by Lucy Farago
“I’ve got a laptop in the car. I’ll connect to the Wi-Fi and download to Monty.”
“Won’t something like that take hours?”
“Nah, twenty minutes, tops. It’s one of Monty’s gadgets. He stands to make a small fortune should he ever decide to sell it.”
“But he’s not going to do that, is he?”
“I see you’re learning about our boy.” He grinned. With Monty it was never about the money. “Now, go have yourself a nice chat with Mrs. Stanton.”
Grace had expected a far more haggard-looking woman. But makeup could do wonders. She only knew the woman from her pictures, and over the years, alcohol had taken its toll on the senator’s wife. She’d gone from state finalist in the Miss America pageant to Virginia Woolf. The bags under her eyes had been cleverly concealed, and although it was evident she had not aged as well as her husband had, she did look far better than the woman Grace had seen in courthouse pictures.
Grace knew she’d been invited to the party because of the article she was supposed to be writing, so she assumed the senator would have no qualms about her interviewing his wife. If he did, he shouldn’t have included Grace in the festivities.
“I’ll go that way,” she motioned with her thumb toward the family room. “And you go…?”
“I’m going to go find Lyle. You go do your thing. I’ll do mine. If you get shut down, don’t wander out of sight of people. Stay where I can find you.”
“Ever the bodyguard?”
He gave her that lopsided grin, warming her insides. “If you don’t sass me now…” He leaned in. “I’ll let you sass me later.”
She also leaned forward. “With handcuffs?”
His baby blues turned gunmetal. “You are sorely making me wish we were alone.”
She smirked, turned, and sashayed over to her target, doing her darnedest to ignore how much she wished the same thing.
Grace recognized the two women standing with Madeline Stanton. One was Suzanne Collinsworth, a congressman’s wife. The other, Aileen Marsh, the wife of the local news anchor, Grady Marsh. They stopped talking the moment they saw her approach. Grace tried not to take personally.
“Mrs. Stanton, ladies, I hope I’m not interrupting you. I’m Grace Irvine. Senator Stanton invited me.”
“The reporter, yes, I know. Lyle warned me you’d be here,” Madeline said.
Warned?
“We were just admiring your dress,” Suzanne said. “Erdem, isn’t it?”
She tried to recall the designer but all she could remember was the price tag. “It was a gift,” she said by way of answer.
“A very generous one. Is he as handsome as his wallet?” Aileen said.
It was a personal question, but she figured if she wanted Mrs. Stanton to trust her, she’d need to meet these ladies at their level. She didn’t do society columns but she knew enough that both women had married for fame and money. “Did you ladies see the very tall gentleman wearing the—”
“Yes,” the two women said.
Mrs. Stanton gave a quiet chuckle. “You’ll have to excuse them, Ms. Irvine. They forget how old they are.”
“Maddy, did you see the man? Besides his tall stature, that cowboy is gorgeous.” Suzanne nudged Aileen. “Don’t you agree?”
“I agreed the moment I saw him walk by. He brokered the mare, didn’t he?”
“Yes. Daniel Bailey, three-time Western rodeo champion,” Mrs. Stanton said, very much impressing her friends. “Have you seen Black Magic, ladies? She’s a beauty.”
“Not yet,” Aileen answered. “Why don’t we go do that now and give Ms. Irvine her time with our dear friend? And Ms. Irvine, I loved your exposé on Congressman Rutledge. You deserved that award. And he deserved the stripes he’s now wearing.”
Yeah, she’d enjoyed that assignment and had really enjoyed putting the kiddie-porn lover behind bars.
After the two women departed, Mrs. Stanton invited Grace to sit on the sofa with her. It was a good idea. With her heels, she was a good foot taller than the woman, and sitting would be preferably to towering over her.
“So I presume you have questions for me. For your interview.”
“I do, but I don’t want to spoil the party for you. If you’d prefer, I can come back tomorrow.”
