All Night Long (16 page)

The colonel looked stern. “I will remind you that you will be promising on the Good Book to tell the truth. Now, we may have had our differences in the past, but I know you're a good girl, and I know you will take an oath like that seriously.”

The colonel's pep talk—Kiley was stunned that he, of all people, was referencing the Bible—was cut off by Sid and Serenity. They careened into the room together, talking at once, competing for Kiley's attention.

“Kiley, you're gonna be on our side, right? I mean, you want Mom to come back home, don't you?” Serenity clutched Kiley's hand.

“You can't tell them the whole truth, Kiley,” Sid added. “It'll ruin my mom, and she'll never be able to come home and we'll be living with Uncle Platoon forever!” He shot a look at the colonel, who glared back at him. “No offense, sir,” he added with an eye roll.

“Where's your brother?” the colonel demanded.

“Upstairs. You want him, go get him,” Serenity fired back.

Kiley put one hand on each kid's arm and fought to keep a smile off her face. The younger kids were regaining at least a little of their normal defiance. Kiley found it refreshing. “Believe me, I am not looking forward to this any more than you are. But I can't lie. I saw your mom doing drugs in this house, in front of you. Parents just can't do that. It's not legal, and it's not right.”

“It's not like I ever noticed,” protested Sid. “I mean okay, maybe she was using drugs, but it wasn't like I sat there and watched her. Maybe I
passed through
the room or something … but that's different. Right? Right?”

Two eager faces stared up at Kiley. Beneath their eagerness, Kiley saw something deeper. Something profound. There was real love and concern for their mother. It tore her up inside. The cantaloupe in her stomach morphed into a watermelon and started bouncing off her abdominal walls.

“Excuse me,” she told everyone, and hurried from the kitchen.

“Where are you going, McCann?” the colonel boomed.

So she was back to being “McCann” again. “To be sick, sir,” she called over her shoulder. “See you in the car.”

Kiley had her right hand in the air.

“Miss McCann, do you promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do.” The bailiff backed away, and the lead prosecutor approached the witness stand as a murmur of anticipation ran through the jammed courtroom. People were anxious to hear what the nanny had to say. Kiley actually saw spectators leaning forward with anticipation. Then she saw Serenity, Bruce, and Sid sitting together, staring daggers at her. She felt sick all over again.

She'd been called as a hostile witness. That meant the prosecutor could ask her leading questions.

He bored right in with few preliminaries. “Miss McCann, you are employed by Platinum as her children's nanny, correct?”

Kiley nodded.

“Please answer yes or no.”

“Yes,” she managed.

“And you came to work for her through a television show, isn't that right?”

“Yes. I entered a reality-show contest called
Platinum Nanny
, and the prize was that the winner would move into Platinum's house and care for her kids,” Kiley explained. Her mouth was so dry that her lips were sticking to her teeth. The show got canceled, but she hired me anyway.”

“Very good. And I take it you were in her employ on the night of her arrest?”

“Yes.” Again, Kiley nodded. She noticed a sketch artist in the gallery working away—probably a sketch of her, she realized. How weird was that? Straight ahead and a little to her right, Platinum sat ramrod straight next to her attorney at the defense table. Her signature hair was styled in a tidy chignon, and she eyed Kiley curiously, clearly unsure of what Kiley was about to say.

It was hard to focus, as the morning's events flooded back into her mind. Her arrival at the courthouse had been greeted by the biggest media circus yet. Tents had been set up—tents!— to shield multiple reporters and piles of camera equipment. Paparazzi lined a narrow walking tunnel flanked by police. Pro- and anti-Platinum supporters carried signs and chanted. Someone had brought a boom box, which was blasting classic Platinum songs at eardrum-splitting volume. The moment Kiley opened her door, two huge sheriff's deputies had stationed themselves on either side of her and escorted her through the crush. She felt like Angelina Jolie without the looks, bank account, adopted children, or hot boyfriend.

Now, staring out at the impressive sea of faces in the courtroom, waiting for the next question from the prosecutor, she wished desperately that Lydia and Esme were in the courtroom— two friendly faces to support her. But they were both stuck at work. At least Tom had shown up. He nodded encouragingly from the second row.

“Miss McCann? Are you going to answer the question?”

Startled, Kiley faced the attorney. “Excuse me?”

“I asked you if you could tell us what you saw and did on the night in question.”

“Sorry. Um, so, I was out that night with my …my
boyfriend on the
Queen Mary
—there was a charity event—and I got a call from Sid.”

The prosecutor smiled. He had to feel relieved, Kiley realized, that he was actually getting an honest answer.

“What did Sid say?”

“He told me that Serenity couldn't breathe very well, and that she was covered in what sounded to me like hives. I had him put her on the phone, and … and … she told me she had smoked some of her mother's marijuana, which she had found on a coffee table in the living room.”

A collective gasp filled the courtroom.

Kiley gulped. “Anyway, that really scared me, so I called nine-one-one from the car and told them Platinum's address and what had happened to Serenity. When I arrived home, she was feeling much better but the house was swarming with police. When Platinum came home just a little while later, they arrested her.”

The courtroom erupted in conversation and exclamation, and Judge Terhune banged his gavel a few times to restore order.

Kiley braved a glance at Platinum and found herself on the receiving end of a rage-filled stare. In her mind's eye, she pictured the night that Platinum had given her a beautiful white shirt right off her back so that she'd have something pretty to wear on her first real date with Tom. Then she thought about the other moments when Platinum had actually seemed to care about her.

