by Meg Gardiner
I ran my hands through my hair, smelling the Dumpster. ‘‘Anything but Italian.’’
Rodriguez phoned midevening. I was in Brian’s room, playing cards with Luke and the guys. Clouds had blown in, and raindrops pocked the swimming pool. Rodriguez didn’t have good news.
‘‘My lieutenant is annoyed that I agreed to the whole thing,’’ she said. ‘‘But on the bright side, the commander’s now on my butt, thanks to Jesse Blackburn.’’
‘‘Remind me to give Jesse a big fat kiss,’’ I said.
‘‘I knew he was more than your attorney.’’
‘‘So where are we on this, Detective?’’
‘‘In limbo. Sorry I can’t do better than that right now.’’
‘‘In twenty hours Toby expects me to turn up with twenty-five thousand bucks. Don’t let this get buried in administrative haggling.’’
‘‘I’m working this. Is there anything else you can give me?’’ she said.
‘‘Would your commander like a puppy?’’
‘‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’’
I put my cell phone down. Luke was peering at me like a gunslinger playing poker in an Old West saloon.
Brian fanned the cards in his hand. ‘‘What do you need me to do?’’
‘‘Nothing yet.’’
‘‘Is this Rodriguez likely to get her act together?’’
‘‘That remains to be seen.’’ I nodded to Marc and said, ‘‘Hit me.’’
He dealt me the queen of hearts. Luke, trying to sound cool, said, ‘‘Hit me too.’’ Marc dealt him an ace. Luke was fidgeting, scratching at bug bites on his arm. That put me in mind of squirmin’ Merlin Ming. I looked at Marc and said, ‘‘Again.’’
He dealt. ‘‘Black jack on the red queen.’’
‘‘This isn’t solitaire. The lady’s on top.’’
‘‘Whatever you say. Either way, you win.’’
‘‘Got that right. Twenty-one.’’ I laid my cards faceup on the table. ‘‘Maybe it’s an omen.’’
He gathered up the cards. ‘‘We can hope.’’
Later, lying in bed, I listened to the rain patter on the roof. It was after midnight when the room phone rang on the nightstand. I started. My heart was thumping when I picked it up.
‘‘You’re a hard woman to track down.’’
I sank back onto the pillow. ‘‘You startled me.’’
‘‘I called your cell first,’’ Jesse said.
‘‘I didn’t hear it.’’
‘‘Because it’s next door. Commander Marc answered.’’
I slapped my forehead mentally. I’d left it on the table after the card game.
‘‘Gentlemanly of him to give you a place for the night.’’
It came out genlaminly. I listened to him breathing.
‘‘Jesse, are you okay?’’
‘‘The rehearsal dinner was a real piss in the pants. You missed all the fireworks. It was a top-ten evening, total Blackburn classic.’’
He sounded slick, like he was skating across a glib surface but not getting traction on his thoughts.
‘‘Where are you?’’ I said.
‘‘The restaurant. Aunt Deedee started crying about her baby boy getting all growned up and leaving the next.’’
‘‘Get somebody to drive you home.’’
‘‘Caroline is wired to her eyeballs. I think P.J. gave her Whites to use for diet pills.’’
‘‘Is your dad there? Get your dad on the line.’’
‘‘Sure.’’ The sound went muffled and he said, ‘‘Dad, the woman you plan to stone out of town wants to talk to you.’’
Keith came on. ‘‘My son insists you have a good excuse for tonight. But you’re going to make the wedding tomorrow. Right?’’
‘‘Keith, you need to drive Jesse home.’’
‘‘Jesse’s fine. You worry about getting yourself to the country club by ten a.m.’’
I ran a hand through my hair. Jesse came back on.
‘‘I’m good, sugar. I’m not drowsy or operating heavy machinery. I’m A-okay.’’
‘‘How about one of your cousins? I’m dead serious here. Could David drive you home?’’
‘‘No prob.’’ His voice veered away again. ‘‘David— can I hitch a ride? Evan thinks I’m blasted.’’ I heard laughter and voices joshing with him. ‘‘They want me to walk a straight line.’’
I let my head fall back against the headboard.
‘‘I flunk. All set. Evan, just be careful. I love you.’’
