by J. R. Ward
Gin put her hand to her throat and thought of being in the Phantom Drophead at that gas station down on River Road . . . and her credit cards not working. But when that had happened the other day, it had been because her father had cut her off, not because funds were unavailable.
And then she remembered her brother breaking the bad financial news to her after he'd picked her up at the police station.
She shook her head, though. "You said there was fifty or sixty million in debt. Surely there are other funds somewhere--"
"The debt is over triple that. That we've found so far. Times have changed, Gin." He turned away. "You want a party, get your new husband to cut the check. It's chump change for him, and that is why you're marrying him, after all."
Gin stayed where she was, watching the glass door ease shut once again.
In the silence, a strange feeling of dislocation overcame her, and it took her a moment to realize it was something she had become familiar with whenever Richard . . .
Oh, God. She felt like she was going to throw up.
"It's going to be fine," she said to the plants. "And Pford might as well start making himself useful now."
TWENTY-ONE
The sweeper kissed along the center aisle of the stable, pushing debris ahead, kicking up a fine mist of hay particles. As Edward walked behind his broom, the muzzles of the breeding females came out of open stall half doors, snuffing at his T-shirt, bumping his elbow, blowing at his hair. Sweat had broken out across his brow and a line of it descended his spine into the loose waistband of his jeans. From time to time, he stopped and wiped his forearm over his face. Talked to Joey, Moe's son, who was mucking stalls. Gave a stroke to a graceful neck or a smooth to a springy mane.
He could feel the alcohol coming out of his pores, like he'd been marinating in the stuff. And yet even as he was working the booze through his body, he'd had to nurse a vodka bottle a couple of times, otherwise the shaking got ahead of him.
"You're working hard," came a voice from the far end.
Edward stopped and tried to look over his shoulder. When his body wouldn't allow him the leeway, he shuffled around, using the broom handle for leverage.
Squinting against a ray of sunlight, he said, "Who is it?"
"I'm Detective Merrimack. CMP."
A strident set of footfalls came down the concrete, and when they halted in front of him, a wallet was flipped open, and an ID and a badge were presented for inspection.
"I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions," the detective said. "Just as a formality."
Edward shifted focus from the display to the face that matched the laminated photograph. Merrimack was African-American, with short cropped hair, a strong jaw, and big hands that suggested he might have been a ballplayer at one time. He was wearing a bright white polo shirt with the Charlemont Metro Police Department's crest on the pec, a good pair of slacks, and a set of leather shoes with rubber soles that made Edward think that, on occasion, the guy had to chase after somebody.
"How may I help you, Detective?"
Merrimack disappeared his credentials. "Do you want to go somewhere to sit down while we talk privately?"
"Here is good enough for me." Edward limped over to a hay bale and let his weight fall off his legs. "There's no one else in this barn right now. And you can use that bucket if you want to turn it over."
Merrimack shook his head. Smiled. Glanced around. "This is some spread you've got here. Lot of beautiful horses."
"You a betting man at the track?"
"Just small stuff. Nothing like you do, I'm sure."
"I don't bet. Anymore, that is."
"Not even on your own horses?"
"Especially not my own. So what can I do for you?"
The detective walked across to the stall whose top half was shut. "Wow. This is a beauty in here--"
Edward shook his head. "I wouldn't get too close if I were--"
Nebekanzer bared his teeth and lunged at the bars, and Merrimack pinwheeled backward, tap-dancing better than Savion Glover.
As the man caught himself on an opposite stall door, Edward said, "You're not familiar with horses, are you?"
"Ah . . . no." The man straightened and retucked his shirt. "No, I'm not."
"Well, when you walk into a barn full of open stall halves and there's one, and only one, that's fully closed? Chances are that's for a good reason."
Merrimack shook his head at the great stallion, who was stalking back and forth like he wanted out and not to shake hands politely. "Tell me no one rides that thing."
"Only me. And I have nothing to lose."
