“Ray?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“I thought you were taking some time off.”
“That’s right.”
“So event security shouldn’t be on your mind.”
“Are you handling it?”
“No. Why? What’s going on?”
“Who is?”
“No one, far as I can tell. Whatever the hotel provides.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, Ray, I’m not. What’s this all about?”
“You’re going to let her walk in there unprotected?”
“Who are we talking about here?”
“Gillian Gray.”
A pause. “My understanding was Miss Gray wouldn’t be attending the auction.”
“She is now. Front page Tennessean below the fold.” Carlson always kept a copy of the paper in his office. Ray waited for him to scan the article.
“Uh-huh,” Carlson said. “So?”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing.” Carlson sounded completely unconcerned. “You and I both know the woman won’t protect herself or let us protect her properly. She’s a walking time bomb. I don’t want Carleco Security anywhere near her when she explodes. Besides, if I remember right, you said she was a pain in the ass, and you were glad to get rid of her.”
Had he said that? He thought back.
“Right,” Ray said. “Thanks.” He ended the call. He was glad to be rid of her.
He reread the article. It not only mentioned the hotel in which the event was being held, but it also mentioned the specific ballroom. It was like giving the killer an address.
This time, he forced himself to stay on the line until Gillian answered.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Well, Ray Pearce, nice talking to you, too.”
“Did you see that article in the paper?”
“The one the police planted?”
“What?”
“The police. They worked with the paper to get it in.”
“The police put you up to this?”
“Well, they didn’t exactly bring me along kicking and screaming.”
“That article is like putting a big fat target on your back.”
“That’s the idea, Ray. And a brilliant one, too, even if it was your pal Burke’s.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
“Now, Ray, don’t be like—”
But Ray had already hung up and called Burke. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m having me a cup of coffee, Ray. What’s it to you?”
“You’re going to get her killed.”
“Get who—ohhh, you saw the piece in the paper.”
“You’re damn right I did.”
“Slow down there, baby boy. She’ll be wearing a wire. You know the drill. She’ll be fine.”
“Fine? She’s going in alone. That’s the way it’s done.”
“But we’ve got her back.”
“My ass. You locate Kenny Post yet?”
“No, but—”
“You find a connection to her mother’s murderer?”
“We’re looking, but—”
“Truth is, you got nothing, Burke. Bupkis. Zilch. Which means the killer could be anyone. Anyone. By the time you get there, he could have her inside a plastic bag and suffocated, and you know it. And by tomorrow, Benton James will get another picture in his e-mail.”
In another room, over a different cup of coffee, Mad-die Crane also saw the article about the gala art auction. Shock mingled with concentration as she read it. Time, place. It was all there, practically a written invitation.
From the bathroom, Maddie heard the shower turn on. She gazed hard at the closed door, thinking about who was behind it. What would happen if anyone found out.
So like Gillian to splash her whereabouts all over the front page. Had she done it on purpose, or had some overzealous reporter done it for her? Every news station in the country had run tape on the midnight press conference, so Maddie had seen it. Probably on purpose.
Pushing her cup away, Maddie sat back. Needed to think. But the sound of the rushing water intruded. She remembered what she’d done the night before, and with whom. A flush of heat shimmered through her.
She focused on the paper, which sat like a roadside bomb waiting to be detonated. Gillian had provided the perfect opportunity. What was Maddie going to do about it?
Matthew Dobie tapped the morning newspaper thoughtfully, then allowed himself to be distracted by the muscular blond packing literature into a box for shipping.
The young man, sensing his idol’s sudden attention, straightened. Squirmed charmingly with embarrassment. “Everything all right, sir?”
Dobie didn’t like to admit he played favorites, but there was something about this one. Maybe it was the way his arms rippled as he arched over the cardboard. Or the strength and purpose of his jawline as he concentrated. Or that cleft in his chin. Whatever it was, Dobie couldn’t help but appreciate it and had rewarded the boy with extra tasks. Tasks that would keep him close. Like packing up their mobile headquarters.
“Of course,” Dobie said with a dismissive wave. “Continue.”
“Yes, sir.”
The young man bent back over the packing materials, and Dobie tore his gaze away. Now that Gillian Gray had withdrawn her photographs from the Gray Center, he’d almost won, and though he’d claimed victory loudly and clearly on as many networks as possible, there were still a few things left to do. It might be a cold day in hell before any reputable museum agreed to exhibit a Gillian Gray photograph, but he hadn’t prevented her from creating them. And the article proved he hadn’t stopped her from exhibiting either.
Once again, his eyes strayed to the young man’s wide shoulders, and Dobie gave in to the urge to touch. He rose, came around the desk, and put his palm on the hard muscle.
“What’s your name, son?”
The blond giant turned, stood at attention. “David, sir.” He flushed, and Dobie repressed a smile.
“Take a break, David. Sit down.” He pulled a chair to the desk for him, then went back to his own. “Have you seen this?” He showed David the article. Watched as his powerful neck turned a mottled red.
“I can’t believe this.” He looked up, indignation and outrage plain on his handsome face. “We should do something.”
