by Tami Hoag
“Marilee, I'm so glad you've come,” he said, taking both her hands in his. “I was afraid your friend Mr. Rafferty might have talked you out of it.”
“Rafferty doesn't tell me what to do,” she replied, dodging the kiss he tried to brush across her cheek. She ducked around him, making a show of taking in the terrace and pool area that was cluttered with major and minor celebrities. “Quite a spread you've got here, Mr. Bryce.”
“Well, it's home,” he said, chuckling with false modesty. A waiter appeared beside him, and Bryce took two slim flutes of champagne from the tray, handing one to Mari. “Call me Bryce. All my friends do.”
“Did Lucy?” she asked baldly, glancing at him from beneath her lashes as she raised the glass to her lips.
“Of course. Lucy was a regular here.” He made a mournful face, shaking his head, clucking his tongue. “Such a spirit. God, it's a pity we had to lose her so young.”
“Yes. I'm beginning to feel I hardly knew her.”
He sipped his champagne and watched her, his pale eyes keen. “You weren't close? She spoke of you. I'm surprised she didn't tell you everything about her life here.”
“We shared a profession once. We were friends. But we weren't very good about staying in touch after she moved here. As I said, I almost feel as if I didn't know her at all anymore.”
Her gaze drifted across the small sea of faces, the thirty or so chosen elite who mingled on the flagstone terrace, talking, drinking, looking gorgeous. She recognized the redhead who had been in Bryce's company at the Stars and Bars—Uma Kimball, Hollywood's latest find who had been described as a cross between Tinker Bell and Madonna. She stood along the low stone wall that edged the terrace, wearing what looked to be a burlap sack with a belt of twine. A fortune in diamonds hung from her earlobes. She was stuffing her skinny face with canapes while a male model bimbob with a flowing golden mane tried to impress her with the size of his naked pecs.
Near the pool, the blond Rhine maiden stood in a stark black knit tank dress that hugged her body and dispelled any thoughts that she may actually have been a guy. Her eyes locked on Mari like a pair of lasers, beaming cool amusement.
“For instance,” Mari said, turning back to Bryce, “the sheriff told me Lucy was off riding by herself when she was—when she had her accident. I never knew Lucy to be the solitary type. I honestly can't picture her communing with nature.”
“Yes, well, Lucy was full of surprises. Let me introduce you to some people,” Bryce offered, steering her by the elbow straight for the towering blonde at poolside. The woman was able to look down her nose at Bryce even in his high-heeled boots, something that brought a nasty gleam of satisfaction to her eyes. “Marilee, this is my cousin, Sharon Russell. Sharon, this is Lucy's friend, Marilee Jennings.”
Sharon's gaze raked down Mari from her unruly mane to the tips of her cheap flat shoes and back again. “Oh, yes,” she said, her wide mouth twisting sardonically, “the little singer.”
A razor-sharp smile cut across Mari's face. “How nice to meet you,” she said sweetly. “You're Bryce's cousin? My, the two of look so much alike, I thought you were brothers—I mean, brother and sister.”
“You didn't bring your guitar?” Bryce said, his mouth curving in disappointment.
“Were you going to make me sing for my supper?”
“Not at all. There are some people here from Columbia Records. I thought this might be an opportunity for you. You have a rare talent, Marilee.”
Which he had heard exactly once across a crowded room. Mari met his cool blue gaze for a moment, trying to figure out his game. Was he really so benevolent? Or was it a matter of playing God, manipulating people, bestowing blessings, then basking in the afterglow of their gratitude?
“Some other time, maybe,” she said as a glimpse of dark hair and handsome features flashed in her peripheral vision. Ben Lucas. “I'm still too shaken over everything that's happened with Lucy and all to even think about my future. I just came to mingle, you know, meet some new people, eat some free food.”
“By all means.” Bryce flashed his teeth and gestured to the crowd around him. “Enjoy yourself.”
She nodded to him, ignored Sharon, and strolled away, snagging a stuffed mushroom off the tray of a passing waiter as she went.
