by Avery Aames
“Stop it,” Ryan hissed.
But Lara couldn’t seem to help herself. She pressed on. “In our line of work, new is vital. Trite, banal, and dreary? That kills just about any—”
“Enough!” Victor stood. He snatched Lara’s drink out of her hand, set it on the table, and clenched her wrist. “It’s time for you to retire. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER
8
Lara wrenched free. “Why you!” Her arm flapped backward. She struck her hand on the top of the chair and yelped like a wounded animal. “I’ll never retire, you fool, and you know it!”
Everyone in the dining room gasped, me included.
Under his breath, Victor said, “You know what I meant.”
“Don’t try to handle me,” Lara went on. “A man like you will never handle me.” She aimed a warning finger. “Besides, I’m not leaving until I’ve eaten dessert.” She lifted her wineglass, took a defiant sip, and swung the glass toward Erin. “This isn’t bad, young lady. Surprising, given the standards at this farm.”
“I’m s-s-sorry?” Erin clutched the table with two hands to brace herself. “What’s wrong with the standards?”
“You’ve let the place go.” Lara waved her free hand at the pair of mahogany hutches that held the crystal and china. “This place is a dump.”
Bette Davis in All About Eve couldn’t have uttered the line with more vehemence.
“Cut it out, Lara!” Shayna bolted to her feet. She banged the butt of the knife on the table. “You have no right to speak to people like this.”
“Oh, but I do. It’s America, darling. I have the right to speak my mind wherever I want, whenever I want.”
I mouthed to Jordan: Uh-oh. What could we do to keep the evening from spiraling out of control?
Lara swung her gaze back to Erin. “What were you thinking, darling”—Lara hoisted her wineglass and motioned at the other guests—“inviting people here when your domain is in this kind of shape?”
“I think it’s lovely,” I said. “Quaint.”
“The cheese facility is quaint, all right,” Lara said. “As in small and understaffed. The grounds are a horror. Unplowed. Untended.”
They were not; she was deliberately being malicious.
“Honestly,” Lara continued, “have any of you really studied these relics Erin has on display?”
“Lara,” Shayna warned.
“Lara,” Victor echoed.
She ignored them and lasered Erin with a glance. “Don’t you dust inside these cabinets? Oh, wait. Why should you? Nothing in them is valuable. That vase—”
Erin cut her off. “That vase is a Lismore Castle vase, I’ll have you know, purchased in Ireland. It was my mother’s favorite piece of Waterford.”
Good for you, I thought. Watch out, Lara. Erin will defend hearth, home, and family. Back in school, I had seen her defend Andrew many times. Kids called him a nerd, a freak. On one occasion, a teacher sent Erin to the principal’s office because she, a little bite-sized girl, slugged a bully.
“What about the ginger pots?” Like a knight unwilling to concede the duel, Lara jutted a finger as if it were an épée.
“My mother bought them in China.” Erin’s voice could have cut steel. “Those, as well as the jade carvings you see in the case.”
Kandice tapped the table with a fingernail to get everyone’s attention. “Hey, didn’t a seller on that Antiques Roadshow find out her jade was worth something in the millions? Erin, have you had any of your things appraised?”
“No.”
“You should.”
“Kandice!” Lara swiveled and skewered Kandice with a lethal gaze. “Don’t be ridiculous. I was looking at those items earlier. They’re worthless.”
“How would you know?” Erin asked.
Lara sniffed. “Because I am a collector of rare things.”
Shayna scoffed. “You? A collector?”
“Indeed. I have a few Ming vases, some tooled silver from the Conquistadors, a Degas, a Miró.”
“Here we go,” Victor groaned.
“Here we go?” Lara’s voice skated upward. “Victor, darling, you of all people know I speak the truth. You’ve seen my house.”
Victor frowned. “All I saw were a few pieces of fine art and the cheese-related antiques like the Liliput cheese press by Carson and Toone. When did you get the rest?”
