CHAPTER NINETEEN
Taylor froze like a statue, tray balanced, expression fixed. “—and I tested them myself,” she finished in a hurry, and turned to offer the cheesecake bites to the three couples behind her. “Lime cheesecake bites,” she said, and willed the man to keep talking.
“How would Harbo know? Since his divorce, that place is a junkheap.” The female speaker could not have been more disdainful of Dick Harbo, or more enthusiastic about the cheesecake. She took two.
“Maybe so.” The man spoke; Taylor recognized his voice. “But he knows everything he has and where it is. He’s missing a one-man tent, a survival guide, some dried rations, his ex’s backpack, some other stuff.” He waved off Taylor and her tray.
Now Taylor knew the name of the guy she’d stolen the tent from, that he was obsessive-compulsive about his possessions, and her suspicions of his divorce were confirmed. Great.
“Did the burglar destroy anything?” another man asked.
“How could you tell?” the first woman asked.
Everybody laughed.
Everyone except Taylor, who hoped she didn’t have that deer-in-the-headlights expression.
A third man said to Taylor, “Sure, honey. I’ll take one of those.” Then, “Was anything messed up?”
“Clean as a whistle,” the first guy said.
“What kind of burglar breaks in and cleans up after himself?” the third guy asked. “Sounds to me like Harbo is drinking too much.”
Another woman came from behind and joined the group. “Yes, but we’re missing our pistol.”
With a jolt, Taylor realized that everybody here knew each other. These were the neighbors in Wildrose Valley.
Taylor offered the new woman the dessert tray.
“I already had one, thank you.” This lady was impatient, determined to speak her piece.
Everyone in the group had either taken cheesecake or refused. Taylor was supposed to move on. So she turned away and pretended to be offering her tray to the same group as before.
“Since Valerie shot Macalister with the BB gun, we have been absolute freaks about keeping guns in the safe. But this was a brand-new Glock I had bought for Peter for Christmas. I hid it in the—”
“Excuse me, could I have one of those?”
It took a minute for Taylor to register that the tall woman to her left was hovering, waiting for dessert.
“Of course!” Taylor handed her a napkin, and waited for her to make her choice from among all the identical desserts.
“These are low calorie, right?” The woman winked. She was tall, blond, in her forties, with a pleasant expression.
“… finally thought it was me … I’m so absentminded … had to ask … everyone denied…”
Taylor smiled. “Calories are relative, aren’t they?”
“They’re my relatives, for sure. At least, they hang around like they are!” The woman laughed and stroked one hand down her hip.
Taylor laughed, too, and wished this woman would shut up and move off. She could only hear bits and pieces of the conversation behind her.
“… but one box of the bullets was still there, so I wasn’t mistaken!”
Murmurs of dismay rose from the group.
The newest cheesecake-desiring woman swung to face them. “What are you talking about? Carolyn, is there something missing from your house? Because Cissie swears she did not take my screwdriver or the scissors.”
My God. That was Susan Renner. Taylor had been so intent on the conversation behind her, she hadn’t recognized …
She glanced toward the edge of the ballroom.
Georg stood there, arms crossed, glaring at her.
She glided away, offering her cheesecake bites until the tray was clear.
By the time the party was winding down, voices had grown loud and stories expansive, Mr. and Mrs. Brothers had raised over half a million dollars for next year’s rodeo scholarships, and Taylor’s feet and back hurt.
At a signal from Georg, she made her way back to the kitchen.
Servers were collapsing in chairs around the table.
Taylor started to take a seat next to Jasmine, a vivacious, pretty young blonde, but Jasmine turned her shoulder and said to the girl beside her, “Georg is too nice. He is always picking up the trash.”
Taylor jerked back. Jasmine was talking about her. Which shouldn’t matter. This kid looked like she just got out of high school. The trouble was, Taylor hurt like a teenager, reborn into a world that didn’t understand her, where only the fittest survived—and she didn’t yet know if she was one of those fittest.
