Gloria stared at her. 'What are you talking about?'
'I am talking about—cleverness, guile, deceit.' Althea made circular motions with her knife, as if casting a spell to make Gloria sit.
Gloria remained half standing. 'I really don't know what you mean.' She sniffed belligerently.
The old lady glanced up at her. 'My dear child,' she said calmly. 'We both know exactly what I mean. You're pickled as it is—partly due to your previous two visits to the ladies' room, no doubt. You do realize that those breath mints of yours don't fool me for an instant?'
'Right.' Gloria laughed humorlessly. 'As if anyone in this restaurant would dare serve me a drink without your permission!'
Althea sighed. 'I do wish you'd stop insulting my intelligence. Honestly, dear. You think I don't know about the spares you carry around with you?'
'Spares?' Gloria repeated defensively. 'What kind of spares? I wish I knew what you're referring to.'
'I am referring to hidden stashes. I am referring to a flask or a bottle or whatever it is you've got tucked in your purse or wherever.'
Shit! Gloria thought. The old bird would be on to me!
She took a deep breath. Then slowly she sank back down in her chair, mentally reciting her mantra: Two billion dollars. Inhale. Two billions dollars. Exhale.
Althea was giving her a long, hard look. 'You know, Gloria, I do so hate ultimatums. They can be so counterproductive. However, if you don't start toeing the line, well . . . you're not going to leave us much choice.'
Gloria leaned across the table. 'Yes, Mother Winslow?' she asked quietly. 'What if I decide not to toe the line? What happens then? No, don't tell me. Let me guess. You'll call in Torquemada, and out come the thumb screws and electrodes. Isn't that right?'
'Really, my dear! You don't know what you are saying!'
'Ah, but I know what you're saying, Mother Winslow. You're threatening to have me committed again. And don't tell me I'm wrong.'
Althea gave her narrow shoulders a delicate, ladylike shrug. 'Let's just hope it doesn't have to come to that, shall we? It really is so unpleasant all around.'
Unpleasant? Gloria could only blink in open-mouthed disbelief. Jesus H. Christ! she thought. That's like calling the Great Pyramid of Giza a garden ornament!
She was sure some piece of work, this mother-in-law of hers. Sitting there like a harmless, meringue-haired old lady in her good apricot wool suit and priceless real pearls, daintily picking at her lunch and taking little sips of wine while quietly dropping bombshells. Anyone looking at her could have sworn she was discussing the latest opera or ballet.
'For you information, Mother Winslow,' Gloria said tightly, struggling to keep her anger in check and her voice calm, 'last time they broke two of my ribs and my hip!'
The old lady's eyes never flinched. 'Don't be absurd,' she replied. 'We both know what happened, my dear.'
Gloria stared at her. 'One of us certainly does!' she whispered hoarsely, her eyes beginning to fill with tears. 'And pardon me for saying so, Mother Winslow, but I was fucking there.'
Althea ignored the blunt expletive. 'Then surely you realize that despite your being strapped down, your injuries were a direct result of your going into convulsions during withdrawal.'
She paused and flicked a hand, relegating the subject to ancient history.
'But let's do drop this dreary subject, shall we? Now that we each know where we stand, what do you say we order some coffee and dessert? They bake the most wonderful warm chocolate truffle torte to order.'
'You go ahead,' Gloria said dully. 'I think I'll pass.'
'But you haven't touched a bite!'
Gloria thought: I'd sooner break bread with the devil. She said, 'If you'll excuse me, Mother Winslow, I've really got to be going. There are some things I have to think over.'
'Yes, dear. I quite understand. Well, run along and think about what I've said.' Althea held up her cheek for a kiss.
Gloria dutifully kissed it, thinking: I wonder what a Judas kiss feels like?
As she left the dining room, she was still taking deep, calming breaths. Trying to imagine how big a cube two billion dollars in hundred-dollar bills would make.
Two billion dollars, she kept telling herself, two billion dollars . . .
It was her mantra, her goal, her raison d'être.
And she wondered, as she so often did, whether it was worth the wait.
