“I take it people in town enjoy gossiping about them, too?”
The young man flushed. “I guess so.” He brightened. “Way things are going, according to my dad, we may be voting for a Castleton for governor one of these days. Everyone says Darren's getting set to go into politics in a big way. Wouldn't that be somethin'?”
“Would everyone in town vote for him if he ran?”
“Are you kiddin'? Like a shot. He's one of us.” The young man beamed with pride.
“Amazing,” Phila muttered, picking up her bag of groceries. “You do realize that the Castleton and Lightfoot fortunes are founded on machines used for military purposes? That if Darren Caslteton got into public office he would probably hold extremely right-wing, militaristic views due to his background and family business? If he ever went into national office he would undoubtedly vote to increase the defense budget every chance he got.”
The clerk gave her a puzzled look. “Castletons and Lightfoots are real patriotic. Proud to be Americans. They got a way of making everyone else proud of it, too.”
“I give up.” Phila headed for the door with her groceries.
The storm finally hit the coast later that evening. Phila closed the windows of her little house when the rain began pouring down. It was all very cozy, she told herself as she cleaned up after a simple dinner of soup and salad. She wondered what everyone was doing up at the family mansions. She had seen no sign of a Castleton or a Lightfoot all afternoon.
When she had washed the last of the small stack of dirty dishes she wandered into the living room and stood at the front window. For a while she toyed with the notion of going down to the beach in the storm. It would be a good place to think.
Lord knew, she needed to do some thinking.
She was going to have to make a decision about what to do with the shares by the date of the annual meeting of Castleton & Lightfoot. If she opted to keep them and vote them, she was going to be fighting an open war with the families, a war she could not win.
She did not own enough shares to outvote them on critical issues. All she could accomplish was to be a gadfly, a troublemaker in their midst. She would always be an outsider, just as Crissie had been.
But it seemed wrong just to return those shares to the families. They constituted Crissie's inheritance; the inheritance she had always fantasized would one day be hers. Any kind of inheritance meant a lot when you had grown up in foster homes. It symoblized something important, a sense of belonging, a sense of being part of a family, of having a place in the world.
But Crissie was dead and the inheritance was now hers, Phila reminded herself.
And soon she would have to make a decision.
Thunder partially masked the first knock on the front door, but Phila heard the second quite clearly. She recognized the blunt summons at once and gave serious thought to not answering. But she knew that would be a waste of time.
She went to the door and found Nick on the step. His dark hair was wet, and the black windbreaker he wore was soaked. His gray eyes gleamed as they moved over her.
“Do me a favor and don't go for the gun yet, okay? I've had a hard evening.”
“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?” Phila stepped back reluctantly, unable to think of a way to keep him out and not really certain she wanted to achieve that goal, anyway. “It's your family.”
“You don't have to remind me.” He moved over the threshold, shaking raindrops onto the scarred boards of the floor. He slipped off the windbreaker and hung it over the back of a chair. “I heard you went into town this afternoon. Can I assume you picked up something for me to drink?”
“We went through this routine last night. How did you know I went into town?”
He shrugged, heading for the kitchen. “Better get used to the reality of being associated with Lightfoots and Castletons. Everyone knows what you're doing, when you do it and who you do it with. I even know about the conversation with the Wilson kid in the grocery store.”
He found the cabernet inside the first cupboard he opened. He started opening drawers, apparently looking for something he could use to pull the cork. “So you think Darren would be a hawk if he ever got into public office, huh?”
“Second drawer on the left,” Phila volunteered when she realized he was going to go through each drawer systematically until he found what he wanted.
“Thanks.” He went to work on the cork, removing it with a few swift, deft twists. “I don't suppose you have anything to eat with this? Some cheese, maybe?”
“Don't look so innocent. Your sources probably told you exactly what I bought in town today.” She went to the refrigerator and withdrew the package of cheese. “Must be nice owning a whole town and everyone in it.”
“We don't own it. We're just real neighborly and folks around here appreciate that.”
“I'll bet they'd appreciate it even more if you went back to contributing heavily to scholarships and civic-improvement projects.”
“The Wilson kid got real chatty, I take it?” Nick poured the wine into a water glass. “Don't worry, the families still give lots of money away.”
“To whom?”
Nick gave her his slow, faint smile. “Mostly to the political campaigns of right-thinking politicians and a number of good, solid, all-American organizations.”
“Such as the National Rifle Association?”
“You're hardly in a position to complain if it's on the list. The NRA is one of the reasons you can legally pack that automatic you've got stashed in the nightstand.”
“The Constitution gives me that right, not the NRA.”
“Odds are you would have lost the right years ago if the left-wing antigun lobbyists had had their way. I'll bet you held some pretty narrow views on the subject of gun control yourself until a few weeks ago.”
Phila knew she was turning pink under his shrewd gaze. It was true. Until she had come to fear Elijah Spalding, she had been a staunch supporter of strict handgun legislation. “My views on gun control can hardly be of major interest to you,” she said, her tone aloof.
