Healing Waters (19 page)

“What are you two whispering about over there?” Sonia said. She tried the smile and gave it up. “Have you seen Egan, Lucia? I want him to make sure those reporters don't see the FBI people poking around.” She looked at Sully. “Forget anything you may have heard about that.”

He hadn't heard anything but vague allusions.

“Could
you
go find Egan for me?” she said. “And you
are
staying for supper. Are you in a hotel right now?” She glanced at her watch. “How much time do we have?”

Sully felt an instinctive stirring of unease. Lucia was right: Sonia was fraying at the edges. He didn't care how “delivered” she was from physical pain; one small tug on the wrong string by a reporter could unravel her emotionally.

“We have to at least bathe your face,” Lucia said. She glanced over her shoulder at Sully.

“I'll go find Egan, give him the 411,” Sully said.

“What about—”

“Yes, I'll stay for supper.”

“And check out of your hotel. I'll tell DiDi to make sure the guesthouse is in order.”

“Will it get you to hush up for seven seconds?” Sully said.

“It just might.”

“Good luck,” he heard Lucia mutter.

Sully gave her a grim nod. It was going to take far more than luck to deal with Sonia Cabot.

But he didn't have to be the one to deal with her. He told himself that as he found the front door and headed through the breezeway toward the detached garage. Still, he couldn't in good conscience leave without at least putting a few recommendations for therapists into Lucia's hands, and impressing on her that her sister could use some professional help.

Sully grunted under his breath as he strode across the driveway. Lucia wouldn't need convincing. She obviously had a medical background and a degree of influence on Sonia, but even she was probably no match for the famous Cabot stubbornness.

He might have to stay a couple of days, if Porphyria could live without the Buick for that long.

Sully had almost reached the garage when the woman in the gray suit appeared, hand up. It took him a second to see she palmed a badge.

“Special Agent Deidre Schmacker,” she said. “And you are?”

He identified himself, while attempting a peek behind her. She stepped out into the sunlight, made Sully take a step back, and slid on her sunglasses, all in one smooth move.

“You don't work for Mrs. Cabot, do you, Mr. Crisp?”

“Just a friend.”

“Close friend?”

Sully was fascinated. This woman was interrogating him with a look on her face she could have worn to ask after his health. Not only that, but the silver earrings weighing down her lobes were clearly the faces of Chinese pugs. He wanted to ask to see that badge again.

“Sonia and I are friends, yes,” he said. “We both work in ministry, but mine isn't connected with hers.”

“Have you visited her here recently?”

“This is my first time.” Sully fished his own sunglasses out of his polo pocket and stuck them on, as much to hide the mirth in his eyes as to shield himself from the blinding light.

“Do you know anyone on her staff?”

“I just met her assistant today. I've met Egan Ladd, but I don't know him personally.”

“Then you don't know her gardener. Bryson Porter.”

Sully shook his head.

“Agent Schmacker.” A guy beckoned to her from the doorway.

To Sully he looked more like a country singer than someone with the FBI. Boots. Pressed jeans. A wry expression.

Of course, Agent Schmacker didn't fit the stereotype either. Not with the sympathetic smile and the canine jewelry.

“If you'll excuse me,” she said to Sullivan, and made it clear with a nod that he was dismissed and should take advantage of that.

Sully wandered back toward the house and pretended a sudden interest in the rosebushes bordering the driveway. What was this all about? Not that it was any of his business, but . . .

“Am I under arrest?”

Sully looked over his shoulder. The question was asked by a man about forty with a sunburned face turned redder with what Sully guessed was humiliation. Agent Schmacker and Agent Country Singer flanked him as they came out of the garage, followed by another guy carrying a bag.

“We're just taking you in to ask you some questions,” Agent Schmacker said soothingly.

“What's going on?”

Sully swiveled his head back toward the house. Several of the people he'd seen earlier with microphones and cameras ran down the front steps with a stress-sweaty Egan Ladd in pursuit.

“Excuse me, ma'am?” one of the reporters said. “Are you with the FBI?”