13
In Aspen, the winter season was already in full swing. Duvets of snow cloaked the ski slopes, the hotels were jam-packed, and the movie stars, the rich and famous, and the anonymous rich were in residence in their secluded log mansions. Nestled at the base of Aspen Mountain nearly eight thousand feet above sea level, and surrounded by four snow- clad peaks, the silver mining town turned Hollywood nirvana was a world-class winter resort, with chic boutiques, trendy restaurants, pedestrian malls, and a jumping, casual nightlife.
The chartered Gulfstream IV approached from the north, and its descent into the Roaring Fork valley was smooth. From the port side of the jet, Venetia, an avid skier who for the past ten years had spent at least one week each year on Aspen's slopes, pointed out the sights to the kids.
'That's the town of Aspen, and right behind it is Aspen Mountain. The locals call it Ajax, after an old miner's claim. Those are the Aspen Highlands . . . that's Buttermilk Mountain, which is the best place to learn to ski—'
'—and there's the airport where we're going to land!' Zack piped up excitedly.
'That's right, sugar. It's called Pitkin County Airport, but it's also known as Sardy Field. Oh, and over there, past it?' She tapped glossy apricot nails on the perspex. 'That's Snowmass Village.'
Zack exclaimed over the ant-sized skiers dotting the hundreds of trails far below, the chair lifts, which seemed to angle up every possible slope, and the snowmobiles, horse-drawn sleighs, and teams of dogsleds, all rendered minuscule by distance.
Dorothy-Anne, reclining on the starboard side, slid her window shade shut. The last thing she wanted to see was another mountain. I need that like a hole in the head.
The flight over Colorado's Northern Rockies had been a sobering experience. The thousands of square miles of snow-capped peaks, saw tooth ridges, vertical ravines, and precipitous canyons had hammered home the reality of just how treacherous a wilderness Freddie had disappeared into, how hostile an environment he faced.
Her brief burst of hope, rekindled earlier that morning, had waned. She wished now that she had remained in San Francisco, or that a sea of clouds could at least have masked the sheer vastness, the seeming endlessness of that wild chaos of range after range of jagged pikes, plunging drop-offs, corrugated slopes, and bottomless gorges.
I was foolish to think that his plane could have made a safe emergency landing. She knew now that even if it had, there were so many other variables to consider. The elements, for one. The days-long blizzard. The freezing cold. And that didn't take into account possible injuries, or lack of medical care. How can anyone possibly have survived?
Then the jet touched down, and the flurry of arrival provided a blessed distraction. Thanks to Venetia's gift for last-minute sorcery, everything proceeded like clockwork. Ground transportation awaited, as did a secluded log house situated on thirty-five acres high on a knoll west of the town.
Actually, 'house' didn't begin to describe it. It was a lodge, a giant, modern, post-and-beam basilica built on several levels, with soaring cathedral ceilings, huge cedar beams continuing inside, and massive granite fireplaces. Entry was through an airlock to conserve energy, and the Great Hall had a thirty-foot-high wall of fenestration with commanding views of the entire Roaring Fork valley, from the spot where it began as a narrow ravine near Rifle, all the way over to its broad base below the 12,095- foot-high summit of Independence Pass.
'Cool,' Fred commented, once they were inside. 'Far out.'
Zack yanked on Nanny Florrie's hand and let out a whoop. 'Wow!' he cried excitedly, eyes wide an
d aglow with wonder. 'This is neat!'
Nanny Florrie took one look around the Great Hall with its various granite levels, conversation pits, and banisterless wood staircases at either end—one leading up to a balcony where the master loft floated like a bridge, the other to five guest bedrooms—and saw skinned knees, scraped elbows, and fractured bones.
She tightened her grip on Zack's hand. 'For Gude's sake!' she gasped in horror. ' 'Tis nae hoose! 'Tis daft!'
'Is not!' Zack said indignantly. 'It's like a fort! Or a treehouse!'
'Is it now? Weel, there's gang be nae climbin' or runnin' wild in 'ere, laddie, or ye'll hear frae me. Aye.'
And scowling, Nanny Florrie lowered her brow at what she considered an architectural monstrosity.
' 'Tis nae place fer bairns,' she added darkly. ' 'Tis an accident waitin' to haepin. Aye. Ye mark my words.'
Liz, standing with her head tipped back, was staring up at the underside of the mammoth chandelier hanging directly above her, one of three contrived of countless caribou antlers, each fixture some ten feet in height. After a moment she glanced at Venetia.
