The lawyer’s caustic laugh was very telling. “You fool. When he finds out, you’ll be holding nothing but the bars on your prison cell.”
“Are you threatening me?” Giselle asked in an ominous tone.
“Threatening you? Pfft. Lady, I’m warning you. The things you’ve set in motion are insane. I don’t need to do anything except step back and watch you self-destruct. You can’t pay me enough to go down with you.”
“Oh, yeah?” Giselle sputtered. “Well, you’re fired.”
“Fuck you. I quit.”
The sound of a slap made Arnie and his dad flinch. If she was assaulting her lawyer, shit must be off the hook for Giselle. He’d laugh except cornered animals were the most dangerous. Whatever she was up to was far enough over the legal-ethical line to make her lawyer quit. He’d been wishing for the woman’s downfall for a long, long time but had never considered what a death spiral would lead to. The evil bitch was capable of anything.
Footsteps got them hastily scrambling behind the pantry door before their presence was discovered. The lawyer stomped by, and Giselle’s heels tapped out her retreat in the opposite direction.
This time, it was Arnie saying, “Shh,” with a finger to his mouth. He pushed past his dad and gestured to let him know he was going to follow the lawyer and see what he did next.
Slipping stealthily into the butler’s pantry, Arnie stalked after the retreating lawyer. The guy avoided the family gathering in the formal dining room and headed for the front porch. Right before he stepped outside, the dude stopped, pulled out his phone, and placed a call.
“Mr. Wanamaker? This is Bruce Wells.” After a short pause, he said, “Yes, Mrs. Wanamaker’s former lawyer. I think we should talk.”
Dammit. He couldn’t follow him outside. Frustrated at being cut off, he pulled together what he knew.
Giselle was up to something nefarious—her lawyer wasn’t having it and quit. Threats were thrown. So was a face slap. Not having any names limited the scope of the information. The lawyer mentioned a “he” and then made a call to Mr. Wanamaker. The only person he was absolutely sure hadn’t been on the other end of the call was him.
“Bridge pose,” the YouTube instructor called out. “Slowly lift and tighten that butt.”
Summer followed along without any idea if she was doing the poses correctly. Since going to the gym or taking a workout class wasn’t possible, she substituted with free online stuff, which was great and all until guidance from an actual in-person instructor would be helpful.
“This isn’t working.”
Rolling off the dollar store yoga mat, she squatted to roll it up and stashed it in the front closet.
“What this situation needs is music.” She looked toward the bedroom where the baby was snoozing. “Hmm. I need a plan B.”
Her eyes glanced around looking for inspiration. It hit her like a thunderbolt.
“Oh, wait! Santa’s AirPods!”
Scurrying to an antique buffet she converted into a TV stand, Summer found the cordless technology every parent with a baby on a schedule needed. Sometimes, she liked to crank up the jams to get her blood pumping but not when the baby was asleep. The ear pods had already saved her sanity a dozen times since Christmas.
With the pods in her ears, she spun the music wheel in her phone and went with the first song she saw.
“Fitz and the Tantrums.” She chuckled. “‘123456.’ I love this song.”
Of course she did. It was one of the anthems she dedicated to Arnie in the alternate reality she lived in her head. A reality where he loved her.
Easily dropping into the beat of the song, she danced around the quiet apartment while the techno hip-hop rhythm fed her dancing soul. She thought about Arnie’s dazzling blue gaze and adorable smile. The cardio explosion pushed her body. Erotic thoughts livened up her moves. Her golden Adonis was a carnal wizard. His touch transported her to another dimension.
When the song ended, she ran to the phone and played it again. The second time around, her wild dance released a whirlwind of energy. She kept going without stopping—until she was breathless.
Removing the ear pods, Summer stood in the middle of her apartment, her chest heaving while giddiness tickled her senses.
“Tom Petty. 1981. The Hard Promises album. First song, side one. ‘The Waiting.’ Come on, Arnie. I’m tired of waiting. Figure it the fuck out!” she whisper-screamed.
