by J. R. Ward
"You are not helping."
Stepping out of the conservatory, she cut through the dining room and headed for the staff hallway. As she pushed her way inside, she stopped dead. Three maids in their gray and white uniforms were clustered together, talking with a great deal of animation but little volume--as if they were a TV show that had had its sound turned down. Miss Aurora was beside them, arms crossed over her chest, and Beatrix Mollie, the head of housekeeping, was next to her. Mr. Harris was standing in the center of the corridor, his diminutive body blocking the way to the kitchen.
Lizzie frowned and approached the butler--and that was when she got a whiff of a smell that, as a farm owner, she had some familiarity with.
An African-American man in a sheriff's uniform came out of Rosalinda's office, along with Lane.
"What's going on?" Lizzie asked, a cold chill shooting through her chest.
Dear Lord, was Rosalinda . . .
Was that why the hall had smelled so badly this morning? she thought with a pounding heart.
"There's been a difficulty," Mr. Harris said. "And it is being handled appropriately."
Lane met her eyes as he spoke with the deputy and he nodded to her. When she motioned over her shoulder toward the conservatory, he nodded again.
Ms. Mollie made the sign of the cross over her heart. "It comes in threes. Death always comes in threes."
"Nonsense," Miss Aurora muttered as if the woman had been wearing her out with that line of reasoning. "God's plans determine it for us all. Not counting on your fingertips."
"Threes. Always threes."
Heading back to the conservatory, Lizzie closed the door behind her and looked at the hundred or so bouquets of pink and white flowers.
"What's wrong?" Greta asked. "Did something else get left off the order--"
"I think Rosalinda is dead."
There was a clatter as the spray bottle slipped out of Greta's hands and bounced on the slate floor, spraying the woman's work shoes. "What."
"I don't know."
As a stream of German boiled up and out of her partner, Lizzie muttered, "I know, right? I just can't believe it."
"When? How?"
"I don't know, but the sheriff's here. And they didn't call for an ambulance."
"Oh, mein Gott . . . das ist ja schrecklich!"
With a curse, Lizzie walked over to the view of the garden and stared out at the resplendent green of the cropped grass and the elegant setup for the party. They were seventy-five percent there, and already things were beautiful--especially the glowing heads of the hundreds of late-blooming paper-whites that she and Greta had planted in the beds under the flowering fruit trees.
"I've got a really bad feeling about all this," she heard herself say.
*
About an hour after Metro Police arrived at Easterly, Lane was allowed to leave the scene for a short period of time. He wanted to talk to Lizzie to let her know what was going on, but he had to take care of Gin first.
The Bradford Family Trusts were all administered and managed out of the Prospect Trust Company, a privately held firm with billions of dollars of assets under their control and a speciality in handling the super-wealthy in Charlemont. As they were not a traditional bank, however, the household checking accounts were run out of the local branch of PNC--and that was where he went with the checkbook he'd taken out of Rosalinda's desk.
Parking in the lot by the one story boutique building, he wrote the check out as payable to Cash in the amount of seventy-five thousand dollars, forged his father's name on the signatory line, and endorsed the back as payable to the Washington County Jail.
As soon as he pushed into the beige and white lobby, he was intersected by a young woman in a navy blue suit and discreet jewelry. "Mr. Baldwine, how are you?"
I just found a dead body. Thanks for asking. "Fine, I need to get this check certified?"
"Of course. Come into my office." Leading him over to a glass enclosure, she shut the door and took a seat behind a tidy desk. "We're always pleased to help your family."
He slid the check across the blotter and sat down. "I appreciate it."
The sound of fingernails tippity-tapping on the computer's keyboard was mildly annoying, but he had so much bigger fish to fry.
"Ah . . ." The bank manager cleared her throat. "Mr. Baldwine, I'm sorry, there are not sufficient funds in the account."
He took out his phone. "No problem, I'll just call Prospect Trust and initiate a transfer. How much do we need?"
"Well, sir, the account is overdrawn by twenty-seven thousand, four hundred, eighty-nine dollars and twenty-two cents. The overdraft protection is covering that, however."
"Give me a moment." He went into his contacts and called up the PTC administrator in charge of the family's funds. "I'll just wire it in."
Obvious relief bloomed in her face. "Here, let me give you some privacy. I'll be out in the lobby when you're ready. Take your time."
"Thanks."
While he waited for the connection to ring through, Lane tapped his loafer on the marble floor. "Oh, hey, Connie, how are you. It's Lane Baldwine. Good. Yes, I'm in town for Derby." Among other things. "Listen, I need you to wire some money into the general household account at PNC."
There was a pause. And then the woman's smooth, professional voice became strained. "I'd be happy to, Mr. Baldwine, but I don't have access to your accounts anymore. You removed them from Prospect Trust last year."
"I meant out of my father's accounts. Or my mother's."
There was another pause. "I'm afraid you're not authorized to effect transfers of that nature. I'd need to speak to your father. Is there a way you could get him to call in?"
Not if he wanted the money. Given that dear ol' daddy was trying to squeeze Gin, there was no way the grand and glorious William Baldwine was going to help facilitate her release.
