“You’re again showing you lack of historical knowledge—the Hastings family has an unmatched record of getting the results we need in Rockfield, and to count us out would be foolish.”
“The only history I need to know is that you’re going to end up on the wrong side of it. You can talk as boastfully as you like, but the only candidate who had a chance to stop us was JP Warner, and your attempts to woo him have failed. The casino is going to happen—you need to accept that.”
An awkward silence fell over them as they continued to make the drive from Midtown to the Upper East Side, lights and buildings whipping by the tinted windows.
“I spoke with Warner today,” Chayton finally said. “At the town hall meeting.”
“He must have told you he wasn’t going to run, since you sound so sure,” Hastings said, his grin still smug.
“No, he didn’t. But while I have no fear of him entering the race, I do have concerns that you’ve woken the reporter in him. He’s like a dog to a bone once he gets hold of a story. And thanks to that pathetic, desperate hoax you attempted, he’s going to start digging up things that should have remained buried.”
“For the last time, we had nothing to do with that!”
Chayton expected the answer—often at trial he’d purposely incite the witness with an accusation just to watch the reaction. He could learn more from the tone and body language in that one moment than he did from the many questions throughout the examination. In this case, Hastings’ irritation seemed genuine. And while his past sins were not in dispute, when it came to this recent hoax, he didn’t reveal the signs of a guilty man. That worried Chayton.
Chapter 34
Woodrow watched as Chayton stepped out of the limo, and walked confidently under the awning of the luxury high-rise, before disappearing into the building.
Not bad for just a “few scraps,” he thought. Then again, Chayton was a lawyer, and that was a profession with a long history of bending the truth to fit their agenda.
Woodrow considered himself an expert judge of when someone was telling him the truth, and when pushed, Chayton gave off no signs that he was behind the bridge hoax. But it had to be Poca—so the only possibility was that his mother hadn’t filled him in on all the details, perhaps to protect him.
It was something one of the teenagers said that night, which ruled out anyone beyond the inner circle—that he was looking for Archie in the gristmill, but he couldn’t find him. The mill was once owned by the Hastings family, and had been knocked down in the 1960s as part of the deal to sell the Zycko Hill land to developers. But only those who were there that night would see the connection to Archie. Woodrow had told Chayton the truth—he had nothing to do with the hoax—and the only other living person who was there that night had too much to lose by reopening the case, so it couldn’t be him.
That left Poca. But why would she do it? Perhaps ruling by fear was all she knew—handed down through the generations, and taught to her by her father—and with their casino money-grab at a crucial point, she did what came naturally.
If so, Woodrow Hastings could also play that game, as she and her son would soon discover.
***
Chayton walked into his penthouse apartment, lit only by the lights of Manhattan shining through a large window.
He slipped off his shoes onto the vintage Navajo rug that welcomed him home. He’d never forgotten his history, or that of his fellow Native Americans. And the apartment was decorated to reflect it. The walls were lined with his collection of Bev Doolittle Indian paintings. Much of the furniture was handcrafted by the Samerauks who had come before him—his favorite being a coffee table that doubled as a shadowbox, which he used to display many of the vintage Indian artifacts that he’d collected over the years.
He entered the bathroom, and thought that he could use a shower to remove all the bullshit Hastings had sent his way. Nothing was accomplished during the meeting, as far as any admissions or peace offerings, but that was to be expected. However, it did provide a perfect opportunity to take Hastings’ close-up.
And his takeaway was that Hastings would have done very well in the legal profession. He was able to twist the truth, point fingers in the other direction, and create red herrings. And just the fact that he orchestrated their meeting, meant that he was on the offensive. But he would be met with resistance. Chayton would do whatever it took to protect his client—his mother. The woman who raised him by herself, and who was willing to sacrifice everything to keep her only son safe. It was now his turn to repay the debt.
Chayton didn’t have time for a shower, and settled for a thorough washing of his hands and splashing water on his face. He then made his way back through the living room, dropping his coat on the couch and loosening his tie, before entering the bedroom.
He felt revitalized as he looked at her, lying on the canopy bed, not an article of clothing anywhere to be found.
Jill Leezy smiled seductively. “Hello, stranger. I’d almost given up on you.”
“I got caught up in a meeting. Your boyfriend says hello.”
She rose off the bed, standing still for a moment so he could fully admire her. She then walked slowly toward him, and he enjoyed each step, almost as much as she enjoyed her audience.
She wrapped her naked body around him, and kissed him deeply.
He lightly nudged her to a safe distance before it was too late to resist. “Do you have the information for me?”
She stepped back toward him. “Why don’t we take care of business after pleasure?”
“My mother always taught me that business comes before pleasure, and no woman can compete with my mother.”
“You and all the other little boys out there who never want to grow up,” she said with disgust in her voice. She strolled back toward the bed and reached into her Gucci bag. He followed her and sat on the edge of the bed.
She handed him the folder and he viewed its contents.
“It’s a copy of a contractor estimate. He’s planning on moving his father’s grave to another part of the property. He wants to build another horse stall there,” she said, before adding, “He loves those damned horses more than me.”