Then she remembered who she was, how successful she had been with her business, that she had survived a murder attempt and the harshest of conditions … and she seated herself next to Jasmine and smiled. She could take this kid out with one hand tied behind her back. She needed to remember that. The kid needed to realize it.
Sarah shouted to the assembled staff, “Quiet! Georg wishes to speak.”
A hush fell, and the chefs moved around the table.
Georg stepped into the center and sadly shook his head. “You all did as well as can be expected.” He pointed his finger at them, one at a time. “But next week, we have a cocktail party for a thousand on Friday, and on Saturday, a sit-down dinner for two hundred. The cooks must be brilliant.” His gaze lingered meaningfully on Taylor. “The servers must be swift and unobtrusive.”
She looked down.
He continued, “Next week, get a good night’s rest before work, and prepare to shine!”
Heads nodded.
Taylor nodded.
“Sarah will divide the leftovers among anyone who wants them,” he said.
Taylor almost jumped for joy.
“The remainder will go to the homeless shelter in town. Now.” Georg smiled. “Mr. and Mrs. Brothers would like to personally thank you for your efforts.”
Hand in hand, Mr. and Mrs. Brothers stepped into the kitchen. In the ballroom, Mr. Brothers had been the charmer, the chatter, the speech-giver. In here, Mrs. Brothers was in charge, handing out envelopes with substantial tips, and inviting any who were too exhausted to risk the icy roads to stay the night in the barracks inside (females) and the bunkhouse outside (males).
Most of the servers headed home; Taylor supposed if she had a home, she might do the same. As it was, she was grateful not to face the climb up the mountain to her tent. She stashed her leftovers in her backpack, and stashed that in the massive Sub-Zero refrigerator. She crashed in the barracks along with five of the other women. Jasmine stuck around, too. Perhaps the kid wasn’t the hotshit bully she pretended to be.
Taylor slept the sleep of the warm, full, safe, and exhausted.
She did not dream about her father.
In the morning, the Brothers’s cook made them a hearty breakfast. At her place under the napkin, Taylor found a note. She waited until she went back to the dormitory before she opened and read it.
I owe you a haircut. Collect now.
The note was unsigned. But really, it didn’t need a signature.
As the others left, Taylor lingered behind. The cook led her to a small sunroom on the east side of the house.
Dressed in a blue button-up shirt and black slacks, Mrs. Brothers worked at a desk spread with papers. She looked different in the sunlight: not so much older, but shrewder, less a lightweight arm-ornament and more in charge. When Taylor stepped in, Mrs. Brothers said, “Come in, Summer, and sit on the stool. I’ll let Joshua know you’re here, then I’ll get my razor.”
Taylor eyed Mrs. Brothers. “Razor?”
Mrs. Brothers had a tremor in her hands. Yet she seemed confident and unconcerned. “A razor cut will give you a sharper edge on the top. As young as you look, as thin as you are, and with the bone structure you have, you need a severe shape to make you look less like a waif and more like a punk. It’ll help fend off predators. A lot of them prowl these parties.”
“Oh.” Taylor sank down on t
he stool. “I don’t feel young or easy.”
“It’s all about image,” Mrs. Brothers assured her. Picking up the house phone, she pressed a number and said, “She’s here, dear. Don’t hurry, she’ll be here a while … fine, hurry if you want to.”
Considering that Taylor was already ready for a nap, and the Brothers had been up as late as she had … they were extraordinarily energetic.
Mrs. Brothers ran her fingers through Taylor’s hair and along her scalp.
Taylor wanted to stretch like a cat. It had been months since anyone had touched her in any way, so she wanted to sink into the warmth and the comfort.
Mrs. Brothers clipped a towel around Taylor’s shoulders, picked up the razor, and set to work.
Taylor sat very still, waiting for a nick on the ear. But Mrs. Brothers overcame her tremor with no problem, and Taylor closed her eyes and relaxed. She almost dozed … until she heard a man’s footsteps in the corridor.
Her eyes popped open.
She was trapped. Dash had hunted her down.
But no, the footsteps were slow, with a slight shuffle.