"My father's out of town and unreachable. How about I put my mother on the phone?" Surely he could go to her and keep her conscious long enough to order a hundred and twenty-five grand into the household account.
Connie cleared her throat just as the bank manager had. "I'm so sorry, but that . . . that will not be sufficient."
"If it's her account? How can it not be?"
"Mr. Baldwine . . . I don't want to speak out of turn."
"Sounds like you'd better."
"Will you please hold for a moment?"
As piped-in music drawled into his ear, he burst up out of the stiff chair and paced in between the potted plant in the corner, which he discovered was plastic when he tested a leaf, and the floor-to-ceiling, double-hung windows that looked out onto the four-lane road beyond.
There was a beeping tone and then a male voice came over the connection. "Mr. Baldwine? It's Ricardo Monteverdi, how are you, sir?"
Great, the CEO of the company. Which meant whatever the answer was had tripped the "delicate situation" wire. "Look, I just need a hundred and twenty-five thousand in cash, okay? No big deal--"
"Mr. Baldwine, as you know, at Prospect Trust, we take our fiduciary responsibility to our clients very seriously--"
"Stop right there with the disclaimers. Either tell me why my mother's word isn't good enough for her own money or get off my phone."
There was a period of silence. "You are leaving me no choice."
"What. For God's sake, what?"
The next stretch of quiet was so long and dense, he took his phone from his ear to check he hadn't lost the call. "Hello?"
Cue the throat clearing. "Your father declared your mother mentally incompetent per the rules of her trusts earlier this year. It was the opinion of two qualified neurologists that she was, and is, incapable of making decisions at this time. So if you require funds from either of their accounts, we will be more than happy to accommodate you--provided the request comes from your father in person. I hope you understand that I am walking a fine line here--"
"I'll call him right now and get him to phone in."
"We're open until five o'clock, sir."
"Thanks."
Back out in the bright sun, he kept his phone in his hand as he strode across the hot pavement, but he didn't use the thing. He also didn't remember the drive home.
What the hell was he going to do now?
When he got back to Easterly, there were two more police units in the courtyard by the garages and a couple of uniforms standing at the front door. He parked the Porsche in its usual waiting spot to the left of the mansion's main entrance and got out.
"Mr. Baldwine," one of the officers said as Lane approached.
"Gentlemen."
The sensation of their eyes following him made him want to send the group far away from his family's house. He had a tweaking paranoia that there were things happening behind the scenes he knew nothing about, and he'd just as soon eyeball those skeletons privately first--without the benefit of Metro Police's prying stares.
Taking the stairs up to the second floor, he went to his room and shut the door--then locked it. Over by his bed, he picked up the receiver on the house phone, dialed nine for an outside line, and then entered *67 so that the number of the extension he was calling from would not register on any caller ID. When a dial tone came over the line, he entered a familiar exchange and four-digit series.
He cleared his throat as it rang once. Twice--
"Good morning, this is Mr. William Baldwine's office. How may I assist you--"
Assuming his father's clipped business tones, he said, "Get me Monteverdi at Prospect on the line right now."
"Of course, Mr. Baldwine! Right away."
Lane cleared his throat again as classical music came across the connection. The good news was that his father was anti-social unless human interaction benefited him business-wise, so it was unlikely there were any recent personal conversations between the two men that would give the lie away.
"Mr. Baldwine, I have Mr. Monteverdi on the line."
After the click, Monteverdi jumped right in. "Thank you for finally returning my call."
Lane dropped his tone and added a boatload of Southern: "I need one hundred and twenty-five thousand into the general household--"
"William, I told you. I can't make any more advances, I just can't. I appreciate your family's business, and I am committed to helping you sort all of this out before the Bradford name runs into difficulty, but my hands are tied. I have a responsibility to my board, and you told me the money you borrowed would be repaid by the annual meeting--which is in two short weeks. The fact that you require additional funds--of such a small amount? My confidence is now not high."
What. The. Hell.
"What is the total owed?" he asked in his father's heavy Virginian accent.
"I told you in my last voice mail," Monteverdi bit out. "Fifty-three million. You have two weeks, William. Your choice is to either repay it, or go to JPMorgan Chase and get them to do asset lending against your wife's primary trust. She has over a hundred million in that account alone, so their lending profile is met. I sent you the paperwork on your private e-mail--all you have to do is put her signature on them and this goes away for the both of us. But let me make myself perfectly clear--I am very exposed in this situation, and I will not permit that to continue. There are remedies I could bring to bear that would be very uncomfortable for you, and I shall use them before anything affects me personally."
Holy.
Shit.
"I'll get back to you," Lane drawled, and hung up.
For a moment, all he could do was stare at his phone. He literally couldn't string two thoughts together.
Then came the vomiting.
With a sudden heave, he jerked in half, barely getting the wastepaper basket over in time.
Everything that he'd eaten in the staff room came up.
After the gagging subsided, his blood ran cold, the sense that nothing was as it should be making him wonder--then pray--that this was some kind of nightmare.
