Arriving home, I realized I’d have to put aside plans to work on the column for a while. There was a message on the answering machine from the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Jason Knowles, an investigator, urgently needed to talk to me. He left his number and I returned the call.
I spent the next forty minutes wondering what information I might have that would be useful for an investigator from the attorney general’s office to have immediately. Then, when the buzzer from the vestibule sounded, I picked up the intercom phone, confirmed it was Mr. Knowles, warned him to take the staircase, and released the lock.
A few minutes later he was at my door, a silverhaired man with a manner that was both courteous and direct. I invited him in and he sat on the couch. I chose the straight-backed chair opposite the couch and waited for him to speak.
He thanked me for seeing him on such short notice, then got down to business: “Ms. DeCarlo, you were at the Gen-stone stockholders’ meeting on Monday.”
It was a statement, not a question. I nodded.
“We understand that many people who attended that meeting expressed strong resentment toward management and that one man in particular was enraged by the statement made by Lynn Spencer.”
“That’s true.” I was sure the next verification would be that I was Lynn’s stepsister. I was wrong.
“We understand that you were in the end seat of a row reserved for media and that you were next to the man who shouted at Mrs. Spencer.”
“That’s right.”
“We also understand that you spoke to a number of disgruntled stockholders after the meeting and took down their names.”
“Yes, I did.”
“By any chance did the man who talked about losing his house because of investing in Gen-stone talk to you?”
“No, he did not.”
“Do you have the names of the stockholders who talked to you?”
“Yes, I do.” I felt that Jason Knowles was waiting for an explanation. “As you may or may not know, I write a financial advice column that is directed to the unsophisticated consumer or investor. I also do occasional freelance articles for magazines. At that meeting it occurred to me that I might want to do an in-depth article illustrating the way the collapse of Gen-stone has destroyed the future of so many little investors.”
“I do know that, and that’s why I’m here. We’d like to have the names of the people who spoke to you.”
I looked at him. It appeared to be a reasonable request, but I guess I had every journalist’s instant reaction about being asked to reveal sources.
It was as though Jason Knowles could read my mind. “Ms. DeCarlo, I’m sure you can understand why I’m making that request. Your sister, Lynn Spencer—”
I interrupted him: “Stepsister.”
He nodded. “Stepsister. Your stepsister could have been killed when her home burned down the other night. We have no idea at this point whether the person who set the fire knew she was in the house. But it also seems reasonable that one of those angry—and even financially desperate—stockholders might have set it.”
“You do realize that there are hundreds of other people, both stockholders and employees, who might have been responsible for setting the fire?” I pointed out.
“We are aware of that. By any chance did you get the name of the man who had the outburst?”
“No.” I thought of how that poor guy had gone from anger to hopeless tears. “He didn’t set the fire. I’m sure of it.”
Jason Knowles’s eyebrows raised. “You’re sure he didn’t set it. Why?”
I realized how stupid it would be to say, “I just know he didn’t.” Instead I said, “That man was desperate, but in a different way. He’s heartbroken with worry. He said his daughter is dying and he’s going to lose his home.”
It was obvious that Jason Knowles was disappointed when I couldn’t identify the man who was so upset at the meeting, but he wasn’t through with me. “You do have the names of the people who spoke to you, Ms. DeCarlo?”
I hesitated.
“Ms. DeCarlo, I saw your interview at the hospital. You very properly condemned as evil or psychotic anyone who would set fire to a home.”
He was right. I agreed to give him the names and phone numbers I had jotted down at the meeting.
Again he seemed to read my mind. “Ms. DeCarlo, when we call these people, we intend to simply tell them that we are speaking to everyone who attended the stockholders’ meeting, which I assure you is true. Many of those present had returned the postcard sent by the company indicating that they planned to be there. Anyone who returned that card will be visited. The problem is that not everyone who attended bothered to return the card.”
“I see.”
“How did you find your stepsister, Ms. DeCarlo?”
I hoped my moment of hesitation did not register on this quietly observant man. “You saw the interview,” I said. “I found Lynn in pain and bewildered by all that has happened. She told me she had no idea that her husband was doing anything illegal. She swears that to the best of her knowledge, he was absolutely committed to the belief that Gen-stone’s vaccine was a miracle drug.”
“Does she think the plane crash was staged?” Jason Knowles shot the question at me.
“Absolutely not.” And now, as I echoed Lynn, I wondered if I sounded either convinced or convincing. “She insists she wants and needs to learn the absolute truth.”
SIX
At eleven o’clock the next morning I drove into the visitors’ parking lot of Gen-stone in Pleasantville, New York. Pleasantville is a lovely Westchester town that was put on the map years ago when Reader’s Digest opened its international headquarters there.
Gen-stone is about half a mile from the Digest property. It was another beautiful April day. As I walked along the path to the building, a line from a poem I loved as a child ran through my head: “Oh, to be in England now that April’s there.” The name of the famous poet simply wouldn’t jump into my mind. I figured I’d probably wake up at three in the morning and there it would be.
