The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings Book 2) (22 page)

Gin felt the branches of her extensive family tree straighten her spine. “Well, I have never—”

“Hello, Mother.”

The sound of that insouciant voice was like the claw of a hammer hitting the back of her neck, and Gin didn’t immediately turn around. She focused on the glass panel in front of her, seeing who had come up from behind. The face that was reflected had changed since she’d seen it last
in September. The coloring was the same, and the long, thick brunette hair remained just like Gin’s own—and yes, the expression was exactly as one remembered. But those cheekbones seemed higher, either because of the maturation process or because Amelia had lost some weight.

Never a bad thing.

Gin pivoted around. Her daughter was wearing skinny jeans that made her legs look like soda straws, a black Chanel blouse with a white collar and cuffs, and a set of Tory Burch flats.

Say what you would about her attitude, she looked straight off the streets of Paris.

“Amelia. What are you doing home?”

“It’s good to see you, too.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Gin went to tell Lizzie to leave, but the woman had already disappeared out one of the back glass doors into the garden, the exit shutting with a quiet
click
.

For a moment, images of Amelia growing up bombarded Gin’s mind, replacing the here and now with the then and gone. The past held no improvement on the current estrangement, however, the distance that bred such present hostility forged in the years of Gin behaving like a sister rather than a mother.

A resentful sister.

Even though it was far more complicated than that for her.

Things had certainly been calmer of late, however. Then again, Amelia had been sent off to Hotchkiss not just as a way to further her education, but to quiet the storm that brewed every time she and Gin were in the same room.

“Well, it’s always lovely to have you home—”

“Is it.”

“—but this is a surprise. I wasn’t aware that summer vacation started this early.”

“It doesn’t. I got kicked out of school. And before you try to go parental on me, may I remind you that I’m just following the example you set?”

Gin looked to heaven for strength—and what do you know, as she was
in the conservatory, the glass ceiling permitted her to see the blue sky and clouds far above.

Indeed, parenting was so much easier if one personally set any kind of standard at all.

Make that any kind of positive standard.

“I’ll just get settled up in my room,” Amelia announced. “And then I’m meeting friends out for dinner tonight. Don’t worry. One of them is twenty-five and has a Ferrari. I’ll be perfectly fine.”

F
ollowing
the meeting with Lenghe, Lane walked into Easterly and didn’t get far. Mr. Harris, the butler, strode out of the dining room with a tray in his hands. On it were half a dozen sterling-silver
objets d’art
, including the Cartier candy dish that sat on the curved tail of an upside-down carp.

But the Englishman wasn’t coming on the approach to talk about his polishing plans.

“Oh, well done, sir. I was just going in search of you. You have a visitor. Deputy Ramsey is in the kitchen.”

“Yes, I saw his sheriff’s vehicle parked outside.”

“Also, the notification for the visiting hours has gone out. The e-mail was necessary due to our time constraints. I would have preferred proper mail, of course. The responses have already began streaming in, however, and I believe you will be pleased with the turnout.”

Three things went through Lane’s mind, one after the other: Hopefully the guests wouldn’t eat or drink much; wonder what people would say if they did a cash bar; and finally, God, he’d never thought about per-head costs before.

As
he became aware that the butler was looking at him expectantly, Lane said, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“There has also been a new arrival in the household.”

The butler stopped the news flash there, as if he had been offended by Lane’s mental recession and was going to force interaction as payback.

“So who is it?” The Grim Reaper? No, wait. Bernie Madoff on a work-release program. Krampus—nope, wrong season.

“Miss Amelia has returned. She arrived by taxi about ten minutes ago with some of her bags. I took the liberty of having them placed in her room.”

Lane frowned. “Is it summer vacation already? Where is she?”

“I gather she went to find her mother.”

“So the mushroom cloud should be hitting the horizon soon. Thank you, Mr. Harris.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

For some reason, with the way the man said the words, they always came out sounding like “screw you.” Which made one want to take that black tie from around his neck and—

No, enough with the dead bodies, even on the hypothetical.

Lane flushed his brain, walked across the foyer, and entered the stark hall that preceded the entrance to the kitchen. As he came up to Rosalinda Freeland’s old office, he paused and traced the police seal that remained on the door.

The fact that he wasn’t allowed in there seemed emblematic of what his whole life had become.

Maybe Jeff was right. Maybe he couldn’t keep a lid on everything that was falling apart. Maybe the world didn’t run like it had back in his grandfather’s, and even his father’s, day, when families like his had the power to protect themselves.

And honestly, why the hell was he ruining relationships that mattered to him for his father’s bullshit?

“Hello, sir.”

Lane glanced over. A blond woman in a maid’s uniform was coming out of the laundry room, a long, loose swath of fine cotton over her arm.

“It’s
Tiphanii,” she said. “With a
ph
and two
i
’s.”

“Yes, of course. How are you?”

“I’m taking good care of your friend Jeff. He’s working so hard up there.” There was a pause. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, thank you.” Clean duvet covers aside, she had nothing he wanted. Or ever would. “But I’m sure my old roommate appreciates the personal service.”

“Well, you’ll let me know, then.”

As she sashayed off, he thought of the first season of
American Horror Story
and the maid who was sometimes old, sometimes young. That one there was definitely the latter. The good news? At least Jeff was no doubt getting a chance to burn off some stress. And Tiphanii wasn’t a ghost who would go post-menopausal on the guy at an awkward time.

Man, you’re just like your father.

“No, I’m not.”