Dobie was enjoying the play of emotions in the younger man’s eyes, so he encouraged it. “Do you think so?”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”
This time, Dobie let the smile come, a slow, wide, satisfied smile. He reached out and lightly touched David’s strong, powerful fingers. “You know,” he said, “I was thinking the same thing.”
43
That night, Gillian arrived at the downtown hotel to the sound of shouting. Hotel lights brightened the dark, but the black air split into a deafening clamor as protesters caught sight of her. Enclosed behind police sawhorses, they lined the walk up to the entrance. Their rabid faces and hate-filled eyes glared at her. Mouths twisted in loathing.
“Murderer!”
“God hates you!”
Her heart thudded in time to the chanted beat.
“De-cen-cy! De-cen-cy!”
The steady drumming was like an army of foot soldiers on the march.
Someone lurched over the barricade to wave a threatening fist at her. A uniformed officer rushed to beat him back. Another grabbed her arm and hurried her to the entrance.
“Why didn’t you come the back way?” he shouted over the thunder.
Because she never took the back way. But it was too dark and too noisy to explain. She thanked him and slipped inside. Paused to steady the racket inside her chest.
People stared—bellmen, hotel guests—but she squared her shoulders and went to find the ballroom.
Her grandparents were huddled together just outside the door waiting for her. Like most of the women of her generation, Ge
nevra wore a sequined jacket and long dress, while Chip wore his tuxedo. Gillian had on lavender again. A distressed velvet gown with a low neck that scooped her shoulders, skimmed her waist, and covered her arms.
“You look like something from the rag pile,” Genevra said.
“Yes, but the color matches my eyes,” Gillian replied.
She hadn’t told either of them about the side trip she took to police headquarters or the arrangement she and Burke had worked out. First of all, they’d only try and talk her out of it, and second, she didn’t want them breathing down her neck. But both of them had been baffled by her change of heart.
“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Chip said.
“It’s a terrible idea,” Genevra replied, straightening her back and raising her chin. “Why else would Gillian want to do it?”
“You’re not also going to change your mind about the museum?” Chip asked.
“No, that’s a done deal,” Gillian assured him, and in an effort to assure herself, she smoothed down her dress. Beneath it, she felt the vague outline of the transmitter taped to her skin.
Genevra inhaled. “Well, if we’re going in, we’d better go.” Like she was a member of the Light Brigade preparing to charge the enemy.
The ballroom was awash in Nashville glitterati. As Gillian and her grandparents wended their way across, business cronies of her grandfather high-fived him from across the room with highballs in their hands. A few of her grandmother’s sequined compadres stopped to compliment her on the bash. A band played “All or Nothing at All,” and Gillian looked around at the fat-cat crowd. Hard to believe a killer might be walking among them. The most threatening activity in this group was overeating.
But Gillian could still feel the deadly pulse of the crowd outside. Would Ruth be there again, disguised as a housemaid? Would Matthew Dobie send someone else? Would whoever it was do more than pull a prank with fake blood? Her gaze moved constantly, seeking out other possibilities. The waitstaff. Kitchen staff. Hotel staff. Must be a dozen ways to sneak in. She closed her eyes, heard the swish of a snare drum, and it seemed to match the rustle of her heart. She breathed, shook off the nerves, screwed down her resolve. Matthew Dobie or the mob, the mob or the monster, whatever was out there, she was ready.
And so was Nashville PD. They were in the room, though she didn’t exactly know where. But Burke had promised, and she’d taken him at his word.
Not that rescue was high on her list. She knew what she was in for. Had known since she was seven. It was just a matter of getting the stars to align themselves. She hadn’t thought to check the sky on her way in. City lights tended to obscure the planets, but, who knew, maybe tonight she’d get lucky.
She shivered with anticipation just as the band finished their song with a flourish, and the three of them reached their table. Since Genevra had chaired the event, and Chip was a major donor, it was centrally placed.
Or had the police arranged that?
A woman with pale green feathers circling her neck tapped the mike. “Our totals are starting to move, so make sure you don’t miss out. In the last ten minutes, the Red Grooms piece has had two new bids. It’s all going for a great cause—”
“My living room,” someone said from the floor, and everyone laughed.
“Not if I beat you to it,” the MC said. More laughter.
The sound felt alien, threatening, its complacency disastrous. Around her, smiling faces stretched into distortion, like in a fun-house mirror. Stupid people. Didn’t they know that tragedy was laughing, too? But not with them.
The band began again, another Lawrence Welk tune.
“I’m taking a walk around,” Gillian told her grandparents, the announcement also for her invisible watchers.
“Really, Gillian, dear, it would be so much better if you stayed here.”
“You mean hide my notorious face?”
“What your grandmother means is—”
“I know what she means,” Gillian said softly, and with uncharacteristic warmth, squeezed Genevra’s shoulder. “I’ll be fine. No scenes. No public displays. I promise.”
“Genevra, honey, don’t you look a picture.” A pudgy woman in a spangly top descended on the table, and before anyone could protest further, Gillian slipped away.