Lucas was busy charming the black-haired girl from the riding party. They stood at the end of the pool, the underwater lights shimmering up on them in rippling waves. He was a good-looking man, a fact that had not escaped his own notice. Like most of the high-powered trial lawyers Mari had known, he was vain and arrogant to the point of megalomania. He had chosen his audience tonight unerringly. The young woman was hanging on his every word. She looked all of twenty, too fresh-scrubbed and innocent to be running with this crowd. Fresh meat. And Lucas was sniffing after her like a hungry wolf.
“. . . The press had Lana Broderick tried, convicted, and executed,” Lucas announced. “They were stunned by the acquittal.”
“But was she really innocent?”
He gave the girl a finely honed look of combined wisdom and compassion that had swayed many a juror, letting it soak in just right before dropping the dramatic finish line. “She should have been.”
Mari rolled her eyes and tried to keep from gagging on her mushroom. “I'm sure the unfortunate late Mrs. Dale Robards wished your client had been innocent,” she said dryly as she made a trio of their little duo. “If Lana Broderick had stuck with the baton-twirling squad instead of opting for extracurricular activities with Mr. Robards, Mrs. Robards might be alive today.”
The muscles in Lucas's jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed slightly, but he took her counter and parried smoothly, expertly. “My point exactly. If Dale Robards hadn't seduced an innocent sixteen-year-old girl, the entire tragedy could have been avoided. Robards should have been the one on trial for crimes of moral corruption.”
Mari polished off her mushroom and flashed him a smile, enjoying the sparring match, enjoying the idea that she could mouth off to an attorney and no longer have to worry about him ruining her career for it. “Dale's moral corruption didn't pull the trigger. Sweet little Lana did that all by herself.”
“I guess I should be glad you weren't on the jury, Miss—?”
“Jennings. Marilee Jennings. We've met, actually. A couple years ago. I used to be a court reporter in Sacramento. I did some work for one of your partners once. State of California versus Armand Uscavaro. He claimed voices from hell compelled him to murder his parents in their sleep, then make it look like a robbery so he could inherit two million dollars. Poor kid. Turned out they wouldn't let him listen to heavy metal. I suppose they deserved to die.”
Lucas ignored the bite of her words. Her sarcasm slid off him like oil on Teflon. “Small world.” He flashed her a bright smile. “I'm ashamed to say I don't remember our meeting. I like to think I never forget a pretty face.”
“You probably remember my friend better. She used to do quite a bit of work with your firm. Lucy MacAdam?”
He blinked at the mention of Lucy's name, as if some invisible hand had slapped his face. Mari catalogued the reaction and turned to the young woman with an apologetic smile. “In the midst of all that weirdness and macho stuff going on this afternoon, I didn't get your name.”
Samantha looked down on the little blonde with the husky voice and curvy body and felt like a giant wooden totem, oversize with exaggerated features, big and clumsy. The beautiful teal silk blouse and slacks she had chosen from the wardrobe suddenly felt garish and huge on her, the makeup she had so carefully applied, clownish. She wished fervently she could become invisible or wake up and discover this had all been a dream, that she was really in bed beside her husband and not standing at a posh party chatting with one of his mistresses. But she didn't become invisible and she didn't wake up, and Marilee Jennings and Ben Lucas were staring at her, waiting.
“Samantha,” she mumbled, clutching the stem of her wineglass as if she expected it to snap and f
all with a crash to the blue tile that edged the pool. “Samantha Rafferty.”
It was Mari's turn to blink in shock. “Rafferty? Are you Will Rafferty's wife?”
“Yes.”
The answer came complete with a stony look Mari didn't immediately interpret. She was too busy putting together the pieces of the afternoon's little drama. Suddenly Will's reaction made some kind of sense. J.D.'s remark to his brother played over in her mind—We got a big problem here, little brother. Will's estranged wife in the company of Evan Bryce, the man who would be king of the Eden Valley. Oh, boy.
