Promptly, all was forgotten.
There was some kind of chaos going on at Barn B. All the lights in the place were on, for one thing, which was rare. But even more alarming, there were a dozen people swarming around the open doors at the rear.
Pushing himself off the truck, Edward limped across the grass toward the drama, and soon enough, even over the wind, he heard the shrieks from the horses.
Or, rather, one particular stallion.
When he got to the nearest door, he hobbled inside as fast as he could, passing through the tack and supply room, pushing out into the stalls area and going down the aisle--
"What the hell are you doing?" he hollered over the screaming and the yelling.
Nebekanzer was spooked wild in his berth, the stallion bucking and thrashing, his back hooves having splintered the bottom door to the stall. And Shelby--like a complete raving lunatic--had climbed over the top of the bars that were still in place and was trying to catch his bridle.
Stable hands and also Moe and Joey, were right there with her, but the bars were separating them, and oh, God, she was right in range of the stallion's gnashing teeth and thrashing head, the one who was most likely to get thrown to the ground and have her head cracked open like a melon on the cement if she went one way--or trampled under those hooves if she went the other.
Edward moved before he was conscious of making the decision to get all up in there, even though Joey was closer, stronger and younger than he was. But by the time he got all the way down to . . .
Shelby caught the stallion's bridle.
And somehow, as she made eye contact with the beast, she managed to hold her body in place upside down by squeezing her thighs on the top of the bars, and simultaneously arch down and start blowing directly into the horse's nostrils. This gave the stable hands just enough time to open the ruined door and get it out of the way so that the wood splinters didn't cut Neb any further and replace it with a sturdy nylon webbing. At the same moment, Shelby threw her hand out through the bars and one of the men put a head mask in it.
It took her a split second to get the contraption over Neb's eyes and secured under his throat.
Then she kept blowing into those flaring nostrils, the stallion settling down, his panicked, blood-streaked flanks falling into a twitching display of partially leashed power, his belly pumping in and out . . . even as his steel-shod hooves became still in the sawdust.
Shelby righted herself with the grace of a gymnast. Climbed down. Ducked into the stall.
And Edward realized for the first time since he'd been kidnapped that he was terrified about something.
One of the few rules he'd given Jeb Landis's daughter when she'd started to work here was the same across-the-board that applied to everybody at the Red & Black: No one got close to Neb but Edward.
Yet there she was, a hundred pounds of five foot five, in an enclosed space with that killer.
Edward hung back and watched her smooth her palms down the stallion's neck as she spoke to him. She wasn't stupid, though. She nodded to one of the hands, who unhooked the netting on the side closest to her. If Neb started going at it again, she could get to safety in the blink of an eye.
As if sensing his regard, Shelby looked over at Edward. There was nothing apologetic in her stare. Nothing boastful, either.
She had saved the horse from seriously injuring--or even killing--himself in a professional, expert fashion, without putting herself at undue risk. After all, Neb could have punctured an artery on that shredded, knife-sharp ruined door, and she could very easily have been terribly hurt as well.
It was beautiful to see, actually.
And he wasn't the only one who had noticed.
Joey, Moe's son, was standing on the periphery and staring at Shelby with an expression on his face that suggested the twenty-something man had regressed to being a sixteen-year-old boy again . . . and Shelby was the prom queen he wanted to dance with.
Which was proof that we were always every age we had ever been.
And also not something Edward particularly appreciated. With a frown, he was struck by a nearly irresistible urge to put himself right between the pair of them. He wanted to be a billboard with HANDS OFF on it. A living, breathing caution tape. A foghorn of warning.
But the protective instinct was rooted in the concern of a big brother watching out for his little sister.
Sutton had reminded him, in the most basic of ways, that she would forever be the only woman for him.
*
Upstairs in whoever-the-hell-Bradford-ancestor's bedroom, Jeff hit print and put his hand out in front of the Brother machine. The ink-jet made a rhythmic whirring sound, and moments later, a perfect line-up of numbers came out. And then another. And a final one.
