by Lisa Jackson
Troy was standing, smoking a cigarette, one hip propped against the railing, his expression as grim as that of an undertaker as he watched a hummingbird flit through the fragrant honeysuckle blossoms. Through the partially opened window, Caitlyn caught a glimpse of Lucille, her mother’s private maid. With the pretense of folding napkins, Lucille hovered close enough to eavesdrop.
It was little wonder Lucille knew everything about the family. She had raised her daughter, Marta, here. Sometimes Marta, Kelly and Caitlyn had played together long ago.
“Caitlyn!” Troy greeted her in an obvious effort to quickly change the subject and warn his mother that her difficult child had arrived.
“I thought you had an important meeting,” Caitlyn told Troy.
“I did. Important but short.”
“Right.”
Berneda’s pale cheeks colored a bit. “Oh, Caitlyn, I’m so sorry about Josh,” she said, swallowing as tears suddenly glistened in her eyes. “I know you loved him.”
“Once,” Caitlyn admitted, determined not to break down.
“It’s difficult.” She patted Caitlyn’s hand as Caitlyn brushed a kiss against her wan, bony cheek. Berneda was fighting heart disease and slowly losing the battle.
“I’ll be all right.”
“Lucille,” Berneda called to the open window, her strong profile visible. She had been a striking woman in her youth, with intense green eyes, reddish brown hair and a regal carriage that hinted at snobbery and added to her allure. She’once modeled, she’d reminded her children often enough as they’d grown up, and had she not married their father and borne seven children, which had wreaked havoc on her once wasp-thin waist, she could have posed for the covers of magazines in Europe as well as the United States. She’d always made it clear that she’ taken the higher ground, decided to have babies and yet, whenever any one of them screwed up, she threw the modeling card on the table. “Think what I sacrificed for you! A fortune of my own making and all that fame. I could have made it in movies, you know. Had an offer once . . .” But now she was playing the role of concerned mother. “Lucille, see that Caitlyn has some iced tea.”
“I’m not thirsty, Mom,” Caitlyn assured her.
“Nonsense. You’ve had a horrible shock.” Berneda forced a tired smile. “Oh, Caitlyn, I’m so sorry.” She held out her arms and waved her fingers inward rapidly, inviting a hug. As Caitlyn embraced her, she drank in the scent of her mother’s perfume, a fragrance Berneda had worn for as long as Caitlyn could remember. They clung to each other a moment as Caitlyn heard the screen door bang shut and Lucille, balancing a tray, stepped outside.
“I think we could use something stronger.” Troy eyed the glass pitcher and tumblers arranged around a small plate of ladyfingers, grapes and pecan tarts.
Lucille’s expression didn’t change, but Caitlyn noticed her neck stiffen a bit, and her eyes seemed a darker shade of brown as she set the glasses onto the table and began pouring, refilling Berneda’s glass and offering Caitlyn a new drink with a sprig of mint in the glass. “I’m sorry about your husband,” she said to Caitlyn.
“Thank you.” Caitlyn’s throat grew thick again even though she knew from personal experience that Joshua Bandeaux was a liar and a cheat. She hadn’t believed it at the time, but now she realized that he’d married her for her name and her money, gotten her pregnant to that very end.
It hurt to think that Jamie’s conception had been part of Josh’s long-term plan to get at Caitlyn’s money. And then, to think he would actually file a wrongful death suit against her . . . as if she would ever do anything to injure her child.
“Caitlyn?” She heard her name as if from a distance. “Caitlyn?”
She blinked.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Lucille asked, jarring Caitlyn out of her reverie.
She found herself watching the beads trail down her glass of tea, a glass she didn’t remember accepting. “Right as rain,” she said sarcastically. She couldn’t help but catch the quick look sent from Troy to Berneda, a shared understanding that she wasn’t quite all there, that she was somehow “misfiring” or “not running on all eight cylinders.”
“I’m sorry,” Caitlyn finally said, forcing a smile she didn’t feel. “I just spaced for a second.”
“It hasn’t been an easy day,” Berneda said.