“I told you—it's a routine investigation,” Egan called out.

The group disregarded him and followed the agents and the now scarlet-faced man, who Sully assumed was Sonia's gardener. He still had a wad of peat moss hanging from his left work boot as they ushered him into the backseat of a car with government plates.

“Is there a criminal investigation into Sonia Cabot's plane crash?” someone called out.

“Mr. Ladd can give you an official statement.” Agent Schmacker closed the back door and opened the front. Agent Country Singer already had the engine running.

“Who's that you just arrested?” someone else said.

“Stand back, please,” the agent said out the window.

The tires crackled over pebbles the gardener hadn't had a chance to sweep off and left Sully behind with the reporters. They were immediately back on Egan.

“Who did they take away?”

“Is he a suspect?”

“Yes.”

Heads turned to Sully, who put out his hands and beckoned them closer with his fingers. They moved in with their microphones.

“He's suspected of illegal use of coffee grounds on bareroot rosebushes. It's a felony offense in some garden circles.”

“Cute,” someone said.

They turned back to Egan Ladd, who Sully hoped had taken the opportunity to compose himself. He still looked as if he were about to be hit by a train.

“They're questioning everyone on Ms. Cabot's staff,” he said lamely. “As I explained, it's protocol since 9/11 whenever there's a plane crash.”

“Who was that they took in?”

“Sonia is waiting to give all of you an interview,” Egan spoke over them. ”But we would appreciate you limiting your questions to matters of her ministry. She doesn't know any more about this investigation than I've already told you.”

“I think I have everything I need,” one of them said.

“Yeah, thanks for your time, Mr. Ladd.”

The crowd thinned, leaving one young woman and a sweaty cameraman.

“Come on in,” Egan said. “She's waiting for you inside.”

They shrugged at each other and followed Egan through the door. Sully felt a pang of hurt for Sonia. This was going to be a blow to that eroding ego. Maybe one blow too many.

He sighed and went in after them.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I
stood in Sonia's dining room and witnessed the famed Southern hospitality with bulging eyes.

Francesca, Georgia, and a bevy of their clones brought in platter after casserole after Crock-Pot full of sour cream–soaked, white sauce–based, cheese-encrusted dishes that overflowed the Queen Anne table onto the matching buffet. As imaginative as I prided myself in being when it came to cooking, I had to admit I had never dreamed that certain things could be fried—olives, okra, pickles. Asparagus. Apparently nothing was sacred.

It was almost five o'clock, and my stomach was so empty it was consuming itself, but once again I was confronted with a banquet and a whole cast of supermodels to watch me eat it. I turned to go in search of Sonia, ostensibly to make sure she ate something, and literally ran into Sullivan Crisp.

“I'm sorry, Lucia,” he said.

He'd said my name several times, but I was still startled that he remembered it. Guys like him usually forgot me with ease.

“It's okay,” I said.

“No, I'm a bull in a china shop. Here.” He handed me a heavy stoneware plate from the stack at the end of the buffet and took one for himself. “Would you look at this spread?”

I wanted to dive under the table. It was bad enough having to eat under the scrutiny of Georgia et al. Throw in a famous, nicelooking man that everyone fell over each other to be noticed by, and I was headed for starvation.

“You're not from the South, are you, Lucia?” he said.

“No. Pennsylvania,” I said.

“Then I bet you've never had hush puppies.” He paused with a pair of tongs around a small breaded item that shone with grease. “Try one?”

“What is it?” I said. Good. Now I sounded rude.

“It's actually a fried hunk of dough. Unhealthiest thing you can put in your body, which is probably why it's so delicious.”

He dropped one on my plate and moved us along to the next platter. “Tell me that isn't fried shrimp.”

“
Fresh
fried shrimp.” Georgia put out her hand, forcing Sullivan Crisp to juggle his plate to grasp it. “Georgia Jansen, Dr. Crisp,” she said. “It is a pleasure.”

I skirted the shrimp and the casseroles and dumped a tong full of salad on my plate next to the lone hush puppy. Then I gave that up, too, set the whole thing on a tea cart, and looked around for Bethany.

