by Meg Cabot
“No, Marvin,” Beverly said, waving for Chloe to come all the way in. “No. How many different ways do I have to say it? Nyet. Nein. Not gonna happen.”
Chloe, standing in front of her employer’s desk, twisted her fingers together nervously. Beverly held up one manicured index finger for the girl to wait.
“I said mauve, and I meant mauve, Marvin,” Beverly said. “I did not mean purple, or lavender, or goddamn vermillion. I want mauve. And if you can’t get me mauve, Marvin, then as far as I am concerned, this relationship is through.”
Placing her hand over the mouthpiece of the receiver, Beverly explained to her assistant, “Marvin, my contractor. I think he might actually be brain dead. I’m not sure how he manages to walk around and form sentences and all of that. It is probably one of those medical miracles they’re always talking about on the channel nine news. But clearly, the man is operating under brain stem guidance only.”
“Ms. Tennant,” Chloe said. The girl looked as if she might, at any moment, lose her lunch, which Beverly happened to know had been takeout kung pao chicken. “That was Tim Lord on the phone just now. I tried to break in and get you for him, but—”
“I know, sweetie,” Beverly said. “I’m sorry I didn’t pick up. But you don’t know how hard it is for me to get this bastard on the line. Do you have any idea what kind of crap he’s trying to pull now? I ordered these mauve tiles for the downstairs powder room, and you know what he delivered? He—” She broke off and, removing her hand, barked into the receiver, “Oh, you think so, do you? Well, we’ll just see what my lawyer has to say about that. Oh, won’t I? You just wait and see, buster—”
“Lou Calabrese,” Chloe said, in a dazed voice.
Beverly raised a carefully plucked eyebrow at her assistant. “What did you say, sweetie? No, I did not mean you, Marvin. You think I would call you sweetie, you bum? I want my money back. If I can’t have my mauve tiles, then I want my money back—”
“The helicopter went down,” Chloe said through bloodless lips. “The helicopter carrying Lou and…and Jack Townsend went down.”
Beverly froze with the telephone receiver glued to her ear. The voice of the far-off Marvin could be heard, offering up excuses for the missing tiles.
“They think it crashed,” Chloe said. Her eyes were filled with tears. “Into McKinley Park. Only they don’t know if there are any survivors, because there’s a storm, and they can’t send a plane out to look for…for…”The last two words were a painful whisper: “The wreckage.”
Beverly dropped the phone. “Oh my God,” she said. “Oh…my God.”
Through the receiver, they could both hear Marvin, saying something about a shipload of mauve Italian tile being held up in customs. Neither of them moved to hang up the phone.
“Faster, Richards,” Eleanor Townsend leaned forward to say.
“I am going as fast as the law allows, madam,” the butler, who was now acting in his capacity as chauffeur, Mrs. Townsend’s regular driver having the day off, replied.
“Bugger the law,” Eleanor said. “Drive in the…the whatever it’s called.”
“The emergency vehicle lane, madam?”
“Yes, that.”
“I think not, madam,” Richards said. “You are not going to be able to help Master Jack from inside a jail cell. Or, God forbid, a hospital room.”
“I cannot miss this flight, Richards,” Eleanor, in the backseat with Alessandro and a small overnight bag on her lap, informed him. “It’s the last direct flight of the day to Anchorage.”
“We will not miss the flight, Mrs. Townsend,” Richards said, in his calm voice. “I assure you, we will be there in plenty of time.”
“Certainly we will,” Eleanor said. “If you drive in the what’s it called.”
“The emergency vehicle lane. Perhaps if you were to call Mr. Lord back, he might have some good news—”
“Nice try, Richards,” Eleanor said, turning up the collar of her fox fur coat. “But I have said all I have to say to Mr. Lord. The next time he hears from me, it will be through my lawyers. Imagine, sending my son out in a helicopter, in inclement weather! You can be assured the studio won’t soon hear the end of this outrage.”
“I am certain Master Jack is all right,” the butler said, as the Bentley inched forward another six inches, towards the rear bumper of the car in front of it. “He is, as you know, quite a resourceful young man.”
