But the Englishman wasn't coming on the approach to talk about his polishing plans.
"Oh, well done, sir. I was just going in search of you. You have a visitor. Deputy Ramsey is in the kitchen."
"Yes, I saw his sheriff's vehicle parked outside."
"Also, the notification for the visiting hours has gone out. The e-mail was necessary due to our time constraints. I would have preferred proper mail, of course. The responses have already began streaming in, however, and I believe you will be pleased with the turnout."
Three things went through Lane's mind, one after the other: Hopefully the guests wouldn't eat or drink much; wonder what people would say if they did a cash bar; and finally, God, he'd never thought about per-head costs before.
As he became aware that the butler was looking at him expectantly, Lane said, "I'm sorry, what was that?"
"There has also been a new arrival in the household."
The butler stopped the news flash there, as if he had been offended by Lane's mental recession and was going to force interaction as payback.
"So who is it?" The Grim Reaper? No, wait. Bernie Madoff on a work-release program. Krampus--nope, wrong season.
"Miss Amelia has returned. She arrived by taxi about ten minutes ago with some of her bags. I took the liberty of having them placed in her room."
Lane frowned. "Is it summer vacation already? Where is she?"
"I gather she went to find her mother."
"So the mushroom cloud should be hitting the horizon soon. Thank you, Mr. Harris."
"My pleasure, sir."
For some reason, with the way the man said the words, they always came out sounding like "screw you." Which made one want to take that black tie from around his neck and--
No, enough with the dead bodies, even on the hypothetical.
Lane flushed his brain, walked across the foyer, and entered the stark hall that preceded the entrance to the kitchen. As he came up to Rosalinda Freeland's old office, he paused and traced the police seal that remained on the door.
The fact that he wasn't allowed in there seemed emblematic of what his whole life had become.
Maybe Jeff was right. Maybe he couldn't keep a lid on everything that was falling apart. Maybe the world didn't run like it had back in his grandfather's, and even his father's, day, when families like his had the power to protect themselves.
And honestly, why the hell was he ruining relationships that mattered to him for his father's bullshit?
"Hello, sir."
Lane glanced over. A blond woman in a maid's uniform was coming out of the laundry room, a long, loose swath of fine cotton over her arm.
"It's Tiphanii," she said. "With a ph and two i's."
"Yes, of course. How are you?"
"I'm taking good care of your friend Jeff. He's working so hard up there." There was a pause. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"No, thank you." Clean duvet covers aside, she had nothing he wanted. Or ever would. "But I'm sure my old roommate appreciates the personal service."
"Well, you'll let me know, then."
As she sashayed off, he thought of the first season of American Horror Story and the maid who was sometimes old, sometimes young. That one there was definitely the latter. The good news? At least Jeff was no doubt getting a chance to burn off some stress. And Tiphanii wasn't a ghost who would go post-menopausal on the guy at an awkward time.
Man, you're just like your father.
"No, I'm not."
When Lane entered the extensive, professionally appointed kitchen, he smelled hot cross buns and found Miss Aurora and Officer Ramsey sitting side by side on stools at her granite countertop, a pair of coffee mugs and a plate of those sweets between them. The deputy was in his tan, brown, and gold uniform, a gun on his hip, a radio up on his huge shoulder. Miss Aurora was in an apron and loose blue slacks.
She was looking thinner since he'd arrived here, Lane thought grimly.
"'Mornin'," Lane said as he went over and clapped palms with Ramsey.
"You, too."
"There room for a third?"
"Always." Miss Aurora pushed an empty mug to him and got up to snag the coffeepot from its machine. "And I'll be leaving you two."
"Stay," Lane said as he sat down. "Please."
God, he'd forgotten how big Ramsey was. Lane was a healthy six two, six three. But as he took the stool next to the deputy, he felt like a Barbie doll.
"So the autopsy report." Mitch glanced over. "The finger is your father's. Definitely. There were cut marks on the remains that matched the scoring on the bone of what was found in your front yard."