“That’s not possible. And as it’s been pointed out to me, I am the reason Presley’s reputation has yet again been damaged. Therefore I’m more than happy to answer your questions. But I don’t know what to tell you that hasn’t already been printed.”
Printed, recorded, tweeted. Mrs. Stanton had been raked over the media coals. She had a problem and instead of seeking help after her second incident, she’d gotten in her car and killed an old tree. It could have been far worse. “How are you doing?” she asked, very interested in how she’d answer. She hadn’t exactly volunteered to enter rehab.
“I have a long road ahead of me,” she said. “I haven’t been there long… and God I’m sure isn’t finished with me…but I must face my demons. For Presley’s sake.”
Wrong answer. If she was doing this for her husband, she’d fail. Had she been coached on what to say? “He seems devoted to you too.”
She tried to smile but only managed a grimace. “I have a lot to make up for.”
“Sometimes we lose ourselves and we just need to find our way.” The senator had specifically asked that she not include why Mrs. Stanton had first turned to the bottle for comfort in her article, but he hadn’t said not to ask her about it. Given what they’d learned about Edward Stanton, questions needed to be asked. “I understand you lost a son in an act of violence.” Did she know it was his act of violence?
“He died a hero,” she said, her chest puffing out. “It gives me great comfort knowing that.”
And yet she drank. “So I understand. The young lady’s name was never printed.”
Her left eye twitched. A sign of withdrawal, no doubt. “No. But it was better for Eddie’s memory that way. He died because of her. What good would it have done to smear the girl’s reputation?”
Yeah, he died because of Jessie all right, but not for the reasons this woman thought. Or did she know what her son had done? “Who would blame the girl?” For a politician’s wife, she wasn’t very good at schooling her features… or bullshitting, because she definitely blamed Jessie for the loss of her son.
“It’s always the rape victim’s fault, isn’t it? Her dress too short, out at the wrong time of night. Enticing the young man. You know, you’re a reporter. You must see how they punish the victim.”
She did, but exactly who did Mrs. Stanton think was the victim? Jessie had been a minor, a few days shy of her sixteenth birthday. That’s why her name had been sealed. And according to the report she’d not been raped.
Well, according to the official report, the one Jessie had fabricated, Edward had saved her from being raped. While they’d waited for their plane, Regina Lewis had told Grace how Jessie had refused a rape kit. She claimed her assailant had had murder on his mind, not sexual assault. So was Mrs. Stanton’s addled brain confused? Or did she know more about that night than she was letting on. And if so, did Lyle? Did they suspect Jessie had killed Edward and all of this was revenge? What she wouldn’t give for that proof.
The same waiter came by with another tray of drinks. Although she could use one, she wouldn’t take one in front of Madeline. And considering the longing gleam in the woman’s eyes, Grace asked, “Can I have him bring you something else? Soda water, perhaps?”
“No, thank you. I’m not thirsty.”
Not for soda water, that’s for sure. “I haven’t seen your father-in-law,” she said, not knowing how to approach the subject and figuring she’d just jump in. “Is he not coming?”
“Lyle? Oh yes. He had a… business trip, I believe, and he should be flying back from New York, if he hasn’t already landed.”
“New York?” Her heart skipped a beat.
“Yes. But he won’t miss Ella’s party.
He loves that girl,” she said, her voice catching. “He’s even more devoted to her than her father, if one can say such a thing. Both men treat her like a princess. You should put that in your story.”
“I will.” She guessed her only granddaughter turning sixteen would make any grandmother cry. Add craving a drink to the mix, and she was surprised the woman was holding it together.
“She’s a good girl. A little on the flirty side but a good girl. But you’re only sixteen once. Her brother turned eighteen today. They share the same birthday. Did you know that?”
“I thought Ella’s brother was younger?”
“William? He is. But my daughter had another child, named John after my father. He didn’t live very long, heart problems. It’s hard to think of him as gone. She tried four more times to have another child. But after the miscarriages and a dead child, she couldn’t take it anymore and they gave up. Medical problems are very hard on a marriage,” she said with a faraway expression.