There were tiny words on the three pages, too, explanations for line items, notations he had spent the last two hours typing out on a laptop.
The most significant thing on the sheet, however, was the title.
BRADFORD BOURBON COMPANY
OPERATIONAL DEFICIT SUMMARY
Jeff put the document down on the desk, right on the keyboard of the open laptop. Then he looked over the snow pile of papers, notes, account reports, tables, and charts on the antique desk.
He was done.
Finished.
At least with the part where he traced the rerouting of accounts receivable payments and operating capital.
On second thought . . . he picked up the report, and made sure he was logged out of the laptop. He'd changed his password. Encoded all his work. And only sent his private e-mail account an electronic copy.
Pulling out the flash drive he'd used from the USB port, he put the thing in the pocket of his slacks. Then he went over and sat at the foot of the messy bed. As he stared at the desk, he thought . . . yup, just like his office in Manhattan.
Where he worked for a corporation. Along with a thousand other human calculators, as Lane put it.
Across the way, his packed luggage was lined up by the door. He'd been fishing through it all for whatever he needed, knowing he wasn't staying.
The damn things looked like they were mortally wounded and bleeding his clothes and toiletries.
At the knock on the door, he said, "Yup."
Tiphanii walked in, and wow, her jeans were as tight as skin and her loose top was as low cut as a string bikini. With her hair down and her make-up done, she was youth and sex and excitement all in a naughty little package that she was happy to have on display for him.
"Congratulations," she said as she shut the door and locked it. "And I'm glad you texted for me to come celebrate."
"I'm glad you're here." He moved back on the bed and nodded at the report. "I've been working non-stop. Feels weird not to have it hanging over me."
"I snuck up the back stairs," she said as she put her purse down.
"Is that a new Louis?" he drawled as he nodded to the thing.
"This?" She picked the printed LV satchel back up. "It is, actually. You have good taste. I love men from the city."
"That is my home."
Tiphanii's lips went into a pout. "Does that mean you're going to be leaving soon?"
"You going to miss me?"
She came over and stretched out on the bed next to him, rolling over onto her side and flashing her breasts. No bra. And she was clearly aroused already.
"Yes, I will miss you," she said. "But maybe you can bring me up there to see you?"
"Maybe."
Jeff started kissing her, and then he was getting her naked . . . and then he was getting naked. They had done this enough now so that he knew what she liked. Knew exactly what to do to get her off quickly. And he was turned on. It was hard not to be. Even though his eyes were wide open as to why she was here, what she wanted, and how exactly she was going to use him--he was good with currency exchanges and rates.
He was a banker, after all.
And after she spent the night? After she snuck out in the morning early to go
put her uniform on and pretend that she hadn't been in bed with him? After that, he was going to sit down with Lane and make his full report. And then he had a piece of business he needed to take care of.
As he mounted Tiphanii and she purred into his ear, he was still not sure what he was going to do about the equity offer. Lane had seemed serious, and Jeff knew the company inside and out now. There was risk involved, though. A possible federal investigation. And he'd never really managed anyone before.
It was a The Clash problem. Straight up.
Should I Stay or Should I Go . . .
THIRTY-FIVE
The Metro Police homicide detective showed up at nine a.m. the following morning. Lane was coming downstairs when he heard the brass knocker, and when he didn't see Mr. Harris butlering along to answer the banging echo, he did the duty himself.
"Detective Merrimack. What can I do for you?"
"Mr. Baldwine. Do you have a moment?"
Merrimack was in the same uniform he'd been wearing the other day: dark slacks, white polo with the police crest, professional smile in place. He'd had his hair trimmed even tighter, and the aftershave was nice. Not too much.
Lane stepped aside and indicated the way in. "I was getting coffee. You want to join me?"
"I'm working."
"I thought that was an issue for alcohol, not caffeine?"
