by Cassie Miles
Liz responded. "The will."
Patrice pulled back. Her confidence ebbed. "What do you know about the will? Are you familiar with the terms?"
"Are you?" Ben asked.
The corners of her mouth tightened. Ever since she was a little girl, that expression had meant she was lying. Further evidence of her uneasiness came when she reached for a cookie. Patrice never ate after dinner.
"I know nothing," she said.
Monte leaned toward her and held out the screen of his cell phone so she could see. "That's a good offer."
She shook her head. "We can do better."
"What the hell are you doing?" Ben demanded.
Monte cradled the cell phone against his sweater. "We're contacting agents who can sell our personal account of the murder. Maybe a book deal. Or a movie of the week."
"Certainly not the tabloids," Patrice added.
Liz laughed out loud. "Yeah, those tabloids are so low class."
"But they pay well," Monte said. "One of them contacted us right after Patrice read that statement to the media. She looks good on television. The camera loves her. She could do talk shows."
"Oh, good," Ben muttered. 'That's just swell."
"Why shouldn't I do Oprah?" she demanded. "You're just angry because I'm getting the attention."
"Damn it, Patrice. You picked a hell of a time for sibling rivalry."
He'd been disappointed in his sister many times, but never like this. Patrice had been offered dozens of legitimate opportunities to work in the family business. She could have staked out her own career path. But she never wanted to learn the ropes, couldn't be bothered with details.
Now she was choosing to make her fortune through notoriety. Tabloids. Talk shows. Selling the family history to the highest bidder.
Ben grabbed the plate of cookies and headed toward the door. "You might want to put on a fresh coat of lipstick, Patrice. Agent Lattimer will be here momentarily."
He and Liz went to the study, and he closed the door behind them. Still steamed, he set down his coffee on the table and shoved a cookie into his mouth. How could he and Patrice have come from the same gene pool? "She didn't even ask if I was okay after I told her about the sniper. Hasn't once inquired after Jerod's health."
"Go easy on her," Liz said. "Jerod told me—when he thought I was Charlene—that your sister had a rough time after your parents died."
"She's an adult now. There's only so long you can blame the tragedies of the past."
"Then let's stick to the present. It seemed to me that Patrice was lying when she said she didn't know the terms of the will."
"She probably got Tony to fill her in on the details."
"But I don't think she wants to kill you."
"Not with a sniper's bullet. More likely, she'll tear me apart, one slow piece at a time, and feed me into the gossip mill."
"Have you got a lot of deep, dark secrets?"
"Nothing I'm ashamed of. Sure, I've had my share of disasters. And then, there's my failed marriage." He cringed inwardly, thinking of how Victoria had played him for a fool. It wasn't the kind of story he wanted to see in a tabloid headline. "I don't like to air my dirty laundry in public."
"I get it. You're more of a private person."
She perched on the edge of his desk with her feet dangling. Her running shoes seemed adorably small, almost dainty. She'd changed out of the red blouse into a long-sleeved brown T-shirt that hid her curves, but she still looked cute. "And you? Now you're my personal assistant?"
"Seemed appropriate," she said without apology.
"And you don't have to wear a maid uniform."
"Bonus."
Her grin went a long way toward defusing his anger. "Bringing you on board might be the best hire I've ever made."
"We've got a ton of stuff to sort out. Number one is hiring a bodyguard."
"I'd rather not."
"A sniper tried to kill you, Ben. And there's a good chance that he's a professional hitman."
He had come to the same conclusion but was interested in hearing her reasoning. "Why do you think he's a pro?"
"Unless there's been an outbreak of homicidal mania, there's only one murderer. The person who killed Charlene is responsible for the attack on you."
"Which brings us back to our list of suspects."
Liz consulted her legal pad and read off the names. "Patrice and Monte. Tony Lansing. Ramon. And Victoria."
"A vile woman," he muttered.
"That's a bit harsh."