The phone went dead.
Losers, losers, everywhere. Screwing up his life and thinking they could get away with it. Keeping him down, robbing him of the success he deserved. The hits, the applause—and now the money too. The money, he had a bad feeling, was gone. His money, money for him.
The Allied Pacific account was fucked; he knew that much. And he hated to think so, but it probably had been even before Brittany. His big moment, and it was starting to look like it was all for nothing.
He was going to fix that. He was going to show them. It was going to be a blockbuster, and the audience was gonna go nuts. He even had the title track: that song of Slink’s. He sang it to himself, watching his reflection.
You’re the thorn in my crown
The thorn in my side.
That was going to be him. A sharp fucking thorn.
You’re the thumb in my eye.
Absolutely. They just didn’t know it yet.
You’re the light when I die.
In a blaze of glory. His theme song.
19
Marc knocked on the door shortly after seven the next morning. ‘‘You awake? Phone call for you.’’
I stumbled into my jeans and pushed my hair down, blinking at the cheap motel painting of children in sombreros with sad eyes the size of saucers. When I opened the door, the sun made me squint.
Marc was put together in a button-down shirt and khakis. He handed me my cell phone and a take-out cup of coffee.
‘‘We’re on,’’ said Lilia Rodriguez.
I snagged Marc’s arm before he got out of reach and gave him a thumbs-up.
‘‘We’re still working out the logistics. We’ll meet you this afternoon to go over it.’’ She sounded revved up. ‘‘Will you be on this number?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘I’ll call. Evan, you’re going to be okay.’’
‘‘Thanks, Lily.’’
I leaned against the door frame, shaking with nerves and relief. Marc had that laid-back expression pilots get, as if nothing ruffles them, even as they fly fully loaded across a hostile coastline a hundred feet off the deck.
‘‘She’s going to work it out,’’ I said.
He glanced past the roof of the motel at the mountains and the sharp morning light, as if absorbing the sky.
‘‘No, we’re going to work it out,’’ he said.
‘‘Define we.’’
‘‘You, of course. And your brother and I.’’ His smile was languid, and anything but relaxed. ‘‘You know. You’ve seen what’s painted on my tail.’’
Indeed I had. His fighter squadron’s emblem was a red-eyed death’s-head with a flaming dagger between its teeth.
‘‘The deputies may claim they have you covered,’’ he said. ‘‘But the Vigilantes will have your back.’’
By eight, things were taking shape. Lavonne met me downstairs in the coffee shop, where she turned on her sternest glower.
‘‘What you’ve agreed to do is dangerous. Even with the sheriffs nearby,’’ she said.
‘‘I understand.’’
‘‘You aren’t doing it unless you get something big in return.’’
‘‘I’m getting the Ming brothers and Toby Price locked up.’’
‘‘I mean from the sheriffs. You don’t go near Price’s boat unless they drop the assault charge and grant you immunity from prosecution for Brittany Gaines.’’
‘‘Drop the charge, yes
. Immunity, no.’’
‘‘Yes to both.’’
‘‘Demanding immunity makes it look like I was involved in Brittany’s murder. I’ve just about managed to convince Lily that I’m on the level. Don’t even mention immunity.’’
She stirred sugar into her coffee. ‘‘Lily?’’
‘‘Detective Rodriguez.’’
‘‘Don’t get cozy with the cops.’’
‘‘She’s on the up-and-up.’’
‘‘I agree. But she is not your friend, not in this matter. Be clear about that.’’
I picked at my bagel.
‘‘Later you can be friends. But today it has to be business and you have to watch out for yourself.’’
‘‘Yes, ma’am.’’
‘‘We’ll meet the detectives here at three. They’re going to want you to wear a wire.’’
‘‘I presumed as much.’’
‘‘They’ll want you to coax Toby and the Mings into incriminating themselves.’’
‘‘To confess to murdering Brittany Gaines?’’
She nodded.
‘‘I don’t know if I can do that.’’
‘‘What do you doubt, your cunning or your courage?’’
‘‘Both.’’
She drank her coffee, and set the cup down. ‘‘I should tell you something. Before this fiasco began, I was planning to offer you a job.’’