Smile. "Is there somewhere we can go?"
"Here is fine. Considering you've turned down the Starbucks Morning Blend in my kitchen. So what do you need? My sister, Gin, is not an early bird, so if you want to talk with her, you better come back after noontime."
Merrimack smiled. Again. "Actually, I was interested in your security cameras." He nodded up at the discreet pods on the ceiling by the molding. "There are a lot of them around, aren't there."
"Yes, this is a big house."
"And they're both on the outside and the inside of your home, right?"
"Yes." Lane put his hands in the pockets of his slacks so he didn't worry the watch band of his Piaget. Or the collar of his button down. "Is there something specific you're looking for?"
Duh.
"What happens with the footage? Where is it recorded and stored?"
"Are you asking if you can view it?"
"You know, I am." Smile. "It would be helpful."
When Lane didn't immediately answer, the detective smiled some more. "Listen, Mr. Baldwine, I know you want to be helpful. You and your family have been very open during the course of this investigation, and my colleagues and I have appreciated it."
Lane frowned. "Actually, I'm not sure where it's kept."
"How can that be? Don't you live here?"
"And I don't know how to get access to it."
"Show me where the computers are and I'll handle it." There was another pause. "Mr. Baldwine? Is there a reason why you don't want me to see the footage from your estate's security cameras?"
"I need to talk to my lawyer first."
"You're not a suspect. You're not even a person of interest, Mr. Baldwine. You were down at the police station when your father was killed." Merrimack shrugged. "So you have nothing to hide."
"I'll get back to you." Lane returned to the door and opened it wide. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go have breakfast."
Merrimack took his sweet time walking over to the exit. "I'll just go and get a warrant. I'll still get access."
"Then this doesn't present you with a problem, does it."
The detective stepped over the threshold. "Who are you protecting, Mr. Baldwine?"
Something about the look in the man's face suggested Merrimack knew exactly who Lane was worried about.
"Have a wonderful day," Lane said as he shut Easterly's door on that knowing smile.
*
As Gin inspected her throat in her dressing room's mirror, she decided the bruises were faded enough such that, with a little make-up, no one was going to notice them.
"Marls." She sat down in the padded chair she used when she was getting done up. "Where is Tammy? I'm waiting in here."
Her suite of rooms was done in shades of white. White silk drapes hanging from white-sashed antique windows. White wall-to-wall carpet thick as frosting on a cupcake in the bedroom and white marble with gold veining in the bath. She had an all-white bed that was like sleeping on a cloud and this walk-in dressing/closet enclave was nothing but mirrors and more of that carpeting. Lighting was provided by crystal chandeliers and crystal sconces that dangled like Harry Winston earrings from key vantage points--but the fixtures were the new ones, not that old, distorted Baccarat stuff downstairs and elsewhere.
She had beyond had it with stodgy Orientals and oil paintings that were like dark stains on the walls.
"Marls!"
This dressing area was a connector between her bathing space and where her clothes hung, and she had long used it, even before the quarter-of-a-million-dollar overhaul, as her prep area. There was a professional hairdressers' set-up for the cutting, coloring, and washing of her hair, a make-up station to rival the Chanel counter at Saks in Manhattan, and enough perfume bottles, lotions and potions to put goop.com in the shade.
There was even a long window overlooking the back gardens in case they wanted to see anything in natural light. Or look at some flowers. Whatever.
Tapping her manicured fingertips on the chrome arm, she twisted the chair around with her bare foot. "Marls! We're leaving in a half hour for the courthouse. Come on! Call her!"
"Yes, ma'am," her maid flustered from the suite proper.
Tammy was the make-up artist in town, and she always booked Gin ahead of her other clients for several reasons: One, Gin tipped well; two, the woman got to say that she did Gin's make-up; and three, Gin allowed Tammy to attend the parties at Easterly and elsewhere as if she were actually a guest.
