Necessary Ends

by Tina Whittle

  I wrapped my arms around my knees. “She must have been one helluva lawyer.”

  He nodded. “She was. After that, I never saw her again.”

  “So this wasn’t a big romance?”

  He shook his head. The story itself was longer than the story of how I’d found out, which I’d given up after approximately three minutes of “interrogation.” Trey hadn’t been surprised. He knew I didn’t have a withholding bone in my body.

  “Why hide it?” I said. “You didn’t seriously think I’d be upset, did you?”

  He continued buttoning his shirt. “No. And I wasn’t hiding it. It’s just that I’m still learning how to…reconnect? Is that the right word? When I’m talking about myself?”

  I curled around the pillow. He was reconnecting his social network one person at a time, and reconnecting himself one story at a time—who he’d been before the accident, who he’d been after, and who he was now.

  “Reconnect is the right word,” I said.

  “Good. Because the person in that story doesn’t feel like me. But he was. I mean, I was. The same. And yet different. It’s the same feeling I get reading the OPS transcripts of my testimony.” Then he gave me a sidelong glance from under his lashes. “I was worried, you know.”

  “About what?”

  “That you’d think badly of me. For being…I don’t know.”

  “Scandalous?”

  “Yes. Perhaps.”

  I propped my chin in my hand. “That’s a valid worry. I’ve never done anything so shocking in my whole life.”

  Trey’s eyes tracked my face from eyes to chin, concentrating a good five seconds on my mouth. Then he gave me an inscrutable look and turned away, back to searching for his shoes. I smiled a little. I knew he’d seen the lie, but for whatever reason, decided not to engage. For the time being anyway.

  “So now what?” I said.

  “Now I go back to the check-in station.”

  “Of course. You don’t wanna be derelict in your duty.” I kissed his bicep. “You especially don’t want to get caught sneaking over here for a booty call.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me, but he wasn’t annoyed. He started to put on his clip-on tie, but instead slipped it in his pants pocket along with his earpiece.

  “Have you heard from Keesha?” I said.

  “I have. She has the suspect in custody. During the interrogation, he confessed to all the burglaries, and the judge in Waldo has confirmed that he could not have been involved in the murder.”

  “Which strengthens her theory that it was Macklin.”

  Trey knelt beside the bed and stuck a hand underneath. “Actually, no. She’s decided that it was Nick Talbot.”

  “What?”

  He straightened, one sock in hand. “She said I was right, that no cop would have faked the scene so ineptly, not with a criminal who had such a precisely documented MO. Her words. The burglar agreed. He had, apparently, considered the Talbot home as a target and rejected it. Too much unpredictability, he said. Too many lovers coming and going at all hours, too much crazy. His words. He thinks Nick is guilty too.”

  I took in this revelation. Trey continued patting around under the bed for his other sock.

  “Did you tell her you’d changed your mind about Nick?” I said.

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “She hung up on me. Which is not surprising. I think I would have hung up on me too.”

  Still shoeless, he sat once again at the foot of the bed. I finished buttoning his shirt. I took my time with it, knowing it would be the last time I’d see him until morning.

  “Are the rest of the Talbots behaving?” I said.

  “Portia eventually went to the bar at the main resort with one of the tech crew. Quint went back to his cottage alone, where he spent an hour on the phone with Talbot Creative’s legal counsel, who is meeting him here first thing in the morning. Nick and Addison have stayed in their cabin.”

  “No further attempts on Nick’s life?”

  “None.” Trey raised his chin and let me straighten his collar. “Though Finn was right—I did discover something interesting while working the valet stand. For someone who doesn’t believe anyone is trying to harm his brother, Quint came well-armed. He has a handgun in the glove compartment, a Ruger SR45. Loaded.”

  “And he left it in the car?”

  “Yes.”

  “So he’s not expecting to need it.”

  Trey leveled a look at me. “If he needs a weapon, he’ll use the one he had hidden in his golf bag. A Sig Sauer .357.”

  I whistled low and long. “Whoa.”

  “Indeed. He’s concerned about something.”

  “Yes, but whatever it is, it has nothing to do with keeping his brother alive. Which is utterly unsurprising. With Nick dead, all the money in the trust will be his to manage.”

  “At the moment, yes. But if the judge’s ruling stands and Addison is indeed Nick’s sole conservator—and if she and Nick are married, that is a likely outcome—then she controls everything.”

  “Which means Addison’s motives to see him dead just doubled. Not only would she control his estate, the price of her screenplay would go through the roof.”

  Trey didn’t argue. We’d both seen every motive under the sun—people killed for love, for fame, for money, for security, and for sheer unmitigated meanness. We were all born with a trigger. For some of us, it was as easily sprung as a rabbit trap.

  “Oliver thinks Nick’s a killer,” I said. “Quint thinks he’s insane. Addison wants to control every second of his life. And who knows what Portia thinks except that I suspect she’d throw anyone and anything under the bus to ditch Moonshine and head back to L.A. on the next plane.”

  Trey nodded. “Yes. That seems like a valid summary.”

  “And Nick thinks it’s all fodder for the movie of the week that is his life. He is the only person not taking any of this seriously.”

