So this was how it was going to be. The waiter returned with a tray holding a single champagne flute. Elizabeth took the glass and sipped. “Thank you,” she said and raised it in a small toast to him.
He bent slightly at the waist and stepped back, then vanished into the crowd once more.
Across the room, she spotted Charles McClaine, her father-in-law. He turned, scanning the room like a barracuda searching for minnows until his focus came to her. He gave her a quick, cool smile and also returned his attention to the couple he was in conversation with.
“Nice to see you, too,” she muttered under her breath, and turned to pick up a shrimp canapé from the buffet, popping it into her mouth as she continued to survey the crowd.
These were people she knew and worked with, and yet right now she felt as though she had an invisible force field surrounding her, preventing anyone from approaching. Off to her left, she spotted Rebecca Dean, the wife of Cleveland’s deputy mayor. Rebecca fluttered her fingers at Elizabeth in a brief wave, a welcoming smile on her face, which Elizabeth responded to in kind, until Rebecca’s husband leaned over with a reproachful glance at Elizabeth and whispered something to Rebecca. Rebecca looked momentarily pained, then gave Elizabeth a sorrowful glance, before looking away again.
Elizabeth clutched her purse under her arm and moved on, casting a contemptuous eye over the business suits and the women’s conservative gowns as she circumnavigated the room. Glancing down, she was beginning to wonder at her own wisdom in choosing this dress instead of the one Penny had advised her to wear, when a voice behind her said, “You look beautiful. I only wish I could have dressed you.”
She spun around to find Clay Farrant behind her, looking suave and relaxed, tall champagne flute in hand. Only now she realized that he was the one the Wheelwrights had been in their little tête-à-tête with. She took a sip of her drink, then looked him over, saying, “I hope you didn’t come all the way over here just to say I told you so.”
His expression was one of mock horror. He touched his fingers to his chest. “Me? Why would I do that?”
“Weren’t you the one in the media with your ‘learned’ views on the early release program, baying for the blood if it went ahead? Oh, and feel free to correct me if I got that wrong.”
Dimples formed two perfect brackets that framed his mouth when he smiled. He wobbled his head side to side, trying to marry up her version of the events with his.
“If I remember rightly, that’s not exactly what I said. It was never the program I was against.” He glanced around, leaned to her conspiratorially, and dropped his voice. “Contrary to what you might think, I’m not stupid enough to spit on one of the governor’s pet projects just when I’ve hit the Favorites list. It was your choice of candidate I was opposed to, not the program.”
She looked away, took another sip. “At least you’re honest. More than I can say for some around here.”
“I’ve been called worse.” He ran his eyes slowly down her dress, stopping on her legs. “And I mean it, I wish I could have dressed you. There’s nothing like showing off your wares on a beautiful woman for good advertising.”
“I don’t wear your designs. They’re a little too young for me,” she said, then mentally kicked herself for making the type of age comment she regularly chastened others for making. Ever since she’d hit fifty, she’d found herself more confident inside her own skin, but ironically, less confident with what was happening on the outside—a line here, a wrinkle there. Somehow they all seemed to counterbalance the wisdom and confidence that gave her that inner self-assuredness. It was a double-edged sword and she hated it.
Clay tipped his head, eyebrows lifting to a peak. “I hear there’s a certain school dance coming up. If I can’t dress you, then I’d be honored if you’d allow me to showcase one of my designs on your daughter.”
Elizabeth cut him a look, instantly both suspicious and protective of Holly. “How did you know about that? What do you know about my daughter?”
He clutched his champagne flute between finger and thumb so he could hold both hands up to her. “Whoa, hold it right here. It’s my business, Elizabeth. I keep tabs on every opportunity.” The smile broadened again. “And while I’m a little embarrassed by all this fuss, you don’t win Most Progressive Enterprise and Businessman of the Year without keeping your ear to the ground.”