South of his belly button and slightly to the left, a clump of nerves kept diverting Arnie’s attention from the council of pontificators currently engaged in a fulsome recitation of the many reasons he, Darnell Wanamaker the goddamn third, should be barred from inheriting not just the Connecticut estate but almost everything else—on general principle.
It was super easy to tune it all out. Fucking idiots. He was third in goddamn line—hence the name—and was through attempting to play nice or justify anything.
Right about the time his dad’s pompous ass of a brother—Uncle Ed—got up on his portable soapbox with an unintelligible screed about the cachet of the Wanamaker name, Arnie wrote the whole lot of them off and went inside his head where the company was, at the very least, somewhat intelligent.
He glanced at his dad. It didn’t take an advanced degree to see that the man expressed his disdain for the proceedings by balls out playing a game on his phone. The sound was on but dialed low. Every time Arnie heard the tinkling bells indicating the game progressed to a new level, he bit his tongue to keep from laughing.
The gnawing in his gut intensified. He didn’t have to wonder what it meant. Ever since the incident between Giselle and her mutinous lawyer, he’d kept tabs on the male Wanamakers.
Stan was off page, doing god knows what, and not answering his phone. He also never showed for the luncheon where their granddad dropped a handful of patriarchal grenades.
He also skipped the quasi-mandatory cocktail hour before the most uncomfortable sit-down dinner in the history of their fucked-up family. The forced meal was one for the family album. Half the people he’d expect to find seated around Darnell Senior’s magnificent formal table were missing. Applying burn ointment no doubt from the afternoon’s explosions. In the light of aftermath, it made sense for Giselle to be absent but not Stan.
And now this. A hastily convened tribunal he had no doubt would end with a figurative firing squad.
Stan should be sitting next to him. The disgruntled reaction once Senior’s wishes were revealed made Arnie’s life hell. The two of them and their dad represented the future direction of the family. Stan’s support sure would have been nice.
Confusing energies made it difficult to cut through the bullshit. Ignoring everything going on around him, Arnie focused inward. Where was his brother?
A tiny swirl of pulsing light bounced off his chest. He watched it hover in his mind’s eye. Sending calm and steady orders to his physical body, he made the decision to follow the minuscule beam and slipped into sentient awareness.
Straightaway, he realized he most definitely was not in Kansas anymore. A wall of rage thicker than concrete blocked him. No stranger to navigating the wavelengths of others, he pressed on.
Another shift took him into an impossible to decipher, three-sixty maelstrom messier than a college kid’s dorm room.
He heard Stan’s voice, raised in anger. The sort of anger reserved for bad stuff.
Shit. Arnie’s anxiety exploded. Concern for the brother he loved shook him to his core. The jolt of emotion pulled the plug on his psychic wanderings and slammed him back into his physical body.
Arnie turned to his dad. They shared an intense, meaningful look. After a long, tense minute, his father nodded and gestured for him to go.
“Don’t worry, son. I’ve got this. Believe me, it’ll be my pleasure to shut everyone up. I have a few things needing to be aired too.”
Arnie rose and left the room without so much as a nod at those gathered. Fuck ’em. He had to find his brother. Quickly.
&n
bsp; Without questioning why or straining to formulate a plan, he let instinct take the wheel. Like a horse with blinders on, he headed to his guest suite and on autopilot, pulled a black shirt and pants from his bags.
It took no time at all to change his clothes. He put his phone in a pocket but nothing else.
Leaving the main house by a side door, he avoided the outside lights and slipped into the shadows. His feet led the way on a familiar route. He passed the long garage, and rather than walk a flagstone pathway in the open, he skirted behind a line of trees on his way to the tennis court.
Drawn to the small adjoining pavilion like a bee in search of nectar, Arnie crept closer until he found what he was searching for. Stan. Only he wasn’t alone. Giselle was there.
They were arguing. Arnie couldn’t hear their words, but their body language came through loud and clear. Spittle flew as they screamed at each other. Stan was the color of fruit punch, and Giselle appeared unusually agitated and quite the worse for wear. In fact, Arnie couldn’t remember ever seeing her with a hair out of place, much less looking like a madwoman.