“He ought to have listened to his father,” Eleanor said, firmly. “If he had just become a lawyer, the way Gilbert wanted him to, instead of a film actor, of all things….”
“Master Jack has done rather well for himself,” the butler said. “And I quite enjoyed his last film. The independent, Shakespeare one.”
“Hamlet,” Eleanor said. “And it was lovely. But, really, Richards. I love my son—I do. But if he had to be an actor, why film? What is so wrong with the stage, I ask you? Stage actors are a good deal more respectable, I think. And they are never required to take helicopters.”
“Nor,” Richards pointed out, “are they generally required to disrobe quite as often as Master Jack has, in his more profitable films.”
“Yes,” Eleanor said. “You know, I don’t believe I have a single friend left who has not witnessed my son in his altogether. It is quite embarrassing, Richards.”
“Perhaps,” Richards said, comfortingly, “when you see Master Jack, you can have a word with him about it.”
“Surely,” Eleanor went on, “it can’t be necessary for him to disrobe in every film he’s in. There must be some scripts that don’t require nudity, don’t you think? There was none in Hamlet.”
“Yes,” Richards said. “But that film only grossed about nine million, domestic, if you’ll remember, madam.”
Eleanor sighed, gazing sightlessly through the window as New York rain fell in a steady curtain against the car. “I just don’t know. I suppose it’s good that he’s so successful. You know he ran off to California with only about twenty dollars in his pocket, after his father cut him off. Jack truly is a self-made man. Still, money isn’t everything, is it? You cannot put a price on dignity. And Gilbert did leave him very well taken care of. I can’t imagine he needs more than a hundred thousand a year to run that ranch of his.” Eleanor’s voice caught raggedly. “Oh, Richards. If something should have happened to him, whatever are we going to do with all those horses?”
“Shhh, madam,” Richards said. And, lifting a tissue from the box on the empty passenger seat beside him, he passed it back to the rear of the car. “Chin up, Mrs. Townsend. I’m sure Master Jack is fine. Just fine.”
It was right then that the sound of a police siren became audible. Eleanor looked up from the tissue and said, “Oh, Richards. Perhaps there’s been an accident up ahead, and that’s why the traffic is so bad.”
“Indubitably, madam,” the butler replied. “I do hope no one has been seriously injured.”
But when the squad car streaked past, suddenly, with a great squealing of tires, Richards pulled the Bentley out into the emergency lane, following in the police car’s wake.
Eleanor, thrown back rather roughly against the butter-colored leather seat, had to hold quite tightly to Alessandro to keep him from being similarly jostled.
“Richards!” she cried. “Whatever do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting you to the airport,” came the butler’s calm reply, “in time for your flight, madam.”
“Can’t this thing go any faster?” Adam complained.
“Jesus,” Nick said. “I’m already going ninety. What more do you want? It’s a freaking Chevy.”
“Hey.” Luke, in the backseat, was craning his neck to see behind him. “We got some kind of a tail. A Bentley.”
“Where?” Nick tried to look.
“For the love of God,” Frank Calabrese cried, smacking his youngest son in the back of the head. “Keep your eyes on the road.”
“Yeah,” Dean said, from where he was wedge
d between his father and second eldest brother. “You want to get us killed, too?”
A silence fell over the inside of the squad car, broken only by the incessant whine of the siren.
“Oh, nice one, Dean,” Adam said, from the front seat.
“You know what I mean,” Dean said.
“Way to exercise some tact,” Luke said.
“Look.” Dean, who’d only made detective a few weeks before, tried to explain himself. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. I do not think she’s dead. I’m just saying—”
“Your sister isn’t dead,” Frank Calabrese snapped. “Nick, I swear to God, if you don’t put that pedal to the metal—”
“Geez, Dad,” Adam said. “What have you been watching lately? Smokey and the Bandit?”
“Could you,” Luke asked, in annoyance, “possibly be more gay?”
“Could you,” Adam wanted to know, “possibly be more hetero?”
“Could all of you,” Nick said from between gritted teeth as he clutched the wheel of the squad car he’d taken off the island of Manhattan without exactly getting the proper clearance first, “possibly shut up and let me drive?”
Everyone tried to oblige him. For about sixty seconds.