“I thought it was your fabulous operational and logistical blueprint that was responsible for all the success. Or has the business community of Cleveland suddenly developed a sense of haute couture?”
He laughed. “You want to beat the Chinese in our own market and pay your workforce what they’re worth, you have to have all your ducks in a row these days. I like to think my ducks are in pretty good shape.”
She let an appraising gaze travel his full height. “I’m sure your ducks are exactly where you need them.” Another sip. “So you still haven’t told me why you’ve trodden over the red-hot coals to come talk to me.”
He turned, looking over the other attendees, all of whom were now immersed in conversation and trying to look as if they hadn’t noticed the two of them together.
His eyes rose to a point just above her head while he found the words. “I may just be able to help you.”
“Me?” she said in surprise.
He leaned in, his line of sight directed over her shoulder. Elizabeth could feel his breath on her neck. “Don’t take this as gospel, but a little bird tells me you’re out in the … let’s say … social wilderness at the moment.”
He straightened and their eyes met.
“Well, how gallant. And you’ll do what? Hunt down Stacy May and bring her back bound hand and foot, and flung over your shoulder like a sack of wheat?”
He laughed, dimples deepening, eyes sparkling, obviously enjoying the moment. “Well, the truth is, I have no more idea of where Stacy May Charms is than you do. If I did, you’d be the first to know. See, the thing is, I don’t know if you keep abreast of the markets, but I’m told that when Rue Xeeba floats on the stock market, I’ll be sitting in a pretty good position.” He gave her an appraising look. “I’d be happy to help pave the way back into the fold for you.”
She drained the glass and put it down on the table behind her, shifted her weight while she regarded him. Penny was right, he really was good looking. “And why would you ‘pave the way’ for me?”
“Because this project you’ve been working on is the governor’s baby. If anybody’s going to help save it from going out with the bathwater, I’d like to be the one who’s—well, if not holding the towel, at least keeping it warm.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, tipping her head back before meeting his eyes again. “You have political aspirations. Right. Now I get it.”
He grinned again. Those dimples. “You make it sound like a death sentence.” He took a second to regard those standing nearby and shifted to cut them off. “It’s a smart move. Once the company floats, and there’s a management team onboard and all the extras and doodads that go with it, my time will free up. I’m hoping I’ll come out with enough cash and connections to be a contender. I think I could do some good.”
“Extras and doodads? I can guarantee if you use that kind of language around my father-in-law he’ll be running for the hills with all your potential shareholders right behind him. And if you want my advice, he’s exactly the kind of ringleader you need to get the best share price.”
He grinned, hands spread wide. “You see? That’s what I love about you. You’re straight up, honest.” The smile faded. “I mean it, Elizabeth, if you need anything—anything at all, call me. I’d be more than happy to do whatever I can. And if I might be so bold, do it while I still have the numbers on my side.”
Behind him, Elizabeth spotted Christine Wentworth cutting through the throngs and heading straight for them at a brisk clip. In her early thirties, Christine wore her blonde hair pulled harshly back from her face and heavy rimmed eyeglasses that might have loo
ked vulgar on anyone else, but great on her. Her perfect skin was lightly made up, highlighting her sharp blue eyes. Standing no taller than five feet two without shoes, what she lacked in height Christine made up for in her reputation as a tough negotiator and iron-fisted business woman. Even tonight, her gray pencil skirt cut to the knee and double-breasted jacket over a plain navy blue blouse formed the perfect image of a woman who didn’t take prisoners.
Following Elizabeth’s line of sight, Clay turned, just as Christine approached with the corners of her lips creasing into a thin smile.
“And here she is,” Clay said, with an outstretched arm, “my secret weapon. Elizabeth, have you met Chrissie?”
Elizabeth felt something inside her turn sour. “No. Lovely to meet you at last,” she said, forcing the warmth into the words.
“Likewise,” Christine said with a small tilt of the head. She immediately turned to Clay, slipping a beautifully manicured hand into the crook of his arm—the gesture of possession and familiarity not lost on Elizabeth.