'We're in like a really weird house, y'know? Take those lights up there—those lights. I mean, I ask you? They're like totally yuckoid. How'd you ever find this place?'
Venetia, sunglasses perched atop her head like a tiara, paused in the midst of unbuttoning the frog closures of her Afghan kilim coat. 'In case you're unaware of it, there's no Hale Hotel in this town. The ones there are—and believe me, there are plenty—are booked solid. That's right, child. There's no room at the inn. None. And you want to know why? Let me give you a clue.'
Venetia pointed at the towering glass wall and the amazing snowscape beyond.
'You recognize all that white stuff out there?'
Liz rolled her eyes. 'Gimme a break, Venetia, would ya? Like, this isn't the first time I've ever seen snow. Okay?'
'The point I'm simply making is this: the winter season's already begun. Try finding a house—any available rental—within twenty miles of here. Believe me, you can't. But try coming up with one with only a couple of hours' notice.'
All right, all right! Liz thought feistily, impatiently shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
'The only reason we lucked into this place,' Venetia explained, 'is because the owner's a close friend who's in Jamaica shooting a music video. Which reminds me . . .'
She turned to include Fred and Zack in the conversation.
'Okay, listen up, gang. I'm going to have to establish a few ground rules.'
Liz and Fred groaned and Zack made vomiting noises, but Venetia ignored them.
'First, your mama just got out of the hospital. She needs peace and quiet to recuperate. Also, I don't need to remind you that your daddy's still missing. Out of respect for him, try to keep it toned down. Okay?'
Sobered, their three small heads bobbed in earnest unison.
'Second, this is a private home, and since I arranged to borrow it, I'm the one who's responsible for any damages it sustains. So . . . there's to be no horseplay inside this house. In fact, there's to be no rowdiness, period. If you want to do that, go outside and play in the snow.'
The kids fidgeted, impatient for her to finish.
'Third, try not to break anything. And fourth, whatever you do, for heaven's sake do not—I repeat, not—touch any of the Pueblo pottery or American Indian art. Better yet, don't even look at it. I am serious. That pertains to the feather headdresses displayed on the stands, the beaded ceremonial tunics hanging on the walls, as well as the various decorative items. They are all authentic antiques and are not, under any circumstances, to be used as toys.'
One by one, she looked each of them straight in the eye.
'Do I make myself clear?'
All three youngsters nodded their heads.
'Good. Then why don't you go upstairs and select your bedrooms? I've got to go help your mama settle into the master suite.'
And with that, Venetia hurried off.
'Jeez!' Fred muttered to Liz. 'I wonder what's eating her?'
'Are the monsters settling in okay?' Dorothy-Anne asked as Venetia came up the stairs.
'Don't worry about them.' Venetia smiled. 'You know kids. Everything's one big adventure.'
'I heard you talking to them, but I couldn't make out the words.'
Venetia looked at her; Dorothy-Anne was sitting up in the huge log bed, which looked out over the balcony of the loft and at the three-story wall of windows beyond. To give a measure of privacy, a Navajo rug had been draped over the log railing.
'I was spelling out the dos and don'ts,' Venetia said, 'and they were doing the listening.'
She pulled up a Mexican Cuerno chair and sat down on the black- and-white cowskin cushion. She gestured at the wall of windows.
'Hey, did you notice? Girl, you have been upgraded. Yes, child. In this place you rate a view. Nice, huh?'
'Yeah.' Dorothy-Anne's voice was grim. 'Just what I need. Lest I forget'— she gestured toward the windows, her lips twisting into a bitter smile—'the beautiful majestic Rockies!'
Venetia felt like kicking herself. Damn, she thought. How stupid can I be? I should have realized the view would be a constant reminder of Freddie. Why the hell didn't it occur to me before?
She said, 'Sugar, I tell you what. Why don't we move you into one of the smaller, walled-in rooms? That way you'll at least have some curtains to draw.'
Dorothy-Anne shook her head. 'No,' she said thickly, staring at the jagged, snow-covered peaks in the distance. 'Those are the mountains into which Freddie disappeared. Who knows? Perhaps I'm going mad, but I can't shake the feeling that if I stare at them long enough, they'll give him back to me.'
Venetia leaned forward and gripped Dorothy-Anne's shoulder.