"You? You can get in a saddle on the back of that horse."
"He's my stallion, not just a horse. And yes, I can. When I set my mind to something, I can make it happen even in this body."
Merrimack refocused. Smiled again. "Can you. Well, that must be helping with your recovery. I read about your . . ."
"Unfortunate vacation? Yes, what I went through is never going to show up on Trivago. But at least I got the frequent-flyer points for the trip down. Nothing coming north, though. They had to airlift what was left of me to an Army base, and then the Air Force got me back to the States."
"I can't imagine what that was like."
"Yes, you can." Edward leaned back on the hay bale and rearranged his legs. "So what can I do for you?"
"Wait, you said the Air Force brought you home?"
"The Ambassador to Colombia is a friend of my family's. He was very helpful. So was a sheriff's deputy friend of mine from here in Charlemont."
"Did your father arrange for the help?"
"No, he did not."
"No?"
Edward tilted his head. "He had other priorities at the time. Did you come all the way out to Ogden County just to ask me about my horses? Or is this about my father?"
Merrimack smiled again, in that way that seemed to indicate he was thinking but didn't want to seem threatening. "It is. Just a few background questions. In situations like this, we like to start with family."
"Ask away."
"Can you describe your relationship with your father?"
Edward moved the broom between his knees and batted the handle back and forth. "It was fractious."
"That's a big word."
"Do you need a definition?"
"No, I don't." Merrimack took out a pad from his back pocket and opened it. "So you weren't close."
"I worked with him for a number of years. But I wouldn't say that the traditional father-son relationship was one we shared."
"You were his heir apparent?"
"I was in a business sense."
"But you are not anymore."
"He's dead. He doesn't have any 'anymore,' does he? And why don't you come out and ask me whether I killed him and cut off his finger?"
Another of those smiles. And what do you know, the guy had nice teeth, everything straight and white, but not in a fake, cosmetically enhanced way. "All right. Maybe you'd like to answer your own question."
"How can I possibly kill anyone? I can barely sweep this aisle."
Merrimack looked down and back. "You just told me it was all about motivation for you."
"You're a homicide detective. You must be well aware of how much effort it takes to murder someone. My father was a healthy man, and in my current condition, he weighed about fifty pounds more than I do. I may not have been terribly fond of him, but that doesn't mean patricide was on my bucket list."
"Can you tell me where you were the night he died?"
"I was here."
"Is there anyone who can corroborate that--"
"I can."
Shelby stepped out from the supply room, as unapologetic and calm as a Buddha. Even though she was lying.
"Hello, miss," the detective said, walking over and extending his palm. "I'm from the Charlemont Metro Police Department. And you are?"
"Shelby Landis." She shook hands and stepped back. "I work here as a stable h
and."
"For how long?"
"Not long. A week or so. My dad died and he told me to come here."
Merrimack glanced at Edward. "And that night, the night your father died, the two of you were . . ."
"Just here," Edward said. "Sitting around. That's the extent of things for me."
"Well, I'm sure that's understandable." Smile. "Let me ask you something. What kind of car do you drive?"
Edward shrugged. "I don't, really. My Porsche is back at Easterly. It's a stick shift, so it's not really all that practical anymore."
"When was the last time you were back home?"
"That isn't my home anymore. I live here."
"Fine, when were you last at Easterly?"
Edward thought back to him and Lane getting into the business center so that those financial records could see the light of day. Technically, it hadn't been breaking and entering, but Edward sure as hell wouldn't have been welcomed there. And yes, he had stolen corporate information.
Then he had had that moment with Miss Aurora, the woman wrapping her arms around him and breaking him up on the inside.
Lot of security cameras at Easterly. Outside and inside the house. Inside the business center.
"I was there a couple of days ago. To see my brother Lane."
"And what did you do while you were there?"
"Talked to him." Used a back door into the network to extract information. Watched his father make a deal with Sutton. After the bastard hit on her. "We just caught up."