“I can imagine.” She herself had never considered children. Then as if the world was trying to be funny, she caught the figure of a very tall man. Cowboy had returned. He stood off to the side, sipping an amber-colored liquid.
“He is very handsome,” Mrs. Stanton said. “I saw him ride once. Very impressive for such a tall man.”
“Yes, very handsome.” Very, very handsome.
“Do you think he’d autograph a picture for me? My father is a huge rodeo fan. He’s in a home in Houston now. He refuses to live with me, the stubborn old goat.”
“Parents, go figure.” She bet her father would give that stubborn old goat a run for his money. “And like you said, Daniel is a nice man. I’m sure he would.”
“You should know, Ms. Irvine, I’m very sorry for what I did. The drinking, the driving. I have a problem but I’m going to fix it,” she said as she began to worry her fingers.
“I wish you luck with that.” She’d need it.
The cacophony of voices grew louder and Grace turned to see Lyle Stanton walk into the room. And the look he gave her wasn’t a happy one. It was downright creepy.
Mrs. Stanton rose to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to say hello.”
“Of course. We can talk later.”
She watched as the woman greeted Lyle, kissing his cheek in a warm embrace, which it didn’t look like he was reciprocating. Cowboy took the spot next to her.
“Did you get anywhere with her?”
“She’s president of your fan club.”
“How did I come up in the conversation?”
“Never mind.” She lowered her voice so they couldn’t be overheard. “I think she blames Jessie for her son’s death.”
“Somewhat understandable if she believes he died saving her. But to want her dead for it?” He shook his head. “Can’t see that.”
“No, but what if they think Jessie killed him?”
He took a sip of his drink, then grimaced and set the glass down.
“Why are you drinking that if you don’t like it?”
“I forgot I was holding it. Stanton gave it to me. It’s like twenty-year-old scotch. I couldn’t say no. Anyway, did she give you any indication she believed that?”
“It was the way she said it. The way she told me the story. Plus, it sounded like she knew Jessie had been raped.” She recounted word for word what Mrs. Stanton had said.
“Maybe, or maybe it’s a woman who’s never gotten over the murder of her son.”
“Maybe,” she mimicked, not liking her theory being shot to hell. “And Lyle’s here.”
“I saw. I couldn’t find him earlier.”
“That’s because he just returned from New York.”
“Good thing he won’t find them in New York.”
She’d expected a bigger reaction, but it was true—he’d gone to New York for nothing. “You know, if we could get her to open up about her son’s death, she might tell us something she hadn’t planned to.”
“Good luck. She looks a little…tense.”
“She wants a drink.” Or several.
“Grace, honey, if she breaks the rules she’ll end up in rehab a lot longer.”
“And that’s a bad thing how? She needs months of therapy. Not a couple of weeks. So, what do you think the woman drinks?”
“You want to get her drunk?”
She didn’t want to. It’d be like helping an addict shoot up, but what choice did she have? “Whatever it takes.”
“Judge won’t be happy if she’s caught drinking.”
She took one final glance at Mrs. Stanton sucking up to her father-in-law. “I get it. No one will support a man for the Oval Office whose wife is a drunk. So maybe he’s being nice to her as a way to get her to behave. But our boy Lyle isn’t known for being nice. If anything, he’d have found a way to keep her in that facility. Do you think Monty can find the name of the judge on her case?”
“He did. It’s Judge Piper.”
“Laurie Piper?”
“I didn’t get her first name. Why?”
“It’s not public knowledge, but when I was doing my exposé on Congressman Rutledge, I found out Lyle was sleeping with Judge Laurie Piper.”
“Always good to have a judge in your bed.”
“Not if she’s married. Which she is. So why wouldn’t Lyle try to keep his daughter-in-law locked away? Maybe she has something on him?”