She was waving her arms and pointing at Stan. It all reeked of threat. Anger burned inside Arnie. He didn’t need to know what was going on to wish for Stan to wipe up the floor with her evilness, once and for all. The kid earned it. She was a shit parent who used her only son to finance her life. It would do his brother a world of good to put his foot down.
Something happened in their confrontation that made Stan go off like a land mine. He went crazy, screaming in her face until she finally cowered.
Arnie watched Stan use his body to back her into a literal corner while he spat angry words in her face. It happened so quickly he wasn’t prepared when Stan’s hand shot out and grabbed his mother by the throat.
He froze. His brain screamed, “What the fucking fuck?”
Giselle fought back for a second, and then, unbelievably, she kneed her son in the nuts. Stan let go, and she jumped on him. There ensued a knock-down, drag-out physical confrontation. They appeared to be battling over an object. Arnie squinted for a better look, but the kerfuffle was spiraling out of control.
Stan was victorious over whatever they fought for control of. He waved something small in the air and slipped it in his pocket. A bloody collar was the result of scratches on his neck left there by his mother.
Giselle freaked. Her aggression turned to begging. Tears were involved. Stan pushed her away, and in the most awesome moment Arnie ever witnessed, his brother snarled at her and then spit. She appeared shocked out of her mind.
Without another word, Stan turned and walked away.
Arnie had only seconds to decide what to do. Make his presence known or follow his brother to see what happened next. He went with instinct and lurked in the shadows as Stan made a beeline for the main house. Right before he entered through a back door, he stopped, straightened his tie, and took a deep breath. Then he reached into a pocket, withdrew his phone, and made a call.
“Hi. Dad? We have a situation.”
25
Apprehension filled Arnie as he watched Stan and their dad argue from across the room. No matter what anyone said, his brother refused to give up what he took from Giselle. He just kept saying, “Not yet.” Not until Bruce Wells joined the conversation.
Something big hung heavily in the air, making it hard to catch enough oxygen to fill his lungs. The way Stan looked at Arnie made a squadron of butterflies go crazy in his gut, and his father’s unglued manner only added to the surreal vibe.
How the hell had he earned a starring role in this strange situation? Damn, if he knew.
Stan marched to the bar cart in Arnie’s suite and concocted a dirty martini. Panicked by what he thought was a front row seat watching his brother fall off the wagon, he was taken aback when the drink ended up pressed into his hand.
“Drink this,” Stan muttered. “You’re going to need it.”
“Do as he says, son,” their dad added, his face a portrait of fatherly concern. It made Arnie nervous as fuck.
Confused, unsure, and a lot freaked out, he took a sip, found the drink mixed perfectly, and guzzled the rest. He was biting into his second olive when a knock sounded at the door.
Stan and their father exchanged a look. A sign they’d agreed on what role each would play in the unfolding scene. The thought did not make him any calmer.
Taking an oddly protective stance at Arnie’s shoulder, Stan grunted to signal it was okay to answer the door.
Swallowing the bitter-tasting anxiety, he watched his father admit Giselle’s former attorney. They didn’t shake hands—a power play to let the legal guy know who was in charge.
In the middle of the room, they stopped to confer quietly. Bruce Wells was carrying a briefcase. He lofted it like evidence and murmured to Arnie’s dad.
Licking his lips in a vain attempt to bring moisture to his mouth, Arnie felt and heard his heart thumping.
“Arnie?”
His eyes swept up to find his father leaning close.
“Mr. Wells has a story to tell. I want you to promise me your ass will remain planted in that chair no matter what you hear. Do you understand?”
“No,” he grumbled. “Dad?”
“Son, let me do this my way. I want your word that you will not get out of the chair.”
He glared at Bruce Wells. The guy was practically sweating a waterfall.
Nodding his promise, he gripped the arms of his seat and hoped he survived the freight train barreling toward him.
His father sat, but the lawyer remained standing. He wondered if it was to give him a better chance of escaping if Arnie leaped up and tried to kill him.
