The Art of Inheriting Secrets(84)

“Oh, hello. How nice to see you,” I said, coming over.

I held out my hand as Pavi said, “Ma, this is Olivia Shaw, the Countess of Rosemere. Olivia, this is my mother, Mrs. Malakar.”

She grasped my hand with a firm grip despite the twisting fingers. “How do you do.”

“It’s wonderful to meet you,” I said. “Your family has been very kind to me since my arrival.”

Her face showed little expression, as if she were wearing a mother-shaped mask with a shimmer for eyes. I felt my skin was marked with Samir’s touch, covering me over with fluorescent streaks, his scent imprinted over my own. How could a mother avoid knowing? Feeling slightly panicked, I turned to Pavi. “How were the asparagus, Pavi?”

“I’ll get them today.”

“That’s right.”

“Did you cook yours?”

“No, so many things happened. I’ll have to tell you later.” I touched her arm, gave it a squeeze, and started to split off.

“Are you a fan of Samir’s work?” Mrs. Malakar asked.

I flushed, even as I tried to keep my cool, and glanced at the open top of my bag, where the books showed all too plainly.

Game on. I took a breath. Met her eyes. “I don’t know, but I’m looking forward to finding out.”

This time, I could read the expression just fine. It was disdain.

I had too many phone calls to return and emails to answer to spend much time brooding over Samir’s mother. I called the accountant, who returned my phone call within minutes. Not a great sign. “Lady Shaw,” he said formally. “I’m afraid I have a bit of bad news.”

I sat down, legal pad in front of me. “Go ahead.”

“We’ve reviewed the accounts you gave us access to, and unfortunately, aside from the current income from the rents and whatever the estate generates, there’s not so much as a farthing in any of them.”

Farthing, I thought, my brain frozen. Who used a word like farthing? “I don’t understand. Money has been fed into those accounts for nearly forty years. I had a feeling the India monies were gone, but what about all the rents for all those years? What about the investments and—”

“Gone.” He cleared his throat. “It has been slowly stolen for more than a decade. It’s unclear who was in charge, but I rather suspect that your caretakers and Mr. Haver were in collusion.”

I moved my head, trying to loosen my neck. “Haver’s gone. I went by his office yesterday, and he’s supposedly on vacation in Mallorca.”

“Skipped town, more like.”

For a long moment, I said nothing, trying desperately to gather my thoughts. I’d had my suspicions, of course, but the realization that he’d out and out cheated me landed in my gut like a hot coal. That bastard! “What are my options, then? I’d like to recoup the money, but failing that, what are my prosecution options? Can I just call the police?”

“Of course. But I’ll handle that on your behalf, as your accountant of record. No need for you to involve yourself in all the messy details.” He paused. “I most sincerely doubt you’ll recoup any of the money. Best to plan on simply moving forward from here.”

“Move forward,” I echoed.

“You’ve still got the rents, which appear to average between five and seven thousand pounds per month, a quite tidy sum, and I gather you’ve other income. I’m happy to help you in any way I can.”

“Thank you. I really am so grateful. Please do what you can to bring the thieves to justice. In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do from my end.”

I hung up, my gut burning with this new betrayal.

And loss. If the accounts here had been drained, I would have to find money somewhere else. It was possible the copied paintings could lead to something, but I couldn’t count on it.

In the meantime, I was left only with the money from the sale of my mother’s house in West Menlo Park. I stood up and paced to the window, looking down at the high street, which was coming to life in the sunny morning, women out in flowered dresses, men in their shirtsleeves.

Impulsively, I dialed the hotel. Sarah answered, and I said, “Hello, Sarah. Olivia Shaw here. Do you have a guest by the name of Grant Kazlauskas by any chance?”

“We do. Is he a friend of yours?”

“Not exactly.”

“I’m relieved. He’s not a particularly nice man, is he?”

“No,” I said, wondering how I’d missed that fact for so long. Or maybe he once had been nice and now had soured. “Thanks, Sarah.”

I took a moment to email my mother’s agent, asking for digital copies of her entire body of work, or as much as she had, then jumped in the shower and dressed in an outfit I knew Grant particularly liked, a thin white linen blouse from Anthropologie over a lacy chemise and a pair of jeans that were just slightly too tight, although they hadn’t been when I’d worn them last.

That particular recognition didn’t do a lot for my confidence. And as I looked in the speckled bathroom mirror of the sad little flat I’d rented, what I saw was a nearly forty-year-old woman with emerging crow’s-feet and an expanding ass who’d bitten off more than she could chew.

But my mother had wanted me here. Of all the humans in all the world, my mother had loved me most unconditionally. Everything she’d done on the trip her last summer she’d done to help me in some way.