On the same Monday that Miranda received her snake from Ray the taxidermist, a snake of another kind rode in his limousine through the electric gates of the Montgomery-Krausse estate. There was no great fanfare. Security was casual, the entourage limited to a handful of discreet, trusted minions. No big deal. Just the governor having lunch with his sister.
The black-suited butler opened the massive double doors before the governor reached the top veranda step. Reginald Jackson Montgomery could not be kept waiting at the door, in fact could not be expected to break his stride as he traversed from limo to dining room.
Hermione greeted Reginald at the door of the cavernous formal dining room. They exchanged their customary cheek-pecks. Reginald ushered his elegantly dressed sister to her chair, then seated himself at her right—at the head of the twenty-person table. The unseen butler softly closed the dining room doors.
Miranda would have thought the scene ludicrous, but to the pampered pair of diners it seemed mundane. The room held two priceless Tiffany chandeliers, eighteen empty upholstered chairs, a 500-year-old Turkish carpet, and a fresh flower centerpiece the size of a small refrigerator. China, crystal, and sterling silver, together with linen napkins, awaited only two people. Presumably their gourmet repast would pass through guts and gullets no different from those of any commoner, however.
Ignoring their surroundings and all their obvious reasons to be grateful, the siblings began eating without a word of grace. Praying was something Reginald did only in public and Hermione did not at all. They were their own gods. But all was not sunny atop Olympus this day.
“Well, I’m here,” the governor growled between bites of salmon mousse. “What was so important that I had to reschedule three meetings to get here?”
Hermione took her time swallowing her latest mouthful, placing her silver utensil carefully on her gold-rimmed plate, dabbing her lips with her linen.
“I recall telling you that Phyllis Ogilvy would come back and bite you in the ass someday, Reggie,” said Hermione. “I’m afraid that day may be upon us.”
“Nonsense,” Reginald said. “Phyllis is dead.”
“But my son is not dead, and he apparently has read Phyllis’ letter. He was here asking questions about it yesterday afternoon. And Phyllis’ frumpy niece was with him.”
“That letter was destroyed. All Shepard has is the rumors he spreads on his idiotic talk show.” Reginald continued eating, unperturbed.
Hermione put her hand on his forearm and stopped his fork in mid-air. “I destroyed the original letter, yes, but this is Phyllis we’re talking about. She always was compulsive about books and papers. Her house is probably like an archive—file cabinets or boxes of files in every closet. She probably kept carbon copies of every grocery list she ever made, much less what she would consider ‘official correspondence’!”
Reginald shook her hand away lightly and continued eating. “You know the nice thing about paper, Hermie?”
“What?”
“It burns,” said Reginald.
“What are you saying? That you would commit arson? Add another crime to your curriculum vitae? You’ll ruin us all! Aren’t there enough skeletons already waiting to spring from the closet at the worst possible moment?”
“Keep your voice down,” he said. “No crime. I’m not stupid. But anyone will tell you those old shacks in Minokee are nothing but firetraps, what with all that dried out wood and frayed, inadequate wiring.”
“And the niece who lives there?” asked Hermione, not concerned, but curious.
“Perhaps she won’t be at home,” Reginald said.
Hermione picked up her fork and prepared to finish her lunch. “I don’t care what happens to the little busybody, but hear me well, Reggie. Nothing and no one is to raise a hand against Shepard. If anything happens to my son because of something you’ve said or done, you’ll be very sorry.”
“I imagine you’d withdraw your considerable financial support,” he acknowledged. “I would expect no less, and you would be justified in doing so. Don’t worry. My nephew is a fly in my ointment, but he is no danger to me, Hermie dear.”
“Good,” she said. “Because—and let me make myself absolutely clear—you harm Shepard in any way, and I will obliterate you, Reggie dear.”
She said it with all the emotion she might have invested in suggesting a good movie. And they both knew she was deadly serious. They had grown up together. Reginald was the peacock, more visible and colorful than the hen. Hermione was the mother grizzly bear with a cub to protect.
They polished off their meal. Reggie said the Black Forest torte was extremely good. Then it was kiss-kiss, butler-door, limo-gate, and life went on as usual.