Samuel Grenthaler had launched his company from a poky apartment in Somerville. Now its headquarters occupied a redbrick complex that sprawled over the better part of a full city block in Kendall Square, a neighborhood better known for biotech and software start-ups and shiny new condos. Even on a Saturday, the lobby was bustling. Several Grenthaler magazines were published from this building, and for their employees weekends happened after an issue was “put to bed,” which could be any day of the week.

The receptionist had my name on a list, and he gave me a pass and buzzed me through the glass-paneled doors that led to the elevators. The security here was much better than it was at UHS. The meeting was on the second floor, so I opted for the stairs rather than wait for the elevator, deciding I could now cross out “exercise” on the day’s to-do list. I reached the boardroom a few minutes early, but there was nobody there as yet, so I ducked into the ladies’ room. The ten-foot dash between the cab and the building’s entrance had exposed me to a massive gust of snow and wind, and I had the feeling that it hadn’t done much for my hastily fashioned chignon. Sure enough, the mirror above the sink reflected somebody who looked like me but had a red mop on her head instead of hair. I undid the clasp and began fiddling with the wayward strands.

The door opened and Barbara Barnett strode in. I was wearing what I’d always thought of as my “Power Suit,” a severe black Armani. Barbara seemed to be wearing her own version, an alarmingly bright royal blue outfit that looked like the product of a Falcon Crest costume designer channeling her counterpart on Dallas. But I had to give Barbara credit. The miniskirt might not be the outfit of choice for the sorts of meetings I was used to attending, but she still had the legs to carry it off.

She gave me a big smile, and we made ladies’ room small talk, mostly about Sara’s condition and the security at UHS. Watching her touch up her already perfect makeup was fascinating to me, given that the contents of my own makeup bag yielded little but a tube of drugstore mascara and a Bonne Bell strawberry-flavored Lip Smacker. “I bet Abigail uses grown-up makeup,” said that mean little voice in my head. I mentally shushed the mean little voice while simultaneously managing to secure my hair back in a knot that looked almost intentional.

It seemed only polite to wait for Barbara, so I watched while she finished outlining her lips with one brush and then used another brush and two different pots of lip gloss to fill in between the lines. “You have such beautiful skin, honey. It must be nice not to need all of this war paint,” she said to me, putting away the tools she’d just used and taking out a small pillbox.

“I probably do need it,” I replied. “I just lack the hand-eye coordination required to put it on.”

She laughed. “It does take practice. But a young, fresh-faced gal like you-you don’t need as much help as I do. And how do you keep your cute little figure?” She looked me up and down with an evaluative eye before opening the pillbox and selecting a yellow tablet, which she swallowed dry. She put the pillbox back in her bag.

I’d never really thought of my figure as “cute.” Mostly just scrawny. And klutzy. When what I’d always longed for was willowy and graceful. “I miss a lot of meals,” I said. It made for an easier answer than trying to argue with her assessment. And it was the truth. Too many evenings found me scavenging for food among the vending machines in the pantry at Winslow, Brown, hungry but unwilling to prolong my hours at work by taking the time to order in a proper dinner.

“Well, you’re a lucky one,” she replied as we left the ladies’ room.

I didn’t feel particularly lucky that morning. But I thanked her, assured her of her own enviable svelteness and followed her into the boardroom.

A half hour later I was feeling even less lucky.

Brian Mulcahey called the meeting to order. Tom had not only been CEO, he’d been chairman of the board, and Sara, who served as vice chair, was out of commission for today’s meeting, so running the agenda fell to Brian. The other board members seated around the table included Barbara, Edward and Helene Porter, and four “outsiders,” including the senior partner at one of Boston’s more prestigious law firms, the CEO of a local insurance company, the CEO of a local industrial concern and a retired professor from M.I.T. The crackdown on corporate governance in the post-Enron era had called for more outsider presence on the boards of public companies, but since Grenthaler was privately controlled it had felt little pressure to reshuffle its board’s composition, and it was still more than half “insiders.”

Mulcahey began by offering his condolences to Barbara, which were echoed by those of us gathered around the table and met with the widow’s gracious thanks. Then he cleared his throat. “As Tom’s death was so sudden, and so unexpected, we find ourselves without a formal succession plan. Now, I have a proposal that I wanted to put before the board-”

I wasn’t surprised when Barbara interrupted with a bright smile. “Actually, Brian, I have a proposal that I think the board needs to hear first.”

But I was surprised when she pushed back her chair, stood and crossed to the door. When she was confident that she had the full attention of everyone in the room, she threw it open.

And in walked Adam Barnett, Scott Epson and the Caped Avenger.

T his can’t be good, was my first thought.

This is really bad, was my second thought.

But at least I knew I didn’t need glasses. I had seen the three of them leaving the Ritz the previous morning; my eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on me. Still, I had a feeling that soon I would wish that they had been.

“Barbara, what is this all about?” asked Brian Mulcahey.

“Adam will tell you,” said Barbara, her voice bursting with maternal pride.

Helene Porter emitted a delicate sound that wasn’t a snort but conveyed similar feelings, albeit in a far more genteel way.

Barbara nodded at her son. “Go ahead, honey.”

“Good morning,” said Adam. His voice sounded more confident than I’d ever heard it before, and he seemed less überdorky than usual. But that might just be because he was standing next to Scott Epson. Scott, meanwhile, was wearing his favorite tie, pink silk with green alligators. The Caped Avenger, standing next to Scott, caught my eye and gave me a wave and a look that managed to combine a raised eyebrow, a wink and a leer all at once.

Adam continued, “My mother, as one of Grenthaler Media’s major shareholders and board members, invited us here to make this announcement in person. Allow me to introduce my partner, Whitaker Jamieson, and our advisor, Scott Epson of Winslow, Brown. Mr. Jamieson and I have established a private corporation that has acquired four-point-nine percent of Grenthaler Media’s shares in the open market. We have also negotiated an agreement with my mother to acquire the ten percent of the company that she owns.”

I stole a glance at Barbara. Her lips were moving silently as her son spoke, and I had little doubt that she’d helped Adam prepare his speech.

Adam went on. “Before the close of business yesterday we filed with the Securities and Exchange Commission a notice of our intent to make a tender offer for the remaining publicly held shares. We submitted a press release to the wire services announcing the tender offer just this morning.”

Barbara couldn’t hold back any longer. “Isn’t it exciting!” she cried. “Adam’s going to take over the company!”

And I was going to murder Stan Winslow. Now I knew why the Caped Avenger had been so quiet of late. Somehow he and Barbara Barnett had found each other, and now he was financing the takeover attempt. Given how less than impressive I’d found Adam to date, I had no illusions that Barbara wasn’t the driving force behind it all. Meanwhile, Stan had steered Whitaker to Scott to handle the deal, probably just as much to intensify any competition between us as to avoid navigating any conflict of interest on my part, given my professional obligations to Grenthaler’s current management.