As Lizzie descended the main staircase, she was shaking her head. Gin . . . defending her. Who would have thought that would ever happen?
And no, she wasn't going down to the mall to get BFFL bracelets for the pair of them. But the not-so-subtle back-up was a lot easier to handle than the condescension and not-at-all-subtle ridicule that had gone on before.
Down in the foyer, she headed around to the back of the house. It was time to do fresh bouquets--with so many late-spring flowers blooming, there was no florist cost, and creating something beautiful was going to make her feel like she was doing work to improve things.
Even if she was the only one who noticed.
Entering the staff hallway, she went down toward Rosalinda's old office and Mr. Harris's suite of rooms--
She didn't make it through to the kitchen.
Outside the butler's residence, there was a line-up of suitcases. Some photographs and books in a box. A rolling rack that suspended a bunch of suit bags.
Putting her head through the open door, she frowned. "Mr. Harris?"
The butler came out of the bedroom beyond. Even in the midst of his apparent move, he was dressed in one of his suits, his hair gelled into place, his clean-shaven face looking as if he had put a light layer of make-up on it.
"Good day," he clipped.
"Are you going somewhere?"
"I've taken another position."
"What?"
"I'm moving on. I am being picked up in approximately twenty minutes."
"Wait, and you're not giving notice?"
"My check bounced at the bank this morning. Your boyfriend, or whomever he is to you, and his family owe me two thousand nine hundred eighty-seven dollars and twenty-two cents. I believe failure of payment is grounds for me to redact the clause in my contract requiring me to give notice."
Lizzie shook her head. "You can't just leave like this."
"Can't I? I would suggest you follow my example, but you seem to be inclined to get further involved, not less so, with this family. At least one can guess that you are emotionally vested at a proper level. Otherwise, your self-destruction would be laughable."
As Lizzie turned away, Mr. Harris said, "Do tell Lane I'm leaving my resignation letter here on the butler's desk. And try not to depart on a snit, will you."
Out in the hall, Lizzie smiled at the man as she picked up his box of things. "Oh, I'm not in a snit--or whatever you call it. I'm going to help you get out of this house. And I'm more than happy to tell him where to find your letter. I hope it has your new address on it, or at the very least a phone number. You're still on the Charlemont Metro Police Department's interviewee list."
*
Fine, I'll come to you, Lane thought as he pulled the Porsche in between the gates of Samuel T.'s farm.
The lane proceeded down an allee of trees, which had been planted seventy-five years ago by Samuel T.'s great-grandparents. The thick, rough-barked trunks supported broad branches of spectacular green leaves, and a dappling shade was thrown across the pale little pebbles of the driveway. Off in the distance, centered among the fields that rolled with grace, the Lodges' farmhouse was not rustic in the slightest. Elegant, of perfect proportion, and almost as old as Easterly, the clapboard box had a hip roof and a wraparound porch to end all porches.
After Lane parked next to the old Jaguar, he got out and went to the front door, which was wide open. Knocking on its screen, he called out, "Samuel T.?"
The interior of the house was dark, and as he helped himself and walked in, he liked the smell of the place. Lemon. Old wood. Something sweet like fresh cinnamon buns that have been homemade in the kitchen.
"Samuel T.?"
Some kind of rustling got his attention, and he tracked the sound, walking into the library--
"Oh, shit!"
Pulling a fast pivot from the doorway, he turned away from the image of a very naked woman sitting on Samuel T. on a leather sofa.
"I knocked," Lane called out.
"It's okay, old man."
Samuel T. didn't seem bothered in the slightest, and the blond was solidly in that camp, too: From what Lane could tell in his very, very peripheral vision, she didn't bother to even get dressed. Then again, maybe her clothes were in another part of the house. Out on the lawn. Hanging from a tree.
"Wait for me upstairs," Samuel T. ordered.
The woman murmured something, and there was the sound of a kiss. Then the model--because she was that good-looking and that tall--sauntered by in one of Samuel T.'s business shirts.
