Sunflower Alley (The Merriams Book 4) Read online

  She rapped his arm with her gloved hand. “Why didn’t you let Hargreaves stake this place out with me instead of canvassing the area? You could be reading a newspaper in the warm confines of our hotel room.”

  He snorted. “Like I would let your butler—who has no head for investigation, by the way—outdo me. My God, woman, what kind of a man would I be if I let my wife and her butler do my job?”

  “We all want to find Connor, dear,” she said, her pink-painted mouth worrying. “Thank goodness he finally went to Olivia’s last night, or we wouldn’t even have confirmation he’s in Chicago.”

  He didn’t bring up the fact that they’d only missed Connor last night because Clara had talked him into staying inside due to the snowstorm. Arthur wouldn’t put it past Connor to have planned the meeting with Olivia during harsh weather to avoid detection. He’d certainly made a point of not being found. No credit cards used. No devices or cars registered to him. Nothing. To Arthur’s knowledge, even the boy’s tech-savvy brother, Flynn, hadn’t found one bleep of him.

  “I know he was the runner I saw the other day, but he didn’t slow down.” And his eyes weren’t twenty-twenty anymore, even though they were pretty sharp for a man in his eighties.

  “We should have chased him down,” Clara said, hitting her hand into her palm. “Hargreaves had the limo all ready.”

  Why she’d insisted on renting a limo in one of the nation’s worst cities for traffic, he couldn’t fathom. But he’d learned not to make a fuss if he didn’t object strongly to one of her whims. Unless it was to poke at her a bit. Like he was about to do. “This Irish fisherman sweater you knitted me is starting to itch.”

  Her beautiful baby blues rolled his way before she pulled her brochure out again in outright challenge. “That wool is the softest I’ve found yet. Arthur, I swear. If you’re going to keep complaining, I’m joining Hargreaves. He packed us a nice picnic, and my stomach is rumbling.”

  “A picnic? Clara, for heaven’s sake, this is a stakeout. Not a garden party.”

  “You have your way of enduring the waiting, and Hargreaves and I have ours.” To punctuate this, she pulled out a curvy pocket flask from her purse and took a drink. Her eyes closed, and she made a sound of delight.

  “You made that sound this morning for an entirely different reason,” he said with a chuckle. “What are you drinking?”

  “Marital bliss and martinis go together like yellow and purple in a rainbow.”

  “Your analogies need work. Are you seriously drinking a martini?”

  “It’s lunchtime, Arthur, and you know I feel European on the inside.”

  He just shrugged. The martinis made her happy. Besides, Clara could drink like a fish. He’d never seen any amount of alcohol affect her. Her family called it an alcohol supergene.

  “A man fitting Mr. Merriam’s description is running this way on the east side of the graveyard,” Hargreaves’ voice sounded on the walkie-talkie Arthur had insisted on buying. Of course, his wife had suggested simply texting any sightings. Hell, no, not on his watch. This was a proper stakeout—minus the fur coat, tourist brochure, and martinis.

  Arthur picked up his binoculars. Sure enough, a man wearing nothing but shorts and a long-sleeved University of Chicago T-shirt was running at a healthy clip toward the grave of none other than Corey Weatherby. But he was sporting a short beard.

  Good camouflage, Arthur suspected. Or maybe the boy wasn’t taking care of himself out of grief. They’d soon find out.

  All that mattered was they’d found him. Connor needed his family right now more than ever—despite his insistence on pushing everyone away—and Arthur knew he and Clara were about to have a hell of a fight on their hands. Still, he whispered almost reverently, “At last. We’ve got you, son.”

  Clara picked up the walkie-talkie. “Hargreaves, head to the limo. If Connor flees, you’ll have to chase him down.”

  Arthur cut her a look. “Did you watch an old Steve McQueen movie after I fell asleep last night? We’re not going to chase him down, Clara. We’re going to reason with him.” Or play hardball, if need be.