There was a security guard standing outside the main entrance. Even so, I had to press a button and announce myself before the receptionist admitted me.
I was a good fifteen minutes early, which pleased me. It’s so much better to be able to settle down and get your breath before a meeting rather than go in late, flustered and apologizing. I told the receptionist I was waiting for my associates and took a seat.
Last night after dinner I did some Internet homework on the two men we’d be seeing, Charles Wallingford and Dr. Milo Celtavini. I learned that Charles Wallingford had been the sixth member of his family to head the Wallingford chain of upscale furniture stores. Started by his great-great-great grandfather, the original hole-inthe-wall store on Delancey Street had grown, moved to Fifth Avenue, and expanded until Wallingford’s became a household name.
The onslaught of discount furniture chains and a downturn in the economy weren’t handled well by Charles when he took over the reins of the company. He’d added a much cheaper line of furniture to their stock, thereby changing the image of Wallingford’s, closed a number of stores, reconfigured the remaining ones, and finally accepted a buyout from a British company. That was about ten years ago.
Two years later Wallingford met Nicholas Spencer who at the time was struggling to open a new company, Gen-stone. Wallingford invested a considerable sum in Gen-stone and accepted the job as chairman of the board.
I wondered if he wished he had stuck with furniture.
Dr. Milo Celtavini went to college and graduate school in Italy, did research work in immunobiology most of his life there, and then accepted an invitation to join the research team at Sloan-Kettering in New York. After a short time he left to take over the laboratory at Gen-stone because he was convinced they were on the path to a potentially revolutionary achievement in medicine.
Ken and Don came in as I was folding my notes. The receptionist took their names, and a few minutes
later we were escorted into Charles Wallingford’s office.
He was sitting behind an eighteenth-century mahogany desk. The Persian carpet at his feet had faded just enough to give a soft glow to the red and blue and gold tones in its pattern. A leather couch and several matching chairs formed a seating group to the left of the door. The walls were paneled in a butternut shade of walnut. The narrow draperies were a deep shade of blue, framing rather than covering the windows. As a result, the room was filled with natural light, and the beautiful outside gardens served as living artwork. It was the room of a man with impeccable taste.
That verified the impression I’d had of Wallingford at the stockholders’ meeting on Monday. Even though he was clearly under great strain, he had conducted himself with dignity when the derisive shouts were hurled at him. Now he got up from behind his desk to greet us with a courteous smile.
After we had introduced ourselves, he said, “I think you’ll be more comfortable there,” indicating the seating area. I sat on the couch, and Don Carter sat next to me. Ken took one of the chairs, and Wallingford perched on the edge of the seat of the other one, his elbows resting lightly on the arms, the fingertips of his hands touching.
As the business expert of our group, Don thanked Wallingford for agreeing to be interviewed and then began to ask some pretty tough questions, including how so much money could have gone missing without Wallingford and the board of directors getting some kind of warning.
According to Wallingford, it boiled down to the fact that after Garner Pharmaceuticals contracted to invest in Gen-stone, they became alarmed at the continuing disappointments in the results of the ongoing experiments. Spencer had been looting the revenues of their medical-products division for years. Realizing the FDA would never approve the vaccine and he could no longer stave off discovery of his theft, he probably decided to disappear.
“Obviously fate took a hand,” Wallingford said. “On his way to Puerto Rico, Nick’s plane crashed in that sudden storm.”
“Mr. Wallingford, do you think that you were invited by Nicholas Spencer to join him in the company and be chairman of the board because of your investment expertise or your business acumen?” Don asked.
“I guess the answer is that Nick invited me for both those reasons.”
“If I may say, sir, not everyone was impressed by your handling of your previous business.” Don began reading excerpts of some articles from business publications which seemed to suggest that Wallingford had pretty much made a mess of the family company.
Wallingford countered by saying that retail sales of furniture had been diminishing steadily, labor and delivery problems had escalated, and if he had waited, the company would surely have ended up in bankruptcy. He pointed to one of the articles Carter was holding. “I can cite a dozen other articles written by that guy that show how much of a guru he is,” he said sarcastically.
Wallingford seemed unperturbed by the implication that he’d been wrong in his handling of the family business. From my own research I had learned that he was forty-nine years old, had two grown sons, and had been divorced for ten years. It was only when Carter asked if it was true that he was estranged from his sons that his jaw hardened. “Much to my regret, there have been some difficulties,” he said. “And to prevent any misunderstanding, I will tell you the reason for them. My sons did not want me to sell the company. They were quite unrealistic about its potential future. Neither did they want me to invest most of the proceeds of the sale in this company. Unfortunately, it turns out they were right about that.”
He explained how he had gotten together with Nicholas Spencer. “It was known that I was looking around for a good investment opportunity. A merger and acquisitions company suggested that I consider making a modest investment in Gen-stone. I met Nick Spencer and was greatly impressed by him, a not uncommon reaction as you may know. He asked me to speak to several top microbiologists, all of whom had impeccable credentials and all of whom told me that, in their opinion, he was onto something in his search for the vaccine that would both prevent cancer and limit its spread.