"Hmm." Smile. "Did you borrow one of the other cars? I mean, your family has a lot of different cars, don't they?"
"No."
"They don't? Because when I was there yesterday, I saw a big bank of garage doors out in back. Right across from the business center where your father worked."
"No, as in I didn't take any of the other cars out."
"The keys to those vehicles are in the garage, right? In a lockbox with a combination."
"I guess so."
"Do you know the combination, Mr. Baldwine?"
"If I did, I've forgotten it."
"That happens. People forget pass codes and passwords all the time, don't they. Tell me something, are you aware of anyone who might have held a grudge against your father? Or wanted to harm him? Maybe had a reason to get revenge against him?"
"It's a long list."
"Is it?"
"My father had a habit of not ingratiating himself to others."
"Can you give me any specific examples?"
"Anyone he's ever dealt with on a personal or professional level. How's that."
"Fractious, indeed. You said your father was healthy, in comparison to yourself. But were you aware of any illnesses he might have had?"
"My father believed real men did not get sick."
"Okay." The pad got shut without the detective having written anything in it. "Well, if you can think of anything that will help us, you can call me here. Either one of you."
Edward accepted the business card that was held out to him. There was a gold seal in the center, the same one that was on the detective's shirt. And Merrimack's name and various numbers and addresses were printed around it as if it were the sun.
At the bottom, there was the phrase "To Protect and Serve" in cursive writing.
"So you think he was murdered?" Edward said.
"Do you?" Merrimack gave a card to Shelby. "What do you think, Mr. Baldwine?"
"I don't have an opinion one way or the other."
He wanted to ask if he was a suspect, but he already knew that answer. And Merrimack was keeping his cards close to his chest.
Smile. "Well. Nice to meet you both. You know where to find me--and I know where to find you."
"The pleasure was all my mine."
Edward watched the detective saunter out into the bright light of the early afternoon. Then he waited a little longer as an unmarked police car proceeded down the main lane and out to the road beyond.
"You weren't with me," Edward murmured.
"Does it matter?"
"Unfortunately . . . it does."
TWENTY-TWO
At least his father's attorney wasn't late.
As Lane checked his Piaget, it was four forty-five on the dot when Mr. Harris brought the venerable Babcock Jefferson into Easterly's main parlor.
"Greetings, Mr. Jefferson," Lane said as he got to his feet. "Good of you to come."
"Lane. My condolences."
William Baldwine's executor was dressed in a navy blue suit with a red and blue bow tie and a crisp white kerchief in his breast pocket. He was a sixty-something, wealthy version of a good ol' boy, his jowls protruding over the collar of his formal shirt, the scent of Cuban cigars and Bay Rum aftershave preceding him as he came across to shake hands.
Samuel T. rose from the other sofa. "Mr. Jefferson. I am here in the capacity of Lane's attorney."
"Samuel T. How's your father?"
"Very well."
"Give him my best. And anyone is welcome here upon the invitation of the family."
"Mr. Jefferson," Lane spoke up. "This is my fiancee, Lizzie King."
Annnnd that pretty much hit pause for everybody in the room: Gin rolled her eyes, Samuel T. smiled, and Mr. Jefferson bowed at the waist.
Lizzie, meanwhile, shot a surprised stare in Lane's direction and then recovered by shaking the executor's hand and offering the guy a smile. "It's a very recent thing."
For a moment, Mr. Jefferson seemed positively smitten with her, his eyes twinkling in a friendly way.
"Well, congratulations!" Mr. Jefferson nodded in Lane's direction and then refocused on her. "I would say that you're an upgrade, but that would be disrespectful to his former Mrs. You are, however, a vast improvement."
Lizzie laughed. "You're a charmer, aren't you?"
"Down to my hunting boots, ma'am." Mr. Jefferson grew serious once more as he looked back at Lane. "Where are your brothers?"