  Clara stood, grabbing the binoculars out of his hand. “He’s heading to Corey’s grave as you predicted. Bravo, Arthur. Let’s get moving. The attendants might have shoveled a path through the graveyard, but it’s slippery. You’ll need to go slow.”

  “You’re as old as I am, woman,” he said, rising and extending his arm to her like the gentleman he was. “We’ll both go slow and hope to hell Connor doesn’t bolt.”

  “You can count on Hargreaves if that happens, dear.”

  He harrumphed as they started down the path. Connor was standing in the freezing cold in front of Corey’s grave, hands folded in front of him. Had he gone mad? The temperature was in the low twenties and he was ridiculously underdressed.

  “He looks different with the beard. Darker somehow.” Clara gripped his arm. “Arthur, what happens if he won’t let us help him? His family will be devastated.”

  We’ll all be devastated.

  Which was why he didn’t intend to take no for an answer.

  “We won’t stop pressing him until he does listen. Are we not two stubborn old people?”

  She gave him a watery smile. “Stubborn I am, indeed, but not old.”

  “No, you’re in the prime of your life.” Arthur kissed her cheek. “Now buck up. We’re about to lock horns with the Big Bad Wolf.” As a family nickname, it was telling. None of the Merriam kids were tougher than Connor—Arthur didn’t know if it was being the oldest of seven, knowing he was expected to take over a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate that had made him that way—and he prayed to God none of the others ever would be.

  They stopped a few feet behind Connor, and he must have sensed them because he turned slightly and nodded like he might to other mourners. Then he turned around the whole way, facing them with the wariness a bull might feel toward a matador. “This can’t be a coincidence.”

  “It is not,” Clara said, lifting her regal chin. “We’ve missed you, my boy. Everyone has been worried about you.”

  His face fell. “Is Michaela—”

  “She’s completely recovered from her fever, don’t worry,” Clara said, reaching for his hand.

  He lowered his head, his profile a still life of agony. “Thank God. I was…”

  Carefully, he took Clara’s hand and set it away from him. Arthur felt a pinch in his heart seeing the conscious withdrawal.

  “Now that we’ve established the state of her health, why else are you here?”

  Clara looked over at him. “Arthur had a mind to see if his old investigative journalist skills might assist him in finding you.”

  “Which explains why you’re here, freezing in a graveyard after a Chicago snowstorm.” Connor tucked his gloveless hands around himself. “I knew seeing Olivia was a risk.”

  “It only confirmed my suspicions,” Arthur said, taking hold of Clara more firmly. “We’ve been canvassing this graveyard and Olivia’s house for a week now. Missed you last night due to the storm and the other day when you didn’t stop running. Happy you finally slowed down.”

  His mouth twitched as if amused. “I apologize for causing you any inconvenience, but like I said, I didn’t want to be found. I certainly didn’t want to see anyone in the family after what transpired, but after last night, I’m surprised to discover I’m not unhappy to see you. In fact, I feel like we have a mutually beneficial deal to make.”

  This was what Arthur loved about life—even after eighty years, it still had the ability to surprise him. The last time he and Clara had seen Connor, they’d taken him to task for some exceptionally bad judgment regarding his sister and her work with a local village in Kenya. Connor didn’t seem to be angry with them, but it was hard to see beyond his rock-solid poker face.

  Clara met Arthur’s eyes before standing taller in her snow boots. “I’m eager to hear your proposed deal.”

  Oh, these Merriams. Sometimes Arthur w
anted to knock them on the backs of their heads for complicating things with deals and negotiations, but business was in their blood like journalism was in his. He could make allowances. Plus, the boy wasn’t running. That was something. His old bones weren’t great at chasing anymore. “Outline what you have in mind.”

  Connor looked off for a moment. “I assume Hargreaves is driving the limo coming this way.”

  “Of course,” Clara said. “When I say we’ve all been worried, I’m not exaggerating.”

  “No more talk of worry or the past,” Connor said in the hard tone he was famous for. “This is a short-term business deal. You don’t share my whereabouts with my family in exchange for working with me, which will allow you to keep tabs on me. Something you clearly want.”

