Finally he was given the go-ahead, a temporary pass that clipped to the breast pocket of his jacket, and directions on how to get to Mr. Siebold’s office—as if he needed directions, considering the office had once been his father’s.
The layout of the office had changed, though; the elevator opened into a spacious foyer, which widened into a waiting area with several comfortable chairs, lush greenery, a tropical fish tank built into the wall, and a lot of reading material. Evidently people were expected to wait a long time. Guarding this was a strictly professional woman who looked to be in her mid to late forties, whose desk was beside a set of carved double doors. According to the nameplate on her desk, her name was Valerie Madison. He’d never seen her before. The last time he’d seen Grant’s secretary, she’d been a gray-haired, glasses-wearing fifty-something who’d always given him candy. He guessed she was either retired or dead by now.
“Please have a seat,” Valerie Madison said, lifting the phone. “I’ll let Mr. Siebold’s assistant know you’re here.”
Oh, so she wasn’t Grant’s secretary? Now the secretary—excuse me, assistant—had a secretary?
Seth didn’t sit. He watched the bubbles slowly rise in the fish tank, watched the fish swim aimlessly around. They weren’t accomplishing anything, weren’t going anywhere, but they endlessly performed their circuits of the tank as if this was their express purpose in life. They were too stupid to even be unhappy.
Behind him, the assistant’s secretary’s phone gave a discreet little beep. He heard the murmur of her voice, too low for him to make out the words. She replaced the phone, stood, and opened the door. Silently he nodded to her, passed through the doors, and found himself in another outer office. This one was smaller, more comfortable, more like a very tasteful living room than an office. Soft music, some kind of New Age shit, sort of oozed from all four corners of the room. He’d go fucking nuts if he had to listen to that crap all day long.
The woman sitting at an antique French writing desk, on which perched a curved pedestal supporting a flat-screen Mac, was both a little older and a little rounder than the version outside, but just as businesslike. Her salt-and-pepper hair was wound into a sort of figure eight at the nape of her neck, and her vivid blue eyes were calm and noncommittal. “Please have a seat,” she said. “Mr. Siebold will see you as soon as he’s finished with his present call.”
He looked for her nameplate, which was an engraved brass bar. Dinah Brown. The name was as no-nonsense as its possessor. He said, “I’ve been trying to think of Grant’s previous secretary’s name.”
“That would be Eleanor Glades.”
“Mrs. Glades!” he said, snapping his fingers. “That’s right. She used to give me candy. When did she retire?”
“She didn’t,” said Dinah Brown. “She died of a massive heart attack, twelve years ago.”
Twelve years—and he hadn’t known it. Why would he have? But shouldn’t his father have mentioned it, even if his mother hadn’t? The Siebolds had been their close friends, and losing his secretary would have shaken Grant.
But maybe they had mentioned it, and he simply hadn’t listened. He hadn’t listened to his parents a lot. He had, in fact, raised not listening to an art form.
“You may go in now,” she said, rising and opening the door for him. “Mr. Siebold, Mr. Wingate to see you.”
Seth went into the office that had been his father’s—at least he was pretty sure it was the same office. Well, it was in the same location. Everything else had changed too much for him to say it was the same. His father had preferred clean lines, uncluttered surroundings, function before style. His office furniture had been leather. Grant Siebold’s office was decorated in more of the comfortable, stylish but inviting decor that characterized the outer office. The furniture was upholstered. At least the New Age music wasn’t piped in here, too.
“Seth.” Grant Siebold rose from behind his desk; he was as trim as ever, lean almost to the point of thinness. He’d gone a little bald, and a lot gray. His gaze was shrewd and penetrating. “Have you had any news of Bailey?”
He was a little taken aback that the older man asked, and even more surprised to detect a note of genuine concern in his voice. For some reason, Seth had assumed that his own dislike of Bailey was universal among his father’s old friends and associates, for his mother’s sake if not for the way Bailey had screwed her way into control of a massive fortune. He knew that, since his father died, socializing with her had screeched to a halt, a circumstance that had given him great pleasure.
“Nothing,” he said briefly.
“Terrible thing. I was awake most of the night, hoping to hear something,” Grant said, indicating one of the chairs with a wave of his hand. “Have a seat. Coffee?”
“Yes, thanks.” Seth thought another shot of caffeine couldn’t hurt. He sat down. “Black.” Grant hadn’t offered to shake hands, an omission that could only be deliberate. In the business world, shaking hands was as automatic as breathing. Seth doubted the gesture hadn’t been made because Grant considered him an old friend, almost like a son; no, the subtle message was that Grant wasn’t happy to see him and didn’t want to extend a hypocritical welcome.
He waited until the cup of coffee was in his hand and Grant had reseated himself before getting down to business. “Now that Bailey’s dead—”
“Is she?” asked Grant, his eyebrows rising. “I thought you hadn’t heard anything.”