Lane took his seat again beside Lizzie. "I don't know what state Max is in, much less how to reach him, and Edward is--"
"Right here."
Edward materialized in the archway, and even though Lane had seen him a day or so ago, his physical appearance was still the kind of thing you had to adjust to. He was freshly shaved and showered, his dark hair damp and curling in a way it had never been permitted to in previous years. His khakis were nearly falling off his hips, held up from the floor only by an alligator belt. His shirt was plain and blue, a leftover from his business wardrobe. It was so loose, though, it was as if he were a child trying on his father's clothes.
And yet he commanded respect as he limped across and sat in one of the armchairs. "Mr. Jefferson. Good to see you again. Excuse my rudeness, but I must sit down."
"I'll come to you, son."
The executor put his briefcase down on one of the side tables and walked over. "It's good to see you again."
Edward shook the man's hand. "Likewise."
There was no small talk after that. Edward had never been one for it, and Mr. Jefferson appeared to remember that.
"Is there anyone else you have invited?"
Lane's reflex was to wait for Edward to answer, but then he remembered that he himself had been the one to get everybody together.
"No." Lane got up and strode across to the pocket doors that opened into the study. "We're ready."
He shut the two halves and went to do the same at the archway into the foyer. When he turned back around, he hung on to Lizzie's stare. She was sitting on the silk sofa in her shorts and her polo, her blond hair pulled back, her face open.
God, he loved her.
"Let's do this," Lane heard himself say.
*
Edward steepled his hands, putting his elbows on the padded arms of the chair. Across the parlor, on the silk sofa, his little brother was cozy-cozy with the horticulturist, Lizzie, and one had to admit, the ease with which the two of them sat side by side was indicative of a connection not typical
ly found in Bradford marriages: It was in the way he casually draped an arm over her shoulders. How she rested her hand on his knee. The fact that they made eye contact with each other as if both were checking that the other was all right.
He wished Lane well. He truly did.
Gin, on the other hand, was in a more traditional relationship with her future spouse. Richard Pford was nowhere to be found, and that was just as well. He might be marrying into the family, but this was private.
"We are here for the reading of William Wyatt Baldwine's last will and testament," Babcock stated as he took a seat in the other armchair and opened his briefcase upon his lap.
"Should Mother be included?" Edward interjected.
The executor glanced over the top half of his case and said smoothly, "I do not believe it is necessary to disturb her. Your father was primarily interested in providing for his offspring."
"But of course."
Babcock resumed extraction of a rather voluminous document. "The decedent engaged me for the previous ten years as his personal attorney, and during that time period, he executed three wills. This is his final will, executed one year ago. In it, he provides that any debts of a personal nature shall be paid, along with any appropriate taxes and professional fees, firstly. Thereafter, he has created a trust for the bulk of his assets. This trust is to be split equally in favor of Miss Virginia Elizabeth Baldwine, Mr. Jonathan Tulane Baldwine, and Mr. Maxwell Prentiss Baldwine."
Cue the pause.
Edward smiled. "I take it my name was omitted on purpose."
Babcock shook his head gravely. "I'm so sorry, son. I advocated for him to include you, I did."
"Cutting me out of his will is the least onerous burden that man put upon me, I assure you. And, Lane, do stop looking at me like that, will you."
As his little brother shifted his eyes away, Edward got up and limped across to the bar cart. "Family Reserve, anyone?"
"For me," Lane said.
"As well," Samuel T. spoke up.
Gin remained silent, but her eyes, too, watched his every move as the lawyer described particulars relative to the trust that had been established. Samuel T. came over for his glass and Lane's, and then Edward was taking his own back across to the armchair he'd been in.
He could honestly say he felt nothing. No anger. No nostalgia. No burning desire to close distance, reconnect, recon order. Fix something.
The detachment had been hard earned, honed by him long living with the contradictions of the fire of his father's resentment and the freeze of the man's estrangement.