  Arthur ran his tongue over his teeth. Could he keep something like this from the boy’s family? They were all beside themselves with worry. “This had better be good because I can’t fathom not telling them.”

  “I can disappear again,” Connor said, snapping his fingers. “No one would find me. Not even Flynn.”

  “And yet we found you,” Clara said. What was she trying to do? The boy already had his back up, and hell, if he ran, they wouldn’t be able to catch him.

  “You only found me because I was overly sentimental coming here,” Connor said, his mouth twisting. “It won’t happen again. I can and will disappear for good and no one would ever find me.”

  A spasm rolled through Arthur’s gut at the thought. Connor would do it. He wouldn’t think twice. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Tell us what you have in mind.”

  Clara folded her arms. “I’ll need to hear the terms before agreeing.”

  Connor rolled his eyes as Hargreaves came into sight, walking up the path from where he’d parked the limo on one of the roads running through the graveyard. “Are your butler duties never done, Hargreaves?”

  The man was carrying what looked like a full-length winter coat, and for once, Arthur could have kissed him.

  “Your coat, sir,” Hargreaves said, unfolding it and holding it out for Connor.

  “In my size, of course.” Connor sighed, shaking his head. “Fine, I’ll wear the damn coat, but I run hot. When I went to school here, I rarely wore a light jacket in the winter.”

  “You get that fire from your Grandpa Emmits,” Clara said. “He was the same way.”

  “Genes,” Connor said, chuckling. “Can’t escape them. I guess I should be glad Hargreaves didn’t bring me a blanket. Everyone seems to want to cover me up lately.”

  “Please, sir,” Hargreaves said with a slight scoff. “A blanket? I have standards to adhere to.”

  Clara shot Arthur a puzzled look, but even though he was equally curious, he suspected it wasn’t the time to press the boy.

  “Are you hungry, sir?” Hargreaves asked. “I have some lunch items in the car.”

  “I’m fine, Hargreaves,” Connor said. “Is everyone worried I’m not taking care of myself?”

  “Yes,” Clara responded.

  Arthur nudged her. “On with the conditions.”

  Connor buttoned the coat with precision. “I find I’m in the mood to improve the neighborhood Olivia and her boys live in. If you’ve been staking it out, you’ll have noticed it needs it.”

  “It seems to have fallen on some hard times,” Arthur agreed. “Some blocks are better than others.” He’d been worried about having Clara in the car with him, but she’d insisted on coming along. Of course, he’d chosen an old Buick. There was no way they were going to stake out in a limo. Leave that for Hargreaves’ daytime canvassing.

  “I want to buy up as much of the neighborhood as I can. Help it find an urban spring,” Connor said. “Uncle, I imagine you are well informed on successful urban renewal models. I have some thoughts already. Stayed up all night researching and preparing some ideas.”

  Arthur rocked back on his feet, feeling the healthy bite of excitement. This was the kind of challenge he’d missed after retiring. “I am, and I can research more on ones used successfully in comparable cities.”

  Connor nodded, finishing with his buttons. “Music to my ears. Aunt, I assume you chartered a plane to come here.”

  “I did,” she responded cautiously. “In need of a flight?”

  “Yes, to Switzerland, and perhaps Luxembourg,” he said, scratching his beard as if he wasn’t friendly yet with its presence. “I need to move some money. Set up a few new corporations in names that won’t track back to me.”

  “Ones your family can’t trace,” Clara said.

  “And other inquiring people,” Arthur added. “One person buying up that much property in South Side might raise some eyebrows.”

  “It’s legal, but yes, I don’t want anyone to raise objections,” Connor said. “I’ll have to buy up enough property to convince some of the bigger box stores to come in and put up their shingle to turn things around, and I need this done quickly and without complication.”

  The boy was talking about gentrification. Strong feelings defined the topic, but Connor had never been one to shy from opposition. His nephew seemed resolute.

  “Why the sudden interest in improving South Side?” Clara asked.

  Arthur looked to Corey’s grave.

