After the Party

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“It’s a little warm in here,” she said.

Instead of taking off the hoodie, she dialed up the knob on the air conditioning unit that obscured most of the view from the apartment’s lone window. The fan kicked on, blowing stale-smelling air into the room and drowning out the sounds coming from the couple going at it in the hall.

“I was just having a glass of wine. Would you like me to pour you one?”

He should say no, but after the day Chase had had, the offer was too good to pass up, even if he didn’t intend to stay long.

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“None at all. Have a seat.”

Her request posed a bit of a problem. Unless he wanted to move the stack of folded clothes that were piled on the chair by the desk, the only other surface available was the futon, which was also Ella’s bed. Even with the hum of the air conditioner, he could still hear thumps, grunts and moans coming from the hall. It was unseemly. It was disturbing. Add in a barefoot Ella, with her hoodie no match for either his memory or his imagination, and Chase felt ready to combust. So, he decided to avoid the bed and remain standing while she went to the kitchen for the wine.

Calling it a kitchen was a bit of a stretch. It was half a dozen steps away and the only things that defined it as such were the minifridge and a hot plate that sat on a dinky span of countertop next to an equally dinky sink. She rose on tiptoe and opened the cupboard over the sink. Sharing space next to the stemware were several pairs of pumps.

“You keep shoes in the cupboard.”

“It’s not ideal,” she admitted on a laugh that again sounded more wry than embarrassed. “But I’ve had to get rather creative since storage space is so limited.”

Shoes in the cupboard definitely rated as creative. But Chase found himself wondering once more about her business savvy. Shoes in the cupboard didn’t bode well on that score.

So he asked, “Do you have an office? I only saw this address listed on your card.”

She unscrewed the cap on a bottle of merlot. As she poured them both a glass, she replied, “No. I work from home.”

Chase glanced at the clothes-draped desk and chair. He doubted she got much done there. A laptop was open on the floor, but that appeared to be it for technology. A cursory glance around revealed no scanner or copier or printer. A business such as hers took coordination, organization and lots of contacts. Where did she meet with those contacts? Where did she meet with her clients? Certainly not here.

She handed him the wine and he took a sip. It tasted pretty much how he had expected a vintage that came in a bottle with a screw-on cap to taste.

As if reading his mind, she said, “Sorry. It’s not exactly Chateau Lafite.” He was trying to figure out how she knew about the pricey French label when she asked, “Aren’t you going to sit down?”

Ella pushed pillows and a fuzzy pink blanket to one side and settled on the futon, pulling her feet up beneath her. The spot open next to her looked entirely too inviting.

“No, thanks. I’ve been sitting all day,” he told her, and then found a clear spot on the wall against which he could lean one shoulder.

“So, what did you want to talk about?”

For a moment Chase had nearly forgotten the urgent nature of his visit. “It’s my uncle.”

A pair of beguiling, if dissimilar, eyes brightened as she smiled. “Elliot is delightful.”

“He is that.” It was the other adjectives being applied that caused Chase to worry. “When we were in his office last Friday, some of what was said...well, it wasn’t for public consumption.”

“The part about him being forced into retirement, you mean.”

So, she had picked up on it.

Chase nodded. “I brought a confidentiality agreement I would like you to sign.”

The lawyer in him knew that it held little weight since he was having her sign it after the fact, but it was the best he could do.

He pulled the folded document from the breast pocket of his suit coat and handed it to her.

“I hope you can appreciate the need for discretion. If the media were to get wind of such talk...” He took another sip of wine. It tasted just as bad as it had the first time, but it wasn’t responsible for the sour taste in his mouth.

“I understand.”

“Besides, nothing has been decided.”

“Elliot seems to think it has.”

“It’s the rumors.” Chase stared into his wine as she studied the confidentiality agreement. For no reason he could fathom, he heard himself admit, “He’s been acting more erratic lately and getting a little forgetful.”

He swirled the wine in his glass, wishing for something that not only tasted better but was a hell of a lot stronger.

“And you’re worried it’s dementia.”

“Dementia! No! God, no!” He couldn’t bear to think it.

“It could be something simple, you know. Like a vitamin deficiency.”

“Yeah?”

“My grandmother got a little spacey at one point. Her B-12 levels were out of whack. A few shots later, she was back to being her old self again.”

Chase liked the sound of that, even if getting his uncle to see a doctor would be near impossible. It had been decades since Elliot last saw a physician. He’d refused to go for even an annual checkup since Chase’s father, Elliot’s twin brother, had died of a rare blood disorder. He said he didn’t want to know if he, too, had the hereditary condition. Chase and Owen had both been checked, and, thankfully, were unaffected.

“In the meantime, we still have a problem. The board, or rather, several of its members have raised concerns about his fitness to continue leading the company.”

“I would imagine the recent slump in sales isn’t helping.”

At that, Chase’s gaze snapped to hers. Suspicion coiled like a snake about to strike. “What do you know about Trumbull’s sales?”

“It’s a publicly traded company. For a while, shares held steady even when profits began to decline, but now they are slipping, with some investors anxious about the release of this quarter’s figures.”

“You follow the stock market?”

She answered his question with one of her own. “Does that surprise you?”

“N-no.”

The sputtered denial had barely made it past his lips when Ella started to laugh.

“It’s all right. I know I don’t look like the average broker, and I’m hardly an expert on Wall Street.”

She was right on the first count. “But you obviously pay attention.”

“My dad was...interested in stocks. Besides, when Elliot called to ask if I would plan his wake, I did a little digging online so I would be prepared when I met him.”

“Ah.” It made sense. Still, Chase got the impression she had been about to say something else.

“An internet search turned up a story on Trumbull stocks.”

“Just one?” he asked dryly.

“Several, actually. This economy has hit a lot of businesses hard.”

She was being polite, Chase knew, since the articles she’d read probably mentioned how well Trumbull’s competitors were doing in comparison.

A familiar sense of frustration settled over him. “My uncle started his company after none of the big toymakers would even meet with him about his idea.”

“Randy the Robot.”

Chase nodded. Everyone had heard of the famous toy. A couple of generations earlier, practically every kid in the country had owned one.

“Elliot always has had an eye for what appeals to children. No one believed in him when he started out. The banks wouldn’t even give him a loan. He poured his blood, sweat and life savings into developing a prototype, finding a manufacturer and personally visiting stores, begging them to put it on their shelves. And now—” He broke off, surprised to have told her all of that. He was here to make sure what she already knew didn’t go any farther. Not supply her with additional information. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you don’t want to hear this.”

“Don’t apologize. I understand. He’s family and you love him. Naturally, you’re angry on his behalf. It hurts to watch someone we care about suffer.”

From her tone it was clear she was speaking from personal experience, which made it easier for Chase to be blunt. “My uncle is making a mistake with this party.”

“Wake, you mean.”

“Exactly my point.” Chase rubbed his forehead. “The message he’s sending to the board, to the shareholders and to his competitors is that he’s giving up without a fight.”

“And you think it will give credence to the rumors about his...erratic behavior and forgetfulness,” she finished diplomatically.

“It certainly won’t help.”

“From what I read, your uncle has a reputation for being eccentric. People have come to expect that.”

“But an Irish wake...” He sipped more wine. God, the stuff really was nasty.