"Hi," she said in a voice that was like whiskey, smooth and probably heady to a lot of guys.
"Yup, good-bye," Lane said as he ignored her and went in to join his friend.
Samuel T. was pulling a black silk robe closed and sitting up with a blurry expression. As he rubbed his messy hair and yawned, he looked outside. "So it's morning, I see. Where has the night gone."
"On a scale of one to ten, where one is Sunday church and ten is the last frat party you were at, how drunk are you currently?"
"Actually, I was typically drunk in church on Sundays, too. But I'd give me a six. Unless I have to take a field sobriety test. Then maybe a seven and a half."
Lane sat down and picked up an empty bottle of Bradford Family Reserve off the floor. "At least you're drinking the good stuff and remaining loyal."
"Always. Now, what can I do you for? And bear in mind, I am over the legal limit, so please don't make the request too difficult."
Rolling the bottle back and forth in his hands, Lane eased back in the chair. "Detective Merrimack showed up first thing this morning. I called you right away."
"I am sorry." Samuel T. pointed to the ceiling. "I think I was with her sister at that time."
Lane rolled his eyes but didn't judge. He'd gone through that manwhore phase in his own life, and though it had seemed fun at the time . . . he wouldn't trade any of it for what he had with Lizzie.
"They want access to the security tapes from the estate."
"Not a surprise." Samuel T. rubbed the stubble on his jaw. "Did you allow them? Where is the security room, by the way?"
"There are two of them. A monitoring room in the staff hallway at Easterly, and then the real nuts and bolts of the system in the business center. And no, I didn't. I told them to get a warrant."
Abruptly, Samuel T. seemed stone-cold sober. "Any particular reason? And I'd like to remind you that I am your attorney. It may technically be for your divorce, but unless you're actively planning to commit a crime, I can't be subpoenaed to testify against you, so please speak freely."
Lane focused on the label on the bourbon bottle, tracing the famous ink drawing of Easterly's front expanse.
"Lane, what's on the footage?"
"I don't know."
"What do you fear is on it?"
"My brother. And maybe someone else. Taking my father alive."
Samuel T. just blinked once. Which was a sign that he'd thought the same thing. Or maybe an indication of that blood alcohol level of his. "You talk to Edward about this?"
"No." Lane shook his head. "I'm currently pretending that I'm just being paranoid."
"How's that workin' for ya?"
"Well enough." Lane exhaled a curse. "So can I do anything else to keep them away?"
"They're absolutely going to come back at you with a warrant." Samuel T. shrugged. "They have enough probable cause with what you found in the dirt. If you'd wanted to keep them away, my advice would have been to not call them in the first place."
"Obstruction of justice much, Counselor? And believe me, don't think I haven't wished I'd kept quiet. Oh, and get this. They found that my father had terminal lung cancer. He was going to die anyway--which is just one more reason to support the suicide theory. Provided you forget about the piece of him that got buried under my mother's window."
The pitter-patter of sexy bare feet got louder and then stopped in the entryway to the room.
But Samuel T. sh
ook his head at yet another woman. "I'm not done here."
"Oh, my God," she said, "is that--"
"A friend of mine? Yes, he is. Now, please excuse us."
As the lady disappeared, Lane said, "How many are in this house?"
"Five? Maybe six? There was a cheerleading thing at the Kentucky Convention Center downtown. All of them are coaches, don't worry."
"Only you, Samuel T."
"Untrue. You've had your moments as well."
"So how's the self-medicating going? Is it distracting you from what my sister is doing right now?"
The attorney looked away. Fast.
When there was only silence, Lane cursed. "I wasn't being an asshole, I swear. I was just talking."
"I know." That stare swung back around. "Is she really marrying him? Wait, isn't that a song? Is she really goin' ouuuuuut with him . . ."
"Yes, they're down at the courthouse now."
"So it's done," Samuel T. said absently.
"You know Gin, though. Her version of marriage is going to be a revolving door, and not because she's going shopping. Although with Richard and his money, she'll be going shopping, too."
Samuel T. nodded. "Yes. Too true."
