The Bourbon Kings #1 (53 page)

“Law enforcement is committed to working with you and your family.”

“I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“That would make it easier on everyone here.”

A clipboard came out of nowhere, and he signed a variety of things. As he gave the pen back to the coroner, he thought,
Shit, they were going to have to plan a funeral.

Although, to be honest, the very last thing he had any interest in was honoring his father in any fashion.

•   •   •

“I
’m
not hungry.”

As Edward sat in his chair in his cottage, he was fully aware that he sounded like a four-year-old refusing dinner—but he didn’t care.

The fact that the smells coming out of that galley kitchen were making his mouth water was beside the point.

Shelby, however, had selective hearing. “Here you go.”

She put the bowl of stew on the table next to his bottle of … what was he drinking now? Oh, tequila. Well, wasn’t that going to go swimmingly with the beef gravy.

“Eat,” she commanded—in a tone that suggested he either did the job himself or she was going to puree the stuff and force feed it to him through a straw.

“You know, you can leave anytime you like,” he muttered.

For godsakes, the woman had been in his house all day long, cleaning, doing laundry, cooking. He’d pointed out to her a couple of times that she had been hired to take care of the horses, not the owner, but again … her hearing was very spotty.

Damn, that’s good,
he thought as he took a mouthful.

“I want to make an appointment for you with your doctor.”

The sound of a car driving up was a welcome intrusion. Especially as he struggled to remember what day it was—and hoped it was somehow Friday once again: He rather liked the idea of her seeing a prostitute come to service him. Hell, she could watch if she cared to, not that it was much of a show—

For a split second, he recalled the feel of Sutton straddling him, moving up and down, looking into his eyes.

A sharp pain through his chest made him eat faster just to get rid of the sensation.

The knocking was loud.

“Would you mind doing the honors?” he said to Shelby. “If it’s a woman, invite her in. If it isn’t, tell them to get the hell off my property—and
use the word ‘hell,’ will you? We both know it’s in your vocabulary.”

The glare she shot him probably would have blown him off his feet if he hadn’t been sitting down already.

But she did go to the door.

Opening it up, she said, “Oh. My.”

“Who is it,” Edward muttered. “Your fairy godmother?”

Except, no. It was Lane.

As his brother came into the cottage, Edward started shaking his head. “Whatever it is, you’ve gotta go somewhere else with it. I told you, I’m not going to help you anymore—”

“May we speak in private.”

Not a question.

Edward rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t matter what you say.”

“This is family business.”

“Isn’t it always.” When Lane didn’t budge, Edward cursed. “Whatever it is, you can say it in front of her.”

If anything, hopefully Shelby’s presence in the little room would speed things along.

Lane glanced at the woman. Looked back. “Father’s dead.”

As Shelby gasped, Edward slowly lowered his spoon back to the bowl. Then he said in a rough voice, “Shelby, will you please excuse my brother and me for a moment? Thank you kindly.”

Funny how the manners came back out of him in times of crisis.

After Shelby scuttled out the door, Edward wiped his mouth on his paper napkin. “When?”

“Sometime last night, they think. He threw himself off the bridge, most likely. The body washed up on the other side of the falls.”

Edward sat back in his chair.

He intended to say something. He really did.

He just … couldn’t remember what it was.

Lane evidently felt the same way, because his youngest brother went to the only other chair in the room and sat down. “I told Mother before
I came out here. I don’t think … she has no idea what I said to her. She’s not tracking at all. Also told Gin. Her reaction was just what yours is.”

“Are they sure,” Edward asked, “that it’s him.”

For some reason, that seemed vitally important. Although how could a mistake of this magnitude be made?

“I was the one who identified the body.”

Edward closed his eyes. And for a brief moment, that pilot light of his flickered on again. “That shouldn’t have been you. I should have done that.”

“It was fine. I didn’t …” Lane took a deep breath. “I don’t seem to be having any reaction to it at all. I’m sure you heard about yesterday.”

Edward looked over at his brother. “What about yesterday?”

Lane laughed in a hard burst. “Sometimes not having cable television is a good thing, no? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t.”

They sat in silence for the longest time, and later, Edward would realize it was because he was waiting for some kind of an emotional reaction of his own. Sorrow. Hell, maybe joy.

There was nothing. Just a resonate numbness.

“I’ve got to find Max,” Lane said. “Law enforcement is going to keep a lid on this until we’re ready to make a statement, but that respite won’t last forever.”

“I don’t know where he is,” Edward murmured.

“I’ll keep trying the number I had from two years ago. I sent him an e-mail, too, at his last known. I think he might be really far off the grid.”

More quiet.

“Is Gin all right?” Edward asked.

Lane shook his head. Then swung his eyes over. “Are any of us?”

Sadly,
Edward thought …
the answer to that is no.

T
he next morning, as Lizzie went up the back stairs with a bouquet in her hands, she gave herself a pep talk.

It was all well and good to hide in the greenhouses, but come on. She had thirteen days left of employment at Easterly and she was not going out on a shirker note. She always did the flowers for the bedrooms. She had her schedule, and she was going to goddamn well do her job.

Up on the second floor, she squared her shoulders and went down to the best guest room. Mr. Harris had told her they had an unexpected houseguest—and also that there was no need to refresh flowers in Chantal’s room anymore.

Good to know, Mr. Harris. Thanks so much.

At least that was one person off her Don’t Need To Run Into list.

Too bad the number-one spot was still under Easterly’s roof.