When Lane entered the extensive, professionally appointed kitchen, he smelled hot cross buns and found Miss Aurora and Officer Ramsey sitting side by side on stools at her granite countertop, a pair of coffee mugs and a plate of those sweets between them. The deputy was in his tan, brown, and gold uniform, a gun on his hip, a radio up on his huge shoulder. Miss Aurora was in an apron and loose blue slacks.

She was looking thinner since he’d arrived here, Lane thought grimly.

“’Mornin’,” Lane said as he went over and clapped palms with Ramsey.

“You, too.”

“There room for a third?”

“Always.” Miss Aurora pushed an empty mug to him and got up to snag the coffeepot from its machine. “And I’ll be leaving you two.”

“Stay,” Lane said as he sat down. “Please.”

God, he’d forgotten how big Ramsey was. Lane was a healthy six two, six three. But as he took the stool next to the deputy, he felt like a Barbie doll.

“So the autopsy report.” Mitch glanced over. “The finger is your father’s. Definitely. There were cut marks on the remains that matched the scoring on the bone of what was found in your front yard.”

“He
was murdered, then.” Lane nodded a thanks at the coffee that was poured in front of him. “’Cuz you don’t do that to yourself.”

“Were you aware that your father was sick?”

“In the head? Yes, very.”

“He had lung cancer.”

Lane slowly lowered his mug. “I’m sorry?”

“Your father was suffering from an advanced lung cancer that had metastasized to his brain. The coroner said he had another six months at the most—and very soon it was going to affect his balance and motor skills to an extent that he wouldn’t have been able to hide it from others.”

“Those cigarettes.” He looked at Miss Aurora. “All those fucking cigarettes.”

“Watch your mouth,” she said. “But I always wanted him to stop. I didn’t volunteer for my cancer. I don’t know why anyone would want this disease.”

Glancing over at Ramsey, Lane asked, “Was it possible that he didn’t know? And how long might he have had it?”

Not that his father would have dropped a dime to Lane with a health report or anything. Hell, knowing the great William Baldwine, the man might well have believed he could simply will the stuff into remission.

“I asked the coroner that myself.” Ramsey shook his head. “He said that your father most likely would have been symptomatic. Shortness of breath. Headaches. Dizziness. His remains did not indicate any surgery had been performed and there wasn’t a chest port or anything—but that didn’t mean he wasn’t on chemo or hadn’t had radiation. Tissue samples have been sent off, and a toxicology report ordered—although the results of all that will take some time to come in.”

Lane rubbed his head. “So then he really could have killed himself. If he knew he was going to die, and he didn’t want to suffer, he could have jumped off that bridge.”

Except what about the finger? That ring? The fact that, of all the acres that made up the estate, of all the places hidden and obvious, the thing had been buried right beneath his mother’s window?

“Or your father could have been thrown off,” the deputy suggested. “Just
because the man was sick doesn’t mean someone couldn’t have murdered him—and water was found in the lungs, which proves that he was alive and took at least one deep breath after he hit the river.” Ramsey glanced at Miss Aurora. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to be speaking about this in such graphic terms.”

Lane’s momma just shrugged. “It is what it is.”

Lane looked at Miss Aurora. “I was up all the time in New York. Did you notice anything … different about him?”

Although whatever his condition, he’d still had a sex drive. At least according to Chantal and that baby she was carrying.

His momma shook her head. “I didn’t pick up on anything unusual. He was gone a lot the last couple of months, but that was always true. And you know, he kept to himself. He was up and out of this house to the business center first thing in the morning, and a lot of the time, he was late getting home. My rooms face the garages so I’d see his chauffeur finally parking his car at midnight, one in the morning, or catch him walking back here from his office. So I don’t know.”

Ramsey spoke up. “With your family’s money and connections, he could have gone anywhere in the States for treatment.”

“What does homicide think?” Lane asked.

Ramsey shook his head back and forth. “They’re leaning toward foul play. That finger is the key. It changes everything.”

Lane stayed for a little while longer and chatted with them. Then he excused himself of their company, put his mug in the sink, and headed up the staff stairs to the second floor. Miss Aurora and Ramsey had known each other since the deputy had been in diapers, and he often visited her when he was off duty before. So they could be there for a while yet.

Cancer.

So his father had been busy killing himself with tobacco … until someone had decided to speed up the process and put PAID on a toe tag.

Unbelievable.

As usual, during the morning hours after the family were up and out of their bedrooms, the staff worked in this part of the house, and he could
smell the cleaning supplies for the toilets and the showers and the windows, the artificial citrus and vaguely mint-like scents making his nose itch.

Proceeding down to his father’s room, it felt wrong not to knock before Lane opened the door—even though the man was dead. And stepping inside the quiet, dark interior of the masculine room was an all-wrong that made him look over his shoulder for no good reason.

There were few personal effects out on the bureau tops and the bedside tables, everything in the suite a consciously arranged and maintained stage set that announced “A Rich and Powerful Man Lays His Head Here at Night”: from the monogrammed bedcovers and monogrammed pillows, to the leather-bound books and the Oriental rugs, to the banks of windows that were currently hidden behind heavy silk curtains, you could have been at the Ritz-Carlton in New York or a country seat in England or a castle in Italy.

The bathroom was floor-to-ceiling old-fashioned marble and molding mixed with new plumbing, the fancy glassed-in shower enclosure taking up half the room. Lane paused as he saw his father’s monogrammed robe hanging on a brass hook. And then there was the shaving kit with its gold-handled brush and its straight-edge razor. The strip of leather to hone the silver blade. The sterling cup for water. The toothbrush.

There were two gold sinks separated by a mile of marble counter-top, but it wasn’t as if his mother had ever used the vacant one. And over the expanse was a mirror with gold sconces set into its reflective panels.