"He was murdered, then." Lane nodded a thanks at the coffee that was poured in front of him. "'Cuz you don't do that to yourself."
"Were you aware that your father was sick?"
"In the head? Yes, very."
"He had lung cancer."
Lane slowly lowered his mug. "I'm sorry?"
"Your father was suffering from an advanced lung cancer that had metastasized to his brain. The coroner said he had another six months at the most--and very soon it was going to affect his balance and motor skills to an extent that he wouldn't have been able to hide it from others."
"Those cigarettes." He looked at Miss Aurora. "All those fucking cigarettes."
"Watch your mouth," she said. "But I always wanted him to stop. I didn't volunteer for my cancer. I don't know why anyone would want this disease."
Glancing over at Ramsey, Lane asked, "Was it possible that he didn't know? And how long might he have had it?"
Not that his father would have dropped a dime to Lane with a health report or anything. Hell, knowing the great William Baldwine, the man might well have believed he could simply will the stuff into remission.
"I asked the coroner that myself." Ramsey shook his head. "He said that your father most likely would have been symptomatic. Shortness of breath. Headaches. Dizziness. His remains did not indicate any surgery had been performed and there wasn't a chest port or anything--but that didn't mean he wasn't on chemo or hadn't had radiation. Tissue samples have been sent off, and a toxicology report ordered--although the results of all that will take some time to come in."
Lane rubbed his head. "So then he really could have killed himself. If he knew he was going to die, and he didn't want to suffer, he could have jumped off that bridge."
Except what about the finger? That ring? The fact that, of all the acres that made up the estate, of all the places hidden and obvious, the thing had been buried right beneath his mother's window?
"Or your father could have been thrown off," the deputy suggested. "Just because the man was sick doesn't mean someone couldn't have murdered him--and water was found in the lungs, which proves that he was alive and took at least one deep breath after he hit the river." Ramsey glanced at Miss Aurora. "Ma'am, I'm sorry to be speaking about this in such graphic terms."
Lane's momma just shrugged. "It is what it is."
Lane looked at Miss Aurora. "I was up all the time in New York. Did you notice anything . . . different about him?"
Although whatever his condition, he'd still had a sex drive. At least according to Chantal and that baby she was carrying.
His momma shook her head. "I didn't pick up on anything unusual. He was gone a lot the last couple of months, but that was always true. And you know, he kept to himself. He was up and out of this house to the business center first thing in the morning, and a lot of the time, he was late getting home. My rooms face the garages so I'd see his chauffeur finally parking his car at midnight, one in the morning, or catch him walking back here from his office. So I don't know."
Ramsey spoke up. "With your family's money and connections, he could have gone anywhere in the States for treatment."
"What does homicide think?" Lane asked.
Ramsey shook his head back and forth. "They're leaning toward foul play. That finger is the key. It changes everything."
Lane stayed for a little while longer and c
hatted with them. Then he excused himself of their company, put his mug in the sink, and headed up the staff stairs to the second floor. Miss Aurora and Ramsey had known each other since the deputy had been in diapers, and he often visited her when he was off duty before. So they could be there for a while yet.
Cancer.
So his father had been busy killing himself with tobacco . . . until someone had decided to speed up the process and put PAID on a toe tag.
Unbelievable.
As usual, during the morning hours after the family were up and out of their bedrooms, the staff worked in this part of the house, and he could smell the cleaning supplies for the toilets and the showers and the windows, the artificial citrus and vaguely mint-like scents making his nose itch.
Proceeding down to his father's room, it felt wrong not to knock before Lane opened the door--even though the man was dead. And stepping inside the quiet, dark interior of the masculine room was an all-wrong that made him look over his shoulder for no good reason.
There were few personal effects out on the bureau tops and the bedside tables, everything in the suite a consciously arranged and maintained stage set that announced "A Rich and Powerful Man Lays His Head Here at Night": from the monogrammed bedcovers and monogrammed pillows, to the leather-bound books and the Oriental rugs, to the banks of windows that were currently hidden behind heavy silk curtains, you could have been at the Ritz-Carlton in New York or a country seat in England or a castle in Italy.