"But, man, do they argue."
"I'm sorry?"
"The pair of them go at it. You can hear them through the walls, and Easterly was built to last, if you get what I mean."
Samuel T. frowned. After a moment, he said, "You know what the real problem with your sister is?"
"She has a number of them. You want to give me some direction as to which sector of life you're focusing on?"
"The problem with your sister . . ." Samuel T. tapped his temple. "Is that as flawed as she is, no one ever compares to her."
That's how I feel about my Lizzie, Lane thought.
Well, except his Lizzie had no flaws.
"Samuel," he whispered sadly.
"Oh, I can hear the pity in your voice."
"Gin is a tough case."
"As am I, my dear friend. As am I." The attorney sat forward. "Annnnnd we're going to chalk this little interchange"--Samuel T. motioned between the pair of them--"to my being seriously drunk off my ass. If you ever bring it up again, I will deny it. I also may well not remember us talking about this at all. And that would be a blessing."
"Wow, hardcore for a six on the drunk scale."
"I may be underestimating things." On that note, Samuel T. reached over to a side table and poured more bourbon into a rocks glass. "Back to your security camera issue. They're going to get in and see what's there, and moreover, they will notice if anything is missing or altered with. I advise you not to try to tamper with any of the footage."
"And yet you suggested I keep quiet about what was in that ivy bed?"
"But the difference is that if you hadn't called them in at that time, they would never have known. If you try to splice anything on those recordings, however, or shadow the footage, change or delete it, they will be able to tell. It's one thing to pretend something was never found. It's an entirely different prospect altogether to try to fool their IT department when you're a layman and they have a geek squad full of people who are members of Anonymous in their spare time."
Lane got up and went to the windows. The glass in the panes was the same as Easterly's, the beautiful farmland beyond wavy and spotted thanks to the bubbles in the antique squares.
"You know," he said, "when Edward was down in South America, in the hands of those bastards? I didn't sleep for a week. It was from the time between when the ransom demand came in and when he was finally rescued and brought back to the States." Memories from the past became like the panes of the old glass, obscuring what was in front of him. "When we were growing up in that house, Edward protected us from Father. Edward was always in charge. He always knew what to do. If I had been kidnapped down there? He would have come and saved me if the roles had been reversed. He would have flown down to that jungle and machete'ed his own way in if he'd had to."
"Your brother was--is, excuse me--your brother is a quality man."
"I couldn't sleep because I couldn't do the same for him. And it ate me alive."
It was a while before Samuel T. spoke.
"You can't save him now, Lane. If he did what you think he did . . . and there's video evidence of it? You're not going to be able to save him."
Lane turned around and cursed. "My father deserved it, okay? My father fucking deserved what came to him. He should have been thrown off a fucking bridge years ago."
Samuel T. put his palms up. "Don't think that hasn't occurred to me as well. And yes, your brother had all the justification in the world--in a Game of Thrones scenario. Kentucky homicide law begs to differ, however, and it is going to win in this situation. Self-defense only counts if you currently have a knife to your throat or a gun to your head."
"I wish I'd found that fucking finger. I would have just piled the earth right back on top of the goddamn thing."
But he couldn't have put Lizzie and Greta in the position of lying to the authorities. Especially not with Richard Pford having come out of the house with Gin as he had. That bastard would use his own mother if it got him somewhere.
"You know . . ." Samuel T.'s face assumed a philosophical expression. "What your brother should have done was invite your father out to the Red & Black. And then shoot him just as he stepped over the threshold."
"I'm sorry?"
"That's the way to kill someone in Kentucky. We've got a homesteader law that says if someone is trespassing, whether or not they are threatening you with a weapon, you have the right to defend your property against them provided they have entered the premises without your permission. Only two caveats. You have to kill them. And they must not be facing the way out or trying to make it to an exit." Samuel T. wagged his index finger. "But that's the way to do it. As long as no one knew your father had been asked to meet him out there? Edward would have gotten away with it."