But he didn't have the luxury of fading into neutral--or worse, falling apart. He had to deal with the police. His sister. And whatever was going on here . . .
God, he wished Edward were still around.
TWENTY
An hour later, as Gin slid into the passenger seat of her brother's dark gray Porsche, she closed her eyes and shook her head. "This has been the worst six hours of my life."
Lane made some kind of grunt, which could have meant a lot of things--but most certainly didn't come close to the "Oh, God, I can't believe you lived through that" she was looking for.
"Excuse me," she snapped. "But I was just in jail--"
"We're in trouble, Gin."
She shrugged. "We made bail, and Samuel T. is going to make sure that it stays out of the press--"
"Gin." Her brother looked over at her while shooting them into traffic. "We're in real trouble."
Later, oh, so much later, she would remember this moment of their eyes meeting across the car's interior as the start of the downfall, the tip of the first domino that made all the other ones fall so fast it was not possible to stop the sequence.
"What are you talking about?" she asked softly. "You're scaring me."
"The family is in debt. Serious debt."
She rolled her eyes and slashed a hand through the air. "Seriously, Lane, I've got bigger problems--"
"And Rosalinda killed herself in the house. Some time in the last two days."
Gin put a hand to her mouth. And remembered calling the woman and getting no answer just hours ago. "Dead?"
"Dead. In her office."
It was impossible not to have a case of the skin crawls as she pictured the phone ringing next to the corpse of their controller. "Dear God . . ."
Lane cursed as he glanced in the rearview mirror and changed lanes with a jerk of the wheel. "The household's checking account is overdrawn, and our father has somehow managed to borrow fifty-three million dollars from the Prospect Trust Company for God only knows what. And the worst part? I don't know how much farther this goes and I'm not sure how to find out."
"What are you . . . I'm sorry, I don't understand?"
His reiteration didn't help her at all.
As her brother fell silent, she stared out the front windshield, watching the road ahead curve to the contour of the Ohio River.
"Father can just repay the money," she said dully. "He'll repay it and it'll all go away--"
"Gin, if you need to borrow that kind of cash, it's because you're in deep, deep trouble. And if you haven't paid it back? You can't."
"But Mummy has money. She has plenty of--"
"I don't think we can take anything for granted."
"So where did you find the bail? To get me out?"
"I have some cash and also my trust, which I broke away from the family funds. The two aren't nearly enough to take care of Easterly, however--and forget about paying back that kind of loan or keeping Bradford Bourbon afloat if it comes to that."
She looked down at her fucked-up manicure, focusing on the decimation of that which had been perfect when she'd woken up that morning. "Thank you. For getting me out."
"No problem."
"I'll pay you back."
Except with what? Her father had cut her off . . . but worse, what if there was no money to give her her allowance anyway?
"It's just not possible," she said. "This has to be a misunderstanding. Some kind of . . . a miscommunication."
"I don't think so--"
"You've got to think positively, Lane--"
"I walked in on a dead woman in her office about two hours ago, and that was before I found out about the debt. I can assure you that lack of optimism is not the problem here."
"Do you think . . ." Gin gasped. "Do you think she stole from us?"
/> "Fifty-three million dollars? Or even a part of that? No, because why commit suicide--if she embezzled funds, the smart thing would be to take off and change her identity. You don't kill yourself in your employer's house if you've successfully taken cash."
"But what if she was murdered?"
Lane opened his mouth like he was going to "no way" her. But then he closed it back up--as if he were trying that idea on for size. "Well, she was in love with him."
Gin felt her jaw drop. "Rosalinda? With Father?"
"Oh, come on, Gin. Everyone knows that."
"Rosalinda? Her idea of letting her hair down was to tie that bun of hers lower on her head."
"Repressed or not, she was with him."
"In our mother's house."
"Don't be naive."
Right, it was the first time she had ever been accused of that. And suddenly, that memory from all those years ago, from New Year's Eve, came back . . . when she had seen her father leaving that woman's office.
But that had been decades ago, from another era.
Or maybe not.
Lane hit the brakes as they came up to a red light next to the gas station she'd visited that morning. "Think about where she lived," he said. "Her four-bedroom Colonial in Rolling Meadows is more than she could afford on a bookkeeper's salary--who do you think paid for that?"
"She has no children."
"That we know of."
Gin squeezed her eyes shut as her brother hit the gas again. "I think I'm going to be ill."
"Do you want me to pull over?"
"I want you to stop telling me these things."
There was a long silence . . . and in the tense void, she kept going back to that vision of her father coming out of that office and doing up his robe.
Eventually, her brother shook his head. "Ignorance isn't going to change anything. We need to find out what's happening. I need to get to the truth somehow."
"How did you . . . how did you find all this out?"
"Does it matter?"
As they rounded the final curve on River Road before Easterly, she looked off to the right, up to the top of the hill. Her family's mansion sat in the same place it always had, its incredible size and elegance dominating the horizon, the famous white expanse making her think of all the bourbon bottles that bore an etching of it on their labels.
Until this moment, she had assumed her family's position was set in stone.
