Death on Deadline - Robert Goldsborough Page 0,21

you heard from MacLaren?”

Wolfe nodded. “He’s coming tonight. After dinner.”

“This man’s a mountebank!” Dean squawked, shooting halfway out of his chair. His face turned an interesting shade of purple. “Harriet, he intends to pump you for information so he can turn around and peddle it to that goddamn swindling Scot! Let’s get out of here.”

Harriet waved him off patiently, keeping her blue eyes on Wolfe. “As I said, Mr. Wolfe, you’ve got my attention.”

“Thank you. I’m going to have beer. Will either of you join me for that or something else?”

They declined again, and Wolfe stretched his arms out, palms down on the desk. He thinks he’s exercising when he does that. “If newspaper and television reports are accurate, Mr. MacLaren is mounting a serious campaign to gain control of the Gazette. Does he have a chance to succeed?”

Harriet looked at the ample sapphire on her finger and then back at Wolfe. “I think he does,” she said, pausing as Fritz walked in bearing a tray. After he left, she went on. “I own, personally, about thirty-four and a fraction percent of the company’s stock. What is the fraction, Elliot?”

“As your adviser, I warn you I don’t think you should be discussing these matters with this man,” Dean muttered testily. “Let’s leave, before we regret it.”

She turned to him, giving me the back of her head. “You asked to come along,” she snapped. “It was your idea, not mine, but I had a notion you might provide moral support. I know what I want to say, Elliot. If it bothers you, I suggest you go out and wait in the car.”

“I’m just thinking about you and the paper,” Dean sputtered, but we all knew he’d lost.

“I know you are, but let me go on—this is important.” Harriet’s voice had risen an octave, and her facade of coolness for the first time showed some cracks. Her hand was shaking as she flicked invisible lint from her skirt.

“Anyway,” she said, returning to Wolfe, “I own something over thirty-four percent of the stock, substantially more than any other shareholder. And I can assure you, I have no intention of selling to MacLaren— ever.”

“That leaves almost two-thirds of the shares.”

“Not really. Elliot here has three percent and Carl Bishop, our publisher, holds almost five, and I’m certain they’re safe,” she said, looking at Dean for confirmation. He gave a grim nod.

“All right,” Wolfe conceded. “Fifty-eight percent remains for which Mr. MacLaren presumably can forage. How comfortable are you about that?”

“Not very. It’s unclear how much of the remainder I can count on. My stepson and stepdaughter each control seventeen-and-a-half percent, left to them by their father, and with the price MacLaren claims he’s willing to pay, it wouldn’t surprise me if they’d sell to him.

“Might they not also sell in part to spite you?”

Harriet had regained her composure and gracefully tilted her head to one side. It was probably a mannerism she had learned as a Southern belle. It still was effective. “I don’t think so, Mr. Wolfe. Despite what I said before, I don’t want you to get the idea that our family is feuding and plotting like a bunch of Borgias, like something out of Dynasty. It’s hardly that intriguing, I assure you. But Donna—my stepdaughter, Donna Palmer—has no desire whatever to become involved in the Gazette. She runs a very successful business in Boston, and she’d like to expand into an advertising agency as well. If she sold her stock, or even some of it, the capital would give her the opportunity to grow.”

Wolfe drank beer and set the glass down. “Do you know if she’s met with MacLaren?”

“She’s been on vacation in Europe for the last two weeks; she gets home tomorrow, and I was planning to phone her then. Unless she saw him over there, I doubt if they’ve talked, but I don’t know for sure.”

“And your stepson?”

“David—David is . . .” She paused, searching for the right words. “He is not chairman-of-the-board material, despite the fact that he now holds the title of president. I don’t mean to sound cruel, but . . . well, it’s no secret that David isn’t a strong leader. He could never handle ultimate control of the Gazette.”

“And he wants that control?”

“Yes, no question. He’s had ambitions, but I’m afraid he hasn’t shown overly good judgment in critical situations. When we had that printers’ strike four years ago, you may remember that he called the head of the union a ‘cheap thug’ during