Then Hang All the Liars (22 page)

“So it's over?”

“It's never over until it's over. I'll save tissue, urine, bile and blood samples. Just because I release the body from the autopsy room to the family doesn't mean that's all the work that can ever be done.”

“His family's anxious?”

“His mother's practically sitting outside my door. Wants to take her Randy home. She and the sister.”

“The sister! The one from California? She and the mother don't speak.”

“Well, they do now. They've set up a tent out there in my lobby, I only let them because they're friends of yours, both of them wailing and carrying on, and I'll tell you, I'm right anxious to get shut of the remains of Mr. Percy.”

She ignored the jibe. “Now I wonder why she told me that? That they don't speak?”

“Might not have before now. You just haven't spent enough time around the bereaved, my dear. Hook yourself up with a good funeral parlor around town for a couple of weeks.”

“Thanks for the tip, but I'll pass.”

“Well, you'll be missing out on some mighty fine stuff. You ain't seen nothing, sugar, until you've seen a real strong grieving family chewing on the bones of the deceased.”

“Lovely image, Beau.”

“We do our best.”

“You know, I'm going to talk with Emily first thing in the morning.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“I said Emily Edwards got me into this and, by God, she can get me out of it.”

*

Sam had just settled into bed with Harpo and the latest Elmore Leonard novel when her telephone rang.

“Hi. It's Jane.”

“I'm trying to get some rest here.”

“It's only nine o'clock. Old before your time, Adams.”

“It's been a long day. Full of corpses and busted jam jars.”

“Sounds rough. How many jam jars?”

“Okay. So I exaggerated. Only one old charmer named Randolph Percy.”

“Haven't had the pleasure—that I know of.”

Remembering that she never wanted to read Jane's résumé, Sam let the comment pass.

“So you called me up in the middle of the night to insult me about my age?”

“Actually I called to apologize.”

“Great. I love apologies. What for?”

“For not answering your question about Nicole Burkett yesterday.”

Sam sat up. “I'm all ears.”

Then the phone gurgled and clanked.

“This is a terrible connection. Are you in a phone booth?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What's the number?” Then she said, “That's the pay phone at Manuel's,” when Jane told her.

“How do you know that?”

“Age,” Sam said. “Experience. Stay put. The old lady'll creak right over and buy you a beer.”

Five minutes later, Sam walked in the back door of the tavern with a sweat shirt pulled over her T-shirt and a pair of old jeans. Harpo's head poked out of a big bag she was carrying.

“He needed a drink?” Jane asked from the booth she'd snagged in the front room.

“A little excitement. He likes this crowd. Actually he likes any crowd. As the world's cutest dog, he can always depend on lots of admirers.”

“Hi, Harpo,” said Charles, Sam's favorite waiter, as he delivered her Perrier, unordered, to the table.

See?
She grinned at Jane, who ignored her. Then she ordered them each a chili dog and Harpo a burger naked, for starters. “So what's the story?”

“This is off the record.”

“Thank you very much, Ms. Wildwood. Remind me to teach you lesson number one.
Nothing
is ever off the record if you need it. You just find another way to use it.”

Jane lit a long, brown Turkish cigarette, shades of Nicole Burkett, and exhaled deeply. Was Nicole her mentor, too? If so, in what?

“That's an affectation,” Sam said. “That's going to kill you.”

“It's not an affectation. I happen to like the taste of these cigarettes.”

“Which are going to kill you.”

“When are you going to stop mothering me?”

“When you grow up.”

Jane flopped her curtain of red hair down and glared at Sam through it.

“Sorry. Forget I said it. Now why'd you get me out of my warm, comfy bed?”

“You ever hear of Constance Bonnet?”

“The Parisian madame?”

“Very good.”

“Retired not too many years ago. Recruited the most beautiful young girls in the world, well, the ones who were available, and trained them.”

“Right.”

“Sent them out by private jet when pashas, Greek shipping tycoons, arms dealers, royalty of whatever cut got the urge for something young, beautiful, and very special. Never had a house. The girls freelanced.”

“Absolutely. You passed the quiz.”

“Okay. So give me my reward. What does this have to do with Nicole?”

Jane met her look.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Nicole Burkett?”

“She started out as Nicole Chenonceaux. Of
very
humble origins.”

“Don't tell me. Her mother was a chambermaid. Her father a duke. A descendant of Louis XIV.”

Jane laughed. “I don't know. I just know she grew up about as poor as I did and she was one of Connie's girls.”

“And that's how she met P.C.?”

“You got it.”

“And he married her?”

“He wouldn't be the first man who ever married a whore.”

“Well, shut my mouth. But P.C. Burkett, Mr. Got-rocks from Waycross, Georgia? I'm having trouble getting my mind around it. And how do you know this?”

Jane gave her a look again.

“You're absolutely right. I really don't want to know. I want you to protect that source until the day you die.”

Jane grinned. “I intend to.”

“So that's Nicole's secret.” She waved at Charles. “Dozen oysters, please.” Then she rubbed her hands together. “News like this makes me hungry. Listen, it doesn't make any difference, but maybe you know this, too. Does Nicole have connections with the mob? I'm just curious.”

