Jealousy

by Nancy Bush

  “Thanks for that,” she told him coldly.

  Lyle drew his attention back from his wife. “Jerome asked to talk to you. I just facilitated.”

  “And I obstructed. He tried to bully me. You shouldn’t even consider him as a buyer. It’s some kind of revenge with him. And he brought up the Kilgores.”

  Lyle made a sharp move away from her, but she followed.

  “He said Brianne wants to sell to them,” Lucy said. “Is that true?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Because you know,” she shot back. “You’ve been working this deal behind my back and Layla’s, and it involves the Kilgores’ land, too. When was the last time you saw Brianne?”

  “Years ago.”

  “Really? How many?”

  “I don’t know. What does it matter?”

  “Did you convince her to sell?”

  “The last I heard, her mother’s still alive. She can’t sell until Mona dies, and it’s not our problem anyway.”

  “Wolfe also acted like there was some mystery about the son’s death. Where did he get that?”

  “I don’t know anything, Lucy. Okay?”

  But he did. He was hiding something. She could tell.

  “There’s no mystery about his death,” Lyle added. “It was a tragedy.”

  “I know. But why would he say that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Lyle!” This was always the way it was with her brother. Pulling the truth out of him made her want to throttle him.

  He made a gesture of frustration. “Okay, maybe ... maybe they thought it was Brianne’s fault.”

  Lucy pounced on that. “What? What do you mean? Have you talked to Mona?”

  “I talked to Daniel. Brianne’s a little unstable, and he . . . always wondered about it.”

  Lucy stared at her brother. Lyle had been enamored with Brianne when they were kids. They’d all been a little in awe of her. “I don’t believe it. She was always into saving animals and trees and the fish ... remember how worried she was about the salmon dying because they couldn’t get past the dam?”

  “That’s why we have fish ladders,” he said abruptly.

  “But that’s not how Brianne felt. I just can’t believe she would want to sell.”

  “Whatever the Kilgores decide, it’s nothing to do with us. If Wolfe has a whole plan for this area, good for him. It’s his money to waste. There’s nothing here, Lucy. It’ll be decades, centuries, before any property around here turns a profit. It’s too remote.”

  “We’re only an hour or so outside of Portland,” she protested.

  “Far enough,” he said bitterly. “You know about money, or you’re supposed to anyway. This area is a bad investment. Feeling nostalgia for it doesn’t make it valuable, except as an asset for sale.”

  “What’s Wolfe’s offer?”

  “It’s a good offer.”

  “Well, that doesn’t answer the question. You said I know about money; why don’t you give me the particulars?”

  “I don’t know the figures off the top of my head.”

  Lucy almost laughed, it was so ridiculous. “Of course you know the figures. I’m only asking for an estimate.”

  “Well, I can’t give it to you,” he snapped, his face flushing. He gazed in the direction Kate had gone and appeared to consider charging after his wife.

  “Well, maybe you can tell me where the sixty thousand went, then. The company money you and Dad said not to worry about.”

  “Jesus, Lucy. Enough. Okay? Enough!” Lyle stalked away from her without another word.

  Lucy exhaled slowly, unaware she’d even been holding her breath. She’d never called him out on the missing funds before. She’d let her father and brother do their little financial dance because it was Abbott’s company, and maybe Lyle’s, and whatever was going on it was their decision, not hers. It just hurt that they didn’t trust her. What were they hiding?

  “Lucy . . .” John gasped from somewhere behind her.

  She turned and gave him a hard look. “Yes?”

  He stumbled toward her and gripped her arm, looking around wildly. Slightly alarmed, Lucy glanced around, too. She noticed the Asian server talking rapid-fire, ordering the other server who’d left the last tray of champagne to the kitchen. She saw Kate regarding both of them with a piqued look. Then John, shockingly pale, was dragging Lucy toward the anteroom, stumbling around a heavyset woman, knocking her into the man next to her.

  “I’m so sorry,” Lucy murmured apologetically. She was irked at John and tired of men grabbing onto her. She tried to yank her arm free, but John held her in a death grip. “I’m not going in there! What’s wrong with you? Let go of me!” she ordered in a taut whisper.

  He was nearly bowling over some of the guests.

  God, he looked ghastly. What was wrong with him?

  “John, I—”

  They were three steps away from the anteroom when John leaned over and threw up all over her shoes.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The stir across the room caught September’s attention. She’d wandered away from Jake and now saw a portly woman being propped up by an elderly man who had been surprised by her sudden weight on him and looked like he might fold. She hurried forward. To her right, a hunched-over man was dragging a woman in a red dress toward the cloakroom when he suddenly leaned over and upchucked.

  Not exactly what you want at a thousand-dollar-a-plate-plus dinner.

  The elderly man managed to right the woman, who was loudly exclaiming her displeasure.

  A pretty Asian server took one look at the pool of vomit outside the cloakroom door and ran for the kitchen.

  “He pushed me! Just pushed me!” the heavyset woman cried, the quivering folds of her neck threatening to engulf her diamond choker.

  The sour, pungent smell of bile and stomach acid filled the foyer.

