The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings Book 2) (53 page)

Lane knew that one firsthand.

“You know,” Lenghe said as Lane came back over, “if I hadn’t seen it myself …”

“Me, too.”

“And you know something, you’re a good boy. You’re a fighter and you’re gonna make it. You’re going to do just fine, son.”

As Lenghe smiled up at him with such honest regard, Lane didn’t really know how to handle it.

“Get some champagne,” the Grain God announced to the crowd. “You Bradfords have something to celebrate!”

As another round of cheering let out, the man shook his head. “I, on the other hand, need to go make a really tough phone call. Man, I’m going to be sleeping on the couch for … months after this.”

Lane laughed, and then Lizzie was in his arms, and they were kissing.

“I’m
calling Monteverdi right now,” Lane said. “Then we’re going to have some champagne.”

She leaned her body in to his. “And then …?”

“I’m going to start feeling really, really tired—and I’m going to have to go to bed,” he said as he kissed her deep. “With the love of my life.”

“I can’t wait,” she whispered against his mouth.

T
he next
morning, Lane took John Lenghe back to the airport in the Porsche before breakfast. As he slowed down at the check-in and waved at the guard, Lenghe looked over.

“You know, that was a helluva game.”

Lane hit the gas again and took them past the concierge building. “It was. It truly was.”

“I still can’t believe it. Well, that’s the way Lady Luck went, and there’s no arguing with it.”

Slowing down again, Lane proceeded through the open gate in the chain link fence and then idled over to Lenghe’s jet, which was gassed up and waiting. “Frankly, I’m still not over it. I didn’t sleep at all afterward.”

“Me, neither, just for a different reason.” Lenghe laughed. “But at least the wife is still speaking to me. She ain’t pleased, but she loves me more than she should.”

Lane stopped the sports car a couple of yards from the set of metal stairs that extended out of the jet like a shiny tongue. “She really going to make you sleep on the sofa?”

“Nah.” Lenghe got out and reached for his small suitcase in the
nonexistent backseat. “Truth is, her feet get cold and she needs me around so she has something to warm them against.”

Lane engaged the emergency brake and got out, too. As Lenghe came around to the front grille, Lane said, “I’m never going to forget this.”

Lenghe clapped a meaty hand on Lane’s shoulder. “I meant what I said last night, son. You’re going to do well. I’m not saying it’s not going to be a struggle, but you’re going to right your ship. I’m proud of you.”

Lane closed his eyes. “Do you have any idea …” He cleared his throat and laughed awkwardly. “You know, I would have loved to have had my father say that to me just once.”

Lenghe laughed, but his version of the sound was natural and relaxed. “Why do you think I’m bothering to tell you? Just because he didn’t speak the words doesn’t mean they aren’t true.”

With a final clap on Lane’s shoulder, Lenghe turned away. “I’ll see you soon, son. You can always call me—”

“Wait,” Lane called out. “I have something for you. You know, to remind you of the game.”

Lenghe pivoted back around with a laugh. “If it’s those four aces for framing? You can keep ’em.”

Lane smiled and ducked back under the dash on the driver’s side. “No, those puppies are mine.”

As the Porsche’s hood popped, Lane went over, lifted the panel and exposed a brown-wrapped square that was about three feet long and two and a half feet wide. The thing had barely fit inside.

With a grunt, he lifted the package out. “Here.”

John put down his case. “What is this—”

But the man knew the minute the painting changed hands.

Before Lenghe could say anything, Lane put his palm out. “Take it home to your wife. Let her hang it wherever she wants, and every time you look at it, remember … you’re a father figure to a guy who’s wanted one all his life, okay? And before you remind me that you lost, let’s just
look at it like you bought your wife a great present for a very fair price—and you and I got to play one helluva game of cards.”

Lenghe held the thing for the longest time. Then he cleared his throat. “Well. Now.”

“The documentation’s in there. On the back side of the painting. Not the front.”

Lenghe cleared his throat again and looked off into the distance. After a moment, he said, “Did your father tell you?”

“About what? And before you answer, he and I didn’t talk about much.”

“My, ah … my wife and I never could have children, you know.” More with the throat clearing. “So. There you go.”

Guess it was kind of perfect, Lane decided. A man who had no sons being a father to a guy with no parents.

Without conscious thought, Lane went in for the clinch, holding those strong shoulders.

When he stepped back, John Lenghe’s face was florid with emotion, so red it was like he’d gotten a sunburn mowing those acres of his.

“You’re going to come out West and stay with us in Kansas,” John announced. “With that nice girl of yours. The wife’s gonna wanna thank you in person, and she does that stuff with food. So come hungry.”

“You got it.”

With a final handshake, the Grain God tucked his Rembrandt under one arm and picked up his suitcase with his free hand. Then he walked up the stairs and disappeared into his plane.

Lane leaned back against the Porsche and saw through the oval windows as the guy sat down and put his cell phone to his ear.

And then, with a final wave and a big fat smile that suggested “the wife” was over the moon, the jet was taxiing out … and taking off.

Just as the early sunlight winked off its fuselage, and Lane started thinking about his father’s impending funeral that afternoon, his phone rang. He answered without looking. “Hello?”

“Lane, it’s Mitch Ramsey. Get out to the Red & Black. They’re going to arrest your brother for the murder. Hurry—
hurry
!”

