He regarded her with that weary, strained look of his. “I want to be sure you understand where we’re going and why.”
Hazel smoothed her silk dress and leaned over, peering into the rearview mirror to check her hair, which was subdued into tidy finger-waves. She studied Stevenson’s perfectly tailored tuxedo and neatly trimmed blond hair for a moment, then reached across and straightened his tie.
“Casino Royale.” She smiled sweetly. “We’re off to a highstakes poker tournament, yes?”
The muscles beneath his clean-shaven jaw tightened. “Funny. You going to be able to focus, Miss Moran?”
“Just trying to lighten the mood.” Actually, between his black attire and somber expression, he looked as though he was heading to yet another funeral, but she refrained from voicing that observation. She could see he was having second thoughts about bringing her. She’d better pacify him or he’d have her turn back to the house.
“It’s a wedding for one of George Dulawski’s daughters,” Hazel said, reciting the pertinent facts she’d memorized. “Stepdaughters, technically. Second wife Barbara’s kids. George Dulawski heads Metro Construction Management, which recently purchased property along the Passaic River for which you are bidding for a sustainable redevelopment. You’ve done a number of projects with Metro over the years.” Including the year the Matthews family met their untimely end, though she omitted mention of that detail.
“You’ve pretty much sold George’s partner, Roger Newman, on the project,” she continued, “but George has his reservations.” And according to Stevenson that was the reason he’d chosen to attend this joyous occasion. Stevenson made a point of avoiding social situations, and most invitations wound up in the recycling bin without so much as an RSVP. “And you requested I accompany you because you’re a shallow jerk that no other self-respecting woman would be seen with.”
That brought a momentary flicker of amusement to his pale gold eyes and Hazel smiled. “I’m here as arm candy,” she said, “and to run interference and pretend we’re a couple while you talk business. But mainly I’m here so that, the moment you give the signal, I can claim a terrible headache and we can graciously exit. And…” She passed Stevenson the elaborately printed sheet of ivory paper. “You are fully aware that the wedding was at one o’clock.” She checked her watch again; it was well past two thirty.
“Such a shame we were unavoidably delayed,” he said flatly.
Delayed by him meditating over a glass of scotch before they left, which was also the reason he wasn’t the one behind the wheel. “No. You’re deliberately stalling. The sooner we get there the sooner you can talk your business. So what’s my story? Family fortune, finishing school?”
Stevenson chuckled. “Like you could sell that. There’s no story; you’re you. Your father runs a small trucking company; I hired him to move my boat. We met, you hated me on sight, said I was a creepy old rich guy, which I am, but you’ve gradually come to appreciate my more sensitive side.”
“Ah. So you’re dating the chauffeur’s daughter. How very democratic. But I thought you wanted to make the right impression.”
“And this will. These people know me. Just be yourself and you’ll be fine.” He paused, considering. “A better-behaved version of yourself. Don’t maim or kill anyone. No playing with sharp objects. Try not to talk like a truck-driver. Avoid any mention of murder, mayhem, all other unsavory details such as Hammon, and that’s about it.”
Hazel offered the sweetest smile she could manage. “The moment we have an audience, I’ll be on my best behavior.”
He eyed her skeptically. “That isn’t much to speak of.”
“I promise,” she assured him. “I’ll be a perfect lady. Cross my heart.”
She reached to put the car back in gear. He caught her hand and she stiffened. “What?” She looked uncomfortably at his fingers, still wrapped around hers.
“For one, try not to flinch when I touch you. It’ll be more convincing that way.”
“Understood.” Stevenson’s hand remained on hers. “We really should get going,” she said.
“You’re being far too cooperative. And when you get cooperative, I get suspicious.”
“Really, Jake!” She stared back with the most sincerely wounded expression she could manage. “You asked for my help. After all you’ve done for me, it seemed only reasonable.”
“Reasonable, or convenient? I saw how quickly you agreed to come once you learned who would be there. You’re distressingly easy to read at times. Trust me, princess, there’s nothing you can learn from these people that I don’t already know, and I don’t need some little girl playing detective for me. Understand?”
Heat rose in her face. She knew that some of what she’d learned from Hammon had opened his eyes to new leads. She thought that was the real reason he’d chosen to attend this wedding, even if he claimed otherwise, and why he’d asked her to accompany him. She took a deep breath and turned away. “Understood.”
“Hazel,” he said, his voice softening, “I appreciate your intentions, but I’m serious: there isn’t an angle you can think of that I haven’t already explored to exhaustion. I’ve wrecked a chunk of my life going down that road and back; I won’t stand by and watch you take that same path.”
She stared ahead. “So what exactly am I supposed to do?”
“Smile, be pretty, make nice. Do not, under any circumstances, snare, stab, or shoot anyone. Don’t make any waves. And remember just for today, no matter how insane it might seem, you truly love me with all your heart. In other words, just pretend I’m Hammon.”
She smiled sweetly. “Whatever you wish, dear.”
Despite what he claimed, Hazel knew Stevenson had been digging into the past, lifting rocks. And things that reside under rocks are rarely happy when exposed to the light of day. She put the car in gear and pulled her hand free of his, discreetly running it across her purse and the reassuring shape of Hammon’s colorful little Glock concealed within. For one afternoon she would be charming, gracious, and polite while she mingled among developers, trophy-wives, socialites, and possibly a murderer or two.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photograph by Felicia Grundler
C. E. Grundler is a native Jersey girl who has been sailing the region’s waters single-handedly since she was a child. Needless to say, she knows her way around a boat, having done everything from restoration and repairs to managing a boatyard and working in commercial marine transportation. Her “how to” articles have appeared in several boating magazines. When she’s not writing, she spends her time messing around aboard Annabel Lee, her thirty-two-foot Cheoy Lee trawler. She lives in northeast New Jersey with her husband, three dogs, and an assortment of cats. Last Exit in New Jersey is her first novel.
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