She cut a glance across the pool at Bryce. He was laughing, pinching the bimbob's pecs as Uma Kimball shoveled another cheese puff into her mouth. In her mind's eye she imagined him suddenly levitating above the crowd, shooting lightning bolts down from the tips of his fingers. He had that air about him, that he was a warlock who had taken human form just for sport. Was it really all a game to him—playing with people's lives? Was that why he had brought his little retinue to the Stars and Bars—to watch the drama of human life unfold before his eyes? The thought gave her a chill.
The feeling of Samantha's petulant gaze on her brought Mari's attention back to the matter at hand. The source of that look booted her mentally. Jealousy. God, the poor kid probably thought she was one of Will's many conquests. She called him half a dozen slanderous names in her head. He'd gotten her into enough trouble already, the jerk.
“J.D. invited me to watch the branding,” she lied. “He's been helping me out with Lucy's animals. My animals, now, I guess. I can't quite get used to that idea.” She turned back to Ben Lucas, who seemed as well composed as a Mozart quintet. “I suppose you heard about Lucy's accident?”
“Yes. It was a terrible tragedy for all concerned. Graf—Dr. Sheffield—was beside himself with grief.”
“Too bad he wasn't beside himself while he was out hunting. One of him might have seen it was a woman he was shooting at.” The words came out as sharp as knives, as sharp as her resentment. Mari knew she should have tempered them, but the feelings weren't dulling with time. Just the opposite. The shock was burning off like fog in the face of a strong morning sun. Every day the irony and the stupidity came a little clearer into focus, a little brighter, a little more painful.
Lucas was frowning at her.
“You know Dr. Sharpshooter?” She took a swallow of champagne, hoping in vain to cool her hot tongue a little. She wished fervently for a cigarette.
“I'm his attorney.”
Oh, God, what have you stuck your foot in this time, Marilee?
All around her she could hear the noise of the party like the distant sound of bees swarming. The music boomed out of hidden speakers, all thumping and discordant static. The light from the pool flickered and rippled across Ben Lucas's handsome features in bars of bright and dark like moonglow through a venetian blind. His mouth was moving. Mari could barely hear him above the pounding in her temples. Something about having a second home across the valley and belonging to the Montana bar.
“How convenient,” she said tightly. Lucy had worked for Lucas. Lucas had been her lover at one time. Lucas worked for Sheffield. All of them knew Bryce, the puppet master. Wasn't that nice and cozy? All the bits and fragments of information swirled around inside her head like colored glass in a kaleidoscope. “You must be proud of yourself, pleading the value of a human life down to a misdemeanor and pocket change.”
His dark eyes took on a flat quality. Like a shark's, she thought. How apropos. “It was an accident, Ms. Jennings.”
“Yeah, I know the drill,” she said bitterly. “No malice, no premeditation. If he wasn't innocent, he should have been.”
She glared up at him, hating him, hating his kind. He was the breed of lawyer who made a mockery of the system. He played the courts like an elaborate game of Let's Make a Deal. The only thing that mattered was his record of acquittals. Not the law. Not justice. Not innocence or guilt.
“Pardon me, but I've had it up to here with lawyers,” she said, slashing a hand across her throat.
She flung her glass into the pool and strode for the house, ignoring the curious looks that turned her way.
A pair of French doors stood open, leading into a huge room in the center section of the house. Mari waded across a sea of champagne-colored carpet, taking in only peripherally the white leather sofas and earth-tone pillows, the Georgia O'Keeffe prints on the walls, the Native American artifacts displayed in tall lighted glass cases.
Stepping up into a foyer area of glazed Mexican tile, she took a left and headed down a wide hall, looking for a bathroom. She needed a few minutes alone and she had the most overwhelming need to wash after her conversation with Lucas. Beneath the male-model looks, inside the $1,500 suit and the Cole-Haan loafers, he was an eel, a slimy, ugly, beady-eyed eel. He was the kind of man who billed his clients $300 an hour for thirty-hour days and refused to pay his court reporter until the final gavel had fallen on a litigation that had taken eighteen months to complete.
A door swung open in front of her, nearly smacking her in the face, and Uma Kimball staggered out, giggling and glassy-eyed, a demented pixie in sackcloth. Her skin had a translucent quality, as if it were stretched very thin and very tight over her small, fine bones. Her red hair was short and ragged, looking as if rodents had chewed it off while she slept. She wiped her collagen-plumped mouth on the back of her hand, smearing her lipstick.