Vile was a mild description compared to what he thought of his almost ex-wife. As far as he could tell, the only decent thing she'd ever done was give birth to Natalie. She'd betrayed him with other lovers and robbed him blind. She was greedy, grasping. Vicious. A pit viper. A venomous She-Beast From Hell. "Don't get me started."
"Somehow, I don't see any of these people getting their hands dirty by dragging a dead elk across the road. But they all have enough money to hire a hitman."
"Good point."
"And you have the dough to pay for security."
"You're right."
Especially since Natalie was scheduled to visit on the weekend. He needed to make sure the estate was safe. He rattled off the name of a company he'd used before, and Liz made a note.
Looking down at her legal pad, she frowned. "This list of suspects is kind of skimpy. Who are we forgetting?"
"All of Charlene's friends who were at the party. There could be a lot of grudges we're not aware of."
She scribbled down a note. "Who else? Don't worry about motive, just give me all the names you can think of. Anybody who was in contact with Charlene."
Sipping his coffee, he tried to remember, to think of all the possibilities.
Setting up their own investigation—parallel to the CBI inquiry—wasn't really much different from running a business. Every detail needed to be considered.
"There's the staff, of course. And Jerod's rotating nurses. Hell, I don't even remember the names of most of them, but they might have known Charlene. And Dr. Mancini."
"How long has he been associated with your family?"
"Twenty years. But he's only been a friend of the family for half that long. He started making regular house calls when my grandmother was ill."
"He told Annette that she could be a good nurse."
As he thought of quiet, little Annette, he frowned. She was another woman who meant to do him wrong. "How did she ever come up with that story about me carrying Charlene's body?"
"Because she's desperate for you to notice her. Annette has a major crush on you."
"She has a strange way of showing affection. Accusing me of murder."
"Nonetheless," Liz said. "I talked to her in her room. Have you ever seen that room? It's a junior high school girl's fantasy land. She thinks she's a princess. And you're Prince Charming."
"Great."
She hopped off the desk and pounced on a cookie. "There might be another reason she came up with that story about the monster carrying Charlene. Among Annette's parade of figurines, there was a flower-shaped brooch. I'm no expert, but it looked like real diamonds and a ruby."
"A bribe," he said. "The killer paid her to tell that story."
"Or she saw who it really was, and he's paying her to keep her mouth shut."
If that were the case, Annette was in danger. "I need to talk with her."
"'When you do," Liz said, "be gentle." There was only one woman he wanted to be gentle with. Gentle and tender. That woman was Liz.
Chapter Thirteen
It was after midnight when Liz finally dived between the sheets on the single bed in her garret bedroom. In her plaid jammie bottoms and mismatched polka-dot nightshirt, she wriggled around, trying to find the most comfortable position. Not that it mattered. She was tired enough to sleep standing up. Tired...and oddly happy.
Finally, she knew what it was like to be taken seriously. For most of her life, she'd been a scruffy little blonde, easily
ignored. The exception was Dragon Lou's karate school, where her black belt gave her immediate status. In regular life, she was just one of the herd.
As part of the Crawford estate—Ben Crawford's right-hand woman—she got noticed. The CBI agent in charge—Lattimer—had given her a measure of respect when he'd taken her statement. He'd included her when he and Ben had inspected the Mustang, which was unmarked by bullets. Bits of hair from the elk had caught in the wheel wells, but otherwise the car was fine.
The forensic team had gone to investigate the site where the shooting had taken place, but tomorrow the CBI would return. Lattimer had promised an update on their investigation.
Rolling onto her back, Liz considered questions she should ask Agent Lattimer. Results of the autopsy? Alibis for other suspects? She really couldn't believe that the cops were being so cooperative; they liked to play it close to the vest. But Ben had connections that probably went as high as the governor. Whether or not he was a suspect, everybody—including Lattimer—treated him with deference. Wealth had its privileges.