My cheeks felt warm. ‘‘Jesse told me.’’
‘‘Two of my reasons for doing that are your quick mind and your moxie.’’
‘‘Not my punctuality and perfect spelling?’’
She leaned forward. ‘‘You can do this. Yesterday on Price’s boat you dug deep and held your nerve. Today you’ll have armed officers backing you up.’’
‘‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’’ I gave her a sly look. ‘‘Was that a job offer?’’
‘‘Stop talking to cops without my permission, and we’ll see.’’
I felt buoyed, despite everything. I ate a bit of the bagel and decided I could keep it down. So I told her the hard part.
‘‘I’m going to this wedding.’’
The dress didn’t look too bad, really. Pellegrino had lifted out the marinara sauce, and the minty green fabric actually complemented the remaining Dumpster stain: cold-pressed extra-virgin olive oil. Bottled in Tuscany. Probably by a farmer who could trace his lineage back to the poet Virgil, so try to tell me I’m not up to social snuff, Miss Sorority Bride, just try. Go ahead, bring it on.
I stopped stabbing the eyeliner brush at my image in the bathroom mirror. Put it down. Good. That’s it, both hands on the counter where we can see them.
Wetting a washcloth with cold water, I pressed it to my face. Jesse’s relatives weren’t a pack of jackals. They wouldn’t go for my hamstrings. That would come later, when I met Toby and the Mings.
Jesse’s family would simply go for the jugular.
They already had him halfway to the ground, I knew, because when he drank it wasn’t for pleasure but erasure. Walk a straight line. Sophomoric bozos. Come here, Hilarious. You too, Sidesplitting. Let’s have you walk a straight line. While I beat you on the head with the heel of my shoe. Like that? Yeah, pointy, isn’t it?
I ran the water hard over my hands and splashed it on my face.
I managed mascara and lipstick before my vigilantes knocked on the door. I called, ‘‘Almost ready,’’ jamming a foot into a shoe, twisting my earrings into place. ‘‘Coming, Bri.’’ I turned the doorknob and hopped around the room looking for my other shoe. ‘‘Can you zip me?’’
‘‘I think I know how to do that.’’
It was Marc. I spun around, embarrassed.
‘‘Sorry. I thought . . .’’
‘‘Not a problem.’’
He was wearing not only a crisp navy blue jacket and tie but his aviator sunglasses, so that I couldn’t judge his expression. And it was only the last inch of the zipper. I stood still and felt his fingers grasp the pull.
‘‘It’s been a while since I’ve done this.’’ He paused. ‘‘Up?’’
When did it get so warm in here? ‘‘Isn’t that the direction the arrow’s drawn on my back?’’
He tugged it up. When I turned around I saw traces of a smile.
‘‘Thanks. Where’s Brian?’’ I said.
‘‘He can’t come.’’
My nerves popped. ‘‘Why not?’’
‘‘Luke’s sick.’’
I headed out the door and straight for his room. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’
‘‘Chicken pox.’’
‘‘No way.’’
‘‘Those bug bites he was scratching last night? They weren’t bug bites.’’
In Brian’s room Luke lay cuddled under the covers. His cheeks were hot and his eyes glowed with fever. Red spots were breaking out across his chest. I sat on the edge of the bed and stroked his hair.
‘‘Hey, champ. I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.’’
‘‘It’s all itchy. Can I have a Seven-Up?’’ he said.
‘‘You bet.’’
Brian hung up the phone. ‘‘That was Nikki. She’s got Luke an appointment with her pediatrician in an hour.’’
I poured Luke’s soda into a glass and gave it to him. Brian stepped outside with Marc and me.
‘‘Sis, I have to get him to the doctor. This is a bitch; I’m sorry.’’
‘‘No apology necessary. I’ll be fine. You just take care of him.’’
He caught Marc’s eye. ‘‘It’s you three, then.’’ He put a hand on my arm. ‘‘Be careful. I mean that.’’
Jogging down the stairs, Marc took my elbow.
‘‘What did Brian mean, you three?’’ I said.
He smoothed his tie. ‘‘Me and my companions. Heckler and Koch.’’
