Tears dropped on his pressed shirt and khaki pants. For once, he didn’t care that he wasn’t immaculately groomed. He combed his hair with his fingers, mussing it intentionally.
The best thing in his life had just walked out, crying. He’d never bring a smile to her face again. He had lost her. He had lost everything important to him.
They always want to come back.
He stopped crying for a moment, believing that was true, believing that he was some kind of super stud who could have any woman he wanted. He knew how to gaze at them with soulful eyes. How to manipulate them into believing what he wanted was their idea. How to make them fall into his arms and into his bed. He knew all that, but what he didn’t know was how to get a woman he wanted to come back.
He had failed with his mother.
He had only been a lad of ten when he had discovered her in Roger Graham’s arms. They didn’t know that Elliott was in the barn that morning. Roger had come for her. They were going to run away together. Elliott tried to stop her, grabbed her leg. She told him he was a young man and didn’t need his mother. “Ye’ll be fine,” she had said. She rubbed at a spot on his shirt. “Be sure you clean and press yer clothes. When I see ye’ next, ye’ll look handsome.”
He had watched them drive away, and he had cried.
“Stop crying, lad,” his father had said. “If a woman doesn’t want ye’, let her go.”
Elliott had run from the barn and found his way into the wine cellar, believing there had to be a way to get her back. His father came after him. “If you’re going to drink away yer pain, drink whiskey. Wine’s no good for that.”
“Then wine’s no good for anything,” Elliott had said.
Now, he covered his face and sobbed just as he had done in the wine cellar that morning.
A car roared in the driveway.
Meredith’s coming back. He peeked over the windowsill, but it was Mrs. Collins’s late model Chevy. He dropped back to the floor. Meredith’s not coming back. Not to a drunk.
When his father had received news that Elliott’s mother and Roger Graham had been killed, Elliott had said to him, “If I had stopped her from leaving, if I’d worn a clean shirt, she’d be alive.”
“No, Elliott. People are responsible for their own actions.”
Later that night, Elliott found his father asleep, an almost empty whiskey bottle in one hand and a crumpled picture of his mother in the other.
No woman would come back to a drunk.
Elliott had taken the bottle and drank the rest of the whiskey, threw the picture of his mother in the trash, then stumbled off to bed. But before he could sleep, he burned the shirt with the spot his mother had tried to remove. When the shirt had finally turned to ash, he cried until he had no more tears to shed. And those were his last tears until Sean and Mary had died.
And now, curled on the floor at the cottage, he cried with the same heartbreak as that ten-year-old lad. But this time, he wouldn’t reach for a bottle of whiskey.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Gates’ House – January 5, 2015
THREE DAYS LATER, the staff had put away all evidence of the party, Louise and Evelyn had returned to Scotland, and Elliott had moved back to the mansion. He called Meredith several times, but she refused to take his call. He had sent a dozen text messages, too, but she didn’t respond. Kevin wasn’t speaking to him either, and David spent most of his time traveling around the state investigating the Gates family. Elliott was ignored by even the continuously talking Mrs. Collins.
He resided in a lonely world.
The mudroom door slammed. “Elliott,” David yelled.
“I’m in the office,” Elliott said.
“Get your coat.”
Elliott spun the wheelchair away from the desk. “Where are we going?”
“Just got a call from Chuck. He located Gates living here in Lexington.”
“Hot damn.” The only way he could straighten out his relationship with Meredith was to get this horse business behind him, so he could get away from the farm and focus on her. Finding Gates was the biggest hurdle on the track.
Elliott settled into the passenger’s seat of a MacKlenna Farm truck. “This doesn’t have GPS.”
“I plugged the address into my phone. The directions are coming in now. It’s in north Lexington,” David said.
“Is Chuck meeting us?”
David nodded. “We’re not taking any chances with Gates or any possible evidence he might have. We’re playing this by the book.”
“Why not call the police?” Elliott asked.
“And tell them what? That we think a man without a record possibly killed two multi-million dollar horses?”
“That’s a start. He’s got motive,” Elliott said.
“Maybe. Let’s talk to him first. See what he has to say.”
Thirty minutes later, they turned onto Gates’s street. From a block away, Elliott spotted a police cruiser’s flashing lights. A sinking feeling hit his stomach. “God, I hope that police car’s not at Gates’s house.”
“As of early afternoon, he wasn’t on their radar. The police must be interested in someone else.” David slowed the truck and they both checked mailboxes for street numbers.
“What number did you say?” Elliott asked.
“Two-five-two,” David said.
Elliott pointed to his right. “This one’s two-forty-eight.”
“Police are at two-five-two,” David said with frustration spilling over in his voice.
Two cruisers with lights flashing were parked in front of a one-story, ranch-style house. “Shite,” Elliott said. “What the hell has our boy gotten himself into?”
David picked up his phone off the dash and composed a text message. “Maybe Chuck has heard something.”
“Look at that ambulance. Notice anything strange?” Elliott said.
“Nothing’s happening. Paramedics are just standing around.”