As Lane stared across at his attorney, Samuel T. waved his hand like he was clearing the air of the words he'd just spoken. "But I'm not advocating that course of action, however. And I'm drunk, as you know."
After a moment, Lane murmured, "Remind me never to come here without a written invitation, Counselor."
THIRTY-SEVEN
In the back of the Phantom Drophead, which had its top up in deference to her hair, Gin sat beside her future husband and looked out the window. The river was muddy and swollen from the storms of the afternoon and night before, the waters rising so much, it looked like they were trying to consume parts of Indiana.
Downtown was up ahead, the skyscrapers glinting in the sunshine, the asphalt necklaces of highway lanes encircling their steel and glass throats. There was a little construction to deal with, her father's chauffeur hitting the brakes every now and again, but the delay wasn't going to cost them much time.
As they approached the Big Five Bridge, she stared at the span's five arches, at the cables that suspended the pavement over the water . . . and remembered the fight she and her father had had over her marrying Richard. She had refused--only to find that she was cut off financially, marooned on a deserted island of insolvency.
And so she had caved.
And now she was here.
Closing her eyes, she pictured Samuel T. out by the pool during the visitation that had had so few visitors.
"Sign this, would you."
Opening her lids, she glanced across the cream leather seats. Richard was holding out about twenty pages of some kind of document along with one of his black and gold monogrammed Montblanc pens.
"I beg your pardon."
"It's a prenuptial agreement." He jogged both at her. "Sign it."
Gin laughed and looked up at the chauffeur. The uniformed man with his jaunty little cap was about to get a helluva show.
"I'll do no such thing."
"Yes, you will," Richard said.
Staring back out the window, she shrugged. "So turn the car a
round. Call this off. Do whatever you need to, but I'm not signing away my rights as your wife."
"May I remind you of the distribution help I bring to your company. Given how it's struggling, you're going to need those favorable contracts. And they can disappear fast if I want them to."
"Given how we're struggling, there may not be a Bradford Bourbon Company next year. So your personal fortune is a better bet for me."
He recoiled at that, his thin neck flexing in a way that reminded her of a horse who had been starved. "Have you no shame?"
"Nope."
"Virginia Elizabeth--"
"Even my father never called me that." A Porsche sped by in the breakdown lane, and as it shot past all the stagnating traffic, she realized it was her brother. "Not that I would have found it persuasive if he had."
"This is boilerplate, you know. And if you're not familiar with the term, that means it's very simple. You keep everything that is yours going into the marriage. I keep everything that is mine. And never the twain shall meet or mix."
"Simple, really? Is that why it's the size of War and Peace?" She glanced over at him. "And if it was so simple, why didn't you give me a chance to read it and review it with a lawyer first?"
Like Samuel T., for instance. Although she could guess how that would go.
"You don't need to concern yourself with legal jargon."
"Don't I? You might be interested to discover that I've already researched divorce law, and you want to know what I learned?"
"Gin, seriously--"
"I learned that I'm going to be very faithful to you." As he recoiled again, she muttered, "You know, I really should be offended by your surprise. But before you get too excited that I'm respecting you in some way, I've learned that whereas Kentucky is a no-fault state for divorce grounds, evidence of infidelity can be used to reduce spousal support. So those two pilots I fucked the other night are my last forays into infidelity. I will be an honorable wife to you and I encourage you to have me trailed and photographed. Bug my bedroom, my cars, my closet, my underwear. I will give you no opportunity to find fault with me."
She leaned in. "How's that for legal jargon? And you're not going to turn this car around because here's the truth--I'm not signing it, and we're still getting married. Your entire life, you've created nothing. You've done nothing that's your own. You have no respect given to you on your merits, only on your inheritance. You're going to marry me because then you can hold your head up high at cocktail parties and galas. After all, you are still that kid no one picked for teams in elementary school, but you can be the one to tame the great Gin Baldwine. And that will be worth more to your ego than anything I can ever take from your bank account." She smiled sweetly. "So you can take your twelve-pound boilerplate and blow it out your ass, darling."