The Bourbon Kings #1 (25 page)

“What are you … I’m sorry, I don’t understand?”

His reiteration didn’t help her at all.

As her brother fell silent, she stared out the front windshield, watching the road ahead curve to the contour of the Ohio River.

“Father can just repay the money,” she said dully. “He’ll repay it and it’ll all go away—”

“Gin, if you need to borrow that kind of cash, it’s because you’re in deep, deep trouble. And if you haven’t paid it back? You can’t.”

“But Mummy has money. She has plenty of—”

“I don’t think we can take anything for granted.”

“So where did you find the bail? To get me out?”

“I have some cash and also my trust, which I broke away from the family funds. The two aren’t nearly enough to take care of Easterly, however—and forget about paying back that kind of loan or keeping Bradford Bourbon afloat if it comes to that.”

She looked down at her fucked-up manicure, focusing on the decimation of that which had been perfect when she’d woken up that morning. “Thank you. For getting me out.”

“No problem.”

“I’ll pay you back.”

Except with what? Her father had cut her off … but worse, what if there was no money to give her her allowance anyway?

“It’s just not possible,” she said. “This has to be a misunderstanding. Some kind of … a miscommunication.”

“I don’t think so—”

“You’ve got to think positively, Lane—”

“I walked in on a dead woman in her office about two hours ago, and that was before I found out about the debt. I can assure you that lack of optimism is not the problem here.”

“Do you think …” Gin gasped. “Do you think she stole from us?”

“Fifty-three million dollars? Or even a part of that? No, because why commit suicide—if she embezzled funds, the smart thing would be to take off and change her identity. You don’t kill yourself in your employer’s house if you’ve successfully taken cash.”

“But what if she was murdered?”

Lane opened his mouth like he was going to “no way” her. But then he closed it back up—as if he were trying that idea on for size. “Well, she was in love with him.”

Gin felt her jaw drop. “Rosalinda? With Father?”

“Oh, come on, Gin. Everyone knows that.”

“
Rosalinda?
Her idea of letting her hair down was to tie that bun of hers lower on her head.”

“Repressed or not, she was with him.”

“In our mother’s house.”

“Don’t be naive.”

Right, it was the first time she had ever been accused of that. And suddenly, that memory from all those years ago, from New Year’s Eve, came back … when she had seen her father leaving that woman’s office.

But that had been decades ago, from another era.

Or maybe not.

Lane hit the brakes as they came up to a red light next to the gas station she’d visited that morning. “Think about where she lived,” he
said. “Her four-bedroom Colonial in Rolling Meadows is more than she could afford on a bookkeeper’s salary—who do you think paid for that?”

“She has no children.”

“That we know of.”

Gin squeezed her eyes shut as her brother hit the gas again. “I think I’m going to be ill.”

“Do you want me to pull over?”

“I want you to stop telling me these things.”

There was a long silence … and in the tense void, she kept going back to that vision of her father coming out of that office and doing up his robe.

Eventually, her brother shook his head. “Ignorance isn’t going to change anything. We need to find out what’s happening. I need to get to the truth somehow.”

“How did you … how did you find all this out?”

“Does it matter?”

As they rounded the final curve on River Road before Easterly, she looked off to the right, up to the top of the hill. Her family’s mansion sat in the same place it always had, its incredible size and elegance dominating the horizon, the famous white expanse making her think of all the bourbon bottles that bore an etching of it on their labels.

Until this moment, she had assumed her family’s position was set in stone.

Now, she feared it might be sand.

“O
kay, so we’re all set here.” Lizzie strode down the rows of round tables under the big tent. “The chairs look good.”

“Ja,”
Greta said as she made a slight adjustment to a tablecloth.

The pair of them continued on, inspecting the positioning of all seven hundred seats, double-checking the crystal chandeliers that were hanging from the tent’s three points, making further tweaks to the draped lengths of pale pink and white.

When they were finished, they stepped out from underneath and
followed the lengths of dark green extension cords that snaked around the exterior and supplied electricity to the eight cyclone fans that would ensure circulation.

They had a good five hours of work time left before dark, and, for once, Lizzie thought they’d actually run out of punch-list priorities. Bouquets were done. Flower beds were in perfect condition. Pots at the entrances and exits of the tent were done up fit to kill with combinations of plant material and supplemental blooms. Even the food-prep stations in the adjunct tents had been arranged per Miss Aurora’s instructions.

As far as Lizzie was aware, the food was ready. Liquor delivered. Waitstaff and additional bartenders had been coordinated through Reginald, and he was not the type to drop any balls. Security to make sure the press stayed away were off-duty Metro Police officers and all ready to go.

She really wished there were something to occupy her time. Nervous energy had made her even more productive than usual—and now she was left with nothing but the knowledge that there was a criminal investigation going on about fifty yards away from her.

God, Rosalinda.

Her phone went off against her hip, the vibration making her jump. As she took the cell out, she exhaled. “Thank God—hello? Lane? Are you okay—yes.” She frowned as Greta looked over. “Actually, I left it in my car, but I can go get it now. Yes. Sure, of course. Where are you? All right. I’ll get it and bring it right to you.”

When she ended the call, Greta said, “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. He says he needs a computer.”

“There must be a dozen of them in the house.”

“After what happened this morning, you think I’m going to argue with the guy?”

“Fair enough.” Although the woman’s expression screamed disapproval. “I’m going to check the front of the house beds and pots, and confirm the parkers are going to arrive on time.”

“Eight a.m.?”

“Eight a.m. And then I don’t know, I’m thinking of heading home. I’m getting a migraine, and it’s a long day tomorrow.”