Elliott’s head throbbed. He’d had several headaches lately and knew they were stress related. “Let’s hope he has a roommate with a problem, and that this has nothing to do with Gates.”
The headlights of an approaching vehicle flashed inside their truck. David glanced in the rearview mirror. “Company’s coming.”
Elliott turned around to look. “It’s a damn news crew. Got WLEX plastered on the side of the van. They must have heard a report on the police scanner. Go ask.”
“I could do that,” David said, “but they’d want to know why the CEO of MacKlenna Farm was here. You want to talk to them?”
“Hell, no. I put reporters in the same category as IRS agents. I don’t talk to either unless I have an attorney present.”
David’s phone beeped. He read the message. “Chuck’s inside. I’m going in. You stay put.”
Elliott opened his door. “The hell with that. I’m going, too.”
David switched off the ignition. “As soon as you get out of the car, the reporters will have a camera in your face.”
Elliott didn’t want to be on the ten o’clock news, but he didn’t want to be left out either. The sidewalk looked icy. A slip would set him back. He closed the door. “Hurry up. I want to know what the hell’s going on.”
David stepped out of the truck, tucked his hands in his jacket pockets, and walked toward a police officer standing in the driveway. Elliott couldn’t hear what was being said, but he had a good view of the front door. David flashed his credentials, and the officer pointed over his shoulder.
As David headed up the drive, two police officers came out of the front door and strung police crime scene tape from the driveway to the door. Elliott leaned forward in his seat, tapped his fingers on the dash, and watched. This doesn’t look good.
Headlights flashed inside the truck again. Elliott glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see another news truck, but it was the coroner’s car. Elliott’s shoulders sagged, along with his hopes. He had pinned them all on catching Gates with a syringe and a bo
ttle of Pentobarbital. What a dumb ass I am. He had wanted to believe Gates was responsible, because it was convenient.
Was that the only reason?
Hell, no. Elliott wanted revenge. He wanted to beat the crap out of Gates for what he did to Elliott’s leg. The brother wasn’t the perpetrator. Elliott knew that, but he didn’t care. A Gates was a Gates. Any of them would do.
He checked his watch. David had been gone for five minutes. Where the hell was he? Five minutes turned into ten, and the car windows steamed. He called David. The call went to voice mail. The windows weren’t the only thing steaming. Elliott left a terse message. “Report back, now.”
Another five minutes passed. Elliott considered his options. He had none. He grabbed his crutches and opened the door. To hell with the news crew. He’d take his chances. When he reached the driveway, David saw him, scowled, and jogged toward him.
“Why didn’t you answer me?” Elliott said.
“I was talking to the police.”
“Hey, that’s Dr. Fraser from MacKlenna Farm. What’s he doing here?”
Elliott looked around for the disembodied voice. He spotted the familiar face of a reporter from Channel 18. “Let’s get out of here,” he said to David.
But it was too late. The reporter and a cameraman bulldozed their way through the crowd of neighbors that had gathered.
“Dr. Fraser. Why are you here? What does this shooting have to do with MacKlenna Farm?”
Elliott hustled back into the truck.
“Was this man a farm employee?” the reporter asked.
“No comment.” David closed the door and jumped into the driver’s seat.
“They got us on tape, and the farm doesn’t need the publicity.” Elliott snatched his phone from his pocket and scrolled through his contacts. The station’s general manager was a personal friend. He could call in a favor. As he punched in the numbers, he reconsidered. The reporter would do some research before they showed the video clip. It would only be a matter of hours before they made the Gates connection. Elliott leaned back against the headrest and sighed heavily.
“Was there any sign of Gates in the house?” he asked, hoping the coroner wasn’t there to pick up Gates’s body.
David turned on the blinker and merged onto New Circle Road. Snow had started falling again, and the trucks had only plowed one lane. The going was slow. “The lad was dead. Shot in the head. Cops are saying it was a drug deal gone bad.”
“I placed all my bets on Gates. Now I have nothing but worthless betting tickets.” Elliott smacked his fist into his open palm. “Did the police say anything else?”
“No signs of forced entry. One bullet to the head. None of the neighbors saw or heard anything.”
“How did the police know about the shooting?”
“Chuck called them when he got here. The front door was open, and he spotted the body on the floor.”
David’s phone rang. “Chuck? Good, yes. I’ll put you on speaker, so Dr. Fraser can hear.”
“The police found a box of cash and drugs,” Chuck said. “Looks like he was dealing.”
Elliott pulled a notepad and pen from his pocket. He clicked the pen’s cap up and down, up and down, up and down. “What kind of drugs?”
“Prescription . . .” Chuck’s voice faded in and out. Bad connection. Elliott leaned forward, closer to the phone. Chuck continued, “Pills, cocaine, pot. A bit of everything.”
“Anything that would kill a horse?” Elliott asked.
“Nothing like that.”
Elliott sat back and threw up his hands. Somehow, he’d lost the horses, lost the girl, and lost the implant. No one had to spell it out for him. Three strikes. He was out—again.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
MacKlenna Farm – January 6
AT DUSK TWO DAYS LATER, David walked into Elliott’s bedroom at the mansion, yelling for him.