Lara offered a smug smile. “Time marches on, darling. I’ve enhanced my collection since you were there last.”
Victor seemed less than convinced. “So now you need to brag about them?”
“I wouldn’t push it, Victor.”
“Why not?”
“I might reveal to everyone that you”—Lara wielded her finger—“you know what.”
“Stop it!” Erin banged the table with her fist. “That’s enough, Miss Berry!” Her voice bounced off the walls. “This . . . this whole affair . . . this brain trust was supposed to be fun, but you—”
Overhead, someone started tapping. Loudly and furiously. Andrew. The tapping became pounding, then stomping. Something jangled, too.
Erin peered upward. So did everyone else.
Tears sprang to Erin’s eyes. She zeroed in on Lara. “Look what you’ve done. You are so . . . I have a mind to . . .” She scrubbed her hair with her fingertips. “Ooh!” She raced from the room and charged up the stairs to the second floor. A door opened and slammed.
No one said a word for a long moment.
Ryan’s voice pierced the silence. “Ma’am . . . Miss Berry . . .” His nostrils flared; obviously it required all his resolve to be polite. “I’ve visited and consulted lots of farms like this one. Yes, they are in need of work, but that doesn’t mean they are going to seed. People do the best with the funds they have.”
Lara scoffed. “Why don’t these people pick another profession? Why engage in a losing battle?”
“Because sometimes a farm is a family’s lifeblood,” Ryan said. “You . . . you have no regard for any of these fine folks. Why, you’ve nearly ruined some enterprises with your reviews.”
“Not nearly ruined,” Lara cut in. “I have ruined them. And they deserved it.”
My pulse started to chug. I wanted to tell Lara off—I was no longer a fan—except I couldn’t because Erin entered the dining room. With her brother.
Andrew was taller than Erin by a foot and thicker all over—broad shoulders, broad forehead—but his features were similar and he had the same red hair. He carried a drumstick in one hand and a tambourine in the other.
“Sweetheart,” Erin said. “These are our guests. Everyone, this is my brother, Andrew. I’ve told some of you about him.” She seared Lara with a meaningful look.
Andrew peered above the heads of everyone, unwilling to make eye contact. “Guests,” he said.
“Yes, sweetheart, guests. We were having a lively conversation. No one meant any harm.”
“Some people meant harm,” Lara said.
Anger throbbed in my temples. I wanted a crack at her. Just one. A single pop to the nose to set her straight. My typically sweet-natured husband looked almost as furious as I was.
Andrew wheeled toward Lara, his mouth drawn into a tight line. He craned an ear. Was he trying to determine whether Lara’s was the voice of the person he had heard badgering his sister?
“What’re you gawking at, Andy?” Lara challenged.
My mouth fell open. Gack. What had happened to the woman who told Erin that she understood what a person with autism suffered? Did Lara lie about having a nephew to win Erin’s trust? She asked Erin if she wanted to sell her property. Was that Lara’s real purpose for attending the brain trust? Ryan hinted that Lara helped destroy a few properties. Maybe unsettling Erin and forcing her to divest of her family’s farm was Lara’s endgame.
“Lara,” I said
, not sure what else I might add but ready to intervene.
Andrew tapped the drumstick against his leg.
Lara didn’t falter. “Do you have a beef with me, Andy?”
Andrew’s mouth moved in time to the tapping but no words came out. The tambourine jangled because his movements were so jerky.
“Andrew, don’t,” Erin whispered. “Sweetheart. Please.” She glowered at Lara. “You said you understood that he’s challenged.”
“I do understand, darling,” Lara said, her tone haughty, “but that doesn’t mean I have to abide you parading him around to make a fool of me.”
“I’m not parading—”
“Yes, you are. You want to win the sympathy vote. You want everyone here to think I’m an ogre.” She gazed at Andrew. “Look at him. Not an iota of eye contact.” Lara rapped the side of her head. “No one’s home.”
Andrew lashed the table near Lara with the drumstick.