Perhaps because they’re more loyal, he thought. But Chayton knew there was a lot more to it. And much more under that headstone than just the bones of Joseph Hastings Sr.
He set the folder down on the bed, and looked at Jill—she had no clue what she’d gotten herself involved in. He smiled at her. He had a weapon much more powerful than a curse—he had an agent inside enemy lines.
Chapter 35
Saturday Morning
The dream was vivid. Gwen and I were at some sort of gathering, and pretty much anyone we’d ever met was there. We descended a grand staircase holding hands, and the guests clapped.
When we reached the bottom, I dropped to my knee and looked upward at the gorgeous creature in the ball gown. For some reason she was wearing a tiara atop her raven hair. I pulled out the ring box and the crowd surged with excitement. I opened the box and asked her to marry me.
Gwen looked down at me with a hesitancy that scared me. I held the box closer for her to see, as if that was what was causing her indecision. But she said nothing. I waited … and waited … filling with more dread with each tick of the clock.
Finally I heard the words, “Oh, JP Warner, yes I will marry you.”
My eyes opened, and I was lost somewhere between the dream and reality. But I recognized the ring—the large purple rock I’d purchased on a trip to Manhattan last month.
Except it wasn’t on Gwen’s finger.
“She wouldn’t be allowed to board a plane with this thing—way too heavy,” the woman exclaimed.
I looked at Tonya in stunned disbelief. I double-checked my surroundings, and I was definitely in my living room. I had slept in a recliner, while Byron was on a pullout couch.
She held up her slender ring finger to the morning sun that was shining through the bay windows of the
living room. “Did you take out a mortgage on this thing?”
Finally I found words, “What are you doing here? How did you get in here?”
“Shh … I’m trying not to wake Byron. He looks like he had a rough one last night. And to answer your other question—Gwen gave me her key.”
I grew nervous. “She didn’t see …?”
“No, but if I was you, I would find a better hiding spot—we girls can sniff these out. I was packing some of Byron’s things while you guys slept, and it was like a strange force led me to it.”
“Packing his things means you’re taking him home?” I asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.
“Not exactly, but I will be getting him out of your hair in short order.”
She tiptoed to the couch where Byron remained in a heavy sleep, and the former Miss South Carolina sat down beside him. The sun glistened off her mocha colored skin, which contrasted with her snug, white sundress. She was a sight for sore eyes. They had been dating since college, but I doubted it ever got old for him waking up next to her.
“Hey baby … mama’s back,” she said, and rubbed her hand lightly over his perspiring cheek.
His eyes slowly opened. He first looked confused, but then the smile spread over his face. “What are you doing here?” he asked in a groggy, hoarse voice.
“That seems to be the question of the day … would you like me to leave?”
“Please stay,” he moaned. “I was a total idiot.”
“Last night, or before you left?”
“Both.”
“Luckily you will have plenty of time to apologize once we hit the road. But first it’s my turn—I admit that I got a little Bridezilla and controlling.”
“A little?”
“Don’t push your luck,” she said with a disarming smile. “I tried to overcompensate. You’ve had all this success, from the NFL to GNZ, and now your foundation. I felt like I hadn’t achieved anything and I tried to turn our wedding into some accomplishment. But all I accomplished was pushing away the love of my life.”
Byron wrapped his arms around her. “I’m the one who’s overcompensating. Being in this chair makes me feel helpless sometimes, like I’m holding you back. It’s stupid, I know.”
The roar of an engine interrupted the nice moment. We all looked out the front windows to see Carter pull up on a bike driven by Poca. They removed helmets for a kiss goodbye, and she was off. Pretty much the last twenty years of Carter’s love life rolled into one snippet.
“Do tell,” Tonya greeted him when he stepped in the house.
He didn’t appear surprised by her presence, and spoke excitedly, “It’s a 1941 Indian Chief motorcycle, totally restored, with a 74ci engine and valanced fenders.”
“I meant the woman on the bike.”
Carter grinned. “What can I say—I’m an Indian giver.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Byron said. “You don’t exactly have the best history with Native Americans.”
It looked like they were going to pick up where they’d left off—Byron was referring to the time Carter lost his championship belt to an Indian wrestler named Pow Wow, and his infamous Tomahawk Chop move. Carter still hasn’t gotten over it.
He glared at Byron. “Shouldn’t you be hungover or something?”
Tonya looked to Carter. “Are you responsible for this hangover? You know how he gets when he drinks.”
Carter shrugged. “Don’t blame me—I wanted to get him an escort, but JP wouldn’t let me.”
“Which is exactly why you won’t be in charge of his bachelor party.”
The ring on Tonya’s finger caught Carter’s eye. “Whoa—I can’t believe Mr. Short Arms Long Pockets actually splurged for that.”
“While I love my ring, it is currently being repaired from when I threw it at Byron before he left. This one happens to be the property of Gwen Delaney … at least it will be once JP gives it to her.”
Carter smiled deviously. “Kinky … I like it.”