Jane shrugged. “Let's just put it this way. P.C. Burkett's not the only man in the world who might want to do her a favor. He's certainly not the first rich and powerful man she ever slept with.”

“Nor the last?”

“I didn't say that. I have no idea. Though now…” Jane gestured, implying Nicole's injury.

“You think Miranda knows about her mother?”

“Not if Nicole could help it. No. I don't think that's why Miranda got herself involved at Tight Squeeze, if that's what you mean.”

“Then why?

“Why did I?”

“I don't know, Jane.”

“I needed the cash. I didn't like myself very much.”

“You think Miranda needs money?”

“I don't know. Not unless she has a drug habit.”

“Does she?”

“Not that I noticed.”

“What about liking herself?”

“Now that is a whole other can of worms. I'm not prepared to speak about her emotional health and well being.”

“How about yours?”

“Do I like myself more these days?”

“Yeah.”

“You bet. Actually I had become rather enamored of myself some time ago. I was just waiting for Joan of Arc to come along and save me.”

“Go fuck yourself, Wildwood.” Sam toasted her with a raised glass.

Jane grinned and lifted her beer. “Same to you.”

*

George awoke when she came in later. Much later.

“Sam?” he called from his room.

“It's me. Go back to sleep. I didn't mean to wake you.”

“You've been saying that since you were twelve years old. Where'd you go?”

“To meet Jane. Go back to sleep.”

“What'd she want?”

“To tell me something about Nicole Burkett.”

“What?”

“Probably nothing you didn't already know.”

“And nothing you need to go spreading about either,” said Peaches, who just then glided into the hall through the kitchen door. She was carrying a tray with two cups of warm milk, starting back up the stairs to Horace.

“Peaches,” Sam said, “can you tell me why it is
I'm
the reporter in this family and
I'm
always the last one to know anything that's of any importance? Wouldn't you think my very own family would fill me in on something just once in a great while?”

Peaches slowed down for an instant and squinted at her. “You would think so.”

Sixteen

Peaches didn't really know about Nicole Burkett,
Sam said to herself as she drove across town to the offices of Lighthouse for the Blind the next morning. It was Saturday, but that's where Felicity had told Sam she could find Emily. Which was fine, since it would be good to talk with her away from home.

If Peaches did know, wouldn't she tell her?

Maybe not. Peaches was a mean old woman.

No, that wasn't true. She was just crotchety. Set in her ways. And, Sam had to face it, her surrogate mother, which meant their relationship was as wacky as if Peaches had borne her instead of only taken her to raise.

Now what was she holding out about Felicity?

*

“Samantha! What a nice surprise. Come on into my office.” Emily walked from behind her desk, smoothing her khaki skirt, extending her hand. The gracious Southern lady on the job.

“Sorry to drop in on you like this.”

“Don't be silly. Can I give you the tour? Get you a cup of coffee?”

“I'll take the coffee, thanks.”

“Here, then.” Emily pointed at a small table piled with books, flanked by two comfortable chairs. “Why don't you settle yourself, and I'll go scare up the coffee. Just move those things over to the bookshelf. I must do something about this office.”

Sam waved her and her apology away and picked up the books.

A volume on seeing-eye dogs.

Another on spaniels.

A report from a conference in Lucerne on the disabled.

The Awakening
by Kate Chopin. A wonderful novel about a woman too advanced for her own good. Emily
would
like it. At the bottom of the pile was
The Great Gatsby.

Sam sat down with the book and leafed through the pages of one of her old favorites.

The elusive Jay Gatsby and his long-lost Daisy with her melodious Southern voice. As Fitzgerald said, a voice full of money.

That
was who Felicity had always reminded her of, Fitzgerald's Daisy Buchanan. Daisy of the astonishing voice. Lovely, careless, selfish Daisy who ran down her husband's lover in Gatsby's roadster, then let Gatsby take the blame.

Sam started.

Why not?

For suddenly it occurred to her that she might be barking up the wrong Edwards sister.

What if Felicity's madness were a charade?

What if Felicity had planted the incidents that pointed away from her?

What if Felicity killed Randolph Percy?

But why?

Because he was the long-ago deserting father of her child?

Because he was blackmailing her?

Over what?

That secret, the baby. Or some other.

Or perhaps there was something between Emily and Randolph. Felicity's jealousy was the motive. Maybe that was it.

Just then Emily bustled back into the room with two steaming mugs. “You do take it light, don't you, dear?”

“Thank you.”

“Now, to what do I owe this pleasure? Something about Mr. Percy?”

Sam sipped the coffee.

Then her eyes met Emily's.

“I'm afraid I'm here to ask you some hard questions.”

“Well, yes.” Emily sighed. “I knew you would eventually.” She planted the mug firmly on the table and crossed her hands in her lap, assuming the demeanor of someone finally roped into the dentist's chair. “Go ahead. Do your duty.”

This was going to be easier than Sam had thought.