“Yes, Rory is currently fixated on crawfish—the lobster of the South.”
“Um … I’m not really sure what to say about that.”
“I hear ya,” Bayli quipped. “But he’s into creating a dozen varieties of hot sauces and making crawfish cool outside of southern boundaries. He might be on to something. You know, once you get past snapping their little heads off.”
Rory St. James was a celebrity chef, and his business partner was brilliant restaurateur Christian Davila. Bayli had applied for a position in their newest establishment, Davila’s NYC, an upscale steakhouse on Lexington Avenue. She’d wanted the part-time job to help supplement her less-than-bill-worthy income as a sometime model. What she’d ended up with was a TV show starring her and Rory.
And that was just the tip of the iceberg. What Bayli had ultimately gained was the love of two fiercely protective men who were hopelessly devoted to her.
Bayli wasn’t the only one graced with good fortune. Jewel had lande
d her dream hotel and a vineyard … not to mention her own hopelessly devoted men.
Admittedly, Scarlet had been living vicariously through her friends of late. But last night had given her a new burst of enthusiasm and excitement.
Though she was smart enough to play the hand cautiously, not fully knowing Michael’s true agenda, even if didn’t involve missing artwork.
Bayli cut into her thoughts, asking, “Want me to comb through the stepbrother’s accounts? See what I find?”
“That’d be great—particularly around the period when the insurance company cut the check. I need to take a shower and then get back to my hotel to check out and get my car.”
“I’ll call you if anything fishy pops up.”
“Perfect. Thanks.” They disconnected.
Scarlet went into the bathroom. Once dressed, she called the valet for transportation to the St. Francis.
She’d barely stepped out of the elevator and into the alabaster-marbled lobby when Bayli phoned her.
“You are not going to believe this!”
Scarlet’s heart launched into her throat.
“Please, God, let this be about Sam,” she couldn’t help but say, because she needed a different thread to pull that wasn’t wrapped around Michael.
“It is,” Bayli assured her. “I only had to look specifically around the time frame you mentioned, and lo and behold, his net worth increased by five million not more than three weeks after Michael’s did.”
“Which could effectively mean … there’s ten mil from the eighteen the claim paid out.”
Except that Michael had insisted his money had come from a real estate transaction. And she believed him.
But damn it. This little revelation—this coincidence—did not bode well for anyone.
Bayli said, “Perhaps the remainder went to whoever actually removed the paintings from the grounds?”
Scarlet’s heart sank. “Could be,” she reluctantly said, though she was no longer convinced of this theory.
Bayli latched onto it, however. “So the brothers said ‘screw you’ to the old man and each turned his portion into an infinitely larger fortune? Without pad’s help?”
Scarlet halted at the double doors of the hotel entrance, not passing through them. She said, “That was an initial inclination I had. It honestly doesn’t sit right with me anymore. I need more information. I have to see this Sam Reed guy face-to-face. As with Michael, I need to gauge who Sam is, what he’s looking to achieve, what he really and truly wants. He’s too much of a mystery to me at this point.” And Scarlet wanted desperately to cross Michael off her list of suspects.
There had to be a viable explanation as to how both men had ended up with the same financial disbursements back-to-back.
Bayli said, “I’ll track down a Skype number for Reed, if he has one.”
“Thanks, but that’s not enough. I have to go to Montana.”
“Scarlet.” Bayli’s tone was suddenly filled with concern. “It’s the dead of winter.”