  Trey frowned. “What do you mean?”

  So I filled him in on my conversation with Nick, including the part where he’d been lying to us. Trey took it better than I expected. Just another collection of secret motives and secondary schemes to file in their proper places. I examined him in the dark. I wished that I wasn’t sending him into the night unarmed. But then I remembered the look on his face when he’d pulled his weapon on Marissa, the cool predatory intent that had quickly morphed into shame at the realization of what he’d done. She’d been blasé. He’d been mortified.

  Outside the window, I heard the rustle of leaves, the soft ripple of wind. No traffic, no horns, no jackhammers. Trey fetched his jacket, but instead of putting it on, he draped it over his arm.

  “Suit not to your liking?” I said.

  Trey frowned in distaste. “The sleeves are cut too high. And it doesn’t hang properly.”

  I laughed. “You’ve gotten spoiled, boyfriend.”

  “I have not. I’ve simply developed certain…preferences.”

  “Which is the very definition of spoiled.”

  He didn’t argue. Our hour was up. Time to send him back to his room at the station and hunker down in my own. Trey didn’t move to leave, though. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching me in the dark.

  I got to my knees and kissed him lightly. “Are you sure you have to—”

  “Did you hear that?”

  I listened. And then I heard it too. Definitely footsteps, definitely on my patio. Trey stood in one fluid motion, his hand dipping toward the holster that was not there as he moved toward the patio door. I scrambled for the drawer, letting the sheet fall away as I pulled out my gun.

  Trey assessed the situation, then toed the door open. A loud bray echoed through the room, and he jumped back so quickly he smashed his elbow into the wall.

  He sucked in a shar
p breath. “What is…why is…that?”

  The donkey nosed its way into the room and shook its shaggy head, sending dust motes and hay everywhere.

  Chapter Forty-five

  “That,” I said, “is a donkey.”

  Trey gaped at it. “What is it doing here?”

  “I have no clue.”

  I wrestled the tee shirt on, tried to remember where I’d left my jeans. The donkey sneezed. It was delicate and well-groomed, like something from a manger scene, with heavily lashed eyes, pert ears, and a slightly dazed manner. It bumped its forehead against the bedpost, and I reached over and scratched between its ears.

  Trey had moved as far away from the animal as he could. “What do we do with it?”

  “We get somebody to put it back. And before you ask, no, donkey wrangling is not my thing.”

  Trey absorbed this information. He still wasn’t budging. The donkey got bored with me and shook my hand free. Then it ambled off toward the patio.

  I spotted my jeans at the foot of the bed and wriggled into them. “Come on.”

  Trey still hadn’t found his shoes, but he reluctantly followed me onto the patio. We watched as the donkey trotted toward a patch of sunflowers. Trey started to say something, but I held my finger over my lips. Listen. He cocked his head, caught what I had—other animal sounds in the night. Two goats also munched on the sunflowers. In the distance, I heard disgruntled chicken noises, flapping and clucking.

  I stared. “What in the—”

  A scream startled me, and I whirled around. Portia stood swaying at the edge of the clearing, her entire body wrapped around one of the more muscle-bound tech crew.

  She pointed past me. “Was that a cow?”

  “A donkey. What are you doing out here?”

  She tucked the bottle of liquor behind her back. There were grass stains on her knees and her blouse was buttoned haphazardly.

  “Nothing,” she said. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Trying to figure out why there’s a donkey on the loose.”

  “Oh.” She switched her examination to Trey. “Why aren’t you wearing shoes?”

  Trey started to say something, couldn’t find anything, so he shut his mouth. He folded his arms and turned to me. I sighed and stepped forward.

  “Why aren’t you in your room?”

  Portia shrugged. “I got lost. This guy found me.” She laughed and leaned against him, her hand flat against his chest. “I take back everything I said about the South. You grow big, good men here.”

  The guy had the sense to be embarrassed and worried. Trey had one eye on the two of them and one eye on the periphery. I couldn’t tell if he was most concerned about Quint, random bad guys, or more livestock erupting onto the scene.

  “Did you see anyone or anything unusual while you were out?” I said.

  Portia collected herself. “Like what?”

  “Like perhaps somebody skulking around the barn?”

  “We weren’t anywhere near the barn. We were coming back from the lake.” She smiled up at the guy. “Right?”

  He nodded obediently. “Right.”

  Other cottage lights started flickering on, doors opening, curious heads peeking out. The goats and the donkey made contented munching sounds.

  Trey finally composed himself. “Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Ray. Now if you’ll please go back to your quarters until we—”

  “No.”

  Trey looked perplexed. “No?”

  “No. As in you don’t get to tell me what to do. None of you do.” She threw her head back and raised her voice. “You hear me, Quint Talbot! I am through pretending our marriage is worth saving! I don’t care what the investors think!”

  She wobbled as she spoke, and her paramour of the moment caught her arm to steady her. Trey dropped his shoulders, hands loose and open. His expression was calm. I got a little shiver. Uh oh.