“Andrew, no!” Erin cried.
Lara reeled back. “Get him out of here, Erin. Right. Now.”
“Lara,” I said, rising from the table.
Jordan echoed me.
“You two, stay out of it,” she ordered.
Erin corralled her brother. She placed a hand on the drumstick. “Andrew, keep calm.”
“Calm,” Andrew echoed.
“Count.”
“Count,” he repeated.
“By tens.”
Andrew began to tap the drumstick on the tambourine. “Ten, twenty, thirty . . .”
“Let’s go to your room, sweetheart.” Erin gripped her brother’s elbow and guided him toward the foyer.
When they disappeared, I couldn’t hold back. Every fiber in me was quivering with rage. “Lara,” I said. “You had no right.”
“Please. Not you, too. Why do I bother?” Lara pushed back her chair. She faltered. “I’m going upstairs. I have a splitting headache.” She grabbed her Prada purse off the floor, swooped up the platter of cheese and fruit that was set in the middle of the table as well as the bottle of cabernet and the near-empty wineglass, and staggered out of the dining room.
I gaped at Jordan. His mouth was hanging open, too. Shayna’s teeth were clenched. Ryan’s jaw ticked with tension.
Kandice plucked at her hairdo. Her lips were quivering. “What just happened?” she asked.
Victor said, “Hurricane Lara blew through and decimated the island.”
“Does she . . .” I stammered. “Do you know this side of her?”
Victor shrugged.
Silence fell over the lot of us. I could hear the ticktock of the grandfather clock in the living room. The twin waitresses entered through the archway, each carrying a tray of dessert selections, but no one wanted any of them. The sprightly nature of the event was doused. Minutes later, everyone went their separate ways.
By ten, Jordan and I were tucked into bed. He fell asleep instantly. I tried to read more of Lara’s book—I wanted to reread the section on Midwest cheeses—but I couldn’t get past two pages. I wasn’t sure I could ever read another word written by her.
I slept fitfully. Around two A.M. I stirred. Had I heard a door open and close? I curled into Jordan and whispered, “Are you awake?”
He mumbled, “Now I am.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Can I stop you?” He faced me and cupped a hand behind my head. “Go on.”
“Do you think Erin will cancel the event?”
“She’s a businesswoman. This brain trust has brought all sorts of people to the farm. The revenue will be a boon to her. She’ll rally. Promise. In the morning, she will have found her smile, we’ll continue with day two of the brain trust, and all will be well with the world.” He kissed my forehead and said, “Go to sleep.”
At four A.M. Saturday morning, I roused a second time. I heard footsteps in the hallway, and again heard a door click open and closed. I drifted back to sleep.
***
At dawn, the rooster crowed, and Jordan and I stirred. We dressed in casual clothes and took a brisk walk. At half past seven, we convened with the others in the breakfast room. The aroma of coffee and something sweet—pear-cheese Danish, I was pretty sure—permeated the air. I drew in a deep whiff. My stomach growled: Feed me.
“Let’s sit over there.” Jordan pointed to an empty table.
“Not feeling friendly?”
He grinned. “I’m hungry and don’t want to share those pastries. We’ll get a full basket to ourselves.”
“Smart man.”
We nestled at the table and each nabbed a pastry. Heavenly.
Kandice sat at the table beyond us, all by herself, reviewing a schedule.
Shayna, looking fresh in a white lace–on-blue dress, was sitting with Ryan and Victor. Ryan was scarfing down a roll. Victor was typing furiously on his cell phone. Had he come downstairs without looking in the mirror? His hair was mussed, his polo-style shirt only partially tucked in. Erin bustled between tables. Her hair, which was braided with ribbon, swung to and fro.
Shayna yelped. “You performed the rings, really?” She squeezed Ryan’s bicep.
“Iron cross and everything. No joke. There’s a picture on the bio page of my website. Check it out.”