Tonya lightly smacked him on the shaved head. “I was just trying it on, you fool.”
Byron chimed in, “Are we really just going to gloss over the fact that the world’s most eligible bachelor—at least according to him—is going to get hitched?”
“I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself. For that to happen, it would require Gwen to agree to it,” I said.
“You actually think she would turn down that ring … I mean turn you down?” Tonya said.
“It’s just something she mentioned that made me think it might not be the right time.”
“There’s no such thing as the right time,” Tonya said. “But there is a bad time—which is any moment you put off thinking it might not be the right time.”
Byron thankfully changed the subject. “So we’re headed home?”
“No—we’re going to Rhode Island.”
“Rhode Island?”
“Gwen’s father has a house there on the beach, and she offered it to us to use—thought we might need some alone time together before we dive back into wedding hell.”
This was starting to make sense to me now, and right on cue I received a text.
One down one 2 go.
I replied: Well played, GD.
Your move, Warner.
So I made it. I typed: Will u marry me Gwen Delaney?
After a longer pause than the previous texts, I got the beep. My hands began to sweat as I nervously read: Sounds like someone needs their coffee.
She thought I was kidding, which makes sense. Who proposes marriage via text? I quickly typed back: What if I told u I’m serious?
Then I would say you need 2 cups of coffee … black!
I decided to listen to my instincts over peer pressure, and chose not to push it: I’ll see you soon.
The sooner the better!
Not exactly the answer I was looking for on the sorta proposal—the pre-proposal?—but I smiled anyway. I was surrounded by friends and family, and had plans with my girl, on what was shaping up as a perfect, sun-filled Saturday. And best of all, nobody was shooting at me. It was exactly the type of day I’d thought about when I had dreamed of returning home. What could possibly go wrong on a day like this?
Chapter 36
Allison stared into the mirror, and then did something she hadn’t done in what seemed like forever—she laughed. How could she help it? She looked completely ridiculous.
Saturday used to be her favorite day of the week. But ever since Marty died, it was like reliving his funeral once every seven days. Her favorite memories of him were of the weekends—cooking up breakfast with his two little helpers, Gracie and Chase. An occasional chorus of Shh, Mommy’s sleeping! would occur whenever one of them dropped a kitchen utensil, or broke a plate. But little did they know that she was already up, spying on the beautiful sight before her.
Her breakfast this morning was a scone and a glass of grapefruit juice, by herself. The kids were off with Gwen. The first stop would be Tommy and Chase’s soccer game, and then they would head up to the Connecticut Science Center in Hartford, which her little scientist, Gracie, had been dying to go to all summer.
And while they were doing that, Momma would be fishing on the Samerauk River. She laughed again, just thinking about it. She had resisted when Will MacDougal first asked her, as it sounded a whole lot like a date … a smelly and messy one at that—smessy? He also had that “knight in shining armor” nobility thing about him, which made it seem that he felt it was his mission to save the damsel in distress. She was not ready to date, and had no interest in ever being saved.
She thought that would have settled the issue, but Will had a way about him, and was able to assure her that his intentions were solely of the friendly variety, unless of course you’re a fish. She had moved from “no way!” to “I’ll think about it,” when Gwen and her father convinced her over dinner last night that she needed to have some time away from the kids. Perhaps it was the wine, but by the time d
inner ended she had somehow agreed to this.
The doorbell rang—too late to turn back now. She went to the door to find Will standing before her, whistling the theme song to the “Andy Griffith Show.” It looked as if he was headed for a game of golf. He wore a short-sleeve collared shirt tucked into jeans, his hair was messed like he’d just gotten out of bed, but it worked for him. His tanned forearms were muscular, so either he’d spent time at the gym, or pumping those blood pressure cuffs was a better workout than she would have imagined.
When he saw Allison, the whistling stopped and the laughter began.
She grew annoyed. “What? I thought we were going fishing … where’s your fishing clothes?”
He focused in on the rubber boots that came up almost to her thigh. “We’re not going fly-fishing. But I must say, I do love the Gilligan hat. Does that make me the Skipper?”
She smiled. “You’re far too smart to be the Skipper. I’d say more like the Professor.”
“And you combine the best attributes of Ginger and Mary Ann, but the important question remains: can you make a coconut cream pie?” he said with another smile. Good thing this wasn’t a date, Allison thought, because otherwise that might be misconstrued as flirting.
Now that they had covered 1960s sitcoms, it was time to hit the high seas. Or at least the calm, narrow nine-mile Samerauk River that ran through Rockfield. They walked across the Delaney’s backyard, through a small patch of woods that divided the properties, and onto the grounds of the home that Will was renting. They walked down the slope toward the river, which was no easy chore for Allison in the uncomfortable boots that were twice her size. She’d found them in the garage, and figured they belonged to Gwen’s father.
“What is it?” Will read her puzzled look, upon reaching the boat.
“Where’s the motor?”
He shrugged. “Sorry—no power boats allowed in Samerauk, except up near the lake, where it empties out.”
Psycho Hill (JP Warner Book 3) Page 15