“Over here,” Elliott said from the far corner of the dimly lit room.
“Hi, Anne. I thought he was alone, or I wouldn’t have barged in.”
“Just finishing.” She wiped oil off Elliott’s back and legs. “I can work you in if you want a massage, too, or a tennis match later.”
David sat in the chair next to the massage table. “Thanks, but I don’t have time right now for tennis or Anne’s healing hands.”
She laughed. “I don’t think Elliott appreciated my healing hands today.”
Elliott sat and draped a towel around his waist. “She beat the crap out of me.”
“Someone needed to.” David’s stoic expression didn’t change. Seconds later, it still hadn’t. The heat of his blue-eyed glare caused the muscles in Elliott’s shoulders that Anne had loosened to tighten once again.
“I heard what happened on New Year’s,” Anne said. “If that woman had been me, I would have slapped the hell out of you.”
Elliott’s cheek stung as though Anne had actually slapped him. “Gee, thanks.”
“You need to quit those drugs. They affect your personality. Slow up on the whiskey, too.” She grabbed her jacket and slipped it on.
“You going to tell me to see a shrink?”
“Why?” She removed her iPhone from the docking station. Tension smothered the air in the room as soon as the calming massage music ended. “I’ve been trying to get you to see my therapist for the last five years. I’ve given up.” She dropped the bottle of oil and her iPhone into her backpack. “I hope your mood improves before I come back on Saturday. Work on that, will you?”
“Not likely to happen,” David said.
Anne pointed her finger at Elliott. “Call your girlfriend or get on your damn plane and go see her.”
“This isn’t about Meredith. It’s—”
“What?” Anne scrunched her face. “If you don’t think so, you’re dumber than I thought.”
David laughed. Elliott glowered.
She slung her bag over her shoulder. “You don’t have to see me out. I’ll get some money off the dresser.” Anne took a few bills from a large bundle. “I’ll leave Allie a note to put the next appointment on your calendar. Ciao.” She left, closing the door behind her.
“You shouldn’t leave that much money lying around,” David said.
Elliott shifted to the wheelchair. “No one is around here except Mrs. Collins, and she refuses to enter the room. Calls it Satan’s den.”
David pushed the wheelchair into the bathroom. “Mrs. Collins isn’t the only person with access to the house.” David turned on the water and stepped aside.
Elliott sat on the shower bench and washed off the rest of the oil. “So what did you learn at the police station?”
“Gates’s prints were on the box and the cash.”
“That shouldn’t be a surprise. The guy was a scumbag.” Elliott opened the shower door and stepped out, holding tightly to the railing. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. No good. Just like his brothers.”
Clean clothes were neatly folded on the counter. After Elliott dressed, David wheeled him into the office.
“I sense there’s something on your mind. Even you are more talkative than this,” Elliott said.
“It doesn’t add up,” David said. “Gates held a steady job, got his work done, paid his bills on time, and had a small amount of money in the bank. He didn’t cause trouble and had never been arrested.” David poured two cups of coffee at the wet bar and handed a cup to Elliott. “He might be a dealer, but I don’t think he’s our man.”
Elliott tapped his fingers against his coffee cup, took a sip, and tapped some more. “Of course he is. We just need to find the link.”
“Do you know anyone who doesn’t carry a mobile?” David asked, flipping pages in his notebook.
Elliott shook his head, sipped the hot brew. “Everyone has a phone.”
“Gates didn’t. At least they didn’t find one.”
“Then they haven’t looked in the right place.”
“And where’s that?” David asked.
“Damned if I know, but I bet it’s with the gun the killer used.”
David flicked his pen against the page he was reading. “Probably at the bottom of a lake.”
“Not likely,” Elliott said. “All the water around here is frozen.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Montgomery Winery – January 27
MEREDITH HAD WORKED non-stop for the last three weeks. Whenever thoughts of Elliott entered her mind, she found something else to do. And she had plenty, but she always took time to talk with Kevin when he called. He had promised to come to the launch, and she looked forward to dancing with him again.
He had called her the week before to let her know that Elliott had had surgery, and if he did what he was supposed to do, he’d heal and be done with the overly long process of putting him back together. She would hope for the best, but it really didn’t concern her. Right. Cate didn’t believe her, and neither did Kevin. That’s why he kept calling. He saw the kink in her armor and kept nettling her.
Sitting at her desk in her office at the winery with her feet up, she glanced once more at her to-do list. The genealogy was done; the article was written and forwarded to the printer. Gregory had taken over the project and given it to the new Director of Social Media. She hadn’t even seen the genealogist’s research. Hands off was her new policy. Weeks earlier, the project had been a top priority. Now, like many other things, it had slipped down the list.
Her stomach roiled for the third or fourth time that day. She ran into her private bathroom and threw up. There wasn’t much in her stomach. For the last two days, keeping anything down had been an effort. At the sink, she patted her pale face with a damp washcloth. For some reason, cancer was making her sick this time.
Cate entered the office, calling, “Meredith.”
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