When he was born, Rowe was simply a necessary inconvenience to assure her cash flow. She’d never really viewed him as a part of herself. Perhaps for the first time, lying in bed with nothing else to hold on to, she felt pangs of true maternal love for her child, and tears rolled down her face. He dabbed her tears away with the sleeve of his shirt, and said, “You’re still beautiful, Mommy, and I still love you.” And she could tell that he really meant it. Here was a person who loved her, despite the fact that she wasn’t perfect, beautiful, or glamorous. Maybe that was what people meant by unconditional love. After he left, she cherished the memory of his cute face, and lived for the sound of his sweet words when he called her every day.
Two days before her scheduled release, she had another unexpected visitor. This one wasn’t nearly as pleasant. She opened her eyes to find a tall, dark-skinned man at her bedside, staring at her as though he could read her thoughts, even as she slept.
“Mrs. Nolan—or is that Miss yet?” he asked a bit sarcastically.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Detective Harris,” he answered, flipping open his badge. When she didn’t respond, he said, “I’m investigating the murder of Paulette Dolliver.”
“Murder? But it was a car accident.”
“I see you’ve not been told.”
Gillian had insisted that the hospital remove the television from Reese’s room, fearing that news of the tragedy would only deepen her depression. “Told what?” If she could have sat up in bed she would have, but because of the broken ribs she needed help just pulling herself upright.
“The brake and steering lines were deliberately tampered with. It was murder, Mrs. Nolan, and, I suppose in your case, attempted murder.” He seemed to enjoy watching the repercussions after dropping the bomb.
A shudder of fear ran through her body, amplifying the pain. Reese was shocked; she had no idea that the accident was the result of anything other than Paulette’s bad driving and her being too upset to be behind the wheel of a car. She remembered thinking that Paulette needed to pull over, and seconds later she had lost control. They were barely a mile from Gillian and Brandon’s home when it happened.
“But why?” she asked. More than most people, she knew that Paulette could be a deceiving bitch, but hell, so could she; that was no reason to kill someone.
“That’s exactly what I was hoping you could tell me.” He sat down in the chair at her bedside, uninvited, and gave Reese an accusatory look, as though she had killed Paulette and nearly taken herself out in the process.
“How would I know?”
“From what I understand, Miss Dolliver had quite a few enemies, and since you two were so close, I imagine that you would know. You two did live together, didn’t you?”
“Temporarily.”
“While you were waiting for your big settlement from your husband?”
“That’s correct.”
“A settlement that Miss Dolliver was involved in securing for you, isn’t that right?”
“She gave me referrals,” Reese skirted.
“And paid for their services,” he added, pulling out a copy of the contract and payment to the private detective.
“So?”
“So, I imagine that your husband might not be so happy with either one of you, especially having to cough up fifteen million dollars, when you were close to settling the week before for two hundred thousand. For lots of people that’s a damned good motive for murder.”
Reese had never once considered the idea that Chris would do anything other than write the check and pout about it, but on the other hand, those pictures had hit below the belt, and maybe they had also pushed him over the edge. After all, she never thought he’d have the wits to set her up with Shaun either, so maybe he was full of even more surprises.
“I don’t know,” she said, weighing her options. What if Chris was convicted of murder—what would happen? Well first off, she’d get full custody of Rowe, which would also mean more money, and possibly control over the rest of his estate. Maybe Chris did do it.
“What did the private detective find out, Mrs. Nolan?”
She knew that if she told him about the pictures they could build a pretty good case against Chris, and if it got out to the press, he’d be as much as convicted. “Pictures. He took some pictures of Chris.”
The detective raised his eyebrow. “Pictures of Chris doing what?”
Reese thought about the luxurious home she’d been unfairly forced to leave, and of her son, who’d been taken away from her, and how she’d need every possible luxury and security possible now that she’d most likely be disfigured for the rest of her life, unable to make it on her looks alone. “He was in a compromising position.”
The detective sighed impatiently, “With a woman?”
“No, with a man.” There, she’d said it.
Detective Harris looked like he’d just won the lottery. This case was getting freakier by the minute. Talk about a motive—this was almost too good to be true. Even though Chris had an alibi on the day of the accident, it was common knowledge, since his prior arrest, that he hung around a rough, drug-dealing crowd, so he could have easily paid someone a lot less than $15 million to do the job. Detective Harris was nearly salivating at the career boost he’d get for bagging a superstar NBA player for murder. “I need to see those pictures.”
“They’re in New York,” she said to stall him. Since Paulette had handled things with the private detective, she actually had no idea where they were. She did remember her saying something about their being put away for safekeeping, but she had no idea where that was.
“Tell me where and I’ll send an officer.” Now, this was good! Even if Chris Nolan didn’t have anything to do with the murder, it would be quite a coup to have pictures of him getting it on with another man. The guys at the precinct would go nuts! He could probably make a fortune selling them to one of those gossip rags. Then he could be rich and fucked-up himself.
