The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings Book 2) (23 page)

No medicine cabinet there.

Lane bent down and started opening drawers. The first one had a bunch of condoms in it, and didn’t that make him want to smash something for so many reasons. Next up were supplies like soap, Q-tips, regular razors. On the other side were brushes, combs. Under the sinks were toilet paper, Kleenex boxes, bottles of Listerine.

On some level, it seemed strange that his father had ever used such pedestrian things. Like any other person who was getting themselves ready for work or for bed.

In
fact, a mystery had always surrounded the man, although not a cozy one. More a Jack the Ripper pall rooted in their lack of communication, lack of a relationship, lack of any warmth.

Lane found the medications in the tall thin closet by the window seat.

There were six orange pill bottles, each with varying numbers of pills or capsules in them. He didn’t recognize the prescribing doctor or the names of the medicines, but given the number of warnings on the sides about not using heavy machinery or driving while on them, he had to guess they were painkillers or muscle relaxants … or very serious compounds that made you sicker than your disease, at least in the short term.

Getting out his phone, he typed in the physician’s name.

Well. What do you know.

The doctor was at MD Anderson Cancer Center down in Houston.

His father had known he was sick. And likely that he was dying.

“Y
ou got kicked out?” Gin demanded across the fragrant air of the conservatory.

“Yes,” her daughter answered.

Fantastic, Gin thought.

In the silence that followed, she tried on a couple of versions of parental indignation, imagining herself stamping a high-heeled shoe or perhaps going with an old-school wag of the forefinger. Neither fit. The only thing that really seemed appropriate was getting Edward to handle this. He would know what to do.

But no. That avenue was cut off.

In the end, she went with, “May I ask why you were asked to leave school?”

“Why do you think. I’m your daughter after all.”

Gin rolled her eyes. “Drinking? Or did you get caught with a boy?”

As Amelia merely lifted her chin, the math added up to an even greater infraction.

“You
slept
with one of your professors? Are you mad?”

“You
did. That’s why you took a break from school—”

The door in from the house opened and Lane appeared like a beacon to a sailor at sea.

“Guess who’s home from school,” Gin said dryly.

“I heard. Come here, Ames. It’s been a while.”

As the girl went into Lane’s arms and their two dark heads drew close together, Gin had to look away.

“She has news,” Gin muttered as she wandered around and picked at orchid leaves. “Why don’t you tell him?”

“I got kicked out.”

“For sleeping with a professor.” Gin waved a hand. “Of all the legacies to live up to.”

Lane cursed and stepped back. “Amelia.”

“Oh, he’s using your real name.” Gin smiled, thinking that Lane sounded like their father. “He means business. Is there someone we can call at Hotchkiss, Lane? Surely we can talk them out of this.”

Lane rubbed his face. “Did someone take advantage of you? Were you hurt?”

“No,” the girl said. “It wasn’t like that.”

Gin spoke up. “There has to be a way to get her back in—”

“Aren’t finals coming up?” Lane interrupted. “Are you going to lose your credits? Jesus Christ, Ames, seriously. This is a big deal.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” Gin muttered, “you look sorry. Would you like a tissue? Would that help you play the part better?”

“That’s a nice diamond on your finger,” Amelia snapped. “You’re getting married, I gather?”

“The day after your grandfather’s visitation here.”

“Yes, nice of you to call me and let me know, Mother.”

“The marriage is not important.”

“I agree. I’m talking about the death of my grandfather. My own grandfather died, and I read about it in a newspaper.”

Lane’s eyes swung around. “You didn’t call her, Gin?
Really?”

“I
beg your pardon, but
she
is the one who got kicked out of prep school. And you’re looking at me like I did something wrong?”

“I can go to school here in Charlemont,” Amelia interjected. “Charlemont Country Day is a good school, and I can live here at home—”

“What makes you think they’ll take you now?” Gin asked.

“Our family endowed the expansion five years ago,” Amelia countered. “Like they won’t? And who are you marrying, Mother? Let me guess. He’s rich and spineless—”

“Enough!” Lane snapped. “Gin, she’s your daughter. For once in your life, will you act like it? And, Amelia, this is a bigger problem than you realize.”

“But it’s fixable,” the girl said. “Everything is fixable in this family, isn’t it.”

“Actually, that is not true. And you better pray you don’t learn that lesson on this particular screw-up of yours.”

As Lane went to leave, Gin thought of her wedding reception and called out, “Wait, you and I have something to discuss.”

“I’m not calling Charlemont Country Day. You’re going to do that for her. It’s time you step up.”

Gin crossed her arms over her chest and winced as one of Richard’s bruises on her elbow let out a squawk. “Amelia, would you be so kind as to go sulk in your room? Or perhaps out by the pool? I’m sure that with the help of your Twitter account you can spend an enjoyable couple of hours informing your friends of the abominable nature of your return unto the fold.”

“My pleasure,” Amelia said. “It’s certainly better than being in your company.”

The girl didn’t storm off; she swanned away, leaving a ripple of fragrance in the air along with her disdain.

It was a wonder they didn’t get along better.

As the door back into the house eased shut, Gin bitched, “Maybe she should just forget school and go to New York to model. She’ll have more luck using her face rather than her mouth if she’s looking to get ahead.”

“Your
mouth hasn’t stopped you,” Lane said. “But it hasn’t done you any good. Look at who you’re marrying, for instance.”

“Richard is one of the wealthiest men in the state, and he can help our business.”

“You hate him.”

“So does everyone else. That’s hardly a news flash—but this brings me to the issue. Your little darling girl Lizzie said I need your permission in order to have my reception here. I told her it was not going to be a large affair—four hundred, at the most—”

“Wait, what?”