“That’s terrible! I say go now and come back ready to roar.”

Before Lizzie turned away, her old friend gave her a stern look through those heavy glasses. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, yeah. Absolutely.”

“There’s a lot of Lane around here. That’s why I’m asking.”

Lizzie glanced over at the house. “He’s getting a divorce.”

“Really.”

“That’s what he says.”

Greta crossed her arms over her chest and her German accent became more apparent. “About two years too late for that—”

“He’s not all bad, you know.”

“Excuse me? Is this—
nein
, you can’t be serious.”

“He didn’t know Chantal was pregnant, okay?”

Greta threw up her hands. “Oh, well, that makes all the difference, then,
ja
? So he voluntarily married her while he was with you. Perfect.”

“Please, don’t.” Lizzie rubbed her aching eyes. “He—”

“He got to you, didn’t he. He called you, he came to you, something.”

“And if he did? That’s my business—”

“I spent an entire year calling you, getting you out of that farmhouse, making sure you went to work. I was there for you, worrying about you—cleaning up the mess he made. So do not tell me I don’t get to have a reaction when he whispers in your ear—”

Lizzie put her hand up to the woman’s face. “Done. We’re done here. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Marching off, she cursed under her breath the entire way down to her car, and after she got her laptop, she f-bombed the long way back to the house. Deliberately avoiding the kitchen and the conservatory—because she didn’t want to run into Greta as the woman packed up—she entered through the library, and without thinking, headed for the hallway that led to the staff stairs and the kitchen. She didn’t get far. Just as she rounded the corner, she was stopped by two police officers—and that was when she saw the body on a rolling stretcher.

Rosalinda Freeland’s remains had been placed in a white bag with a five-foot zipper that had mercifully been pulled closed.

“Ma’am,” one of the officers said, “I’m going to have to ask you to step aside.”

“Yes, yes, sorry.” Ducking her eyes and swallowing her nausea, she wheeled around. Tried not to think about what had happened.

Failed.

She’d given her name to the police, just like the rest of the staff had, and provided a brief statement of where she’d been all morning as well as over the past few days. When asked about the controller, she hadn’t had much to offer. She hadn’t known Rosalinda any better than anyone had; the woman had kept to herself and her bill processing and that was that.

Lizzie wasn’t even sure if there were any family to notify.

Using the main staircase was a violation of that Easterly etiquette, but considering there was a coroner’s van parked out front and a crime scene down that staff hall, she was confident in letting go of business as usual. Up on the second floor, she made her way over the pale runner, passing by the oil paintings and the occasionals that gleamed with age and superior craftsmanship.

As she came up to Lane’s door, she couldn’t remember the last time she and Greta had fought about anything. God, she wanted to call the woman and … but what could she say?

Drop the laptop off and leave,
she told herself.
That’s it.

Lizzie knocked on the door. “Lane?”

“Come in.”

Pushing her way into the bedroom, she found him standing at the windows, one foot planted on the sill, his forearm braced on his raised knee. He didn’t turn and acknowledge her. Didn’t say anything else.

“Lane?” She glanced around. No one was with him. “Listen, I’ll just leave it—”

“I need your help.”

Taking a deep breath, she said, “Okay.”

But he stayed silent as he stared out at the garden. And God help her, it was impossible not to run her eyes over him. She told herself she was looking for signs of strain—that she wasn’t measuring his muscular
shoulders. The short hair at the base of his neck. The biceps that had curled up and were straining the short sleeves of his polo shirt.

He’d changed clothes since she’d seen him last. Had taken a shower, too—she could smell the shampoo, the aftershave.

“I’m sorry about Rosalinda,” she whispered. “What a shock.”

“Hmm.”

“Who found her?”

“I did.”

Lizzie closed her eyes and hugged the laptop to her chest. “Oh, God.”

Abruptly, he put his hand into the front pocket of his slacks and took something out. “Will you stay with me while I open this?”

“What is it?”

“Something she left behind.” He showed her a black USB drive. “I found it on her desk.”

“Is it a … suicide note?”

“I don’t think so.” He sat down on the bed and nodded at her laptop. “Do you mind if I …?”

“Oh, yes.” She joined him, flipping open the Lenovo and hitting the power button. “I have Microsoft Office so … yeah. Word documents are no problem.”

“I don’t think that’s what it is.”

Signing in, she passed the computer over to him. “Here.”

He pushed the drive in and waited. When the screen flashed a variety of options, he hit “open files.”

There was only one on the drive, and it was marked “William-Baldwine.”

Lizzie rubbed her eyebrow with her thumb. “Are you sure you want me to see this?”

“I’m sure I can’t look at it without you here.”

Lizzie found herself reaching up and resting her hand on his shoulder. “I’m not going to leave you.”

For some reason, she thought of that peach lingerie she’d found behind his father’s bed. Hardly something that Rosalinda would wear—a
lighter tone of gray was the closest the controller had ever come to whoopin’ it up on the wardrobe front. Then again, who knew what the woman had underneath all those proper skirts and jackets?

Lane clicked on the file and Lizzie was aware of her heart pounding like she’d run a full-tilt mile.

And he was right. It wasn’t some kind of love letter or a suicide note. It was a spreadsheet full of columns of numbers and dates and short descriptions that Lizzie was too far away from the screen to read.

“What is all that?” she asked.

“Fifty-three million dollars,” he muttered, scrolling down. “I’ll bet it’s fifty-three million dollars.”

“What do you mean? Wait … are you saying she stole that?”

“No, but I think she helped my father to.”

“What.”

He glanced over at her. “I think my father finally has blood on his hands. Or at least … blood we can see.”