Of course, nothing is all flowers and rainbows. Before her arrest for her husband’s murder, Katrina had been active in quite a few charities and civic organizations. It was part of the Eberhardt code of noblesse oblige, the absolute obligation to give back. Katrina had always taken that duty seriously, and attending meetings for all the various organizations had given her a busy schedule. And because of her name—and, of course, her checkbook—she had always been greeted warmly, treated with affection and respect.
The first two or three such meetings after Michael’s death . . . not so much. Nothing was actually said out loud, but a chill was in the air, and Katrina was made very much aware that the other committee members no longer approved of her. Katrina vowed to show them all that she was tougher than they were and their disapproval mattered less to her than a sparrow’s fart. And she gritted her teeth, returned frost for frost, and soldiered on.
But there was one date on Katrina’s calendar that no amount of spinal steel could prepare her for: the meeting of the Eberhardt Museum’s board of directors. Katrina was a board member, of course, as were her two brothers, a handful of cousins, and a couple of what, in bygone days, would have been called family retainers. They had all known Katrina her entire life, and their opinion of her actually mattered to her. She dreaded facing these other board members—and especially her brother Erik Jr.
Erik, the senior sibling, was the head of the family business trust, and a bit of a Calvinist. He took himself and his responsibilities very seriously—a little too seriously, Katrina had always thought—whether those responsibilities were financial, fiduciary, or moral. To Erik, adultery was an unthinkable, unforgiveable affront to God and Man. Katrina could just imagine what he would have to say about his baby sister being charged with the murder of her husband—and then to remarry before Michael’s body was even cold! And to marry someone so far beneath the Eberhardts, socially and—even more important—financially. He would naturally assume that Randall was a gold digger who had somehow wheedled Katrina into killing Michael to get his hands on her money. And to Erik, gold-digging was even worse than murder.
There would be no sympathy at all from Erik, and Katrina was frightened of what he might say or do. Not that he would become violent, or even verbally vicious. And he couldn’t cut her off from her trust fund. But because he had always been in charge, the older brother, she felt afraid of him in a way that she couldn’t talk herself out of.
She hoped that her other brother, Tim, would be more understanding. He was only three years older than Katrina, and they’d always been close. He was much more tolerant than Erik. He was also gay, which made Erik disapprove of him, too. Erik felt that his younger brother had made a foolish “lifestyle choice,” one that brought discredit to the Eberhardt name. Protecting the Eberhardt name was one of Erik’s major preoccupations—yet another reason he would be furious with Katrina. Tim had no such concern. Even so, Katrina could not bring herself to get in touch with him. What if she was wrong and Tim was cold or hostile? It was better not to know than to risk an unpleasant knowing.
And so as the day of the museum’s board meeting arrived, Katrina was full of dread. But she also had a stubborn streak, and she refused to skip the meeting. She would ride out Erik’s disapproval, and maybe Tim’s, and let them see that she was not neglecting her duty to the family, whatever they might think of her recent adventures. She even left home early, to make sure she arrived on time, so everyone would see that she was not ducking them, and she had no reason to hide.
Katrina marched into the museum with her spine straight and her head held high, ready for any hostile confrontation at all—and so she was completely unprepared when she was blindsided by a huge, warm hug from her brother Tim the second she walked in.
“Kat!” he said, almost yelling. “Oh. My. God! My sister, the tabloid queen!” He laughed, nearly squeezing the life out of her. “Oh Jesus, I am SOOOOO happy to see you! Are you okay?” And before she could say a word, or even breathe, he lowered his voice confidentially and said, “I knew there was something wrong with that Michael of yours. I never trusted him, and I always— But, Kat, seriously, couldn’t you just divorce him? But you always did take things to extremes.”
“Tim, for God’s sake,” she finally got out, “let me go! I can’t breathe!”
Tim stepped back but held on to her shoulders. “God, Kat, I called a hundred times—I was so worried!”
“My phone is evidence,” Katrina said bitterly. “They won’t give it back, and I—” She bit her lip to keep from telling him the truth. He guessed it anyway.
“You didn’t call me because you thought I would get all Erik on you, right? For shit’s sake—you know me better than that!”
“I do,” she said. “I’m sorry, Tim.” And then she gave him back a hug. “Next time I’ll know better,” she said, and they both laughed.
They walked into the boardroom arm in arm, chatting happily. Tim wanted to know all about Randall, and was it just a marriage of convenience or True Love? And then of course all the more personal details—things Katrina wouldn’t tell him no matter how much he wheedled.
The happy bubble burst for both of them as they stepped into the boardroom. “I’m so glad you two can laugh,” Erik said from his place at the head of the long, polished oak table. “And, Katrina”—he said the name with such distaste it must have hurt his mouth—“I admit I’m surprised you would even show your face.”
“Don’t be such a prick, Erik,” Tim said before Katrina could speak. “Your sister has been through a terrible ordeal.”
“And whose fault is that?” Erik said coldly.
“You’re acting like the Taliban,” Tim snapped. “In this country we do innocent until proven guilty, remember? Especially with your sister!”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Katrina finally managed to put in. “Can we stop acting like family and get to business?”
Tim snickered. Erik stared at her but finally nodded once. “Very well,” he said, still in frigid tones. “Despite the distractions, we certainly have a great deal of important business today. The crown jewels arrive in—” He paused, frowned, looked around the room, and then sighed heavily. “Where is Benjamin?”
Katrina looked around the room. Her cousin Benjamin Dryden, known as Benjy by everyone but Erik, was missing. As curator—which meant he was in charge of special events like this one, too—he was expected and even needed at this meeting.
“Anyone, please,” Erik said, quite cranky now, “where on earth is Benjamin?”
* * *
—
I’d been watching Benjy Dryden for a couple of weeks now. Not 24/7, of course. I couldn’t do that and still get everything else done, and there was a lot of “everything else” right now. But I’d kept one eye on him. I knew his habits, his routines—I knew pretty much everything about him. I do my research. I don’t like surprises. If I overlook some factoid about a person or situation and it later turns out to be important—that pretty much guarantees a surprise. And it won’t be a good one.
So I knew Benjy. I even knew a few things about him I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t want anybody else to know. And the bottom line was I had decided that Benjy was just the guy I’d been looking for.
First off, Benjy was family—not my family, of course. No, Benjy was Eberhardt family, which was the important thing. Benjy’s dad had married Priscilla Barclay, who was Erik Eberhardt Sr.’s sister. So Benjy was a cousin. Not in the direct line, but close enough that he had a big chunk of old Ludwig’s money set up in a trust fund. Like way too many people with a trust fund, Benjy coasted and let the money do the work. He had no ambition, no drive, no real interests except looking at paintings and getting high.
And because he was an Eberhardt, he could do that and get by just fine. In fact, his life had been a total picnic so far. He’d been a five-star party boy at Andover. Money and family got him out with a diploma and into Yale, where he cranked it up a notch for his first two years. He took Party Hearty to a near-lethal level. It looked like Benjy was going to be one of those guys who flames out early and ends up dead at forty. But Benjy got lucky.
They say that different people wake up at different times in their lives. I’d have to say from my experience that’s only partly true—most people never wake up at all. Anybody who does, there’s always some kind of trigger moment that rocks the cradle hard enough to snap their eyes open. They look around and it’s like, Shit—I’m alive?! And everything is different after that.