  “Oh!” The woman covered her nose with her hand, and several other guests quickly moved farther away. Even the cellist had stopped playing until someone whispered into his ear and he nodded, starting up again.

  September circled around to the cloakroom door and was about to rap on the panels and offer help when she was nearly pushed aside by an older man in black slacks, a white shirt with black cowboy arrows delineating chest-high pockets, cowboy style, and a white felt cowboy hat. Abbott Crissman, their host, September knew; Jake had pointed him out to her earlier.

  Crissman swept into the cloakroom, sending another waft of sour air outward as the man inside was throwing up again.

  The door slammed in her face.

  * * *

  “John,” Lucy said with real concern. She’d kicked off her shoes and was following her husband barefooted as he staggered toward the only chair in the room. White-faced and sweating, he yanked at his collar, loosening his tie, his breathing ragged.

  “God . . .” he muttered.

  He sank into the chair and held his head in his hands.

  “You okay? Do you need something?” she asked, looking back anxiously at the door.

  It suddenly flew inward, as if she’d said, “Open sesame,” and Abbott stalked through, slamming it behind him. He stopped short upon seeing the puddle of vomit on the floor. “You’re sick?” he demanded.

  “Yes.” John didn’t look up.

  “The flu? What?” Abbott asked, glaring at Lucy.

  Knowing what they were all thinking, she was cautious when she put their fear into words. “Food poisoning?”

  Abbott pressed his lips together, color riding up his neck. “It doesn’t happen that fast,” he dismissed.

  “I think it can,” said Lucy.

  “No one else is sick.”

  Yet.

  Lucy asked her husband, “John, do you want to lie down?”

  He groaned. “I want to leave.”

  “There are beds in all the bedrooms,” Abbott said. “Take him to the master on the gallery floor.”

  Lucy started, “I don’t k
now if—”

  “Take me home,” John interrupted. His skin was white and he kept spitting onto the floor.

  “Did you talk to Jerome Wolfe?” Abbott asked Lucy.

  She threw her father an exasperated glance. “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “Dad, I don’t know. He wants to buy. You want to sell. I’m not even in the conversation.”

  “He wanted to talk to you, make his case. He wants to talk to Layla, too.”

  “Well, great,” Lucy said, her eyes on her husband. His hands hung limply between his legs, his head bowed. “He can talk to Layla now. I think I’d better take John home.”

  “We haven’t eaten dinner and the silent auction hasn’t closed yet,” Abbott argued. “The oral auction’s just warming up.”

  “I think you’re going to have to soldier on without me.” Lucy’s mind was turning toward the problem at hand: getting John somewhere he could be more comfortable and away from the benefit.

  “I’m going to be sick again,” John rushed out. He leaned forward and spewed up more vomit.

  Abbott recoiled. “I’ll get someone to clean this up. Don’t step in it.”

  He paused at the door. “If Wolfe feels he needs your okay—”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass, Dad.”

  Abbott looked blankly at Lucy, as if he’d never seen her before. He seemed to want to keep on arguing, but in the end, he yanked open the door and headed out.

  John spit some more and groaned again. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

  “Maybe we should go to a doctor,” said Lucy.

  “Where?” he gasped.

  “Glenn River?”

  “No. I want to go home.”

  “Okay.” She hesitated a moment. “Can you make it to the car?”

  He didn’t answer, and Lucy saw that he was thinking that over. Several minutes passed, excruciating minutes while Lucy ran over what she should do. It sure seemed like John could use a doctor, but he was nothing if not stubborn.

  She waited until she couldn’t stand it, then asked again, “Do you want me to bring the car around?” He swallowed convulsively, clearly miserable. “John?”

  “For God’s sakes, give me a minute.”

  More time passed, and then there was a knock on the door. John groaned and muttered, “Get rid of them.”

  Lucy crossed the room and pulled open the door. An auburn-haired woman, one of the guests, she remembered seeing, was on the other side.

  “Could you use some help?” she asked.

  There was something efficient and no-nonsense about her that reached toward Lucy’s heart like the support of a good friend. She didn’t know her, but she didn’t care. “I might,” she admitted.

  The woman stepped into the room. Lucy recognized that she was someone used to responsibility.

  John snapped, “We don’t need any help.”

  “I was going to get the car . . .” Lucy said.

  “I’ll stay here with him,” she said, clearly not put off by John’s rudeness or the pool of vomit on the floor.

  “Thank you.”

  Lucy didn’t wait to hear any further complaints from John. She slipped out of the room, closed the door behind her, then hurried past the few milling guests who were still in the entry hall and out to the Audi.

  * * *

  September had watched Abbott Crissman enter the cloakroom only to exit a few moments later. He’d torn through the crowd toward the kitchen area. Soon after, a man and a woman with a bucket full of cleaning supplies and a mop were coming her way, while Crissman aimed toward the main stairway, where the last of the guests were slowly making their way toward the artfully placed tables that filled the gallery above. Those that were vaguely aware of the sick man had dallied, but they were mostly on the stairway now.