20
The Cold Springs Country Club adorned a Montecito knoll, draped across the hem of the mountains like an emerald stole. We could see the clubhouse from a couple of miles away, beyond the jackhammers and traffic cones, shimmering on the hillside like a dream. Cruising up the glen past live oaks, we glimpsed the velvety fairways of the golf course. Marc drank them in.
‘‘Jesse’s family’s loaded, huh?’’ he said.
‘‘Not the way you’re thinking.’’
I should have kept the edge from my voice. Marc’s eyes were still hidden behind the reflection of his aviator shades, but his wide mouth creased in curiosity. I sidestepped.
‘‘His aunt married money, and now their son’s marrying money as well.’’
The clubhouse was modeled after a Medici palace. Red tiles, more arches than a Roman aqueduct, columns that may have been scrounged from Pompeii. Plus fountains and lush landscaping and an eager young man in a red waistcoat and bow tie, trotting toward us to take Marc’s keys and park the truck. Marc shoved his semiautomatic pistol securely into the small of his back beneath his belt, and reached for his jacket.
‘‘Idle curiosity,’’ I said. ‘‘Are you licensed to carry concealed?’’
The valet opened the door for me. ‘‘Good morning, ma’am.’’
Marc adjusted his sunglasses. ‘‘Yes. And what’s mine stays with me. Not in the glove compartment, where it would be worse than useless.’’ He opened his door and slipped into the coat before the valet could see the gun. His serene facade didn’t waver. ‘‘Brian warned me you’d get legal.’’
I climbed out into air that felt richer than down where I lived, and sunlight that landed soft and dappled on my arms. Marc came around the car.
‘‘Any objections I have aren’t legal; they’re visceral,’’ I said. ‘‘Packing at a marriage ceremony just seems out of line.’’
‘‘Really? The phrase ‘shotgun wedding’ has no resonance with you?’’
‘‘My parents should get so lucky.’’
They’d scream hallelujah at any event that involved me taking vows, period. Marriage, becoming a nun, joining a coven, whatever. We walked toward
the entrance, past waist-high terra-cotta urns overflowing with orange bougainvillea.
Marc held the door for me. ‘‘In all seriousness, remember that no matter how bad things get today, you won’t, under any circumstances, be allowed to wrest the gun from my hands and shoot the bride.’’
I felt myself relaxing. Beneath his offhand manner, he radiated confidence.
‘‘How about if I just brandish it at her?’’ I said.
I went through the door. Inside the foyer the Italian-ate motif continued. A few members of the wedding party were there, chatting, waiting for directions. Across the room, at the foot of a curving marble staircase, I saw Jesse talking with two young men who had a Blackburn look to them. They were tall and rangy and had gregarious smiles.
Jesse was wearing his best black suit with a silver tie that highlighted his blue eyes, and he looked knock-me-flat handsome. He spotted me coming and, though he continued talking for a moment, his face smoothed with wonderment. He mouthed, Wow, and his cousins turned their heads and conversation ceased. They watched me walk toward them across the entryway, looking like they’d been stunned with a Taser. Slowly, thoroughly, Jesse smiled. It was an unguarded, spellbound, plain old lovestruck smile, and though I tried to give it that Grace Kelly cool, I knew I was smiling back.
And I couldn’t be sure that these were his cousins Hilarious and Sidesplitting, who thought it cute to crack wise with the crip jokes, but good chance they were. I walked straight up to Jesse and said, ‘‘Something knocked this crooked,’’ and, running my fingers around his silver tie, I leaned in and kissed him. I closed my eyes and felt his hands slide up my arms. I looked at him, smoothed the tie, and wiped a smudge of lipstick from his mouth with my thumb. His cousins hadn’t moved an eyelash.
Every woman should get such a moment once in her life.
He managed to get out the words Evan and cousins and New York. They pumped my hand like maniacs. Jesse gazed past my shoulder.
‘‘Marc?’’
‘‘Good morning.’’ He removed his sunglasses. ‘‘Brian couldn’t make it. I don’t want to step on toes—I’m just going to blend into the woodwork and keep an eye on Evan.’’
The cousins glanced at each other.
Jesse touched his forehead. ‘‘Sorry.’’ His smile had drifted. ‘‘Commander Marc Dupree, U.S. Navy.’’