“Hi!” she gushed, as excited as a cheerleader at a pep fest. “Hey, great party, huh? Have you met Fabian yet? God, he's got like the biggest tits I've ever seen and they're really his! Isn't that wild!”
“Is this the bathroom?”
Uma giggled, setting the cascades of diamonds swinging on her earlobes. “It better be. I just hurled about a pound of hors d'oeuvres. Eat till you puke—that's my motto.” She nearly fell over laughing, grabbing on to Mari's shoulder to keep herself upright. Her breath reeked of Binaca.
“Oh, yeah, that's catchy,” Mari said, her sarcasm lost on the actress, who had suddenly become fixated on Mari's hair.
“This is so radical!” She reached up to rub a strand between her fingers. “Where did you get this color? José?”
“DNA.”
“Where's that?”
“In my genes. It's the real thing. I was born with it.”
Uma looked confused for a few seconds, then amused again. “People still do that?”
“Call me old-fashioned,” Mari said on a sigh. Her temples were throbbing like a pair of hammer-struck thumbs. “You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette, would you?”
“God, no.” Uma's overinflated lips bent into a huge sad-clown frown. “Smoking's like bad for you. But ask Brycie if you really need one. Brycie can get you anything you want.”
“Yeah, I'll bet he can.”
“No shit. Like he's got the best blow I've ever had. Want some?”
Mari started to tell her newfound friend she preferred to stay on planet earth, but she bit her tongue at the last second. She wanted to know more about Bryce. She wanted to know more about the crowd Lucy had run with before she died. Somewhere along the line, the answers were going to start making some kind of sense instead of leading her deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole.
“Come on!” Uma grabbed her arm and led her down the hall, her pale, thin face polished by excitement and the burnoff of cocaine. They turned a corner and came to a set of tall carved double doors. She gave Mari a look brimming with conspiracy. “You have to know the secret knock.”
She pounded out a beat that sounded vaguely like “The Rain in Spain,” and fell against the door in a fit of giggles. Mari watched her, thinking that if Uma got any more wired than she already was, something was going to short-circuit. She didn't wait for anyone to answer her secret code, but turned the knob and stumbled into the room with the swing of the door.
“Trick or treat! Got any nose candy?”
Uma righted herself and made a beeline for a huge billiar
d table with carved mahogany legs. The only light in the room came from the hanging brass fixture above the table. The light shone down in three perfect cones on a long mirror that had been situated on top of the slate, illuminating a dozen neat white lines of cocaine just waiting for some itchy noses.
Mari came to a dead halt three feet into the room as she recognized the man bent over the table with a rolled hundred-dollar bill poised under one nostril. Her heart slammed into her breastbone and bounced back and forth between her ribs.
MacDonald Townsend. U.S. District Court judge Mac-Donald Townsend.
He glanced up and their gazes collided with all the force of a pair of trains.
“I just came looking for cigarettes,” Mari mumbled, turning away from the puddle of light around the table. Someone handed her a pack of French Gauloises. Instead of shaking one out, she took the whole thing, stumbled over a thanks, and ducked out the door into the dimly lit hallway.
MacDonald Townsend was one of the most highly respected men on the bench in northern California. Rumors already had him placed on a seat in superior court. He had the governor's ear, a wealthy wife, and, apparently, an appetite for Colombian snow.
And for one long, hot summer, MacDonald Townsend had been Lucy's lover.
The questions loomed larger, boomed louder with every beat of her pulse in her temples. She hurried down a maze of halls, finding an exterior door just when she was sure she was hopelessly lost. Desperate for fresh air, she let herself out and stood a moment to get her bearings. She was downhill from the parking area, nearer to the stables than the cars. Still trembling a little, her heart still pounding, she walked down a paved, landscaped path toward the dark barnyard. The smell of horse manure and pine trees seemed a big improvement over the stench of greed and power that hovered like smog around Bryce's crowd.