  One couple, however, had stayed back with September. “Poor man,” the woman said. She’d been standing nearby when the heavyset woman had lost her balance, and she was there still, her gaze on the closed cloakroom door. The portly woman was gone, as was her companion, who’d saved her from falling, but this woman, in a short denim skirt and jacket and her male companion, wearing jeans in a matching shade of light blue, were all that remained in the entry apart from the wide-eyed young hostess, who still had a look of repugnant horror on her face.

  “Glad they’re cleaning it up so fast,” the man said as the cleaning crew mopped up the mess outside the anteroom door.

  He and his date both looked at September. “Are you with them?” the woman asked.

  “No, I just thought I could help,” September responded.

  “Yes . . . hmmm . . .” His gaze moved to the line of guests climbing the stairs. “We’d better go on up.”

  “I don’t know if we should just abandon them ... ?” Clearly, the man’s companion had more of an empathetic streak than he did.

  But there was no reason for them to miss the rest of the evening, so September said, “Oh, I’d go to dinner. And the oral auction. I’ve got this.”

  “Okay . . .” the woman said.

  At that moment, the younger woman who’d been manning the door abruptly left her post, apparently thinking September’s advice was meant for her, too. She beelined for the kitchen. September then saw Jake at the top of the stairs, looking around, and she lifted an arm to catch his attention. He connected with her, correctly interpreted that he couldn’t really head back downstairs without creating a traffic problem, and simply lifted his chin in acknowledgment. September signaled that she would be up soon, and he nodded again, pointing toward the north end of the building, which was apparently where their seats were.

  As the couple moved off, a thirtysomething blond woman marched from the direction of the kitchen, her mouth set, her eyes sweeping up the stairs after the guests.

  Kate, September guessed, married to Lyle Crissman. The blonde darted a glance toward the cloakroom, then stopped the two workers who’d cleaned up the mess in the hallway, a young man in his twenties and a woman who looked to be about thirty, but who was prematurely gray, who’d been heading outside.

  “Just wait here for a moment,” she told them, chewing on her lip for a second before she realized she was doing so and stopped suddenly. “Then, I want you to clean the room.” She hitched her chin toward the closed doors of the anteroom. “I think there’s another ... area that needs attention.” Her eyebrows raised. “Okay?”

  “Got it,” the man said.

  Next, her gaze settled on September. “Detective, can I help you?” she asked.

  September was slightly surprised this woman was aware of her previous job. “Is the chef ill, too?”

  “No. He’s just ... excitable. Is Lucy in there?” She hitched her chin at the closed door.

  “If she’s the woman in the red dress, then yes.”

  “Okay. You might as well go on to dinner. I’ll take care of things.” She held out one arm toward September and gestured to the stairs with her other.

  “Are you Mrs. Crissman?” September asked, confirming what she’d already deduced from seeing the blonde buzzing around the event, a woman on a mission.

  She offered a fleeting smile of surprise. “Yes, I’m Kate. But please, let’s all move upstairs now.”

  “I will in a minute.”

  “It’s probably the flu,” Kate Crissman told her flatly.

  “Or food poisoning,” September said, responding to her officiousness.

  “No one else is sick,” Kate said quickly. “The chef’s fine.”

  So far, September thought. “Do you need help getting him to the car?”

  “Kate!”

  A male voice called from above, and September saw Abbott Crissman had made it upstairs and leaned over the railing, signaling Kate Crissman with sharp gestures to march up to the gallery. Kate threw September a look, then expelled a breath in frustration and headed for the stairs.

  September moved past the two workers, knocked on the cloakroom door, and Lucy Crissman answered
.

  * * *

  Layla felt overwhelmed at the blur of faces around the tables. Neil and Courtney were having a baby ... another boy. She couldn’t believe it. How could that be? How could that be happening? Could she use it to her advantage? She certainly hoped so. Was it even true? Neil hadn’t denied it, and he was really upset Courtney had let the cat out of the bag. How many weeks along was she? Enough to know she was having a boy . . . unless that was a lie, although again, Neil hadn’t denied her words.

  She’d attempted to follow Lucy and John, but her father had muscled his way past her and hissed that he would handle the situation. All he needed to keep the benefit from devolving into chaos after John’s sudden illness was Layla to help her brother in keeping up family appearances, so she’d let herself be carried by the crowd to the second floor.

  Now she felt lost, marooned, islanded. Into her field of vision came Jerome Wolfe. He seemed to be considering where he wanted to sit. She knew there was a seating arrangement, but she didn’t feel like fighting her way through the tables to find where Kate had positioned her. It wouldn’t be anywhere with anyone important, which was fine, but she suspected she might be placed somewhere in the back, because Kate wouldn’t want Layla’s hosting to interfere with her own, and there was no doubt Kate and Lyle would be near the central podium.

  “Where are you supposed to be?” Wolfe asked her, inclining his head toward the tables.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m right over there,” he said, holding out a hand toward one of the larger tables that could be considered the front of the room. “Care to join me?”

  “I have a place reserved somewhere.”

  “Well, I have a plus-one who didn’t show. Why don’t you take her seat?”

  The last thing Layla wanted was to get embroiled in a conversation with Jerome Wolfe. Her head was filled with Neil and Courtney and their baby and she didn’t like Wolfe; he probably felt much the same about her. “I don’t think so.”