“You don’t have to make excuses for me, Mom. I just wanted to come out and tell you about Josh.”
Her mother nodded and sighed. “Troy said that he thought you might stay out here for a few days.”
Caitlyn shot her brother a look guaranteed to kill. “I don’t think so.”
“He mentioned the police might be bothering you.”
“Just asking questions.”
“Surely they . . . they don’t think you had anything to do with Josh’s death?”
Her fingers nearly slipped on the glass. So there was already speculation. Wonderful. She sent Troy another killing glance. “I don’t know what they think, Mom.”
“But that’s ludicrous—” Berneda began as the sound of a car’s engine roared up the drive. “Now what?”
Brakes squealed to a stop and for an instant Caitlyn thought the police had chased her here—that they were standing on their brakes, guns drawn, ready to arrest her just as if she were some wanted criminal in one of those action movies. Sweat broke out over her forehead. She wanted to run. Instead she took a long drink of iced tea, told herself to remain calm as fast-paced footsteps clicked loudly against the back walk.
Amanda Montgomery Drummond, Caitlyn’s oldest sister, in black skirt and jacket, flew around the corner. Her short-cropped hair looked as if she’d jabbed her fingers through it a dozen times on the way over and her silk blouse was uncharacteristically wrinkled. “I’ve been trying to call you,” she said to Caitlyn as she reached the porch. She dashed up the steps. “What the hell is going on? I saw on the news that Josh is dead. Is that right?”
Troy nodded and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the porch railing.
“And no one thought to call me?” She was furious, her eyes narrowing on her brother.
“Caitlyn called me,” he explained as he plowed stiff fingers through his hair.
“That still doesn’t explain why I’m sitting in my office and Rob Stanton—you know, one of the senior partners who just happened to be working today—pokes his head in and suggests I go into the conference room to catch the noon news. Jesus, couldn’t someone have thought to pick up the damned phone so I might not get blindsided?” She was seething, her cheeks flushed, her lips turned in on themselves.
“It was a mistake,” Troy said.
“So then I try to call you—” She turned on Caitlyn. “And all I got was your machine.”
“I turned off the phone. Reporters.”
“Figures. They’re the worst kind of carrion eaters around. Just the hint of a scandal and they come out of the woodwork.” She took in a deep breath and shook her head as if to clear it; then her expression softened. “God, Caitie, how’re you doing?”
“I’ve been better.”
“The police have been asking her questions,” Berneda cut in.
“They just dropped by to tell me about Josh.”
“But you said you weren’t a suspect.” Berneda’s skin turned the color of the weathered siding.
“What she said was that she didn’t know what the police were thinking,” Troy explained to his older sister. “Josh may have committed suicide or . . . well, there could be foul play, right, Caitlyn? Isn’t that what you made of it?” he asked, making sure he’d gotten all the facts straight.
“That’s essentially what Detective Reed said.”
“Damn it all,” Amanda muttered.
“If it turns out to be homicide, then they’ll take a closer look at all of us.” Troy glanced at his mother’s horrified expression. “Come on, Mom, you know the drill. The people closest to the victim are always at the top of the suspect list. We’ve been
through this before.”
“Too many times,” she agreed as she watched a butterfly flit near a lilac bush.
“But they’re not sure it’s homicide. That’s good.” Amanda was thinking aloud.
“There is nothing good about this,” Berneda whispered.
Amanda’s face was grim, the wheels in her mind obviously already turning at a rapid pace. “Marty from Accounting knows someone on the force. Maybe he could get the guy to tell us what the police are really thinking.”
“Oh, my God, you’re worried.” Berneda struggled to sit up higher in her chair, and Lucille was at her side in an instant, plumping her pillows.
“I just can’t believe Josh would kill himself,” Caitlyn insisted.