Was anybody feeding her? I'd had to abandon my quest for candy, though while Georgia and her group were setting up the table I had ventured into a pantry that rivaled Swiss Farm in inventory— but contained nothing remotely resembling a Hershey bar.

At that point I had gotten a look around the kitchen, a grand affair with appliances hidden by oak panels and a black-granite-topped island in the middle. It matched the curved snack bar that formed a half circle and could seat four in black iron chairs padded in white. My hands begged to be washed in that pristine sink below the snack bar and go to work at the range, the double oven, the broad cutting board that smelled of linseed oil and garlic.

“It's on after this commercial,” Marnie said from somewhere. “Sonia says let's watch in the Gathering Room.”

I held back as the rest moved through the sunny breakfast nook I could see beyond the kitchen and disappeared. I might be able to get something down while they were watching the news coverage of Sonia's arrival.

“Are you coming, Lucia?”

Sullivan Crisp startled me from the dining room doorway. I felt like he'd caught me with my mouth full of hush puppies.

“I thought I'd fix Sonia a plate,” I said.

It was a lie on a number of levels, which I regretted the minute I said it. Sonia had told me this guy was a therapist. He was probably reading my mind that very minute.

“It might be a good idea for you to be there when she sees this,” he said. “A really good idea.”

His tone made me look harder at him. For all his boyish charm, something deeper hid in his voice. Or maybe that was just magical thinking on my part. Everything around here was so nuts right now, I half-wished Nurse Kim would appear.

“I was there when she did her interview,” he said, “and let's just say she might be a little disappointed at what she sees.”

“Sonia doesn't do disappointed,” I said. “I don't think it's in her rule book.”

Good. Now I'd said something sarcastic to this icon of godliness, or whatever he was. I opened my mouth to mangle an apology, but he grinned. I couldn't describe it any other way. This thing that went up slowly on one side and then the other wasn't a smile. It was a grin that begged to be grinned back at. Too bad I wasn't the grinning kind.

“I'd love to hear your take on all this,” he said. “But let's go in. Seriously, she might need you.”

Unless Sonia went into cardiac arrest, I couldn't imagine her needing me. She was ensconced in a chair-and-a-half in a goldenyellow sitting room with a stone fireplace and computer terminals and more chairs that begged to be collapsed into, though no one had taken them up on their offer. Roxanne, Marnie, Francesca, Georgia, and a raft of other people I hadn't been introduced to stood like sentinels around Sonia. Only Egan stood apart with a remote control pointed at a flat screen mounted above the fireplace. His face was pinched. He'd lost the
GQ
look.

“Are we TiVo-ing the other stations?” Sonia said.

“Yes,” he said wearily.

Marnie squealed. “Here it is!”

Roxanne shushed the room unnecessarily. Next to me against the wall, I thought I felt Sullivan tighten up. I didn't think therapists got uptight. That alone would have made me anxious if fear hadn't already been grabbing at my insides.

“Christian celebrity Sonia Cabot returned to her hometown of Nashville today,” said a woman on the screen, who could have passed for half the women in the Gathering Room. “. . . after a plane crash that tragically disfigured her face. It was not a completely joyous homecoming.”

There was a long shot of Sonia on the steps, the sunglasses and the Katharine Hepburn hat making her look like a washed-up actress coming out of the Betty Ford Clinic.

“While supporters cheered her on—”

The camera panned a crowd with a banner I hadn't been aware of at the time.

“—one man was less than happy to see her back.”

The entire sequence of the kid yelling about his mother played across the screen, complete with me, looking like a pig in a herd of svelte cats, knocking off Sonia's hat, and the camera zooming in foggily on her head. Bethany's screams pulled the footage to her sobbing on the porch and our entire entourage scrambling to get through the front door.

We were flipped back to Reporter Girl, holding a microphone, with Sonia's estate behind her. “That isn't all Sonia Cabot has to deal with. The FBI is investigating the plane crash that took place on July tenth. While sources close to her say this investigation is, quote, ‘routine' . . .”