“No, I don’t know exactly where they are. Paulette put them away for me, so I’ll have to find them first.” Finding them would be her first order of business once she got out of the hospital. They had to be either in Paulette’s L.A. bungalow or in her New York apartment.
He didn’t like that answer, but couldn’t force her. Besides, she seemed motivated enough. He could almost see the dollar signs flashing behind her swollen and blackened eyes. “When do you get out?”
“In a couple of days.” She would be discharged tomorrow and would stay with Gillian overnight, and the next day they would both fly to New York to get her settled in.
The detective pulled his card from a breast pocket and wrote his private cell number on it. “Call me the minute you have those pictures in hand.” He laid the card on her tray and stood up.
“Certainly,” she said, happy for him to be leaving. On top of her other aches and pains, a massive headache was now looming.
“Before I leave, tell me about Lauren Neuman, Paulette’s cousin, whose husband she was having an affair with.” He chuckled. He seemed to be genuinely amused by the crazy antics of these black people who obviously had too much money and time on their hands, and not enough good sense. There was one cousin fucking the husband of the other, best friends telling on each other, and now an NBA player caught with some guy. Worst case, he could sell the movie rights for this one, but it was so crazy that even Hollywood wouldn’t believe it.
“Lauren is a nice person, and would never do such a thing.” She was really thinking that Lauren didn’t have the balls to do such a thing.
“What about her husband?”
Reese hadn’t had time to consider that possibility. She had to admit it wasn’t a bad one, either, since the accident would have gotten rid of Paulette and the bastard child.
Two birds, one stone. Just as in Chris’s case.
THIRTY-TW
O
Lauren’s grief over Paulette’s death was very complicated, and its complexity increased tenfold when combined with the anger and feelings of betrayal she also felt toward her cousin for starting her ill-fated relationship with Max. It was topped off by the deeply ingrained feelings of guilt she still harbored for the tough hand her cousin had been dealt all of her life.
Their relationship had always been unbalanced, and Lauren had worked hard to level it, feeling somehow responsible for Paulette’s lot in life, as though she had to make up for the wrongdoings of her mother and grandmother. At the same time Paulette routinely sabotaged their relationship to prove that her cousin was indeed a selfish person, just like her mother, and was therefore deserving of her scorn. It was strangely ironic and symbolic that a man would be the final undoing between them—like mothers, like daughters.
Remembering snatches of the story that drove Mildred and June apart, Lauren wondered whether its final chapter also drove Paulette to take Max from her, to, in some sick, twisted way, avenge her mother. In any case it was all a very tragic affair, for which Max was squarely to blame. She hated him for using Paulette, and couldn’t wait for her divorce to become final. Then she could openly date Gideon, who’d been an incredible support to her during this awful time.
Predictably, the day after Gideon’s SoHo gallery exhibition, her mother’s phone line lit up like the space shuttle, with unrecognizably embellished rumors about Lauren with some photographer whom no one in their set knew. Why would she risk her marriage to handsome and successful Maximillian Neuman III to sneak around seeing some unknown photographer? Even after Paulette’s death, when news of Max’s affair and pending paternity got out, Mildred was still prepared to weather the storm and give her son-in-law clemency; after all, she knew what harm a harlot like Paulette was capable of doing to a guileless and unsuspecting man like Maximillian. As far as she was concerned, the whole sordid mess was Paulette’s fault—again, like mother, like daughter.
Mildred was having breakfast outside in her garden room when Lauren showed up. It was a beautiful early spring day, with just the right amount of crispness in the air.
“Mother,” Lauren said sternly, “I just wanted you to know that I’m divorcing Max.” She picked up a croissant, pulled it apart, and popped it into her mouth. Though she’d been planning this for months now, she hadn’t bothered to tell her mother.
Mildred had never heard such a defiant tone from her daughter before; it was quite alarming. She slammed her coffee cup into the saucer, sloshing the liquid over its edges. “What do you mean, you’re divorcing Max? Have you lost your mind?” It was one thing for Lauren to move out, separating for a time to give him some space, but quite another for a Baines woman to actually get a divorce!
“No, in fact, I’ve finally found it,” she said. “I let you push me into marrying a worthless, egotistical excuse for a man, and see where it got me? Or should I say, where it got us all? Especially Paulette.”
“Paulette got what she asked for. If you swim with sharks, there’s always a chance that you’ll be eaten alive,” Mildred said smugly, without a hint of remorse. She was confident that Paulette’s dealings with those unsavory entertainment-business types were what had led to her demise.
Lauren was shocked. “How could you say that about your own niece? No one deserves that!”
“That’s your problem, Lauren: You are way too naive. While you’ve got your pretty little head stuck in the sand, that slippery bitch was busy fucking your husband. Then she was planning to have a bastard child by him, and what do you do? You give her a baby shower!” She gave Lauren an incredulous look. “Maybe if you’d bothered to fuck him yourself occasionally, you would have been the one having his baby.” Mildred didn’t normally curse, but under the circumstances she felt that she was justified in saying just about anything that she wanted to.
