Rarities Unlimited 03 - Die in Plain Sight

Pickford said. “How much will it cost?”
    “Ten thousand dollars for a party of eight.”
    Pickford rolled his eyes: fifteen percent of $10,000 was $1,500.
    “Cheap. Good publicity, too,” Bliss added, yawning. “Buy two tables and put Rory at the other one with Daddy.”
    “Excellent suggestion,” Savoy said. “Sure to improve everyone’s digestion. Rory?”
    “He wants the family together, in public, and not arguing or getting drunk.”
    Rory carefully didn’t look at his ex, who had almost made headlines taking a swing at the cop who arrested her for drunk driving. Fortunately, the cop had been a sheriff’s deputy who knew which side his bread was buttered on. He’d tossed Bliss in the back of the squad car and drove her home to her daddy.
    “If he wants a public love feast, separate us,” Bliss said.
    Rory shook his head, making light slide and shine over the gray temples that turned a rather boyish face into a dignified one. “Mr. Forrest was pretty clear that he wanted a united Savoy table for the press to see.” And more important, to reassure Angelique White that the family was in accord on the subject of the merger.
    But Bliss was dead set against anything that had to do with developing the ranch, so talking about Angelique wouldn’t increase the peace.
    Rory also didn’t say aloud what everyone at the conference already knew—Ward Forrest might be more than seventy, but he looked and acted like a fit fifty. Although he’d willingly handed over the reins of corporate power to his two favorite children ten years ago so that he could pursue various hobbies and interests, the bulk of the actual wealth was still under Ward’s control. The leash on Bliss and Savoy was long, but it was real.
    “If press coverage is the issue, tell Daddy to sit at La Susa’s table,” Bliss said, using the media’s name for Susa Donovan, who signed her paintings with a simple Susa. “The Donovan matriarch is the driving power behind the auction as well as being the celebrity that reporters will line up five-deep to interview.”
    Rory ignored her.
    So did everyone else.
    “Fine, one table,” Savoy said, making a note in the margin and turning to the next topic.
    “Where is my side of the family sitting?” Pickford asked. “These tables aren’t big enough for more than eight, and I’m sure the Pickford women will want to attend with us.”
    “I thought you didn’t like art,” Savoy said.
    “I don’t. Make sure there’s room for at least eight Pickfords at a Savoy Enterprises table.”
    “Two tables,” Savoy said, making another note. “At opposite ends of the room.” He looked up at Rory. “Unless Dad wants to include collateral relatives in the love feast?”
    Rory laughed. “Only if it’s their funeral he’s attending.”
    Savoy smiled slightly. Ward had hated the Pickford family at first look forty years ago. Nothing had changed since then.
    Nothing would.
    “The next item on our agenda,” Savoy said, shifting papers, “is the suit filed against the corporation by Concerned Citizens for Sane Development. We have to decide whether we want to settle out of court and agree to cut the density of our planned Artists Cove community by two thirds, or spend the next decade in court while continuing to pay taxes as if the land is already developed. Or we could put the land in Agricultural Reserve, save tax money, and in all probability lose the ability to ever develop that tract of the ranch in the future.”
    “You can develop whatever you want, as long as it isn’t on my half of the ranch,” Bliss said. “That half includes Sandy Cove, which is the real name of Artists Cove.”
    “You don’t own half of anything,” Rory shot back, “and Sandy Cove doesn’t exist on any map. Artists Cove does.”
    “Keep your goddamn bulldozers out of the old family land where our ancestors lived and died,” Bliss snarled.
    “Waterfront is the most profitable land to develop on the ranch, and Artists Cove is just a small part of what should be on the table,” Pickford said loudly. “We’re getting eaten alive by taxes and—”
    Bliss, Pickford, and Rory started talking over one another.
    “Ladies first,” Savoy said, rapping the ashtray sharply on the table.
    “That would be you,” Rory said to Pickford.
    When the accountant came halfway out of his chair, Savoy sat down, picked up his cigarette, and took a long, soothing pull. He would need any help he could get not to lose his