Nervous laughter around the bar. Parker Upshaw made a quick motion with his hand, and Tiffany promptly started pouring a fresh round of drinks. The police were still outside. So was Camille. So was Lance, or rather, Lance’s body. They were all trying not to notice the morbid scene, but as the hour grew later, their efforts were becoming more and more futile.
“How long are they going to keep us here?” Laura Armbruster demanded. Her face was pinched, her normally uptight features even more constricted this evening. “My God, first Lance is murdered, and then we’re all held at the scene like … like common criminals!”
“It ain’t a bad prison,” Silas Macgruder commented, and nodded at Tiffany for a fresh brew.
“Of course it’s not a bad prison!” Laura snapped. Humor always had been lost on her. “But I want to go home! Besides, it’s not like I did anything.”
“It’s awful, just awful,” Babs murmured. Trauma had driven her from her normal fruity fizz to Cosmos straight up. Now she knocked back her fourth martini, then slammed down the empty glass and pushed it forward for more. The bar’s overhead lights caught the sparkling facets of her three-carat diamond. She stopped, stared at the oversized stone, and then giggled at something only she understood. Babs was more than a little tipsy. Then again, after an hour and a half of serious drinking most of them were.
“We need to keep calm,” Parker stated flatly. He was the unspoken host of this impromptu shindig and considered it his job to maintain order.
“Calm?” Ned said beside him. The senator’s voice was shrill, his forehead covered in a sheen of sweat. When he held out his glass for another dose of Johnny Walker Gold, his hand trembled like an addict who’d gone too long without a fix. “Two men found dead. In only twelve hours. It’s like that morbid Agatha Christie story, And Then There Were None. Which one of us will be next? My God, I didn’t even think Vormeister and McClintock were that close.”
“Who said they were close?” someone asked from the other side of the U-shaped bar.
“Who said the deaths were related?” Parker asked more relevantly. He frowned at his friend. What was up with Ned tonight? Carbury was a senator, for God’s sake. You would think he’d show a little more courage under fire.
“We shouldn’t jump to any conclusions,” Lydia murmured. Parker gratefully patted his wife’s hand for her support. Lydia’s lips were bloodless, her features pale, but she was holding it together. It was more than he could say for most of their neighbors. Overbred snobs, he thought, not for the first time since moving into this place.
“Maybe it was them tree huggers,” Silas Macgruder said. “Never can tell with those nature types. A lot of them wouldn’t hesitate to ax off a man’s foot if it would keep him from stomping an ant.”
“Swan goons?” Mignon Gervase offered up, then twittered nervously.
“Well, it can’t be one of us,” Parker said firmly.
“Why not?” Babs asked.
“We were all here. We have an alibi.”
“We weren’t all here,” Ned said immediately. “Where’s the reverend?”
“He has a very important meeting,” Laura said.
“That’s what he thinks,” Mignon muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Laura narrowed her eyes. “And where’s your husband, Mignon? I didn’t see him at our meeting tonight. Doesn’t he care about our community?”
“Full moon,” Mignon said carelessly. “Roman’s probably enjoying our community just fine right now—running around peeing on everyone’s foundations.”
“And Toni Sinclair never made it,” Ned continued. “Guess she was too busy playing with Bambi. Other people?”
“Vanessa,” Lydia said quietly. “Vanessa went home early.”
Vanessa. Conversation ground to an immediate halt. The newest candidate for homicidal maniac was considered, then in the spirit of the drunken moment, accepted wholeheartedly.
“Vanessa,” people started murmuring. Yes, bloodthirsty, hard-as-nails, grate-on-your-nerves Vanessa. Everyone’s mood picked up for the first time since Lance’s tragic passing. Vanessa was evil; order in the universe was restored.
Tiffany shook her head at the whole lot of them, wondered if all rich people were this stupid, and poured a fresh round of drinks.
* * *
In another dark corner of Gryphon Gate. No lights here. No cops. No bar. Just a half-dressed woman, a half-crazed man, and a loaded handgun.