She closed her eyes, knowing that she ought to sleep, but her mind still raced.
She enjoyed being a real detective, looking for a murderer, considering motives, seeking out clues. Investigation stimulated her brain. It was way more fun than her dry, repetitive studies in law school. Maybe she ought to consider a change in career.
Stop thinking. Go to sleep.
Or maybe she should sign on permanently as Ben's personal assistant. Remembering the expression on his face when she'd announced her new job made her chuckle. She enjoyed throwing him off guard, shaking up his CEO composure.
As she allowed herself to think of Ben, a whole different part of her anatomy was stimulated. Sometimes, when she looked at him, she felt an electric thrill that started in the pit of her belly and spread to every part of her. And when he touched her? The sexual magnetism between them was growing more intense, harder to resist.
Everyone in the household seemed to think she was sleeping with him. Maybe she should fulfill their expectations.
She heard a sound from the hallway. As if something scratched against her door. Was someone out there?
Listening intently, she heard a faint rustling.
In normal circumstances, she'd roll over and go to sleep. But nothing about this house was normal. The murderer could be lurking in the hall. Her rosy contentment turned a few shades darker. Nothing like a threat to bring a person back to reality.
Liz slipped from the bed and went to her door. Carefully, she turned the knob and peered out into the dimly lit hallway. She heard footsteps on the staircase. Slipping on her moccasins, she followed.
The person on the stairs made no effort to be quiet. Liz matched her footsteps to the sound of theirs, descending at the same pace. In the stairwell off the kitchen, she caught a glimpse of a long flannel nightgown. Annette was wandering again.
Liz stayed in the shadows and watched while Annette bustled around the kitchen, humming to herself. She hadn't turned on the overhead lights; the glow of moonlight through the windows provided enough illumination. She opened cupboards and drawers. What was she doing?
This woman seemed to have a bizarre fantasy life. During the day, she performed her maid duties with silent, invisible efficiency. At night, she took on a different identity. Her humming was interrupted by whispered snatches of conversation. A couple of times, Liz heard her speak Ben's name.
Using the heirloom china and crystal wineglasses, Annette flitted back and forth between kitchen and dining room, laying out two formal place settings at the table— one at each end. She was so caught up in her activity that she didn't notice Liz as she moved through the hallway to get a better view of the dining room.
With the place settings completed, Annette gave a satisfied smile. Holding the folds of her nightgown between her thumb and forefinger as if the fabric were rich silk instead of flannel, she ceremoniously sat at the head of the table. Beaming a smile at her nonexistent guests, she raised her wineglass. Her movements were studied and graceful. In the reflected moonlight from the windows, the oval of her face shone with a feverish radiance.
Her lips moved, but Liz couldn't decipher the words. Sad, lonely Annette was completely consumed in her alternate reality. She wanted this lifestyle so much, with such fierce desperation, that she was compelled to act out her dream of being a princess.
As Liz watched, sympathy welled up inside her. She'd known plenty of other women—including her own mother—who had given up their self-respect in search of an improbable dream. Annette's midnight performance was heartbreaking.
She reached into the pocket of her nightgown and took out the diamond brooch, which she fastened at her throat.
Her mood changed. She covered her eyes with her hands. Sobs shook her shoulders.
Liz wondered if she should step out of the shadows and offer comfort, but she feared that making her presence known might snap Annette's tenuous grasp on reality.
"Damn you all," Annette shouted as she bolted to her feet. "You can go to hell. Especially you, Ben."
She fled from the table and darted toward the stairwell.
A chill crawled up Liz's legs, and she hugged her arms around her waist. Though she still had sympathy for Annette, there was some serious craziness going on in that woman. She could be dangerous.
From the front staircase, she heard someone approaching. The dining room light snapped on. Ben stood there in jeans and a T-shirt. "Liz?"
"'Hi there." Her voice was shaky.
He gestured to the place settings. "What are you doing?"