“That Bentley’s still behind us,” Luke informed them all. “He’s breathing your exhaust, little bro.”
“What do you want me to do about it?” Nick snapped. “Pull over and write him a ticket?”
Adam glanced at his watch. “We still got time. I mean, long as Dad hasn’t got any carry on….”
“I am breaking,” Nick said, tensely, “about nine hundred laws here, guys. Cut me a little slack, will you?”
“You’re doing a fine job,” Frank said. “A fine, fine job. The rest of you boys, leave your brother alone. Just because he’s the only one of you still in uniform.”
“Hey,” Nick said. “I like being a cop.”
“I liked being a cop,” Dean said. “I just like having a life more.”
Adam snickered. “Like narcotics detectives have lives.”
“More’n homicide detectives do,” Dean fired back.
“I just never looked good,” Luke reflected, “in blue.”
Nick, glancing into the rearview mirror, saw his father’s expression, and said, “Dad. Come on. They’re kidding.”
“I don’t,” Frank Calabrese said, “see anything funny about any of this.”
“Release of nervous tension, Dad,” Adam said. “We all know Lou’s fine.”
“Yeah,” Dean said. “You think a plane crash is gonna kill her? Not Lou.”
“Not as many times as she’s seen Zero Hour,” Luke agreed. “My God, she probably could have flown that bird herself, she saw that movie so many times.”
“It was a helicopter,” Frank said, woodenly, “not a plane. A helicopter, they said.”
The brothers exchanged glances.
“Well,” Dean offered. “A helicopter is like a plane. I bet she could have, you know. Flown it even more easily.” His voice trailed off.
“Look, Dad,” Luke said. “She’s fine, okay? I mean, she’s a tough kid, way too tough to let a lousy helicopter crash kill her. Remember that time she got hit in the head with that softball?”
“Yeah,” Adam said. “She still ran around the bases. Every last one of them.”
“Even though she was playing outfield at the time,” Dean added.
“It’d take a lot more than a downed chopper,” Nick said as he took the turn off to the airport, his siren still blaring, “to kill Lou Calabrese.”
“I hope to God,” Frank muttered, “that you’re right. Because truthfully, I don’t think I could stand it if she left me to deal with you four clowns alone.”
The door to the Lords’ hotel suite opened, and Tim Lord, looking haggard and chilled to the bone, stepped inside.
“Oh, hi, honey,” Vicky Lord said from her position on the couch, from which she had not moved all day, having an aversion to snow. “You’re home early. How was your day?”
Tim stared at his wife in utter disbelief. He did not move to take off his parka or his hat. He just looked at her, stretched out on the white couch, in the rosy glow from the lamp at one end of the room, a pile of magazines stacked up on the floor in front of her, and the remains of midafternoon tea on the coffee table in front of her. On the suite’s sound system, a tape of the ocean waves was playing. The sound of gulls crying was an odd contrast to the sight in the windows behind Vicky’s couch, which was of an all-out blizzard.
“Haven’t you heard?” Tim asked, numbly.
“Heard what?” Vicky turned a page of her magazine. She’d finished the Vogue hours ago, and was now on a copy of Teen Beat, left behind by her eldest stepdaughter. “About the storm? God, did I ever. They wouldn’t shut up about it. I had to turn the TV off. It wasn’t such a sacrifice, though. You should see what they’ve done to Todd’s hair on ‘General Hospital.’ I mean, I am all for transplants, but come on, get a professional to insert them. The guy looks like he’s got corn stalks growing out of his head.”
Tim staggered forward a few feet, then sank into a nearby chair. “Where are the children?”
“Oh,” Vicky said, reaching over and lifting up her teacup. “Lupe took’em over to that video arcade across the street. Elijah’s not sick, you know. I don’t know what you were talking about with that message this morning. He’s fit as a fiddle. He even bit Anastasia right on the—”
“Jack Townsend’s dead,” Tim said.
“—arm. I had to force them into separate corners, because they wouldn’t stop—” She broke off suddenly and blinked her expertly lined eyes at him. “What…what did you say?”