“I've got news for you. Everything you do is of great interest to me. How much have you worked with that pistol, by the way?”
“Worked with it?”
“Fired it. Practiced with it.”
“Oh. I've never had occasion to use it, thank God.”
“You've never even fired the damn thing?”
“Well, no.”
“You bought a fancy 9-mm automatic pistol and you don't know the first thing about it? How the hell do you expect to be able to use it in an emergency?”
“I read the manual.”
“Jesus. You read the manual. That's just terrific, Phila. I'm really impressed. Did you figure out which end to point away from yourself?”
“I do not have to tolerate your sarcasm.”
He sighed. “Yeah, you do, I'm afraid. I'm spending the night.”
Phila stared at him. “Are you crazy? After the way you behaved last night and this morning? I'm not about to let you spend the night.”
He took a sizable swallow of the cabernet and bit into a slice of cheese. “You were the one who dragged me into your bedroom last night. And as for what happened this morning, you know as well as I do that my reactions were understandable under the circumstances. When I came out of the bathroom and spotted that pistol in the drawer, I assumed I had just spent the night with a professional hit lady.”
“You thought no such thing. Even you couldn't have been that stupid.”
“Thank you, I think. In any event, I feel I am not entirely to blame for either the sex or the scene in the bedroom this morning and if you are half the logical, intelligent, fair-minded human being you claim to be, you'll agree with me.”
She felt cornered. “If you stay here tonight, you'll sleep on the sofa.”
“I'll take what I can get.”
She couldn't believe it. “You want to spend the night on that lumpy monstrosity?”
r /> “No, I'd rather spend the night in your bed, but as I said, I'll take what I can get. How much did Hilary offer you today?”
Phila blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I just wondered how much Hilary offered you for those shares of yours.” Nick poured himself another glass of wine. “She did make an offer, didn't she?”
“She said something about paying me for the shares, yes,” Phila admitted warily. “But how did you know? Did she tell you?”
“No. I just had a hunch she'd try something like that.”
“What gave you the hunch?” Phila was now very suspicious.
Nick leaned back against the counter. “I set her up for it.”
“You encouraged her to try to buy back the shares? But why?”
“Because I knew it would annoy you. I don't want you dealing with Hilary, and I figured the fastest way of cutting her off at the pass was to have her push you too far, too fast. Trying to buy you off is a surefire way to make you dig in your heels.”
“My God.” Phila felt winded.
“Money might work eventually, but this was the wrong time to make an offer to you. You're still feeling loyal to Crissie's memory. Those shares are a tie to that memory. You need awhile to think through what you want to do, and you're bound to resent anyone trying to force your hand.”
Phila stared at him. “So you pushed Hilary into doing just that. You must think you're a very clever man.”
“Honey, when it comes to business, I'm as clever as they get.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was irrational and annoying, but Phila woke up the next morning with the realization that she had slept better the past two nights than she had at any time since Elijah Spalding had been arrested.
There was no denying that having Nicodemus Lightfoot sleeping nearby, whether in her bed or out in the living room, was a comfort.
She was so accustomed to having only herself to rely on that it had taken her awhile to understand just what was happening. The fact was that in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, in spite of all the obvious warnings, and against her better judgment, she was starting to trust Nick. The man was too big, too mysterious and a little too clever for her taste, but there was a steel core she found irresistibly comforting under all those troublesome traits.
A woman might not always have the comfort of knowing just what Nick Lightfoot was thinking, but she could be certain he would not bend once he had made up his mind. He could be relied on.
He had certainly been honest about his intentions regarding the shares, she reminded herself as she stepped into the shower. If she got burned in that department, she would have only herself to blame.
She was still lecturing herself about Nick Lightfoot when she emerged from the bedroom half an hour later to find him standing at the door talking to his father. A white Mercedes convertible was visible through the open doorway. Reed was dressed for golfing in a monogrammed polo shirt and plaid slacks.
Nick, on the other hand, was hardly dressed at all. He'd taken time to put on his jeans, but that was it. The couch, Phila noted, had already been made up and the blankets stowed. Nick had clearly taken time to do that before answering the door.
Apparently Nick did not want early-morning callers to know he'd been consigned to the living room. Simple male pride or something more devious? Phila wondered.
“Phila,” Nick called over his shoulder, “Dad stopped by to ask you to play a round of golf with him this morning.”
Phila raised her brows. “Sorry, I don't play.”
“It's a great morning,” Reed himself insisted. “A little nippy, but the sun's out. Why don't you walk the course with me while I hit a few balls?”
“Oh, I get it,” Phila said yawning. “You want to get me off by myself so you can make your pitch for the shares. Hilary already offered me mucho bucks, and that didn't work. What have you got to offer?”
Reed shot a quick, questioning glance at his son. Nick just shrugged. Reed smiled broadly again at Phila. “I thought we'd spend some time talking. Get to know each other. Nick tells me you have some questions concerning what went on while Crissie Masters was here with us. Maybe I can answer a few of them.”