God. What a betrayer she was. She felt terrible. What was worse—betrayal or lying? Kiley just prayed she was doing the right thing. The prosecutor asked a few more questions—had she ever seen Platinum intoxicated? Yes. Had she seen Platinum behave erratically around her children? Yes.

That was it. The prosecutor gave her over to the defense attorney for cross-examination—except there wasn't any. All Platinum's lawyer said was, “No questions,” and then Kiley stepped down from the stand. Try as she might, she couldn't even look at the kids, and especially not at Platinum. Judge Terhune cleared the courtroom, then called a recess for lunch. Tom motioned to her that he'd meet her outside. She nodded gratefully. Maybe he would drive her to the beach and they could look at the porpoises from the Santa Monica Pier. That always put things in perspective.

If only life was so easy.

Spencer Lacroix, editor in chief of the
Universe
, was waiting for her outside the elevator in the lobby of the courthouse building. He held a copy of the new edition of his tabloid, and offered it to her. “For you,” he said impassively. “Gratis.”

Kiley took the magazine. Oh God. She was on the cover. And the picture had been taken at a very unflattering angle. Basically, it made her thighs look as though they were the size of Lake Ontario.

The headline wasn't much better.

PLATINUM
NANNY
HAS
CLOSET
FULL
OF
SKELETONS!

She turned to the first interior page. There were smaller inset pictures of Kiley's mom and dad—again, not looking particularly attractive—and one of Kiley picketing the model Marym Marshall's house because Marym hadn't allowed free access across her property to the beach in Malibu (how had they possibly found out about that?). And there was one final photo of her with Tom that had been taken aboard the
Queen Mary
the night of the benefit, the same night that Platinum had been arrested.

Numbly, she started reading the story as Lacroix looked on knowingly.

There was more. Lots more. Kiley felt sick all over again.

“Kiley? Let's get out of here.”

She had been so engrossed in the article she hadn't heard Tom approach her. He wrapped an arm snugly around her shoulders and walked her out of the building, after noting with a look of pain the magazine that was in her hands. They emerged into the California sunlight, and he shielded her with his body from the gawkers until they reached his truck and he opened the door for her.

“It's gonna be okay,” he assured her. “Stories like this come and go every day. I'll bet hardly anyone will even read it.”

Kiley closed the door after her. “Thanks for the effort.”

“Didn't buy it, huh?” He grinned.

“Nope.”

“Had to take a shot.”

“They're sure as hell going to be talking about it back in La Crosse,” she replied as he started the truck. She sighed and leaned her head back. “Thank you. I think you just rescued me. Again. Can you take me out to the beach?”

“Definitely,” Tom agreed.

“I've got to call my mom. She never called me back. And I was too chicken to call her again. I have to warn her so she's prepared for what people are going to say.”

Kiley dug her cell out of her purse and dialed the familiar number. It rang twice, then her father picked up.

“Dad, it's me. Can I talk to Mom? It's …really important.”

There was an uncomfortable—unbearable, really—long pause. Kiley heard her father take a sip of something before he answered her.

“Kiley.” Her dad sounded disgusted. “Your mom can't speak to you right now. She's not feeling well.”

For her father, that was
War and Peace
. Then, there was silence.

More silence.

“We all read it, Kiley.” His voice was clipped. And angry.

“Look, I know she's mad at me, and I don't blame her, but please can you just put her on the phone? There's something I really need to tell her.”

“Yeah? There's something she needs to tell you, young lady,” her father seethed. “Letting you stay in California is the biggest mistake of our lives.”

“You're sure that's the color I gave you? I'm very particular about my black.”

Esme gritted her teeth, and carefully worked the tattoo needle against the small of the actress's back. In this case, the “small” of her back was named correctly. The British television star Rhetta Huff couldn't have been taller than four foot eleven, and couldn't have weighed more than ninety pounds. Yet in the past year, her dark-haired pixieish face had graced the cover of any number of magazines and television advertisements; she'd been featured on
Grey's Anatomy
, and had been asked by NBC to carry a sitcom of her own creation. They wanted so badly to be in business with her that they were willing to commit to six episodes sight unseen, reportedly at a million dollars an epi.

With all this attention and success came a great deal of money, which was why Rhetta was currently installed in one of the three presidential suites at Shutters on the Beach, the famous Santa
Monica hotel located right on the sands of the Pacific. The suite was more lavish than anything Esme had ever seen. Larger than her parents' bungalow in the Echo, it was equipped with a bedroom, living room with ocean views, powder room, bathroom with a whirlpool, dining room table for six, and overstuffed ochre and crimson furniture. Esme had taken a quick look at the rate card when Rhetta had let her in for this tattooing experience. Over three thou a night, which was more than her parents made together in two weeks.

“It's the right color,” Esme assured her.

“Okay. I'm at your mercy, I suppose. I hate that.”

Esme checked her watch. Just one more square quarter-inch of this tattoo to go. For eleven hundred dollars, she could put up with anything. It was ten o'clock; she'd be done by ten-thirty. She had this crazy idea to go and surprise Jonathan at his apartment, which was on the way home. It would be a reward well earned after this job. A big reward.

“For a tattoo artist, you don't talk much.”

I don't talk when I don't have anything to say
, Esme thought.

Then she figured she had to say something. Rhetta was paying her three hundred and fifty dollars an hour.