“I recognized the possibilities of what Gen-stone could become. Then Nick asked me if I would consider joining him as chairman of the board and co-chief executive officer. My function would be to run the company. His was to be head of research and the public face of the company.”
“Bring in other investors,” Don suggested.
Wallingford smiled grimly. “He was good at that. My modest investment became an almost total commitment of my assets. Nick went to Italy and Switzerland regularly. He let it be known that his scientific knowledge rivaled or exceeded that of many molecular biologists.”
“Any truth at all to that?” Don asked.
Wallingford shook his head. “He’s smart, but not that smart.”
He certainly had fooled me, I thought, remembering how Nick Spencer exuded confidence when he told me about the vaccine he was developing.
I realized where Don Carter was going. He believed that Charles Wallingford had made a mess of his family business, but Nick Spencer had decided he was the perfect image for his company. He looked and sounded like the WASP he was, and he would be easily manipulated. Don’s next question confirmed my analysis.
“Mr. Wallingford, wouldn’t you say that your board of directors has a rather uneven mix?”
“I’m not sure I understand you.”
“They are all from extremely wealthy families, but not one of them has any real business experience.”
“They are people I knew well and they are on the boards of their own foundations.”
“Which doesn’t necessarily prove they have the financial acumen to be on the board of a company such as this one.”
“You won’t find a smarter or more honorable group of people anywhere,” Wallingford said. His tone was suddenly icy, and his face became flushed.
I really think he was on the verge of throwing us out, but then there was a knock at the door and Dr. Celtavini came in.
He was a relatively short, conservative-looking man in his late sixties, with a slight Italian accent. He told us that when he agreed to head the Gen-stone lab, he had strongly believed that a vaccine could be developed to prevent cancer. Initially he had some promising results in the offspring of mice with genetic cancer cells, but then problems developed. He had not been able to duplicate those early results. Exhaustive tests and much further work would be needed before any conclusions could safely be drawn.
“The breakthroughs will come in time,” he said. “There are many workers in the field.”
“What is your opinion of Nicholas Spencer?” Ken Page asked.
Dr. Celtavini’s face went gray. “I put a spotless reputation of forty years in my field on the line when I came to Gen-stone. I am now considered involved in the downfall of this company. The answer to your question: I despise Nicholas Spencer.”
* * *
When Ken went back to the lab with Dr. Celtavini, Don and I took off. Don had an appointment with the Gen-stone auditors in Manhattan. I told him I’d meet him at the office later and that I was planning to drive in the morning to Caspien, the Connecticut town where Nicholas Spencer had grown up. We agreed that to put this cover story together while it was still hot news, we were going to have to move fast.
That fact didn’t keep me from steering the car north rather than south. An overwhelming curiosity made me want to drive to Bedford and see for myself the extent of the fire that had almost taken Lynn’s life.
SEVEN
Ned knew that Dr. Ryan had looked at him kind of funny when he ran into him in the hospital. That was why he was afraid to go back. But he had to go back. He had to go into the room where Lynn Spencer was a patient.
If he did that, maybe he wouldn’t keep seeing Annie’s face the way it had looked when the car was on fire and she couldn’t get out. He needed to see that same look on Lynn Spencer’s face.
The interview with her sister or stepsister, whatever she was, ha
d been broadcast on the six o’clock and then the eleven o’clock news the day before yesterday. “Lynn is in great pain,” she had said, her voice oh so sad. “Be sorry for her” was what she meant. It’s not her fault that your wife is dead. She and her husband just wanted to cheat you. That’s all they meant to do.
Annie. When he did get to sleep, he always dreamt of her. Sometimes they were good dreams. They were in Greenwood Lake and it was fifteen years ago. They never went there while his mother was alive. Mama didn’t like anyone to visit her. But when she died, the house became his, and Annie had been thrilled. “I never had a home of my own. I’m going to fix it up so nice. Wait and see, Ned.”
And she had fixed it up nice. It was small, only four rooms, but over the years she had saved enough money to buy new cabinets for the kitchen and to hire a handyman to put them in. The next year she saved enough to have a new toilet and sink installed in the bathroom. She had made him soak off all the old wallpaper, and together they painted the place inside and out. They’d bought windows from that guy who advertised on CBS all the time about how cheap his windows were. And Annie had her garden, her beautiful garden.
He kept thinking about them working together, painting. He dreamed of Annie hanging the curtains and standing back and saying how pretty they looked.
He kept thinking about the weekends. They drove there every weekend from May until the end of October. They had only a couple of electric heaters to keep the place warm, and they cost too much to use in the winter. She had planned that when she was able to retire from the hospital, they’d put in central heat so that they could live there all year round.
He’d sold the house to their new neighbor last October. The neighbor wanted more property. He hadn’t paid that much for it, because under the new town code it wasn’t considered a building lot, but Ned hadn’t cared. He knew that whatever he was able to put into Gen-stone would bring him a fortune. Nicholas Spencer had promised that when he talked to Ned about the vaccine. When Ned was working for the landscaper at the Bedford property, he had met Spencer.