“Clay, Harvey and Wynonna Benson are waiting to see you. Will you excuse us?” she said to Elizabeth, as if she were dismissing a servant.
Clay Farrant executed a brief bow. “We’ll catch up soon.” He gave her a regretful smile, then walked away with Christine guiding him by the arm, his hand already extended towards a waiting group of devotees.
After just over an hour Elizabeth had been roundly ignored by everyone in the room except the one man she least expected to speak to, and the one woman she found herself irritated by. Feeling conspicuous and somewhat regretting her choice of evening wear, she called for her coat and asked for the limo her father-in-law had arranged to pick her up out front and drive her home.
Just as her car pulled up in front of the conference center, she turned on her phone, noting that same unknown number had called her another four times—no message.
The driver got out and rounded the car to hold the door for her, and the second she got in and the door closed, she hit the speed dial, calling Penny. The line picked up after three rings, Penny saying, “That was quick. So how’d it go?”
“Did you catch it on the TV?”
“Ah, yep.”
Nothing more. Just “yep,” Elizabeth noticed.
The driver got in, started the car, and edged it toward the street.
“So how did I look? Did I come across okay?”
“You looked great. So tell me what happened. Who’d you speak to?”
Elizabeth sat back and turned her head to the passenger’s window, watching the street lights sliding by as she spoke.
“Only one person spoke to me the whole night—Clay Farrant.”
Penny’s tone rang of something like horror. “Seriously? What did he have to say?”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “He said I looked beautiful.”
“That bastard.” There was a hesitation, then Penny said, “He is a bastard, right?”
“He’s rallying support so he can make a run at the governor’s seat.”
“You think that’s the only reason he spoke to you? What if it’s not? What if he’s interested in something else? You could do worse, you know—handsome poster boy for Ohio manufacturing, cozy little mansion for two, your social standing reaching the stratosphere in two minutes flat.”
“I’m fifty-five. He must be, what? Thirty-eight, thirty-nine?”
“So you’re saying a younger man can’t be attracted to an older woman—especially a beautiful, intelligent one?”
Again, Elizabeth felt herself running down that same alley—the age issue.
“It doesn’t matter, anyway. Christine Wentworth was there, obviously with him.”
“Oh, Miss Sourpuss? Lucky him. But what difference does that make?”
“According to those in on the social grapevine, Christine Wentworth isn’t just president of his manufacturing empire; word is there’s a romantic connection between them.”
“So?”
“Oh, get out of here. I’m not making overtures to someone who’s already in a relationship. Anyway, I think it’s just his way of soliciting for political support. It’s the old back-scratching: you look after me and I’ll look after you. The last thing I intend to do is spend the entire term of his governorship as one of his political cronies, bowing and scraping because he once cast a favorable eye on me, thank you all the same.”
“Up to you, doll. But like I said, you could do a whole lot worse.”
A couple of beeps in her ear indicated another call coming in. Elizabeth looked down at the phone. It was the same number. Sixth call tonight.
“Listen, I gotta go, Penny. I have another call. I’ll call you first thing.” And she hung up, switching from one call to the next.
“Elizabeth McClaine,” she answered.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DAY ONE: 10:02 PM—STACY
Stacy had been stalking around Alice’s apartment between repeated attempts to call Mrs. McClaine, watching the stupid girl dope herself up to the eyeballs. She couldn’t help shaking her head and wondering why Alice did it. It was only now as she made the sixth call that she realized that the battery indicator had dropped to the last two bars and she’d neglected to get the charger. She was just about to cut the call when the line picked up.
Stacy moved to the corner of the kitchenette with her hand to the side of her mouth, shielding it, and whispering so Alice wouldn’t hear. “Mrs. McClaine, it’s me—Stacy.”
