Page 55 of The Lost Heiress
“Birdie did,” Florence said. “She and Mr. Bass were close. She was concerned about a rift in Charles and Bass’s friendship, what it would do to the family. I told her we were all better off without Bass, but she didn’t listen. When Bass extended an olive branch—the private plane, the weekend getaway—they took it.”
“And suddenly, without them in the picture, Bass became guardian of the children, executor of the family estate,” Church said, putting it all together, “in control of the finances he needed for his company, and in control of his own destiny again.”
“Exactly,” Florence said.
“And,” Church went on, “the only thing standing between Bass and Charles’s money at that point was Charles’s children.”
“Yes,” Florence said, the disdain clear in her voice. “Ransom looked up to Bass, trusted him implicitly. Saoirse, on the other hand, was much more difficult to manage.”
“You think Bass got rid of Saoirse to get at her money?” Church asked. “But I thought Ransom, not Bass, stood to inherit her trust if something happened to her?”
“He did,” Florence said, “but don’t you see? That’s exactly what Bass would have wanted. Saoirse didn’t want anything to do with Bass Corp. She made it very clear that when she turned eighteen and gained control of her trust, she was getting out, which would have sent Bass Corp. into a tailspin. But Ransom and Bass were close; Bass could have counted on Ransom to keep his shares invested, which is exactly what he did when he inherited her estate.”
“I see,” Church said.
It certainly established a motive. And Bass had plenty of means and opportunity as well.
“What does your gut tell you, Florence?” Church asked. “Do you think he did it?”
Florence didn’t hesitate. She looked him square in the eyes and said, “I think there’s no morally decrepit act that man wouldn’t make, if it benefited him.”
Chapter Eighteen
July 1982
The next morning, both Jacqueline and Saoirse slept through breakfast, so it was just Ana and Ransom at the table. Their suite had a dining room adjacent to the living room, and room service had brought up platters of eggs Benedict with a side of roasted potatoes for each of them and a bowl of steel-cut oats with currants and coconut for Saoirse, which currently sat covered and untouched. Ana sat next to Ransom, who was seated at the head of the table, a cup of coffee in one hand and the morning paper in the other. Ana was glad for the paper—it was a nice distraction, something for Ransom to pay attention to that wasn’t her. She didn’t know how to look at him after last night, how to talk to him when she had made such a fool of herself. Her mind replayed the scene in vivid detail—how she had closed her eyes and leaned in—how obvious she had made it that she had thought he was about to kiss her. And in response, he had gotten up and moved away from her. It was mortifying. She didn’t know how she was supposed to endure a whole four-hour car ride with him back to Cliffhaven without spontaneously combusting from embarrassment.
“Are you all right?” Ransom asked as he set the paper down. “You seem a little off this morning.”
“I’m fine,” Ana said, keeping her eyes trained on her breakfast tray and spearing a cube of potato.
Ransom glanced at his watch. “We should get on the road soon,” he said. “I suppose I shall have to go wake them.”
“Did they get in late?” Ana asked.
“You didn’t hear them? It was like the storming of the Bastille at two in the morning.”
“Two in the morning?” Ana said. “The play was that long?”
“No,” Ransom said. “They seemed to have enjoyed themselves after the play was over. And if either of them regurgitates any of last night’s enjoyment in my car today, I will be cross indeed. I’ve just had the upholstery cleaned.”
Ana didn’t say anything and took another bite of her eggs Benedict. She could feel Ransom surveying her, and her face felt suddenly warm.
“Have I done something to offend you?” Ransom asked after a moment.
“No,” Ana said. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She busied herself with her napkin instead. “Why would you ask that?”
“Because you’ve barely made eye contact with me all morning,” Ransom said.
Ana sighed and forced herself to look at him. “You’re imagining things.”
“Ana, kindly, don’t insult my intelligence,” Ransom said. “Just tell me what I’ve done to upset you.”
“It’s nothing,” Ana said. “It’s just—I feel a little weird around you after last night and the ... the kiss.”
“What kiss?” Ransom asked, looking confused.
“Well, it wasn’t an actual kiss,” Ana corrected herself. “It was more of an almost kiss.” She felt even more insane and silly saying this all out loud. “Last night, in the other room, on the couch. See?” She nodded toward the aforementioned couch, which sat in perfect view of their table, just through a set of open French doors. The couch existed, and therefore the kiss—or the almost kiss—had too. “We were talking,” Ana went on, “and I thought you were going to—you know—but then you didn’t.”