“What the hell are you doing?” Vanessa hissed as she opened her front door to find Rev. Peter Armbruster standing on her shadowed steps. “You’re going to ruin everything.”
“I’m going to ruin everything? You bloodthirsty bitch.”
“Peter, get lost. I don’t know why you’re soiling my property, but I’ve already had an atrociously bad day, and I refuse to top it off by dealing with you. You heard me. Shoo, shoo. Go away!”
“I want the videotape.”
Something in Peter’s voice finally brought Vanessa up short. She frowned, standing in the foyer of her Gryphon Gate home in nothing but a peach peignoir, and wondered if she’d made a miscalculation regarding the loving reverend. She’d always considered him a spineless bastard, henpecked by his shrewish wife and desperate for a little action on the side. At the moment, however, Peter didn’t look ready to back down. In fact, with his harsh-planed face lit only by the icy glow of the full moon, he appeared almost menacing.
“What’s in your pocket, Peter?”
“I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”
“Peter!” That was it. She went to slam the door in his face. Peter, however, kicked his foot forward, blocked the door, then shoved his way forcefully into her home. He was shockingly strong for a reverend. Shockingly tall, powerful, determined. Vanessa fell back, panting heavily.
“What are you doing, Peter?” Her voice had gone up a notch. She could feel her control of the situation slipping away, and she still wasn’t sure where she’d gone wrong.
“I want that tape!” Peter repeated shrilly. He dug into his pocket, then waved a small, silvery pistol in front of her eyes. A .22 maybe. Or, knowing Peter, a stainless steel cigarette lighter that only looked like a firearm. Still, did she want to take that chance?
Peter was advancing. Vanessa automatically fell back, already wracking her brain for a plan of attack. Yelling for help would get her nowhere. Her nearest neighbor was three acres away, and she didn’t keep her Gryphon Gate home staffed anymore, as she spent the majority of her time in her Alexandria penthouse. Just her bad luck she’d chosen to spend the night here. After tonight’s community meeting, however, she’d been too tired to head back into the city. After her sip at the clubhouse bar she’d retired to her Gryphon Gate abode, wanting nothing more than to curl up in her silk-draped bedroom and nurse her wounds. Frogs, for God’s sake. Some rare flower named swamp pink, for crying out loud. Vanessa Smart-Drysdale did not get thwarted by tiny amphibians or poorly named weeds.
A nervous reverend with a peashooter, on the other hand …
She came up against the back wall of her foyer. Hardwood trim from the rich mahogany panels dug into her spine. No place else to go, and Peter was still waving his gun like a maniac.
“When I break ground on Forest Glen, you get the tape,” Vanessa tried gamely. “That’s our deal, Peter. We’ve already been through all this. Now get out!”
“What deal? You already reneged on the deal!”
“I’ve done no such thing. Now put down that gun, Peter. Or better yet, if you really feel like inflicting violence, I know of some tree frogs that would make perfect targets!”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Have me fix all your problems.” His voice had gained a dangerous edge. Now that Vanessa was paying more attention, she could discern the glassy sheen in his eyes. Dear God, Peter had been drinking. Oh, this was just not her day!
“Peter,” Vanessa said crisply, “once Forest Glen goes in, the sweep of
high-end homes will boost the property values of the entire area, including this community. Your house will be worth twice as much. The situation is win-win for everyone.”
“Mignon left me.”
Vanessa faltered, digested this latest news, and once again tried to find the proper strategy.
“Mignon is a fool,” she said.
“She called me the world’s most unimaginative lover. According to her, I’m even sanctimonious when I sin.”
“Ouch,” Vanessa murmured.
“What did you say?”
“I said posh. Pish-posh. Mignon married Roman Gervase. What could she possibly know about good men?”
That seemed to be a better tactic. Peter stepped back, appearing slightly mollified. He exchanged his menacing tone for a drunken whine. “The bible’s right, you know. Women are evil.”
“Hey, we came from your rib. Garbage in, garbage out, I always say.”