“I love watching the Olympics. Way back when, I had a crush on Bart Conner. When he won the bronze for the rings—”
“That was Mitch Gaylord,” Ryan said. “Conner won a gold for the parallel bars.”
“Can you do those, too?”
“Yep.”
Victor kidded that he would have guessed Ryan was the kind of guy who would jump through hoops.
Ryan shot him a nasty look. “You’re the jerk who seems to vault from one romance to another.”
Victor sat taller. “Did you just call me a jerk?” He muttered something rude in French.
Ryan’s lip curled up.
Jordan gazed at me. “I’m sensing tension between those two guys.”
Erin slipped past us and whispered, “Surprise! Ryan’s youngest sister dated Victor for a nanosecond.”
“Small world,” I said.
“From what I hear,” Erin went on, “he made a play for her after making a deal to sell her Udderly Delicious Manchego.”
“Hold on a sec,” I said. “Why would he want to peddle that cheese? It’s American.”
Erin giggled. “Yep. Victor might not like to buy American, but he has customers who do. He only buys artisanal. Emerald Pasture Farm’s cheeses are included in his selections. Nothing large-scale.”
Kandice’s cell phone rang. She pressed SEND and mouthed to everyone: Sorry. “Hey, what’s up? Are you kidding? Swell. When it rains it pours. Yes, all right, see you soon.” She ended the call and rose from the table. “Everyone, listen up. The shuttle from Lavender and Lace broke down.” Her voice quavered; her joie de vivre seemed to be missing in action. “That was Quigley Pressman. He said they’ll be an hour late and to start without them.”
How horrible for Kandice, I thought. It is difficult enough to run an event under the best of circumstances. After last night’s fiasco with Lara and now this snafu, she had to feel miserable.
While the waitresses served a feast of scrambled eggs, sausage, and pancakes, I whispered to Jordan, “I don’t see Lara. Do you think she’s too ashamed of her boorish behavior to show her face?”
“I doubt it. She probably overslept.”
“Should we check on her? Maybe she needs something for that headache.”
“Who are you channeling today?” He winked. “Florence Nightingale?”
“C’mon.”
We excused ourselves and climbed to the third floor. Rooms ten and fourteen flanked Lara’s room, number twelve.
I rapped on the door. “Lara? Are you awake?” She didn’t respond. “Miss Berry,”
I said, opting to go with the more formal address. “It’s Charlotte. We’ve started breakfast. Are you hungry?”
Still no answer. I didn’t hear anyone moving about. The bedsprings didn’t squeak. No water was running in the adjoining bathroom. Jordan tried the doorknob. It didn’t budge. Locked.
I rapped again. “Lara, we’re all sorry about last night.” I hoped to appeal to her egotistical side. We were sorry; she needn’t be. “C’mon. Open up. Join the party.”
Deadly quiet.
“Jordan,” I whispered with more urgency. “We’ve got to get inside. What if she’s hurt? What if she went to the restroom and fell, and she hit her head and . . .” I gulped, unable to utter any more what ifs. I had snafus on the brain. And willies at the pit of my stomach. “Break down the door.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Open it. Something’s wrong.”
CHAPTER
9
Jordan kicked the door next to the handle. Four powerful kicks later, the door gave way. He lunged into the room and whirled to prop the door, which was hanging on one hinge against the wall.
I rushed past him. “Lara?”
She lay on top of the bedspread, eyes closed, arms at her sides. She was dressed in a slip and the blouse she had worn last night. Her skirt and her robe, sans belt, lay on the duvet. Her shoes were positioned on the area rug at the foot of the bed. A pair of white sleeping pillows and half a dozen decorative pillows, similar to the ones in our room, were strewn on the floor.
“Lara?” I repeated and drew near. I halted when I noticed the blue tinge in her lips, the ashen color of her skin. There was no rise and fall in her chest. “Jordan, she’s not breathing.”
He darted to the bed and nudged me to the side. He touched her neck with two fingers. His eyes widened. He took hold of her wrist for a second and released it. He shook his head. “She’s dead.”