“You don't look like the sort who volunteers answers.”
Reed's smile vanished. “Well, I'm volunteering now, am I not? So go get a goddamned jacket and let's go.”
“You don't have to go with him, Phila.” Nick absently polished his glasses with a soft white handkerchief.
“I know. But I think I will,” Phila decided. “If he'll guarantee to provide breakfast. I'm hungry.”
“I'll buy you breakfast at the clubhouse,” Reed promised.
The eighteen-hole course followed the cliffs along the ocean for half its length and then curved inland. The thick, carefully cropped grass stretched before Phila like a lush green carpet. It glistened with traces of the previous night's rain. Reed had been right. It was chilly this morning, but the sun was shining and it felt good to be outdoors.
“You don't use a cart?” Phila inquired as they approached the second green. Her yellow running shoes were already wet, and the cuffs of her pink-and-green pants were getting damp.
“Not unless the course is crowded. I like the exercise. Now keep quiet for a few minutes while I get this sucker on the green.”
“Sorry.”
“Umm.” Reed selected an iron from his bag, stationed himself over the small white ball and took a slow, powerful swing.
The ball hit the green, bounced and rolled to within three feet of the cup.
“You missed,” Phila observed.
Reed scowled at her, reminding her momentarily of his son. “That was a damn fine shot, young lady, if I do say so myself.”
“Are all golfers this snappish?”
“Yes, ma'am, they are. Especially when they're getting a lot of unnecessary backchat from the gallery.”
“You brought me out here to talk, remember?”
“About Crissie Masters and related family matters. Not about my golf game. What's all this crap about the Castletons and Lightfoots bearing some kind of responsibility for Masters's death, anyway?”
“I don't think she was treated very well while she was with the families, Mr. Lightfoot. I think that rejection could have been devastating for her after she'd spent so many years dreaming of finding her father. Indirectly it could have been a contributing factor in her death.”
“No one drove her to her death. She drove herself. Literally,” Reed's voice was rough.
“I've seen the cops' report of the accident, and I hired a private investigator to check it out. I know it really was an accident, but I'd like to hear what happened the night she died. Why did she have so much alcohol in her blood-stream? Crissie wasn't normally a heavy drinker.”
Reed glared at her. “You hired a private investigator to double-check the accident report?”
“Of course.” Phila shoved her hands into her pockets. “I never completely trust official reports. I've written too many myself. And I certainly had no reason to accept any assurances from the Castletons and Lightfoots, did I? Naturally I double-checked. It was the least I could do for Crissie.”
“Christ almighty. No wonder Nick didn't know what to do with you. Who the hell do you think you are to question us, girl?”
Phila smiled grimly. “Your son asked me the same thing. I question everything all the time, Mr. Lightfoot. It's in the blood. Now why don't you tell me what happened the night Crissie died?”
“The hell with it. There's nothing much to tell. It was the night of Eleanor's birthday party,” Reed said. “We'd all had a few drinks, including Crissie. There was a large crowd at the Castletons' cottage that night. No one saw her leave, but the accident report was clear. She had alcohol in her blood and the weather was bad. She had been driving a dangerous stretch of road. Put all that together and you have more than enough explanation for what happened to her.”
“Did you dislike her, Reed
?”
He considered that. “Didn't actively dislike her, but I can't say I took to her the way Burke did. But, then, Burke had his reasons for making a fuss over his long-lost daughter.”
“What reasons?”
Reed pulled a putter out of the bag and walked over to where his ball lay on the green. “Burke Castleton was a man who admired nerve and gumption. Crissie had plenty of both. Take the pin out of the hole, will you?”
“What do you want me to do with it?”
“Just hold it, for crissake.”
Phila obeyed and stood back while Reed lined up his putt. “Don't you think you should aim a little more to the right?” she asked just as he tapped the ball with the putter.
Reed swore as the ball rolled to within half an inch of the cup. “Are you this goddamned chatty with Nick at all the wrong moments?”
“Sorry.”
“Huh. Put the pin back.”
“The ball isn't in the cup yet. Isn't it supposed to go in?”
Reed glared at her and pushed the ball into the cup with the tip of his putter. “Satisfied?”
Phila smiled blandly. “This is certainly an interesting game. Do you play a lot?”
“Every day unless the weather is bad.”
“Does Hilary play with you?”
Reed shook his head. “My wife prefers tennis.”
“What about Nick?”
“Nick and I used to play together occasionally. But that was a long time ago. Haven't played with him for over three years.” Reed picked up his bag of clubs and started for the next hole.
“You haven't played with him since Hilary and Nick got divorced and she married you?”
Reed spun around abruptly, his expression forbidding. “The circumstances surrounding my marriage are not something we discuss much in this family. I'm sure you've figured that out by now. Haven't you ever heard of tact, Philadelphia?”
“Tact doesn't always get the job done. My grandmother taught me that. She used to say that when your kind of people start getting extra polite you could pretty well figure they were up to something.”
“My kind of people?”