“Here he is.” Mrs. Brothers took the razor away. “Hello, darling.”
Mr. Brothers smiled at them both. “What a lovely sight on this bright morning!” Going to Mrs. Brothers, he kissed her on the cheek, then patted Taylor on the shoulder. With a groan, he seated himself on the couch. To his wife, he said, “I’m too old for such late-night carousing.”
“You’re the one who insisted the band play for another hour.”
“Why did you let me do that?”
“As if I could ever stop you from doing anything, you bullheaded old fart.”
Taylor bit her lip on a smile. “How long have you two been married?”
“Fifty-two years of happy wedded life.” Before Taylor could offer her congratulations, he added, “But we’ve been married sixty-three years.”
Taylor laughed, as she was supposed to.
“I’m done with the left side. What do you think?” Mrs. Brothers turned Taylor’s face toward him.
Mr. Brothers stared at Taylor without speaking long enough to make her anxious. “Is it bad?”
“No, he’s thinking. Can’t you tell by the vacant expression in his eyes?” Mrs. Brothers was obviously irritated by his silence.
Mr. Brothers shook himself. “It’s a good haircut. I didn’t mean that. It’s just … here with the sun on your face, you remind me of someone.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Shit. “Who?” Taylor asked.
Mrs. Brothers turned Taylor’s face back toward her and studied it. “Yes, who?”
“I don’t know,” Mr. Brothers snapped. “When you get to be my age, everyone you meet looks like someone you’ve already met. Summer, where’d you grow up?”
“In Baltimore,” Taylor said. Mostly.
Mr. Brothers shook his head. “Never lived there. Never even spent too much time there. Too close to D.C., too full of politicians and bureaucrats.”
“Yes, it is.” Taylor was afraid she wasn’t going to like the answer to her question, but she had to ask. “Where did you grow up, Mr. Brothers?”
“Right here in the valley,” he said. “My father and mother had a ranch. They lost it in the thirties—Depression hit here hard. I went into the navy in World War Two, but I always retained good memories of the place.”
Taylor nodded. She retained good memories of the place, too. She also harbored a terror of the place, both because of Dash and his attack and now, because … did Mr. Brothers remember her family? “So that’s why you bought a house here?”
“We bought the land years ago, donated most of it to the Forest Service, and developed a few hundred acres for us and a few other folks who had more money than sense.” Mr. Brothers chortled. Then he stopped laughing and stared at Taylor again. “You look like … that kid … who lived on a ranch up the road.”
“Who?” Taylor kept her smile.
“His name was…” Mr. Brothers squinted as he tried to remember. “Walter, I think.”
Taylor broke a sweat. Walter was her grandfather.
“Walter … can’t remember the last name. Family lived there forever. Walter was a few years younger than me. He went to the war in forty-four, to the South Pacific, got shot in the hip, was in the hospital for a damned long time, then got mustered out.”
She barely remembered her grandfather, but she did remember his limp. Now she knew how he got it.
“After the war, in South Carolina, I met Lorena, got married and settled down.” Mr. Brothers scratched his chin. “Walter was thin as a rail, just like you. You sure you’re not related?”
“Anything is possible, of course. But I’m not naturally thin.” Taylor felt as if she was tap-dancing through a minefield. “I’ve recently lost weight.”
He frowned. “Too much sushi. You should eat a steak.”
“I’ll make a note of that.” She smiled at him, deliberately using her charms to beguile him, distract him.
It worked, too, although Mrs. Brothers sighed. “He is such a sucker for a pretty face.”
Mr. Brothers scowled. “You women are so smug.” Mrs. Brothers and Taylor both smiled at him, and finally he smiled back. “Eat a steak,” he repeated.
“I confiscated some of the leftovers.” Taylor had confiscated a lot of the leftovers.
Mrs. Brothers finished with her razor and turned Taylor to face him. “What do you think?”
“Charming. Gamine.” His blue eyes twinkled.
Taylor accepted the handheld mirror from Mrs. Brothers, looked at herself, and looked again. The cut gave lift to her face, made it less oval and more angular, and shaved about ten years off her life. She looked very much like the teenage member of a street gang. “I like it. I like it very much. Thank you, Mrs. Brothers.”