Lauren was livid. “So that’s what this is all about. Everything always has to come back to you, doesn’t it? You’re just pissed off because I didn’t give you a grandchild by the monster you made me marry.”
“Max is an adulterer, but I wouldn’t call him a monster. Men cheat, especially when they’re not getting what they need at home.” She sipped her coffee, with her perfectly chiseled nose wedged firmly in the air.
“Men have also been known to kill their mistresses when a bastard child is involved.”
“There is no way Max had anything to do with that woman’s murder.”
So typical, Lauren thought, that her mother would turn the affair all around and blame it on her or Paulette, rather than leveling it where it belonged—squarely on the shoulders of her no-good, handpicked son-in-law. Then she had the nerve to totally ignore the possibility that he might have been involved with Paulette’s death. “So you want to defend Max? Try this on for size.” She reached into her purse and tossed into her mother’s lap a copy of the papers Gillian had given her.
Mildred picked it up as though it might bite. As she read the damning words the color drained from her face. It was one thing for Max to cheat on her daughter and knock up her niece, but quite another for him to steal her money. Some things were simply not forgivable. “Where did you get this?” Her hands shook with rage.
“That’s not important. What is important is that Max defrauded this family out of millions of dollars, and probably would have done anything to keep Paulette’s mouth shut and himself out of jail.”
“So, what do we have here?” a deep voice asked. They turned to find a tall black man in a blue suit strolling toward the patio, which was located at the side of the house. He halfheartedly gestured toward the front of the house. “No one answered the door, so I thought I’d come on around back.”
“Who are you?” Mildred demanded.
“Mrs. Baines-Dawson?” She nodded. “I’m Detective Harris, LAPD. Do continue,” he said. Obviously he’d heard some of their conversation, and wanted to hear more.
“I did not invite you onto my property, and would ask that you leave,” Mildred said in the snottiest tone she could manage under the circumstances.
“Ma’am, the police don’t typically work by invitation. If we did all murderers would get away, so you can either answer my questions here, on your beautiful property,” he said, looking around at the manicured landscaping appreciatively, “or we can go to a local precinct. After that we can call the media. It’s your choice.” Arrogantly, he sat down right next to Mildred.
She shifted in her seat and fixed him with a cold, hard stare. “So, how can I help you, Detective?” She folded her arms tightly across her chest, not looking the least bit as though she planned to be helpful.
“You can start by telling me what it is that you have there,” he said, nodding toward the letter she still held.
“It’s personal,” she said. Though she had finally moved beyond wanting to protect Max, she did not want her family’s name to continue being dragged through a police investigation, or the press. Since Paulette’s unseemly death, she’d already noticed a dropoff in her own popularity. Of course, people had been calling her, trying to pry the latest information about the murder from her, so they could pass it along with the rest of their gossip, but there had been two intimate, key dinner parties since last week that she had not been invited to. Normally, she and her husband were aggressively sought after for dinner parties—they were the kind of couple who made the hostess look good—but what reputable hostess wanted to deal with the discomfort of an embarrassing scandal over canapés?
“I don’t think you understand. Based on what I heard, that letter contains critical information that could be important in a murder investigation, so you can hand it to me willingly, or I can get a court order—again, your choice.”
Lauren took the paper from her mother and handed it to the detective. “Detective Harris, I’m Lauren—Lauren Neuman.”
“So, you’re Maximillian’s wife?�
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Lauren simply nodded.
“My condolences,” he said. After reading the letter and the attached documentation, he shook his head slowly. “So, your husband and his lover, your cousin, conspired to forge your grandmother’s will, and she was blackmailing him with this information?”
“It would appear that way,” Lauren said. Mildred shot a harsh look at her daughter. This was something that should be dealt with privately, not hung alongside the rest of the family’s dirty laundry.
“Mrs. Neuman, when did you learn that your cousin’s child belonged to your husband?”
“Right before the accident.” Lauren lowered her head, desperately wanting to forget that fateful night.
“How did you find out?”
“My friend Reese Nolan had had too much to drink, and she let it slip.”
“Then what happened?”
“Paulette and I had a fight. We both said some pretty ugly things. She got angry and ran out. That was the last time I saw her.” Lauren broke down into tears, unable to stave off the flood of devastating memories—from going to the crash site, to later identifying her cousin’s mangled body at the morgue.
After Lauren composed herself, Detective Harris asked, “How long had Paulette been in the house before she left?” Detective Harris noted that these were the first tears he’d seen shed by anyone for Paulette. For that and other reasons, he believed that Lauren had just found out about the affair, and therefore wouldn’t have had time to arrange a convenient accident.
“I’m not really sure. I was the last to arrive.”
“How long after you arrived did this fight occur?”
Lauren thought for a moment. “I don’t know, about forty-five minutes, maybe.”
Gold Diggers Page 23