Armbruster frowned at her. He was definitely too drunk to follow that thought, so he waved his gun instead. “Now you’re trying to screw me, too.”
“Peter, I have a tape you need. You have a vote I need. I’m not screwing you, I’m conducting business. You hold up your end, I’ll hold up mine.”
Whatever she had just said, it was not the right thing. Peter’s face went dark. He swung his right hand forward, and Vanessa found herself staring down the barrel of what definitely looked to be a real .22 semiautomatic. She sucked in her breath and watched Peter’s finger tremble on the trigger.
“Lying bitch!”
“Peter—”
“Why the hell did you send me that fax?”
“What fax?”
“‘I know about Mignon. Ten P.M. Pool house. Tonight. Come alone, bring your wallet.’ What are you trying to do, suck me dry?”
“Peter, I swear—”
“You lying bitch! I’m not paying you any money! I’m through, I’m through, I’m through!”
Peter’s hand tightened on the trigger. And Vanessa cried out quickly, “Peter, I got a fax, too!”
“What?” His finger froze.
“Fax. Got a fax. Just like yours. Last night. Honest, Peter, I’m telling the truth.” Vanessa was breathing hard. And she was thinking faster than she’d ever thought in her life.
Very slowly, Peter lowered the gun. “You got a fax?”
“Yes, it said…” Vanessa paused, then lied effortlessly, “it said, ’I know about Armbruster.’ Don’t you see, Peter. Someone not only knows about you and Mignon, but that same person knows that I know.”
“Huh?” a drunken Peter Armbruster said.
Vanessa sighed. Well, you had to work with what you had to work with. “Someone is trying to blackmail me, too, Peter. The same person who is blackmailing you. But now that we both know what is happening, we can stop it. We’ll work together, identify the blackmailer, and make sure he never screws around with us again.”
“But you’re a bitch,” Peter said stupidly.
Vanessa sighed again. “Trust me darling,” she said, and led Peter into her living room, “the feeling is mutual.”
* * *
It seemed to Toni that she had no sooner fallen asleep than she was awakened by pounding on her front door. For a moment she lay in her bed disoriented. Isn’t Bertha going to get that? Then she realized that it was one in the morning and Bertha was sleeping peacefully in her trailer next to Bill. Toni glanced over at the vast emptiness of her king-size bed, feeling a familiar pang. Then she was egged into action by further knocking down below.
Toni rose blearily to her feet, yawned, and grabbed a rose-colored silk bathrobe and her favorite pink bunny slippers—a gift from Miranda—from the chaise lounge next to her bed. She had been so invigorated after the rally in front of Gryphon Gate she’d had to take Nyquil in order to finally fall asleep. Now she felt muddleheaded and sluggish.
What kind of people went around banging on doors at one in the morning anyway? Thank God Miranda was a heavy sleeper.
Toni navigated her darkened house with the natural deftness of a mother—and a widow—who’d spent her fair share of sleepless nights. She passed down the yawning hallway to the gracefully sweeping staircase that was the focal point of her home’s foyer. Only when her bunny slippers touched down on the oak parquet floors of the first floor did she snap on the overhead chandelier. Then she looked out the peephole and saw the flashing red and blue police lights.
Déjà vu hit her hard and fast. She staggered back, one hand reflexively clutched against her chest while she struggled to get her bearings. No, it couldn’t be. That was a long time ago. She was thirty-two now, safe in Lincoln’s house, safe with Lincoln’s money. Safe, safe, safe.
I know about Salinger.
The knocking sounded again. Toni frantically worked the locks, more intent than ever now on not disturbing her daughter.
A woman stood on the front porch, clad in khakis, a light blue shirt, and a brown suede jacket that had definitely been bought off the rack. She appeared close to Toni’s own age, with beautiful thick dark hair. Her eyes were harder though, her face held more lines. She had not married into money, it was clear, and she was already giving Toni the disdainful look career women reserved for kept wives. The woman flashed a police badge. CAPTAIN DIANE ROBARDS, it said. HOMICIDE.
“Toni Sinclair?”