A chilly calmness grabbed hold. He raised his scowling gaze to the lawyer and ordered him to begin.
Pulling a wing chair closer, Wells put his briefcase on the seat and opened it. Stan cleared his throat. Every sound and action left a brand on Arnie’s brain.
“Last year during the family retreat in Santa Barbara, Mrs. Giselle Wanamaker, ex-wife of Ned Wanamaker,” he said in a lawyerly voice with a nod at Arnie’s dad, “mother to Stanford and stepmother to Darnell, became aware of information she felt could be used to her advantage.”
A deadly stillness seized him upon hearing the words, Santa Barbara. Nuclear rage sparked to life in his thoughts. Without knowing what she’d done, Arnie was sure he was going to murder his former stepmother. It was the only explanation for his dad’s and Stan’s behavior.
“I want to be clear from the outset that yes, I knew what she was doing.” He handed a file to Stan. “At the time, her actions were predictable and benign. She was always looking for the upper hand. It was her way of life.”
“Dad,” Stan muttered. “You better take a look at this.”
Incapable of movement or speech, Arnie never stopped staring at the lawyer.
“Until then, Giselle was a one-trick show dog. She manipulated Mr. Stanford’s ex-wife as a way of keeping control of everything. When she got bored,” Wells sneered in a disgusted tone, “she stirred other pots.”
He looked at Arnie’s dad. “She knows about your girlfriend. I think finding out about your, um, relationship with Ms. Welcher was the straw.”
Thank god his dad was forthcoming with a speedy explanation, short as it was.
“Dr. Tanya Welcher.” He drawled with great emphasis on her title. “She’s a botanist. Teaches at the university. We’re living together.”
Stan mumbled. “No wonder Mom lost her shit.”
“It’s not for me to surveil what you people are up to. I’m only telling you what she knew and adding context for relevancy. Until your living arrangements changed, she’d been content to play cat and mouse with her information. When her tactics took a dark turn, and it looked like she was veering into the legal dead zone, I stepped back.”
“Okay,” Stan muttered. “We get it, Bruce. You’re a victim, too.”
“She’s dangerous,” Wells assured them. “All ani
mals turn dangerous when they’re cornered. With Mr. Stanford cutting the cord and Mr. Ned choosing a life she couldn’t manipulate, she turned to what she imagined was her last hope.”
The lawyer’s eyes held Arnie’s. “I told her you were the last person on earth she should mess with, but she was too manic to listen.”
He found his voice. “What did she do?”
Wells nervously cleared his throat and fidgeted. He touched the knot of his tie and glanced at Stan before saying, “I’m invoking whistleblower protection. Don’t shoot the messenger, okay?”
Arnie’s hands gripped the arms of the chair so forcefully it was a miracle he didn’t crush the frame. Instead of demanding he continue, Arnie simply growled—and not in a friendly way.
“She happened to see Mr. Darnell in the hotel lobby.” Wells’s gaze darted around the room and looked everywhere but at him. “He, uh, wasn’t alone. A young lady accompanied him.”
Seething with fury, Arnie nearly puked when a flood of hot bile rushed into his gut and burned his throat. He started to rise from the chair until Stan’s hand on his shoulder pushed him back down.
Bruce Wells was smart enough to take a step back. His voice shaking and nervous, the rest of the bizarre story came out. He told them everything—how Giselle ascertained the girl was a local and how easy it was to dig into her past. When he described Summer’s desperate visit to the hotel in an attempt to find out why he vanished, Arnie’s head swam.
He wanted to kill his former stepmother for trying to intimidate Summer and for telling lies about him. She’d gone too far this time.
Unfortunately, he was about to find out how much further Giselle was capable of going.
The bottom dropped out from under him. He fell deep into a river of fiery lava, exploding with incandescent rage when the truth was revealed.
“Without my knowledge or involvement, Giselle hired a local freelance guy who specialized in gotcha surveillance for divorces. He discovered the young lady was pregnant and …”
Finding Summer (Nightwind Book 3) Page 47