While Gin waited, she inspected her make-up collection, the lot of it fanning out in a professionally mounted display, the complete compliment of MAC eye shadows and blushes a child's playground of colorful trouble, the rolling tables of foundations, beauty treatments, and brushes looking like something you might need a PhD to operate. In front of her, a twin set of theater lights went down both sides of the mirror, and overhead, there was a set of track lighting you could change the hue of, depending on whether you wanted to see the reds, yellows, or blues of a given hair color or make-up look.
Directly behind her, hanging on a chrome hook, her "wedding dress" such as it was, looked terribly plain. Nothing but an Armani suit with an asymmetrical collar--and the thing was white, because yes, she was the damn bride.
Nude Stuart Weitzman slingbacks were lined up underneath it.
And on a pullout shelf, a dark blue velvet Tiffany's box that was worn on all four of its corners sheltered the massive Art Deco pin that her grandmother had received upon her marriage to E. Curtinious Bradford in 1926.
The debate was whether she was going to take the two halves off its pin backing and do a Bette Davis, or if she was going to put it off to one side as a whole piece on that dramatic collar.
"Marls--"
In the mirror, her maid appeared in the doorway looking as twitchy as a mouse about to make a bad move with a trap, her cell phone in her palm. "She's not coming."
Gin slowly turned the chair around even further. "I beg your pardon."
Marls put up the phone as if that proved anything. "I just spoke to her. She said . . . she's not coming."
"Did she indicate exactly why?" Even though with a cold rush, Gin knew. "What was her reason?"
"She didn't say."
That little bitch.
"Fine, I'll do it my damn self. You may go."
Gin hit the make-up like a pro, a hypothetical conversation with Tammy lighting up her temper as she imagined telling that--what was the word . . . feckless--that feckless little whore who Gin had been nothing but good to for all these years . . . all those galas Tammy had been comped on . . . that fucking cruise through the Mediterranean
last year where the only thing the woman had had to do for her luxury fucking berth was slap some mascara on Gin every day--oh, and then what about those ski trips to Aspen? And now that woman doesn't show up . . .
Thirty minutes of barely coherent internal monologue'ing later, Gin had her face, her suit and that pin on, her hair cascading over her shoulders, those slingbacks giving her that extra bit of height. The make-up counter had not fared nearly as well as she had. There were brushes, tubes of mascara, and false eyelashes scattered everywhere. A pick-up-sticks mess of eye pencils. And she'd broken one of her powder compacts, the flesh-colored cake cracked and disintegrated all over the rolling table.
Marls would clean it up.
Gin walked out into the bedroom, picked up the pale, quilted Chanel shoulder bag from her bureau, and opened her bedroom door.
Richard was waiting in the hallway. "You're six minutes late."
"And you can tell time. Congratulations."
As she kicked up her chin, she started by him and was not surprised when he grabbed her arm and yanked her about.
"Do not keep me waiting."
"You know, I've heard they have effective drug therapies for OCD. You could try cyanide, for instance. Or hemlock--I believe we have some on the property? Rosalinda solved that mystery for us quite readily--"
Two doors down, Lizzie came out of Lane's suite. The woman was dressed for work, in khaki shorts and a black polo with Easterly's crest on it. With her hair pulled back in another of her rubber bands and no make-up on, she looked enviously young.
"Good morning," she said as she approached.
Her eyes stayed forward, as if she were walking the streets of New York City, determined not to make trouble or seek it out.
"Are you still on the payroll," Richard said, "or is he no longer cutting checks to you now that you're not just bringing flowers to his bedroom?"
Lizzie showed no reaction to that. "Gin, you look beautiful as always."
And she just kept going.
In her wake, Gin narrowed her eyes at Richard. "Don't speak to her like that."
"Why? She's neither staff nor family, is she. And given your money situation, cutting costs is very appropriate."
"She is not up for discussion or dissection. You leave her alone. Now, let's get this over with."
THIRTY-SIX