthur said, leaning heavily on his cane. “We just blew things wide open.”
Tanner’s article had gone out yesterday. Cynthia had refused to be interviewed, and Uncle Arthur had been trying to figure out how to wheedle her into going on the record ever since. Even Trev had thought the piece was a solid for them. Perhaps that was why the trustee had gone after Caroline? Dammit, he just didn’t know.
“If you have a bourbon, Young Trevor,” Uncle Arthur added, “I could sure use it. You might pour one for yourself and your brother too.”
J.T. unbuttoned his jacket and joined their visitors on the couch in the den. “I find I’m more afraid to hear what you have to say than of being stuck in an elevator.”
“And he’s claustrophobic,” Trev said, bringing over the bottle of bourbon and four highball glasses. He doled out four healthy pours. “All right, best rip it off like a Band-Aid.”
Uncle Arthur gestured to Tanner. “Your source. Your show.”
“Right,” the man said, reaching for his bourbon. “A little background. You might not know this, but I teach a journalism class at Emmits Merriam and have since I first arrived in Dare Valley.”
“A damn good class too,” Arthur muttered. “Kids think he’s the second coming of journalism.”
“Anyway, I’m always telling them to keep their ears open for a story, and it seems one of my students took that to heart. He cleans President Matthau’s office as part of a work study program.”
J.T. sat forward on the edge of his seat. “And I take it he heard something.”
“Yes,” Tanner said, his mouth tipping up. “Anyway, this student said the former president always made a point of talking to him, asking about his studies, that sort of thing, but Dr. Matthau doesn’t even know he’s alive. He might even think he’s employed by a cleaning service. Today, Cynthia Newhouse was meeting with the president, after office hours, when my student was cleaning. For whatever reason, President Matthau didn’t close the door.”
“And your student heard something,” J.T. said. “What’s she up to?” Please don’t let them be having sex, he thought but didn’t say.
“She’s planning on giving the university a three-hundred-million-dollar gift for cancer research,” Tanner said.
J.T. felt like someone had hit him in the head. “Cancer research?”
“Matthau has a PhD in microbiology, and this is a pet interest of his,” Arthur said. “Plus, his mother died of breast cancer at fifty.”
His brain started to work. The media was going to love this. “And let me guess—the gift is conditional.”
“My student didn’t know,” Tanner said, “but I think we can assume as much.”
“And cancer research wins over art any day,” J.T. said, feeling deflated. She’d outplayed him again.
“It’s still a breach of the agreement the board made for the museum,” Trevor said.
“Also, it’s illegal to leverage one gift to knock out another,” Tanner said. “If you can prove it, of course, and I don’t think we can.”
J.T. couldn’t sit down anymore. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll look like dicks if we try and fight it. After all, cancer research is more important.”
Arthur growled and grabbed his tumbler, taking a healthy swig of bourbon. “That’s not the tack to take. I hate to say this, J.T., but you have a decision before you. Tanner needs to get someone on the record about this gift.”
“Not the student?” Trevor asked.
“If he does, he could lose his work study and get kicked out of school,” he said. “Also, going up against the president of the university—”
“Dr. Slimeball could and likely would say he lied,” J.T. said. “Leave the kid out of it. I don’t want anyone to lose their university education out of this.” Of course, he wouldn’t let that happen regardless. He’d sooner give the kid a scholarship himself.
“I plan to show up at a few trustees’ offices tomorrow and ask for confirmation. There are a few people who might be willing to go on record.”
“You think other people know about this?” Trevor said.
“About the Newhouse gift, yes,” Tanner said. “If it’s conditional, they wouldn’t be open about that. Only a few people would know.”
“She’s one smart cookie,” Arthur said. “The CIA could have used her to take down the Berlin Wall.”
The whole thing was a lot to take in. J.T. rubbed his aching head. “So what happens if you get trustees to go on record?”
“I need to get two people minimum or—”
“We won’t run the story,” Arthur finished. “But Tanner will get his sources and write a damn good article because he’s a damn good journalist. The problem is where that leaves you, J.T.”
Over a barrel holding his ankles, like old times. “Any ideas?”
Arthur sighed. “Well, you could issue a press release saying you welcome this gift by the Newhouse family for cancer research and that you don’t see a conflict with the museum. You’re divorced and don’t hold any ill feelings against Ms. Newhouse.”
He’d choke on those last words if he ever had to speak them aloud. Right now he couldn’t trust himself around her. He wanted to rage at her for messing with his life. For attempting to destroy his future.
“Trev?” J.T. asked.
His brother was staring into his bourbon and swirling the amber liquid. “I need to think this one through. I can see a gift of this size earning Sin City a seat on the Board of Trustees.”
“So can I,” Arthur said, tapping his cane on the ground.
Wasn’t that a kick in the teeth. “The old president had suggested giving me a board seat so I can represent the Merriam family again.” He’d been excited to follow in the family footsteps.
“If that still goes through, you might find yourself dealing with Sin City for the foreseeable future. There would be ongoing power struggles—”
And he’d never be free of her. Exactly like she’d promised him.
“Want to pull the museum yet?” Arthur asked. “Because you look like you’re considering it.”
He found he couldn’t deny it.
“Look, we lost our biggest advertiser for the newspaper today, so I don’t have it in me to sweet-talk you.”
Trevor leaned forward. “Is there anything we can do, Uncle?”
“Bah, no,” Arthur said. “I’ve managed to keep the paper solid for almost sixty years. We’ll weather it. But that’s not why I brought it up. Sometimes shit happens. Do you want to hear what I think your great granddaddy would do if he were here, J.T.?” Arthur pointed to the painting where Emmits Merriam stood in all his young glory.
“I’m all ears,” he said.
“You find a way not to look like a dick and stand your ground.”
J.T. stared up at that painting, taking in the flash of determination the artist had captured. His great grandfather had faced incredible challenges in his day, everything from digging his first oil well to shipping it out of Oklahoma. He wasn’t going to be the first Merriam in the history of the family to give up his dream without a whimper. He certainly wasn’t going to let Caroline down either.
“Then let’s find a way.”