“The helicopter went down,” Tim said. He reached up, a dazed expression on his face, and pulled off the knit cap that had been covering his gray hair. “Somewhere along McKinley. They can’t…because of the storm, they can’t send out search planes. If he survived the crash—Jack, I mean—they don’t expect he’ll live through the night. The temperature’s expected to drop to—”
Suddenly Vicky was up and off the couch, standing in her stockinged feet, both hands raised as if to ward something off. Her face had gone as white as the couch behind her.
“No,” she said, backing away from him. “No.”
Tim tiredly began pulling off his gloves. “Vick,”he said. “I tried calling here all afternoon. You must have had your phone off, as usual. They’re gone, Vick. Jack, and Lou Calabrese, too, apparently.”
Vicky continued to back away from him until she banged into the glass dining table, with seating for twelve, a necessity for a man with as many children—and staff to care for them—as Tim Lord had.
“That’s not true,” Vicky said. Her makeup stood out starkly on her pale face. “Jack…Lou…I mean, I just saw them. At the airport. Just a few hours ago. And they were fine. I mean, they were fighting—you know how they hate each other—but they were fine.”
Tim peeled off his coat. “Well,” he said. “They’re not fine anymore. Is there any whiskey, Vick? Because I could really use a whiskey.”
“Jack Townsend.” Vicky stood by the table, hugging herself. She was shaking. Even from where he sat, he could see that she was shaking. “Jack Townsend is not dead.”
Tim would have gotten up and put his arms around her if he hadn’t been so tired. As it was, he simply slumped back into his chair and said, “Yes, Vick. He is.”
Vicky, after staring at him for ten seconds more, whirled around and ran to the master bedroom. The door slammed behind her. A minute later, Tim heard the sound of bathwater running. To hide, he knew, the sound of her sobs.
He sat where he was, watching the snow come down, hard and fast, against the windows.
“Damn,” he said as he stared, like someone transfixed, at the flakes. “God damn.”
8
Well, Jack thought. At least she wasn’t crying.
That was one thing to be thankful for, anyway.
&nb
sp; A lot of women, Jack knew, would have been. Crying. Clinging to him. Making a nuisance of themselves.
But she wasn’t. She wasn’t exactly falling over herself in an effort to thank him, either, he noticed, for dragging her out of that burning hunk of tin. But at least she wasn’t crying. She was just sitting there, those darkly opaque eyes completely unreadable.
Well, except for the resentment. That he could make out, no problem.
It was pretty unfair, in his opinion, to resent someone who’d recently pulled you, unconscious, out of a charred helicopter, and remembered to save your laptop, too. But she resented him anyway.
He supposed he couldn’t blame her. There was the whole I need a bigger gun thing. That had to hurt. And then the stuff with Vicky, which he had never even been able to explain satisfactorily to himself, let alone anyone else. And now all this, which was apparently his fault, as well. After all, it had been him, not her, Sam had been hired to kill.
And what about that, anyway? Just who in hell wanted him dead so much that they were willing to pay money to see it happen? He hadn’t, so far as he knew, offended anybody lately. He hadn’t even been in any bar fights. And he certainly hadn’t slept with any married women. So what was up with that?
“Are you paying attention, Townsend?” Lou was asking imperiously. “I mean, if you’re gonna do something, at least do it right.”
He looked up from the hypnotically dancing flames in front of him.
“Oh, hey,” he said, when his brain, which seemed to be growing sluggish with the cold, finally registered what he was seeing. “You got a fire started.”
“It’s called tinder,” she explained, as if she were speaking to a four-year-old. “You don’t just throw a whole bunch of sticks in a pile and light them, okay, Ranger Rick? You have to find tinder first, and light it, and then gently blow.”
He liked the way her lips looked when she said the word blow.
“Didn’t you ever see Cast Away?” she went on, tossing Sam’s lighter back to Jack in disgust.
“Can’t say that I did.” How was it, he wondered, that he’d never before noticed how hot Lou Calabrese was? Oh, sure, he’d known she was attractive. She’d always looked good, you know, at the Copkiller premieres, and that night she’d won the Oscar for Hindenburg, and she’d been in that slinky black number Greta had snidely told everyone was an Armani knockoff.