The bathroom was floor-to-ceiling old-fashioned marble and molding mixed with new plumbing, the fancy glassed-in shower enclosure taking up half the room. Lane paused as he saw his father's monogrammed robe hanging on a brass hook. And then there was the shaving kit with its gold-handled brush and its straight-edge razor. The strip of leather to hone the silver blade. The sterling cup for water. The toothbrush.
There were two gold sinks separated by a mile of marble countertop, but it wasn't as if his mother had ever used the vacant one. And over the expanse was a mirror with gold sconces set into its reflective panels.
No medicine cabinet there.
Lane bent down and started opening drawers. The first one had a bunch of condoms in it, and didn't that make him want to smash something for so many reasons. Next up were supplies like soap, Q-tips, regular razors. On the other side were brushes, combs. Under the sinks were toilet paper, Kleenex boxes, bottles of Listerine.
On some level, it seemed strange that his father had ever used such pedestrian things. Like any other person who was getting themselves ready for work or for bed.
In fact, a mystery had always surrounded the man, although not a cozy one. More a Jack the Ripper pall rooted in their lack of communication, lack of a relationship, lack of any warmth.
Lane found the medications in the tall thin closet by the window seat.
There were six orange pill bottles, each with varying numbers of pills or capsules in them. He didn't recognize the prescribing doctor or the names of the medicines, but given the number of warnings on the sides about not using heavy machinery or driving while on them, he had to guess they were painkillers or muscle relaxants . . . or very serious compounds that made you sicker than your disease, at least in the short term.
Getting out his phone, he typed in the physician's name.
Well. What do you know.
The doctor was at MD Anderson Cancer Center down in Houston.
His father had known he was sick. And likely that he was dying.
*
"You got kicked out?" Gin demanded across the fragrant air of the conservatory.
"Yes," her daughter answered.
Fantastic, Gin thought.
In the silence that followed, she tried on a couple of versions of parental indignation, imagining herself stamping a high-heeled shoe or perhaps going with an old-school wag of the forefinger. Neither fit. The only thing that really seemed appropriate was getting Edward to handle this. He would know what to do.
But no. That avenue was cut off.
In the end, she went with, "May I ask why you were asked to leave school?"
"Why do you think. I'm your daughter after all."
Gin rolled her eyes. "Drinking? Or did you get caught with a boy?"
As Amelia merely lifted her chin, the math added up to an even greater infraction.
"You slept with one of your professors? Are you mad?"
"You did. That's why you took a break from school--"
The door in from the house opened and Lane appeared like a beacon to a sailor at sea.
"Guess who's home from school," Gin said dryly.
"I heard. Come here, Ames. It's been a while."
As the girl went into Lane's arms and their two dark heads drew close together, Gin had to look away.
"She has news," Gin muttered as she wandered around and picked at orchid leaves. "Why don't you tell him?"
"I got kicked out."
"For sleeping with a professor." Gin waved a hand. "Of all the legacies to live up to."
Lane cursed and stepped back. "Amelia."
"Oh, he's using your real name." Gin smiled, thinking that Lane sounded like their father. "He means business. Is there someone we can call at Hotchkiss, Lane? Surely we can talk them out of this."
Lane rubbed his face. "Did someone take advantage of you? Were you hurt?"
"No," the girl said. "It wasn't like that."
Gin spoke up. "There has to be a way to get her back in--"
"Aren't finals coming up?" Lane interrupted. "Are you going to lose your credits? Jesus Christ, Ames, seriously. This is a big deal."
"I'm sorry."
"Yes," Gin muttered, "you look sorry. Would you like a tissue? Would that help you play the part better?"
"That's a nice diamond on your finger," Amelia snapped. "You're getting married, I gather?"
"The day after your grandfather's visitation here."