“You don’t know that.” Amanda dropped into one of the chairs surrounding the table. “No one knows what someone else is thinking. Look at Bill Black. From outward appearances the guy had it all—partnership in one of the best legal firms on the East Coast, a beautiful young wife, two cute, healthy kids, a house worth a fortune and another place in the Catskills. Free and clear. Then one day, for no apparent reason, he goes into the garage, puts a hose in the tailpipe of his new Mercedes and ends it all. No one knew that he was being blackmailed, no one knew that he was accused of raping and impregnating an underage client. No one, not even his best friend, thought Bill had a problem in the world. They were wrong.”
Caitlyn shook her head and stared at the hills to the west and the lowering sun. “I know Josh.”
“Knew him,” Troy corrected. “And Amanda’s right. Let’s just wait and see what the police come up with.”
Berneda turned her attention to her eldest daughter. “But if Caitlyn needs a lawyer, could you help her?”
“I’m not a criminal attorney,” Amanda said, her voice tight. “I gave that up years ago. I deal in tax law and estates. You know that.”
“I know, I know, but I’m worried. You worked for the District Attorney.”
“And hated it, remember? Dealing with all those lowlifes and idiots and . . . anyway, I’m glad I gave it up.”
“Can you recommend someone?” Berneda asked, worrying the pearls at her neck.
“Jesus, let’s not borrow too much trouble!” Troy searched in his shirt pocket for his cigarettes. “Caitlyn and I already discussed it. I don’t think she should talk to the police without representation, but let’s not all act as if she’s a suspect.” He found his lighter and clicked it several times until he was finally able to light up. “Okay?” he asked her as he exhaled.
“Of course not.”
“Didn’t think so.”
“I just think it’s good to be prepared,” Berneda said as Lucille appeared again.
“Are you all stayin’ for dinner?” Lucille’s smile was benign, as if she had no idea how serious the conversation was.
Berneda nodded. “Of course they are.”
“Not me.” Amanda checked her watch. “I’ve got tons more work to do. Tons. I won’t get home until midnight as it is.” She caught the wounded look in her mother’s eye and sighed. “I just ran out here to see that you were okay. I know this kind of thing shakes you up. When I get this project done, I’ll come out for a weekend. How does that sound?”
“Like it will never happen,” Berneda said, though she brightened a bit.
“Of course it will. It’s a date. Promise.”
She’d barely said the words when her cell phone chirped and she fished in her purse to find the phone, flip it open and put it to her ear. She walked to the far side of the porch, started talking in hushed tones and turned her back on her siblings and mother. “I know, I know . . . but there was a tragedy in the family. I’ll be there. Yes. Tell him twenty minutes, thirty tops . . . hey, I get it, okay. Remind him it’s Saturday. He’s lucky I’m working.” She snapped the phone shut and let out a long sigh, then squared her shoulders and faced her family again. “I really do have to run right now. But I’ll be back, promise.” Dropping the phone into her bag, she brushed a kiss across her mother’s cheek. “I’ll bring Ian, too,” Amanda vowed and Berneda’s smile froze at the mention of her son-in-law. Amanda’s husband was a corporate pilot for a timber company. He was often away, rarely making an appearance at any family function. Good looking and fit, he was the kind of man who could charm the birds from the trees. The only trouble was that as soon as they got close enough, he’d shoot them. Dead. And love every second of it. There was a dark side to Ian Drummond, one he seldom showed, one Caitlyn had once caught a glimpse of, though she’d never admitted it to a soul. Would never.
Amanda touched Caitlyn lightly on the arm, her fingers grazing the bandage under her sweater. Caitlyn froze, hardly daring to breathe. What if Amanda felt the gauze wrapped so tightly around her wrist? She pulled her arm away. “Call me if you need to,” Amanda said with the trace of a smile. “And if you’re not going to answer your phone, at least turn on your damned cell. I tried that, too.”
“I will,” Caitlyn promised and Amanda squeezed her arm, nearly sending Caitlyn through the roof of the porch.
“Do.” She slipped her sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose and hurried down the path, leaving with a roar of her car’s engine, disappearing as quickly as she’d come.
“Well, that’s that,” Troy said, scowling as he drew hard on his cigarette. “She’s done her duty.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Berneda was pushing herself upright.