•  •  •

L
izzie
was heading back down to the kitchen with her work clothes on as she heard the purr of Lane’s Porsche disappear down the hill. What a night. What a miracle.

And what a nice thing Lane had decided to do.

She had found the roll of brown paper and had helped him carefully remove the painting from the wall and get it covered safely. Then they’d had the fun of seeing whether or not it fit in the Porsche’s extremely limited truck space under the front hood. In the end, though, just as with the card game, luck had been on their side—and she could only imagine how pleased the man was going to be to bring the masterpiece home to his wife.

God, she wanted to meet Mrs. Lenghe at some point, she really did. Dollars to doughnuts, as the saying went, the woman was going to be as down to earth and kind as that billionaire was.

And now, it was time to get back to work.

The plan for the morning, after she ate whatever ambrosia Miss Aurora was serving, was for her to go for a check-the-grounds tour and try to find something to mow: Making neat on a John Deere outside in the fresh air just seemed like her idea of heaven.

After all, the interment of William Baldwine was scheduled for that afternoon, and watching Lane put his father to rest was not going to be easy.

Pushing her way into the kitchen, she said, “Miss Aurora, what’s cooking—”

Except the woman wasn’t at the stove. And there was no coffee brewing. No fruit out. No sweet smell of cinnamon bread.

“Miss Aurora?”

Lizzie went in further, checking the mudroom and the pantry. Even poking her head out the back door to see if the red Mercedes Lane had given the woman was still there—and it was.

It had been a late night, true, and their out-of-town guest had also left early, but there were still people in the house to feed, and even if the
woman had worked the Fourth of July until one a.m., she was always on breakfast—besides, it was pushing eight a.m.

That was almost the middle of the day for the woman.

Going over to Miss Aurora’s private quarters, Lizzie knocked. “You in there, Miss Aurora?”

When there was no answer, fear curled a fist in her gut.

Knocking louder, she said, “Miss Aurora …? Miss Aurora, if you don’t answer, I’m coming in.”

Lizzie gave every opportunity for there to be a reply, and when none came, she turned the knob and pushed. “Hello?”

Taking a couple of steps inside, she saw nothing out of place. Nothing that was—

“Miss Aurora!”

Running into the bedroom, she crouched down by the woman, who was sprawled on the floor as if she had fainted.

“Miss Aurora!”

L
ane
made it to the Red & Black in record time, and as he skidded to a halt next to the three police cars parked in front of the caretaker’s cottage, dust and gravel kicked up all over the place.

He didn’t know whether or not he turned off the engine. And he didn’t care.

Taking the shallow steps on a oner, he burst in on a tableau that was a never-forget: Three uniformed police officers were standing with their backs against the wall of trophies while Deputy Ramsey loomed in the opposite corner, looking like he wanted to hit someone.

And in the center of the room, Detective Merrimack was standing over Edward, who was sitting in that chair.

“—for the murder of William Baldwine. Anything you say can and will be used against you—”

“Edward!” Lane rushed forward, but Ramsey caught him and held him back. “Edward, what the hell is going on!”

Even though he knew. Goddamn it, he
knew.

“You can stop with the Miranda rights,” Edward said impatiently. “I
did it. I killed him. Take me down, book me, and don’t bother getting me a defense attorney. I’m pleading guilty right now.”

Annnnnnd that was how you turned the volume of the entire universe down: Lane literally went deaf as Merrimack said something further, and Edward replied, and there was more conversation—

A blond woman entered the cottage in the same way Lane had, in a panic.

But unlike him, no one had to drag her back. She stopped on her own and, after she got a gander at everyone, she crossed her arms over her chest and kept silent.

“Edward …” Lane was not consciously aware of speaking. “Edward, no.”

“I’ll tell you how I did it,” his brother said as he looked over. “So you can have your peace about this. But after I’m finished speaking … Lane, you don’t come to see me down there. You keep going about your life. You marry that good woman of yours. You take care of the family. You do
not
look back.”

Merrimack opened his mouth, and Edward turned on the guy. “And you just shut up, okay. Get your pad out. Take notes. Or wait for me to do this again a hundred times down at the station, I don’t care. But he deserves to hear the story.”

Edward refocused on Lane. “I acted alone. They’re going to try to say I had help. I didn’t. You know what Father did to me. You know that he had me kidnapped and tortured.” Edward indicated his body. “These scars … this pain … it’s all because of him. He arranged for it all and then didn’t pay the ransom so he’d look like the victim. I have hated him all my life … and then this happened and … let’s just say I had a lot of time to think about ways to kill him as I lay in agony, unable to sleep or eat, because I’m ruined.”

“Edward,” Lane whispered.

“I snapped the night I killed him. I went to our house to confront him because I just couldn’t take it anymore. I parked in the back and waited for him to come out of the business center from his having worked late as
usual. I didn’t think I was going to murder him at the time, but then, just as I was getting out of the truck, he lurched, fell down to the ground, and rolled over onto his back like something was wrong.” Edward’s face assumed a faraway expression. “I approached him and stood over him. I know the signs of a stroke, the symptoms, and he was having one. He was wincing and motioning to his head … and then his left side didn’t seem to work, his arm and leg flopping as if he couldn’t move them.”