  “Because Olivia won’t leave the neighborhood,” Connor said, his jaw tightening. “I promised Corey I’d look after her and the boys, and it’s not safe. Right now, this seems the only way.”

  A smart and canny workaround, Arthur thought, but it was a great weight for one person to take on. “It’s a big investment with a lot of hurdles and uncertainties,” he said carefully.

  Connor held his arms out, and Arthur saw a sparkle of that old Merriam magic—the certain something that had helped lift his mentor, the great Emmits Merriam, Clara’s grandfather, to greatness. “If a billionaire can’t take risks, what the hell is the money for? Besides, it’s not like I ever had the time to enjoy it. Working at Merriam… Never mind. That’s over, and I don’t ever want to speak of it.”

  Arthur’s heart grew tight in his chest. The pressure and demands of running a company like Merriam Enterprises were enormous and never-ending. For years, Connor had devoted his every breath to the family business, but Corey’s death had deeply wounded him, and the ill-advised decisions he’d made in the thick of grief had led to this—a family divide so deep Arthur wasn’t sure it could be bridged.

  But he and Clara were going to damn well try.

  “What else?” Clara asked crisply.

  “I’d also like you to donate a significant sum to a South Side homeless shelter—money I will give you. Without boring you with the long version, the director approved the outline I created for the job training program they’re going to be implementing.”

  “I see,” Clara said in an even tone, but Arthur caught her sidelong glance.

  Connor Merriam was helping a homeless shelter? He didn’t know if it was lunacy or the perfect thing to get the boy’s head on straight.

  Connor wiped his face as the wind gusted up a sheen of snow, almost as if flicking away a fly. “I told her I’d need a week to flesh out a full business plan, and I should be able to make that deadline even with my travel schedule…should we come to terms. There’s another caveat. I don’t want the director of the shelter to know we know each other.”

  Well, well. The plot doth thicken.

  “If this shelter is deserving, I’ll give my money to it,” Clara said haughtily.

  “Never argue with her when it comes to her name or reputation, son,” Arthur said, smiling suddenly amidst the tension. “A job training program could help you turn the neighborhood around. Clara will make the donation, and I’ll tell them I’m doing an article on the homeless in America. Which I’ll publish when it’s perfect enough.” Hell, he could win another Pulitzer.

  Clara nudged him. “It’s on an important topic so I won’t quibble about you being retired.”

  “This shelter works especially with homeless familie
s and children, but they seem to have a knack for screening people who want to pull themselves up by their bootstraps,” Connor said. “People like me have a very negative view of the homeless. The bums. The crazy people who talk to themselves on the streets. The vets who get violent when you don’t give them money. San Francisco was full of negative examples.”

  Arthur saw things differently, but he didn’t correct the stereotypes. Not when Connor was admitting to them. “What changed your mind?”

  “Let’s say the director of the shelter helped me see this problem in a new light. She’s compelling. She’s also seriously trying to make life better for people in need. I intend to help her.”

  Arthur’s matchmaker radar sounded. Compelling, huh? This woman had to be that and more to have inspired Connor to undertake such a task.

  He glanced at Clara, who raised her brows. Yes, she was thinking the same thing.

  “You’ll meet her when you visit Sunflower Alley. I’d like that to happen when I get back from my trip. Be nice to have the money come in right around the time the business plan’s ready. She’ll see it as a miracle. She’s into those things.”

  Oddly, there was no derision in his tone. If Arthur had to characterize it, he’d say it was amused respect. “I imagine you’d need to believe in miracles to work with the homeless.”

  “She sounds like an incredible woman,” Clara said. “Sunflower Alley. Is that the shelter’s name?”

  Another smile from the Big Bad Wolf. “Yes.”

  She clapped her gloves together. “I love it.”

  “You would, Aunt. No offense.” He held up his hands for good measure, which was the only reason Arthur didn’t give him a set down.

  “So you’ve taken it on yourself to single-handedly turn around South Side,” Arthur said, feeling the need to add a dose of reality to the conversation. “Do you know anything about Chicago politics? They have a long history of doing things their own way. South Side especially.”