'Stop it!' she whispered harshly. 'Honey, listen to me! Haven't you been through enough these past few days? Torturing yourself further is not going to help anybody. Not you, not Freddie, not the child you lost.'
It was the last thing Dorothy-Anne wanted to hear. All the pent-up rage and fear, potent and blinding and explosive, came to a savage boil. Without warning, she turned on Venetia.
'How the hell would you know?' she shouted, a sudden wildness blazing in her eyes. 'It's not your husband who's missing! Not your baby that miscarried! You weren't the one who woke up to find her womb missing!'
Venetia sat very still, each verbal arrow slamming into her like a physical wound. It was all she could do to keep from flinching as the volleys hit home, piercing her heart.
'Down, girl,' she said softly. 'I'm on your side—or have you forgotten?'
For a moment Dorothy-Anne seemed elsewhere, somewhere remote and unreachable. Her eyes still burned feverishly. Then suddenly the fire in them dimmed, and the rage inside her died. Physically she seemed to shrink, deflating like a punctured balloon. Turning her head into the pillows, she began to weep.
Swiftly Venetia got up, sat on the edge of the bed, and gently but firmly took hold of Dorothy-Anne. She pulled her up, pressing her face to her breast. She could feel her trembling.
'There, there,' she comforted, one hand stroking the back of Dorothy-Anne's head, the other patting the convulsing back. 'It's okay, honey.'
'No, it's not!' Dorothy-Anne's voice was muffled. 'It's just that I'm so . . . scared! I-I've never been so scared in my entire life!'
'Girl, if you weren't, you wouldn't be human. Or would you rather be a robot?'
Slowly Dorothy-Anne pulled away and raised her tear-streaked face. She stared at Venetia. 'I'm sorry,' she whispered miserably. She sniffled and wiped her eyes. 'I don't know what got into me.'
'Shush, child,' Venetia soothed. 'I know you didn't mean it.'
'But I had no right—'
'Hey.' Venetia placed her hands on Dorothy-Anne's shoulders and smiled. 'Haven't you heard? Everyone's entitled to vent their emotions once in a while.'
'No.' Dorothy-Anne frowned deeply and shook her head. 'Venting emotions
is one thing. But taking it out on you . . . '
'Girl? Now will you forget it? What do you think best friends are for?'
Dorothy-Anne's eyes were wet with tears. 'Then I'm . . . forgiven?' she asked in a small voice.
'Hell, no!' Venetia chuckled. She fingered aside the tracks of tears on Dorothy-Anne's cheeks. 'And girl? You want to know why? She looked deep into Dorothy-Anne's eyes. 'Because there isn't anything to forgive.'
The cellular phone in Venetia's pocket warbled, startling them both. Dorothy-Anne drew in a sharp breath and jerked away, scrabbling backward on the bed, as if to distance herself from something lethal. The telephone warbled a second time. She looked at Venetia through huge, frightened eyes. On the third ring, Venetia had the phone out and unfolded. 'Yes?' she spoke into it, and then listened.
Not daring to breathe, Dorothy-Anne lifted a hand to her mouth and held it there. She could catch the faint crackling of static and distorted squawk of the voice at the other end, but couldn't make out any of the individual words.
Her gaze shifted past Venetia and out to the mountains, where snow as white as fresh laundry shimmered blindingly and the vast blue of the big sky vibrated with an eye-aching intensity.
'They're sure?' Venetia was saying quietly. 'Absolutely positive?' She listened some more. 'Okay, hold on. I'll check and see if she's available.'
She held her hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Dorothy-Anne.
'Sugar?'
Dorothy-Anne's gaze snapped back inside. She looked at Venetia searchingly.
'It's the coordinator of the search parties. They've located the plane.'
'Freddie?' Dorothy-Anne whispered from behind her fingers. 'Is he—?'
'It's still too early to tell. But he asked to talk to you. You up to it?' Venetia held out the receiver.
Dorothy-Anne stared at it, as if at a poisonous reptile. With an effort, she slowly reached out and took it and raised it clumsily to her ear. 'Hello?' she said tentatively.
A man's voice came over the airwaves. It had a sort of outdoorsy, unhurried Midwestern inflection. 'Mrs. Dorothy-Anne Cantwell?'
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