“Thirteen days,” she said under her breath. “Just thirteen days.”

At the broad door, she knocked and waited. After a moment, a male voice said, “Come in.”

Pushing the panels wide, she saw a man sitting at Lane’s grandfather’s
desk across the way, his back bent into a comma as he scrummed down over a laptop. Next to him, a printer was spitting out pages marked with columns, and at his feet, wadded-up balls of yellow legal paper dotted the floor.

He didn’t look up.

“I’m just here with some flowers,” she said.

“Uh-huh.”

Beside him, on the window shelf, was a tray of empty breakfast dishes. As she put the vase down on an antique bureau, she offered, “May I take that down for you?”

“What?” he muttered while still focused on the screen.

“The tray?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

He had to be here to look at those files,
she thought.
The ones Rosalinda left behind.

Not her business, she reminded herself.

Going around the desk, she saw two expensive suitcases, one of which was open and rifled through—and yet she had the impression the man hadn’t changed since whenever he’d arrived. His white shirt was wrinkled everywhere, and so were his pants.

Also not her business.

Picking up the tray, she—

“Oh my God.”

As he spoke up, she almost didn’t glance over at him, figuring he’d found something in whatever he was going through. But then she realized he was staring at her.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re Lizzie. Right?”

Recoiling, she glanced around. But come on, like there was someone standing behind her?

“Ah, yes.”

“Lane’s Lizzie. The horticulturist.”

“No,” she said. “No, not his.”

The man stretched his arms over his head, and as all kinds of cracking
happened, she noticed that he was very good-looking, with dark hair and dark eyes that might have been brown, might have been blue.

The accent was very definitely New York.

“Wow,” he murmured. “I thought you were made-up.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do.”

“And now I understand why he didn’t go after anyone else for two years.”

Don’t ask,
Lizzie told herself.
Don’t—

“I’m sorry?” she heard herself say.

Crap
.

“For two years, nada. I mean, look, we went to college together, so I saw firsthand how he earned his reputation. But for the last two years, he didn’t go near a woman. I thought he was gay. I even asked if he was gay.” The man put his palms out to her. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

Wasn’t that a line from
Seinfeld? she thought.

“I, ah …”

“So at least now I get it.” The man smiled in a totally non-creepy way. “But he says you’re leaving? It’s none of my business, but why? He’s a good man. Not perfect, but good. Wouldn’t suggest you play poker against the guy, though. Not unless you have money to lose.”

Lizzie frowned. “I, ah …”

“I didn’t even know he was married, by the way. He never talked about her, I certainly never met her—and now, come to find out, it was about you all along. Well, anyway, back to work.”

Like the guy hadn’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of the room.

As Lizzie’s heart started to pump at double speed, she said, “I’m sorry. Did you say … you never knew he was married?”

The guy looked back over at her. “No, he never brought up the woman. Not once in the two years he was sleeping on my couch. I didn’t find out until he called me a couple of days ago.”

“But you must have met her, right? When she visited him.”

“Visited him? Honey, he never had any visitors—and I would know because he never left my place. We’d play poker all night, and I’d go to
work, only to come back and find him on my sofa in exactly the same position I’d left him in. He didn’t see anyone. Didn’t accept phone calls. Never came back down here. Never traveled. Just locked himself in my apartment and drank. I figured his next stop was a dialysis unit.”

“Oh.”

The guy cocked an eyebrow as if he wanted to know if she needed any more information.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Thank you for the flowers. I’ve never had a woman bring some to me before.”

And then he was back to work, frowning at that screen.

Lizzie walked out of the room in a daze and had to remind herself to kick the door shut in her wake.

After standing there for a moment, she swiveled her head and looked down the hall to Mr. Baldwine’s room.

No visitors. No phone calls. Two years up in New York on some old friend’s couch.

And Chantal was supposedly pregnant.

With Lane’s baby.

Lizzie wasn’t consciously aware of deciding to move. But before she knew it, she had put the tray of dishes down on the runner outside of the guest room and was tiptoeing over the carpet. When she got to Mr. Baldwine’s room, she put her ear to the panels.

Then she knocked quietly.

When there was no answer, she slipped inside and shut herself in.

There was something eerie about the room. Then again, she was essentially trespassing, as she had no valid reason for being in there.

Well, no valid reason tied to her job.

Glancing around to make sure she hadn’t missed someone else in the bathroom beyond, she quickened over to the large bed that was made up with military precision.

Lowering herself down to her knees, she craned under the side table, under the bed frame itself.

The wisp of silk was still there, on the floor.

Lizzie stretched out her arm—

Knock, knock, knock.
“Towel service, Mr. Baldwine.”

With a frantic lunge, Lizzie threw herself under the bed skirt, just tucking her legs in as the maid opened the door and walked into the room.

A soft whistling and softer footsteps on the thick rug tracked the woman’s progress as she went into the bathroom.

Please, don’t clean,
Lizzie thought as she lay still in the darkness.
Just drop those towels and keep going.

Drop the towels.

Keep going.

God, her heart was pounding so hard it was a wonder the maid didn’t hear the damn thing.

Moments later, a miracle happened and those footfalls backtracked and the door was re-shut.

Lizzie sagged and closed her eyes. Right, okay, she was taking cat burglar off her list of possible next careers after she left Easterly.

Locking a hold on the lingerie, she stuffed the thing into the waistband of her khakis and covered it up by untucking her polo shirt. Then she shuffled out from under, got to her feet, and brushed herself off.