“My wedding reception. The licenses are being issued tomorrow, and we are going to the courthouse on Friday. Father’s visiting hours are the day after that. The reception will be here on Saturday—just cocktails in the back garden followed by a dinner—”

“Gin.”

“What?”

“Who’s going to pay for all that?”

“We are. Why?”

Lane’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t have the money, Gin. As in checks will bounce. Do you understand what I’m telling you? There is no money right now. I’m trying to fix that, but I don’t care if it’s four hundred or forty people—we can’t write any checks that aren’t necessary.”

“We’re paying for Father’s visiting hours.”

“And that’s it. The parties are over, Gin. The private planes. Hell, taxis are out of the question. There are no more clothes, or balls, or trips. Everything is stopping. You need to understand that.”

She frowned as she tracked a rather alarming fluttering of her heart. And then she whispered, “I find it hard to believe that you’ll put on the funeral of a man you hated, but not give me the reception I deserve.”

Lane stared at her for a moment. “You know, Gin, I’m going to be completely honest here. I’ve always known you were a self-serving narcissist, but I really never thought you were stupid.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“If
we don’t invite half the world here to pay their respects, there’s going to be talk—and it’s going to be true. I couldn’t give a shit about this family’s reputation, but the business is our only chance to get out of this mess. There is nothing but fumes keeping the BBC afloat. I’m worried about paying salaries, for fuck’s sake. If anything gets out to the press about the financial reversal, we run the risk of vendors panicking and calling accounts payable or cutting us off. Distributors could balk. The union could get riled. There is so much more to this than just a goddamn party. Visiting hours are a necessary ruse. Your reception is not.”

Gin put her hand to her throat and thought of being in the Phantom Drophead at that gas station down on River Road … and her credit cards not working. But when that had happened the other day, it had been because her father had cut her off, not because funds were unavailable.

And then she remembered her brother breaking the bad financial news to her after he’d picked her up at the police station.

She shook her head, though. “You said there was fifty or sixty million in debt. Surely there are other funds somewhere—”

“The debt is over triple that. That we’ve found so far. Times have changed, Gin.” He turned away. “You want a party, get your new husband to cut the check. It’s chump change for him, and that
is
why you’re marrying him, after all.”

Gin stayed where she was, watching the glass door ease shut once again.

In the silence, a strange feeling of dislocation overcame her, and it took her a moment to realize it was something she had become familiar with whenever Richard …

Oh, God. She felt like she was going to throw up.

“It’s going to be fine,” she said to the plants. “And Pford might as well start making himself useful now.”

T
he
sweeper kissed along the center aisle of the stable, pushing debris ahead, kicking up a fine mist of hay particles. As Edward walked behind his broom, the muzzles of the breeding females came out of open stall half doors, snuffing at his T-shirt, bumping his elbow, blowing at his hair. Sweat had broken out across his brow and a line of it descended his spine into the loose waistband of his jeans. From time to time, he stopped and wiped his forearm over his face. Talked to Joey, Moe’s son, who was mucking stalls. Gave a stroke to a graceful neck or a smooth to a springy mane.

He could feel the alcohol coming out of his pores, like he’d been marinating in the stuff. And yet even as he was working the booze through his body, he’d had to nurse a vodka bottle a couple of times, otherwise the shaking got ahead of him.

“You’re working hard,” came a voice from the far end.

Edward stopped and tried to look over his shoulder. When his body wouldn’t allow him the leeway, he shuffled around, using the broom handle for leverage.

Squinting against a ray of sunlight, he said, “Who is it?”

“I’m
Detective Merrimack. CMP.”

A strident set of footfalls came down the concrete, and when they halted in front of him, a wallet was flipped open, and an ID and a badge were presented for inspection.

“I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions,” the detective said. “Just as a formality.”

Edward shifted focus from the display to the face that matched the laminated photograph. Merrimack was African-American, with short cropped hair, a strong jaw, and big hands that suggested he might have been a ballplayer at one time. He was wearing a bright white polo shirt with the Charlemont Metro Police Department’s crest on the pec, a good pair of slacks, and a set of leather shoes with rubber soles that made Edward think that, on occasion, the guy had to chase after somebody.

“How may I help you, Detective?”

Merrimack disappeared his credentials. “Do you want to go somewhere to sit down while we talk privately?”

“Here is good enough for me.” Edward limped over to a hay bale and let his weight fall off his legs. “There’s no one else in this barn right now. And you can use that bucket if you want to turn it over.”

Merrimack shook his head. Smiled. Glanced around. “This is some spread you’ve got here. Lot of beautiful horses.”

“You a betting man at the track?”

“Just small stuff. Nothing like you do, I’m sure.”

“I don’t bet. Anymore, that is.”

“Not even on your own horses?”

“Especially not my own. So what can I do for you?”

The detective walked across to the stall whose top half was shut. “Wow. This is a beauty in here—”

Edward shook his head. “I wouldn’t get too close if I were—”

Nebekanzer bared his teeth and lunged at the bars, and Merrimack pinwheeled backward, tap-dancing better than Savion Glover.

As the man caught himself on an opposite stall door, Edward said, “You’re not familiar with horses, are you?”

“Ah … no.
” The man straightened and retucked his shirt. “No, I’m not.”

“Well, when you walk into a barn full of open stall halves and there’s one, and only one, that’s fully closed? Chances are that’s for a good reason.”

Merrimack shook his head at the great stallion, who was stalking back and forth like he wanted out and not to shake hands politely. “Tell me no one rides that thing.”