“Then let’s get her that drink and see if she talks.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Turns out it wasn’t all that hard to convince Mrs. Stanton to have a drink. In fact, he hadn’t had to lift a finger. Which was a good thing. He’d told Grace he’d do it, but he hadn’t been comfortable with the idea of destroying a woman’s sobriety. As it stood, there was no sobriety. Mrs. Stanton wanted a signed picture, which of course he didn’t exactly have. She’d dragged him into her office where she’d Googled one from his last ride and then excused herself to the bathroom while he waited for the color photo to print. When she returned, she’d sprayed on enough perfume to kill a steer, but that couldn’t mask her breath.
So here they were, sitting in her office, chatting about rodeos. She was smart, he’d give her that, but then again alcoholics always knew how to get their next drink. That woman visited the bathroom more than a bar full of drunk cowboys. Lucky for him, she was in no hurry to head back to the party. Her family would catch on and he suspected the senator wouldn’t be happy with yet another public display of alcoholism. Frankly, Cowboy was stunned he’d even allowed her to come home… and so early.
“Do you know,” she said, her words slurring, “my love af-affair with horses started after my father took my brothers and I to the rodeo?” She giggled. “Of course you don’t know that.” She swayed. “How would you know that? I love horses.”
“Are you going to get a chance to ride Black Magic before you return to the center?” After nearly an hour in her company, he needed to steer her in the right direction.
“No.” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “Not likely.”
“Are you all right?” He didn’t want her passing out before he got what he wanted.
“Just a little dizzy. I think I need to lie down.” She fell back onto the sofa. “Oh, this will do,” she said, leaning left.
“The senator won’t let you ride her?”
“The senator won’t let me do anything.”
Who could blame him? “I’m sure your father-in-law could sway him.”
She snorted in a not very ladylike way. “Presley listens to him even less. He doesn’t understand,” she said, staring up at the ceiling, her expression sullen. “He never understood. You would understand, wouldn’t you?” She swiveled her head to look at him with droopy eyes. “You’re a nice man.”
“Couples sometimes fight. It will pass.”
She sighed heavily and closed her eyes. “It’s been sixteen years. Nothing’s changed.”
“Since your son died?” he chanced to say.
/> Her eyes flew open. “M-murdered, my son was murdered,” she said. “A mother never gets over that. He died because of that girl. I’m tired. I need to go to my room. Can you help me? My legs don’t seem to work.”
What were the odds no one would see them? “If we’re seen—”
“Piss pot, we’ll take the back way.”
There was a back way? Why didn’t he know that?
She tried to stand and twice fell back on her ass. He helped her up, and she weaved her way to the door. It would be comical if it wasn’t so pathetic. She tried a handful of times to turn the knob, which somehow kept slipping out of her grasp. Gently, he removed her hand and opened the door himself. He stuck his head out, making sure the hallway was clear, then waited for her to follow.
“If you go that way,” she pointed right, the way he knew. “It goes to the front staircase. That way,” she pointed left, “goes through the utility room to the second staircase.”
She made it two steps before her knees buckled and he had to pick her up. She leaned her head on his chest and shut her eyes. “I like your girlfriend. She’s very nice.”
“You mean the reporter?”
“Yes.”
“What about the other reporter? Did you like her too?” The utility room was easy to find, as was the staircase.
“Jessie? She killed my son.”
Cowboy nearly dropped the woman. “How so?”
“It’s her fault. It’s all her fault.”
He reached the top of the stairs. “Why is it her fault?”
“Stupid girl.” Mrs. Stanton took a shaking breath before falling silent.
Cowboy gave her a small shake. “Mrs. Stanton, which room is yours?”
Startled, she blinked several times. “That way.” She pointed down the hall, being no help at all.
By process of elimination, he headed to the room he hadn’t searched his first time up here and tried once again to get something useful out of her. “Why was is it Jessie’s fault your son died?”
“Because… she was a tramp.”
He resisted the urge to squeeze the woman out of what little sense she had left. Jessie was no tramp. “Was she now?”
“If she hadn’t been, Eddie wouldn’t have had to run to her rescue. She as good as killed him.”