“Yes?” Toni fought to keep her face composed and her voice steady. She was suddenly, acutely aware of her silly little robe and pink bunny slippers.
“I have some questions, Mrs. Sinclair.”
“Has someone been hurt?”
“If I could come inside for a moment.” The woman gave her a cajoling look. Don’t make a scene, the look said. Just do as I say and everything will be all right.
Toni stiffened her spine. “What is this regarding, Captain Robards?”
“It really would be best if I came inside. You know, before your neighbors start noticing.”
“My daughter is asleep.”
“Well, you can always come down to the station.”
That did the trick. Toni opened her door and let Captain Robards into her home. It’s okay, Toni reminded herself. You’ve done nothing wrong. This time.
Toni led the policewoman into the den. It was the most secluded room in the house, with heavy cherry doors she could close to dampen the sound. The den boasted a gigantic bird’s-eye maple desk Lincoln had had custom made the year before his death. Across from it were two deep-cushioned chocolate suede chairs and roughly one hundred thousand dollars in rare antiques. Toni crossed to the built-in bar, discreetly tucked into the room’s cherry wood paneling. She took out a bottle of Evian water and offered the captain the same. Diane Robards shook her head.
“Where were you this evening?” the police captain asked.
“I was at a rally at the front gates of the community. I joined people from Save Our Swans to protest the slaughter of innocent animals within my neighborhood. Why do you ask?”
Captain Robards produced a small spiral notebook. She ignored Toni’s question and made a note. “What time was this?”
“We started at five. The protest lasted until eight.”
“What did you do after eight?”
“What happened, Captain? Do I need a lawyer?”
Captain Robards looked at her impatiently. “Where were you after eight P.M., Mrs. Sinclair?”
“I was home with my daughter! We ate a late dinner, I read her a few stories, I put her to bed. Then I went to bed. I’m a single mother, Captain Robards. It’s hardly a glamorous life.”
“Do you have anyone who can corroborate your activities?”
“You mean an alibi?”
Captain Robards simply stared at her. Toni grew flustered again. Her hands self-consciously gripped the edges of her robe. She forced herself to take a deep breath, then had a sip of water. She had done nothing wrong. She was safe in Lincoln’s home, safe with Lincoln’s money.
I know about Salinger.
Stop
it, stop it, stop it! Toni took another, longer, drink of water.
“The protesters,” she said shortly. “They can vouch for my whereabouts. And then, after that, my daughter.”
“How old is your daughter?”
“Eight. Miranda is eight. Listen, I have no idea what happened, Captain Robards, but my daughter and I had nothing to do with it. We attended a peaceful protest, which is our right under the U.S. Constitution, then we ate dinner. Simple as that.”
“Did you feed the deer dinner, too?”
Toni paused, tried to follow that question to some sort of logical conclusion, then gave up. She said more warily, “I don’t see how what I do on my private property is anyone’s business but my own.”
“Your neighbors don’t care for the deer.”
“My neighbors need to spend less time in their Mercedes and more time in the great outdoors.”
“Sounds like some of them were going to take you up on that advice. Who is it? Someone is going to lead an organized deer hunt?”
“Lieutenant Colonel McClintock,” Toni said immediately. “As if that man didn’t get enough violence as a marine.”
“You were opposed to the hunt?”
“That’s why they call it a protest,” Toni said wryly.
“He didn’t care for that. Sounds like he went down and tried to reason with your S.O.S. friends, but they weren’t interested.”
“He wanted to defend shooting helpless animals. You can’t defend that. The deer were here first. We’re the ones intruding on their habitat. We should adapt, not them.” Toni smiled sweetly. “We have another rally scheduled in three days, if you’d like to join.”
“One protest wasn’t enough?”
“Hardly. Lance McClintock didn’t become a lieutenant colonel by going down without a fight. We have a long uphill battle in front of us.”
“Interesting you should say that: go down without a fight.”
“He’s stubborn,” Toni said seriously. “Ask his wife.”
Captain Robards regarded her more intently. “Do you take disappointment well?”
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