She peeked over her shoulder toward the kitchen, hoping that Annette had fled to her room and locked the door. Telling him the truth seemed like a betrayal.
He asked, "Why is the good china on the table?"
"Annette was wandering again. I heard a noise outside my room and followed her down here, where she laid out these place settings." She paused. This was where the explanation got weird. "It looked like she was having some kind of imaginary dinner party."
"I don't get it."
She picked up one of the plates. "Let's put this stuff away."
"Seriously, Liz. I don't understand what you're saying about Annette."
When he started to stack the salad plates and the saucers, she stopped him. "Take them one by one. Rachel told me we have to be mega-careful with the expensive heirlooms."
"And we don't want Rachel on our ass." He carried one plate in each hand and followed her into the kitchen. "Annette's delusional wanderings in the middle of the night are too much. She's got to go."
"You're going to fire her?"
"First thing tomorrow."
With a quick pivot, Liz marched back into the dining room for another couple of plates. She didn't want Annette to be fired. Certainly not because of something she said.
In the kitchen, she whirled and faced him. "Firing her is an overreaction. Annette was only playing a game. Kind of like a little girl having a tea party with her dolls. She's harmless."
"She's crazy."
"'What if this was an illness? Obviously, Annette has insomnia. That might lead to sleepwalking."
"I'm not running a psychiatric clinic. I don't have time for Annette's delusional behavior."
"Everybody has fantasies." She tried to think of a comparison he could relate to. "Think of sports. Haven't you ever dreamed about being on the PGA tour? Or throwing the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl and having the crowd go wild?" She leaned toward him. This was the clincher. "How about winning the America's Cup? Huh? Ever imagine that?"
"It's not the same thing." He placed two salad bowls on the counter. "How the hell could anybody fantasize about eating dinner?"
"Having dinner served to her. Using the fancy china. Wearing fabulous jewelry." She touched the neck of her T-shirt, indicating where Annette had fastened the brooch on her own neck. "She has this desperate longing to be a fairy princess. To sit at the dinner table with you. Prince Ch
arming."
"Fine. Her next job can be at Disneyland."
The gulf between them had never gaped so widely. He had all the power, the status, the prestige. He was the boss. People like her and Annette were nothing but employees—functionaries whose sole purpose was to make his life easier.
Earlier, when she had gone to bed, Liz had been pleased with herself. And with him. Now she could barely stand to look at his annoyingly handsome face. Some phony Prince Charming he turned out to be. His arrogance picked apart the last of her good mood. And she was angry.
Blushing again. This time from rage and deep-seeded resentment. She remembered every time she'd lost ajob or been chastised by an idiot supervisor.
"Why would I expect you to understand?" She glared at him. "You don't know what it's like to struggle. You've always been rich."
"I've worked every job in the Crawford businesses. I started as a roughneck in the oil fields."
"But that was just a field trip for you. Any time you wanted, you could return to luxury. You could have your gourmet chef prepare your dinners. Have your butler brush lint off the shoulder of your two-thousand-dollar jacket."
"I'm not like that."
"But you are." She picked up one of the plates. "You eat off heirloom china."
'That's enough."
His tone was clipped and harsh. His jaw clenched as his anger rose up to match her own. Now would have been the smart time to back down, but her fuse had been lit. She was on her way to total explosion.
"What's the matter, Ben? Not used to being talked back to by one of your underlings?"
"Give it a rest, Liz. I want you to stop. Now."
"Don't tell me what to do." She kept her voice low. Other people were sleeping. "I might be your employee, but you don't own me."
"And you don't know me." He took a step closer to her. The heat of his anger washed toward her. "I don't give a damn about money or the things that money can buy. Like this plate."
He picked it up and prepared to hurl it to the floor. She grasped his arm. "Don't."
"Why not? It doesn't matter to me."
"Just don't," she said.
"Because you're concerned about the cost. Right? You're the one who puts too much value on things. You. Not me."