  “Ms. Ray,” he said. “I need you to return to your cabin. If you do not want to return to your cabin for whatever reason…” He sent a sharp look at the tech. “Then I need you to return to any cabin, and stay there. Do you understand?”

  “I—”

  “Do you understand?”

  His voice echoed against the edge of the forest. Command presence. Working, once again, like a charm. Portia stopped talking. She kept one hand on the liquor bottle, her other arm wrapped around the guy. He seemed to be the only thing keeping her up. Trey pointed toward the cabins, and she sauntered in that direction, alone, taking her good sweet time. The tech looked a little stunned to be abandoned so abruptly.

  Trey pointed toward the staff cabins. “You go too.”

  The guy went. I could see heads peeking out of other cabins. Trey ignored them. I did too. Something else had me concerned.

  “Trey? I watched Portia all night. Not one drop of alcohol passed her lips. And that liquor bottle was almost full.”

  He looked puzzled. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying maybe she’s not drunk. Remember what Bree told us? About her overly enthusiastic use of herbals? There’s a chance she’s been overdosed too. According to Bree, she keeps tons of that stuff.”

  Trey exhaled in exhaustion and frustration and who knew what else. “I’ll alert medical.”

  The second he finished radioing in the request, I heard a door slam. Then Quint came stomping toward the fire pit.

  “What in the hell is going on?”

  Trey explained. A nanny goat ambled over and snagged a wayward marshmallow. Quint raked a hand through his hair.

  “One goddamn fiasco after another,” he said.

  Trey remained calm. “Mr. Talbot. Your wife—”

  “I know. I’ll take care of it.”

  “No, sir. She needs to be examined by a doctor. She could have been overdosed, like your brother was.”

  “I’ll get our doc to check her out.”

  “I’ve already sent for the on-call physician.”

  “Then he can turn his ass around.” Quint practically spat the words. “There was no overdose, it was Nicky trying to get attention. You had one job, to keep him from fucking everything up, and you couldn’t even do that. Now there’s yelling, drama, freaking animals running everywhere. It’s got Nicky written all over it.”

  Trey didn’t say anything, but I knew what he was thinking. There was an operative watching Nick and Addison. If either of them had left their room, we’d know about it soon enough. But Quint was just getting started.

  “I’m going to bed. Here are your orders.” He ticked off on his fingers. “Stay away from my wife. No doctor but our own. Get these people back inside.” He stepped closer to Trey, dropped his voice. “And if my wife gets one mention in Buzzfeed or the National Enquirer or a single goddamn tweet, I am suing you, and Finn, and anybody else I can get my hands on.”

  And he stomped back to his cabin. Trey watched as Quint rounded the shrubbery. Soon we heard the slam of his cabin door, and the soft footsteps of his personal protection detail step into place. Other cabin doors stayed open, however. For the scandal-ravenous hordes, we were presenting a buffet of screaming, adultery, and livestock behaving badly.

  Trey pulled out the radio. “Op one, body check on your targets, please.”

  A crackle and hiss. Then a voice. “Ten twenty-nine, sir.”

  “Both subjects?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  He kept the radio in hand, contemplating. Nick and Addison were in their cabin, safe. Quint too. Portia was still unaccounted for, however.

  “Are you putting somebody on Portia?” I said.

  “I don’t have anybody. But I’ll alert the resort’s team. They can locate her, keep her monitored.”

  “So you think she might have been overdosed too?”

/>   “I think it’s a reasonable concern. In the meantime, I need to check the barn. And call for a…what was the phrase you used?”

  “Donkey wrangler?”

  “Yes. One of those.”

  I was impressed. The Trey of a year ago would have been so discombobulated at being caught barefoot and barely post-coital that he would have retreated behind the wall. But not this Trey. A moment’s befuddlement, but now he was back in charge. His radio chirped, and he pressed the call button.

  “Seaver here.”

  The voice was scratchy. “Sir, there’s been a…complication.”

  “What kind of complication?”

  “You’d better come see for yourself. It’s…complicated.”

  Trey sighed. “Copy that. Responding.”

  He stared at the radio. His eyes were tight, probably from the first throb of a headache. It was going to be a long night.

  “You handle the complication,” I said. “I’ll go check the barn.”

  “That’s not—”

  “You need my help. You said so yourself. And I know you had ideas about what that might look like, but kiss ’em good-bye. Take some headache meds, get your shoes, then go to the check-in station. I’ll find out what happened at the barn.”

  He shook his head. “Not alone. And before you argue, that is not an overprotective concern, it’s a tactical one.”

  At that moment, the door to one of the other cabins opened, and a bedraggled Rico peered out. He spotted me, shot me a quizzical look.

  I patted Trey’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. I won’t be alone.”

  Chapter Forty-six

  Rico fiddled with his flashlight until it finally lit up. “I remember now why I don’t hang out with you more often.”

  “Sorry. It’s an emergency.”

  “Old MacDonald run amok is not an emergency.”

  We’d taken one of the club carts. He’d made me drive. Dante had offered us coffee to go, as if we were setting out on an all-night mission, but I assured him we were just going to check on the animals. That was all. No need to treat this like a wagon trail over the Donner Pass.