The work on Melinda’s apartment reached a feverish pitch over the next week, swarmed by painters who transformed the dark walls and columns into swaths of faux marble and stucco. Melinda had insisted they paint a long trompe l’oeil “crack” in the living room wall, so that it resembled a Parisian apartment she’d seen in a French movie, the kind that were once grand but had gone to elegant seed.
In the meantime, Bailey successfully distracted herself from beginning each day with a shot of vodka by going to an AA meeting in Midtown before hitting furniture showrooms. She’d even found a sponsor, a retired theater publicist named Lydia who had a deep-throated laugh and a wicked intuition. Bailey hadn’t been back to the Sixty-Ninth Street meeting, and on the few occasions she ran into Renzo, she tried to be polite but not too forthcoming. Melinda had warned her to stay away from him until the lawyers came to an agreement.
They were deep in negotiations with the co-op board and the Met to determine who owned the rights to the sheath, all dependent on the completion of the DNA testing.
While Melinda had warned her away from Renzo, she hadn’t said anything about the Camdens’ family advisor.
Bailey had located him using the Yellow Pages and gotten an appointment two days later. The offices, as expected, were formidable for a firm that handled generations of clients’ money: mahogany walls, a mid-century sofa in the waiting room, and a receptionist who looked as if she sucked on lemons in between phone calls.
“Miss Camden?”
An older man in a well-cut suit beckoned her into his office. He had a long face and chin that reminded her of Dick Van Dyke, whom she’d developed a mad crush on as a young girl. “I’m Fred Osborn; very nice to meet you.”
“Yes, thank you for seeing me.” She took a chair opposite his desk and looked about. Behind him, on the window ledge, were dozens of trophies, the kind that children receive for signing up for a soccer league. He caught her looking at them.
“My grandchildren’s. Their rooms were overrun with the things and they insisted I display them here.”
She liked him already. “Mr. Osborn, I won’t take up too much of your time, but I want to be tested to find out if I am a true Camden. Not only in name but in blood.”
He studied her, no reaction on his face. “First off, please call me Fred. Now, what makes you think you might be? I know about the ward, your grandfather. But you think you’re related to Theodore and Minnie Camden?”
“Not exactly. Theodore Camden, yes. I believe he had an affair with the woman who killed him, Sara Smythe, and that Christopher Camden was the result.” She explained what she had discovered, and dug into her handbag to show him the cottage drawing, the letter, and the photo. “You see, I discovered the sheath and bone. I think it’s only fair that I be included in the DNA testing.”
“What do Melinda and Manvel think of this idea?”
“I don’t know about Manvel, but I know Melinda isn’t too pleased.”
“I can imagine.” His eyes were guarded, but she got a hint of impatience in his face at the mention of Melinda’s name. “I have to warn you, at this point the provenance of the sheath is hazy. You would think the government of Tibet might be interested, but they’re being bullied by China, who are trying to destroy Tibetan culture. The Rutherford family, who owned it in the 1880s, when it was stolen, has died out and there are no descendants. At this point, it may indeed end up in the hands of either the co-op for the Dakota or Melinda and Manvel.”
“I don’t understand why the co-op is trying to stake a claim. I mean, it was found in the man’s trunk, along with his finger bone.”
“Mainly for the sake of precedence. Not to mention the finances of the co-op are consistently in the red.” He shrugged. “And my guess is that Melinda Camden isn’t high on the list of their favorite shareholders.”
“I know Melinda is concerned about the sheath, but as far as I’m concerned, it belongs in the Met with the knife. I’m more interested in the DNA sampling. When is the package being sent out?” she asked. “Or has it already?”
“It goes out Monday. They’ll be sending along the bone you discovered and the blood samples from the plans and the sheath. Turns out the bone is the key to the testing. Without that, Melinda would have had little chance of getting back any results either way.” He rubbed his chin. “I’ve learned more about the science behind this testing than I’d have thought possible, this past week. Fascinating stuff.”
“I’d like to know if I’m a Camden for real or not. I hope you can understand my position.”
“I do, Miss Camden. The evidence you’ve assembled, if we may call it that, is quite interesting. The trust was set up, as common in that era, for the ‘descendants by blood’ of the trustor, Theodore Camden. Today, with all these scientific breakthroughs, we can take that quite literally. My duty as trustee requires that I distribute equal portions of the funds held in trust to all living heirs of Theodore Camden on their thirtieth birthdays. I could make the argument that, in my capacity as trustee, I’m honor bound to test you, to determine, once and for all, if you are entitled to be brought into the trust. But even if I were so inclined, I’m afraid it wouldn’t be possible.”
Her heart dropped. “Why’s that?”
“The testing has to be done via the male line. For example, we can connect Theodore Camden to Melinda’s twin, Manvel, by way of Luther Camden and their father. In which case, along with all the newspaper accounts of the murder and such, we should be able to prove that the sheath was part of the family’s items. But you can’t be matched, being a female, I’m sorry to say. Unless you have a brother.”
So close. “No luck there. But what about my father? What if he agreed to be tested? His father was Christopher Camden, so that would be a direct line, if Christopher is indeed Theodore Camden’s son.”
“That would work. He’s still living?”
She nodded.
“In that case, we’d test him, and if it’s a match, he would be added as a beneficiary of the trust. You would inherit what is left, and so on, down through your descendants. Would your father agree to be tested?”
“I’ll ask him.” Maybe, if she explained it the right way, he’d agree and take part in her crazy plan. He had to see that it was for her future, and for their family name, their rights.
“Luckily for the heirs, the architect Henry Hardenbergh took over the firm after Theodore Camden’s death, and a significant portion of the profits went into the Camden trust each year. My family’s company has handled the estate since the very beginning, and been strategic in our investment strategy, which has paid off nicely over the past century.”
“And way back when, they set it up so my grandfather, Christopher, couldn’t inherit anything?”
“I’m afraid not, as he wasn’t a blood relative, and they didn’t make any other accommodation for him.”
“I wonder if Theodore might have set aside something for him, if he’d lived?”
“We’ll never know, I’m afraid. Such a tragic death, and quite early in his career.”
She rose to go, eager to get Jack on the phone. But Fred raised a hand to stop her.
“One more thing. If you do get your father to agree to be tested, I won’t be allowed to use any of the Camden family money to cover the expenses, as you can understand.”
“Right. Of course. How much would it cost?”
He did the figures on a notebook on his desk, using an old fountain pen. “Somewhere around a thousand dollars.”
A thousand dollars. She didn’t have anything close to that on her. Even if she did get Jack to agree, she had no chance of raising that much money so fast.
She closed the door behind her before slinking away.
The phone at the house in New Jersey rang and rang, so Bailey tried the repair shop. Her dad had stepped out but she left a message with Scotty, asking him to call her back right away.