“Just that Amanda does the bare minimum as far as the family is concerned.”
“You don’t believe she’s busy?” Berneda shook her head and Caitlyn noticed a few silver hairs that had dared make an appearance in her mother’s mahogany colored tresses. “You two have never gotten along.”
That much was true. Caitlyn remembered the animosity between her eldest sister and her brother. It seemed to have existed from the moment Troy had been brought home from the hospital and still lingered today, over thirty years later. “Where’s Hannah?” Caitlyn asked, as much to ease the tension as anything.
“Out.” Berneda looked away. “She left last night.”
“For where?”
“I don’t know. She was angry.”
“With—?” Caitlyn urged.
“The world. Me. Lucille and whoever happened to call.” Berneda lifted one hand in a gesture of dismissal. “You know how she gets. Has a stubborn streak. Just like her father had. I don’t know . . . I don’t know if she’s even heard about Josh yet, but she will.” Berneda checked her watch. “There’s certain to be something on the evening news. I suppose, whether we want to watch it or not, we should.”
Caitlyn didn’t know if she could get through an evening sitting on a couch and staring at the television while reporters dissected, rehashed, explained and made conjectures about her husband’s death. But she had to. Sooner or later she had to face the truth about what happened to her husband. In the next few days, it certainly wasn’t going to get any easier.
Eight
“They all belong at Warner Brothers Studios,” Sylvie said as she sauntered into Reed’s office bringing with her the scent of some musky perfume and a whiff of recently smoked cigarettes. She’d been home and checked on her kids, but had obviously found another sitter and was back at the station.
“Who belongs at Warner Brothers?”
“The Montgomerys, that’s who. Those people are looney-effin’ -tunes!” She leaned against the windowsill in his office, bracing herself with her hands.
“Effin?”
“I’m tryin’ to clean it up, okay?” She rolled her eyes expressively. “My kids are seven and three, and you don’t know how bad your language is until you hear it come back at you from them. What’s the old saying, ‘From the mouths of babes . . .?’ Well it’s the truth. The other night I’m doin’ the dishes and the kids are in the family room, just around the corner. I hear Toby call his sister a buckin’ pwick . . . probably overheard me talking about his dad.” Sylvie shrugged. “Anyway, Priscil
la laughed and told him how stupid he was, that girls couldn’t be pricks and it wasn’t bucking but fucking . . . Oh, well, you get my drift.” Her lips twisted at the irony of it all. “I told ’em both to knock it off, but Priscilla reminded me that my language was as bad as a sewer rat’s so we all agreed to put a quarter in the Hello Kitty bank . . . Now wait, don’t give me that look! Surely you’ve heard of Hello Kitty.” She stared at him as if he’d told her he had three balls.
“I don’t even get it. Hello Kitty?”
“I forgot you lived on another planet.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Forget it. You don’t have kids. You’re out of it. The point is, I should never have agreed to the deal. Now they chase me around waiting for me to fuc–screw up. Damn! Oh, geez . . .” She rolled her eyes. “I figure I’ll save enough money this year to get me and the kids to Disney World.”
He leaned back in his chair until it creaked. “You had something to say about the Montgomerys.”
“Boy howdy.” She shook her head. “Talk about nut cases! It’s one after another. It goes back for generations. There’s a history of major screws loose in that family. And tragedy. Hunting accidents, boating accidents, car accidents and enough scandals to make Jerry Springer salivate. It’s like a fuc–an effin’ soap opera! Did you know that there was a whole other side of the family? We’re not talkin’ a bastard or two. No way. This is just all kinda kinky.
“Cameron Montgomery, Caitlyn’s father and heir to the cotton and shipping fortune, had himself another family. Right around here.” She swirled one long finger in the air, apparently to indicate Savannah. “Not only did Cameron have seven kids with his wife, but he managed to have another one or two, maybe more, with a woman named Copper Biscayne, a low-rent sort who lived out of town. She’s dead, by the way, along with a whole lotta other people who were related to the Montgomerys. Josh Bandeaux is just the latest in a long line of casualties.”