There was tense silence for a couple of seconds, then Mrs. McClaine said, “Stacy? Where are you? What’s happening?” She sounded more concerned than angry.
“I can’t tell you. I just … I just wanted to tell you I’m so, so sorry for what I did. Like, running out the way I did.”
Out in the living room, Alice was curled up on the sofa, elbow jammed against the armrest, head leaning on her fist while she watched some reality show on the TV, talking to the cast and telling them what to do as if they were there in the room with her.
Stacy turned back towards the tiny window that overlooked the parking lot outside where she’d left Curta’s car, and dropped her voice again. “I have to find Tyler. Do you know where he is?”
“No, Stacy, I don’t. Child Services has him at a very good foster home, and I know that you requested to have him moved several times but—”
“It’s not that,” Stacy said, interrupting her. “Someone’s after him. They threatened to kill him.”
Another tight silence, then Mrs. McClaine said, “Who told you that?”
Stacy turned back, checking Alice, who was still watching TV and smoking. “I got a photograph. It was left in my cell, couple of days before I was released. I found it tucked down into my bedding. It’s a picture of Tyler coming out of his school. Someone drew, like crosshairs on it, like they’re gonna shoot him or something. Then they wrote He’s first, you’re next on the back of it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” The shock in her voice reverberated down the phone line.
“I couldn’t.” Realizing her own voice had risen, she lowered it again, saying, “I didn’t get the chance to say anything because there was always someone around. I didn’t know who I could trust.”
“You think it was someone inside the prison?”
Stacy switched hands with the phone while she opened the window to let some fresh air into the apartment. “It has to be. But they must have a connection on the outside, too.”
“Why would they want to hurt you or Tyler? Is this something to do with the drugs they found?”
Stacy huffed in frustration. There was so much to this thing and no time to go into it. “Listen, I can’t tell you right now. Just make sure Tyler’s safe, will you? Please?”
“He is safe, Stacy. I can promise you that. He’s with a good family that loves him. Kay Heathers said he’s very happy with them. She makes regular calls on them and they look after him very well.”
“Yeah, but if someone can get close enough to take a ph
oto of him—”
“Stacy, I have the assurance of the police that Tyler is fine. Your parole officer, Nancy Pattrenko, is assisting wherever she can. Listen, where are you? I’ll come straight over and pick you up.”
“You can’t. You’d have to turn me straight in.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh, yeah?” Stacy said. “So we’ll both end up in adjoining cells? Me with another two years for running, you for aiding and abetting? Thanks, Mrs. McClaine, but I don’t think so.” There was another silence, and Stacy said, “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I should have thought this out better.”
“It’s okay, Stacy. I’m working on it at my end. We’ll figure it all out.”
A knock at Alice’s door made Stacy turn, and her heart rate jumped. “Listen, I gotta go.”
“Wait, Stacy, please.”
“Just make sure Tyler’s safe. Nothing else matters.” And she hung up and turned the phone off.
In the living room, Alice had crossed to the TV and turned it down. They shared a tense look, and when the knock came again, Alice went to the door, opened it a crack, and peeked out.
Alice clapped her hand to her chest and threw the door wide, saying, “Jeez, you nearly gave me a heart attack. What are you doing here?”
A thin guy walked in, dirty jeans, sweatshirt over a plaid button-down shirt, his face blotchy with zits and stubble. His bleary, drug-reddened eyes went straight to Stacy.
“There’s a party. Who’s this?” he said, jerking his chin at her.
Alice shut the door and followed his line of sight. “This is Stacy. We were inside together. She just broke parole and needs a place to hang for a while.”
“Well, gee thanks, Alice,” Stacy said. “Nice cover.”
“Aw, don’t be like that,” Alice said, like a kid who’d had her internet privileges taken away. “This is Bug. He’s got a warrant out on him, so he’s hardly gonna head straight downtown and throw your ass to the cops, is he?”
The Elizabeth McClaine Thriller Boxed Set Page 41