“Come back when you need a trim,” Mrs. Brothers said.
Not in a million billion years. Not with Mr. Brothers trying to remember the ranching family up the road. “Thank you.”
“Honey, you forget,” Mr. Brothers said, “we’re leaving on Tuesday. We’re off to a stockholders’ meeting in New York.”
Mrs. Brothers sighed. “I didn’t forget. I was ignoring it. Why don’t you go and I’ll stay?”
“You have to go. You charm them into submission.” He stood up, came over, and put his arm around his wife. To Taylor, he said, “They think she’s a sweet little old lady. They don’t see the spine of steel underneath.”
“You’re giving the girl the wrong idea about me.” But Mrs. Brothers smirked. Then she whipped around to face Taylor. “We’re alike, you and I. I don’t know what you’re going through, but you’re going to figure it out, or die trying.”
Taylor didn’t know what had clued Mrs. Brothers to her plight, but she did know better than to admit to anything. “How right you are.” She slid off the stool. “Thank you both for the work, the food, the shelter, and the haircut. I’ll be going now. Enjoy your trip.” Even though her neck prickled with the knowledge that they were watching her, Taylor walked out of the room with an air of confidence. She paused just within earshot.
Mr. Brothers said, “Why did you say that? What do you think’s going on with the girl?”
“I don’t know, but she looks haunted.”
“Ghosts?” Mr. Brothers asked.
“Maybe.”
“We gave her an opening if she wants to come back and ask for our help. That’s the best we can do.”
“I wonder if we’ll see her again.”
It depends on what I find out when I check out your profiles online. Silently, Taylor continued toward the kitchen. She grabbed her backpack out of the refrigerator and walked out the door. It wasn’t until she got back to her camp that she discovered someone had removed all the food she had stashed inside the pack. She felt the color drain from her cheeks. Nothing else was disturbed … good thing. She kept her drawings in here at the bottom of the backpack.
She knew better now. Sh
e would never leave her backpack anywhere it could be searched.
And Jasmine, that little bitch, was going down.
* * *
At 3:00 A.M., Joshua Brothers sat straight up in bed. “Goddamn it!”
Lorena came instantly awake. “Is it your heart?”
“No, you old worrywart! I’m fine!”
Lorena struggled up on her elbows. “Then … what did you forget?”
“It’s not what I forgot. It’s what I remembered. The ranching family, the one down the road from me, the one that girl looks like—their last name was Summers.” He clicked on the bedside light. “You know, like Summer, like—”
“Like that woman who kidnapped Kennedy McManus’s nephew.”
The two of them considered the ramifications.
Lorena put her feet over the edge of the bed, padded into the bathroom, used it, came back and got in bed. “They said she was dead.”
“Did she look dead to you?” He got out of bed, padded into the bathroom, used it, came back and got in bed.
“Just because she said her name is Summer…” Lorena said.
“I don’t believe in coincidence.”
“No … Do you think she did it?”
“No,” he said with irritation. “But like you said, I’m a sucker for a pretty face.”
“I’m not, and I don’t think she did, either.”
“Either she’s the best con artist either of us have ever run into, or she’s innocent. We should report this to the police.”
“Honey, with our short-term memories, we won’t even remember this in the morning.” She reached across him and turned off the light.
“Right.” He pulled her into his arms. They rested together, silent.
She asked, “Where do you think she’s staying?”
“No place that serves burgers, that’s for sure.”
She laughed.
They went to sleep.
But in the morning, they both remembered.
PART TWO
THE MURDER
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Taylor worked the next weekend, and the next, and the next. She settled into Georg’s team, got to know the staff, to work with them in a rhythm. She learned the finer points of serving, then under Sarah’s direction, she moved on to the work of an under-chef, chopping vegetables, sautéing meats, boning fish. She absorbed the knowledge, seeing a different part of working a wealthy household than she had ever seen before. She ate well, and she was warm on a weekly basis.