No way could she just sit there. Besides, people were watching out for her. It was creepy not knowing who or where they were. She never thought she’d want the Carleco guys back, but at least they were the devil she knew.
She crossed to the rim of the ballroom. The paintings and sculptures were displayed at the edges, giving the room’s dark middle a furtive glow. She’d heard the committee had drafted someone from the Gray Center to help. This kind of thing was often put together in slapdash fashion that didn’t show the art off at its best. But someone had done a decent job here.
Her own photograph was adequately lit and spaced between other pieces. She stared at it. It was a private piece, one she’d done years ago, that Genevra had always liked. It showed a corner of the estate in fading summer twilight. Grass and trees in fairy light. It had no point of view, except glossiness, was pure pabulum as far as Gillian was concerned, an interesting exercise at best. But it was always the one Genevra brought up to rebuke her with.
“Why can’t you do more pictures like that?” she’d ask.
When Genevra had twisted her arm about donating something to the auction, Gillian had dug it out from the back of a storage cabinet in her studio.
The chair of the art committee had been relieved when Gillian had pulled the picture and unenthusiastic about accepting it back. In the end, Genevra’s standing or Chip’s dollars must have won out because she reluctantly agreed to include it without the police getting involved.
Gillian checked the bid books. Each piece had one associated with it. At the top was the starting bid. Below, dollar amounts rose in predetermined increments, with room for bidders to sign their names, thereby “outbidding” the name prior to theirs.
The piece next to hers started at five thousand dollars and rose by five hundred. Bids on her photograph began at fifteen thousand and rose in increases of five thousand. Nothing like infamy to hike up the price of gas. Four names were listed. No accounting for taste. But it was a nice chunk of change for the hospital.
Someone bumped into her, and she started, her heart racing. But it was only a woman looking at the photo. Geez, she had to stop jumping like that.
“Sorry,” the other woman said. And in the next moment, she colored. “Oh—you’re Gillian Gray.”
Though she shouldn’t be, Gillian was always a little surprised when people recognized her.
The woman was a few years older, her expensively highlighted hair smoothed beneath a black velvet and diamond band. She wore a cocktail dress, a strand of seed pearls, a thin gold watch. Private school sorority sister.
Gillian shot her a tight smile. “That’s right.”
“And this is your—”
“Right again.”
The woman looked from her to the picture and back again. She clearly didn’t know what to say.
Gillian helped her out. “Not what you expected?”
“It’s very, uh . . .”
“Boring?”
The woman gave an embarrassed laugh. “Pretty,” she supplied, then excused herself.
Gillian let out a breath. She would have settled for boring. At least it was honest.
Her eyes swept the room. Everyone seemed equally nonthreatening. Then why the film of sweat coating the back of her neck? Why so jittery?
“Gillian.”
Another jolt of her heart, which she rapidly quelled.
She turned to find her grandmother approaching. “I saw you talking with Bailey Fawcett. You didn’t say anything—”
“Dirty?”
“Provocative.” Genevra frowned. “She’s on the board of the Junior League. When I was sick last year, she brought over a casserole.”
“Cook it herse
lf?”
“Really, Gillian, I have no idea.”
Gillian sighed. She hadn’t known her grandmother had been sick. She didn’t know Genevra could get sick. She wasn’t human that way. The thought of it, of Genevra in bed, weak enough to need someone else’s poppy seed chicken, shook Gillian’s world a little. “I didn’t know you were sick,” she said, her voice smaller than she would have liked.
Genevra waved her concern away. “It was nothing. A little . . . a cold.”
Gillian looked at her suspiciously. “A cold doesn’t merit a casserole,” she said. “Even if you do buy it. Or have the cook prepare it.”
“Have it your way.” Her lips compressed into a thin line. “You always do.” Genevra left, and Gillian watched her retreat. Spine straight, shoulders back. For the first time in—well, for the first time ever—she imagined a universe without her. And it was like a wall had suddenly collapsed. Something solid and hard that had kept the world at bay, all at once, was gone.
She hurried after her. “Grandmother. Grandmother!”
“What is it?” The sharp question was a hissed reprimand, her gaze making sure no one else had seen her granddaughter break decorum in such unladylike fashion.
But now that she had her, Gillian didn’t know why she’d stopped her. “You’re all right now?” she asked. Lamely.
Genevra’s gaze narrowed. Briefly, her eyes softened, then iced over again. “It was pneumonia,” she said crisply, “and I’m perfectly well.”
Gillian swallowed. “I’m . . . I’m glad.”
“Thank you.” She nodded regally. Their eyes held for a moment longer; then she was gone.
How strange to find out she cared for her grandmother on the same night she might never see her again.
Through the wide picture windows across the street, he watched the ballroom shine. Up where he was, the night air was dark and cool, but behind the hotel windows the light gleamed warm and golden.
He knew she was there. Everyone knew. Like them, he’d seen the newspapers, the news clips. He thought her brave to show her face at all, let alone at such a fancy party. He pictured her there, small and chastened. Withered in humiliation. He’d heard her enemies declare victory. They all hated her. All but him.
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