"Yes, nice of you to call me and let me know, Mother."
"The marriage is not important."
"I agree. I'm talking about the death of my grandfather. My own grandfather died, and I read about it in a newspaper."
Lane's eyes swung around. "You didn't call her, Gin? Really?"
"I beg your pardon, but she is the one who got kicked out of prep school. And you're looking at me like I did something wrong?"
"I can go to school here in Charlemont," Amelia interjected. "Charlemont Country Day is a good school, and I can live here at home--"
"What makes you think they'll take you now?" Gin asked.
"Our family endowed the expansion five years ago," Amelia countered. "Like they won't? And who are you marrying, Mother? Let me guess. He's rich and spineless--"
"Enough!" Lane snapped. "Gin, she's your daughter. For once in your life, will you act like it? And, Amelia, this is a bigger problem than you realize."
"But it's fixable," the girl said. "Everything is fixable in this family, isn't it."
"Actually, that is not true. And you better pray you don't learn that lesson on this particular screw-up of yours."
As Lane went to leave, Gin thought of her wedding reception and called out, "Wait, you and I have something to discuss."
"I'm not calling Charlemont Country Day. You're going to do that for her. It's time you step up."
Gin crossed her arms over her chest and winced as one of Richard's bruises on her elbow let out a squawk. "Amelia, would you be so kind as to go sulk in your room? Or perhaps out by the pool? I'm sure that with the help of your Twitter account you can spend an enjoyable couple of hours informing your friends of the abominable nature of your return unto the fold."
"My pleasure," Amelia said. "It's certainly better than being in your company."
The girl didn't storm off; she swanned away, leaving a ripple of fragrance in the air along with her disdain.
It was a wonder they didn't get along better.
As the door back into the house eased shut, Gin bitched, "Maybe she should just forget sc
hool and go to New York to model. She'll have more luck using her face rather than her mouth if she's looking to get ahead."
"Your mouth hasn't stopped you," Lane said. "But it hasn't done you any good. Look at who you're marrying, for instance."
"Richard is one of the wealthiest men in the state, and he can help our business."
"You hate him."
"So does everyone else. That's hardly a news flash--but this brings me to the issue. Your little darling girl Lizzie said I need your permission in order to have my reception here. I told her it was not going to be a large affair--four hundred, at the most--"
"Wait, what?"
"My wedding reception. The licenses are being issued tomorrow, and we are going to the courthouse on Friday. Father's visiting hours are the day after that. The reception will be here on Saturday--just cocktails in the back garden followed by a dinner--"
"Gin."
"What?"
"Who's going to pay for all that?"
"We are. Why?"
Lane's eyes narrowed. "We don't have the money, Gin. As in checks will bounce. Do you understand what I'm telling you? There is no money right now. I'm trying to fix that, but I don't care if it's four hundred or forty people--we can't write any checks that aren't necessary."
"We're paying for Father's visiting hours."
"And that's it. The parties are over, Gin. The private planes. Hell, taxis are out of the question. There are no more clothes, or balls, or trips. Everything is stopping. You need to understand that."
She frowned as she tracked a rather alarming fluttering of her heart. And then she whispered, "I find it hard to believe that you'll put on the funeral of a man you hated, but not give me the reception I deserve."
Lane stared at her for a moment. "You know, Gin, I'm going to be completely honest here. I've always known you were a self-serving narcissist, but I really never thought you were stupid."
"I beg your pardon?"
"If we don't invite half the world here to pay their respects, there's going to be talk--and it's going to be true. I couldn't give a shit about this family's reputation, but the business is our only chance to get out of this mess. There is nothing but fumes keeping the BBC afloat. I'm worried about paying salaries, for fuck's sake. If anything gets out to the press about the financial reversal, we run the risk of vendors panicking and calling accounts payable or cutting us off. Distributors could balk. The union could get riled. There is so much more to this than just a goddamn party. Visiting hours are a necessary ruse. Your reception is not."