“I don’t trust anyone but you.” He looked into her eyes, deep, deep. “You’re the only person in the world I trust. She could get to someone else, my darling. It’s what she does. I know it’s only months now until I’m up for parole. Now that I have you, I could do that time without a single regret or worry. To know you’ll be waiting for me when I get out . . . But now it’s if I get out. If I get out alive.”
“Let me go talk to her. I always intended to for the book, but—”
“If she did anything to hurt you, do you think I could live with it?” He released her hands, used them to cover his face before dropping them.
“You can’t worry about me, Grant. I know I didn’t do a good job with that lying, conspiring sheriff, but—”
“That wasn’t your fault,” he said quickly. “I gave you the names of the men to hire. You stood up for me, Jessie, when no one ever has. But it did make me think . . .”
When he trailed off, she leaned close. “Tell me.”
“It’s a crazy idea. It’s too risky. For you.”
“I’ll do anything. You know that. Tell me.”
The excitement in her voice, the eagerness on her face told him he already had it in the bag.
“I had a lot of time to think after I was attacked. About what the cops said to me when they came here.”
“Accusing you of everything.” It lit a killing flame in her. “Always you.”
“But there was some doubt there. I saw it. Especially with the girl cop. Women are more perceptive, I think. If there was a way to throw more suspicion on Charlotte, they might stop her before she . . . before she had a chance to go after me again. I could do the next eight months knowing I’d walk out and into your arms. I could do anything knowing that.”
“But if I tried to hire someone to kill her—”
“No, darling, not her. And not hiring anyone. But no.” He shook his head, looked away again. “I can’t ask you to do something like this. I’ll just have to watch my back until the doors finally open.”
“I won’t have you live like that. I won’t live like that, afraid every day they’ll call and tell me you’ve been hurt. Tell me what you want me to do.”
“How did I live all these years without you?” Emotion—he could always call it up on cue—trembled in his voice. “You’re my guardian angel. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of you.”
He took her hands again. Looked at her as if she was his only salvation.
She’d have done anything for him.
“Charlotte’s having a gala in Beverly Hills next month.”
It thrilled. For a woman who’d experienced little excitement, even the act of donning a wig—ash blond, a smooth updo—equaled the thrill of a lifetime. She wore the body padding as well, padding that added several of the pounds she’d so diligently taken off.
The understated (boring) black gown fit over the padding well. A few fake jewels—but nothing eye-catching. She shouldn’t catch anyone’s eye. She applied her makeup meticulously, following Sparks’s instructions. Slipped on the black-framed glasses, then the mouth appliance that gave her a prominent overbite.
She looked matronly, something that would have upset her if not for the thrill. Her name fit the look. Millicent Rosebury. She’d paid for the fake ID, the credit card she’d used to buy the gala ticket.
She had those items, a lipstick, tissue, a small amount of cash, a pack of cigarettes, some already removed, a silver lighter, and what looked like a small perfume sprayer inside her black evening bag.
She’d left her car, as instructed, in a public garage blocks away. When she’d done what she came to do, she’d return to her hotel room, change, pack up Millicent in the single tote she’d brought with her, check out via the TV, walk to her car, and drive back to San Francisco.
It was all so simple really. Grant had such a brilliant mind.
Secretly, she worked on his story—their story. When finished, it would be for his eyes only once he lived free. Once they lived free together.
She walked to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Grant said to walk.
She struggled not to look awed—by the hotel itself, the glamorous people. After clearing check-in, she stepped into the ballroom. Had to muffle a gasp.
The flowers! White, all white, calla lilies, roses, hydrangeas, spearing out of gold vases on every table. Glittering chandeliers spilling sparkling showers of light. Champagne frothing in crystal flutes. Women in stunning gowns already seated or strolling.
Grant had told her not to come too early, not too late.
She knew, her greatest skill, how to be invisible.
Accepting a glass of champagne with what she considered a regal nod, she wandered. She didn’t intend to sit at her assigned table, or if needed, not for long.
It only took a moment to spot Charlotte Dupont, flitting, swanning, holding court. She wore a sleek gold gown, like the vases. She dripped with diamonds, like the chandeliers.
Rage rose up inside Jessica. Look at the lying, deceitful bitch, she thought. She thinks she’s a queen, thinks she’s untouchable. She thinks this is her night.
Well, in a way, it would be.
Her husband, old, frail, and looking both, sat at the table in front of the stage. He sent his wife adoring glances, chatted with people who stopped by the table, with his tablemates—no doubt as filthy rich as he.
She bided her time, watched for her moment as she wandered closer.
There would be a speech from Charlotte—undoubtedly tooting her own brass horn, probably working up a few tears as she did so. Then dinner, an auction to raise more money, entertainment, and finally dancing.
The two women at the table rose, walked away. Ladies’ room, Jessica assumed, and slowly moved forward.
While she could pick her time, Jessica felt the sooner the better.
Sooner came when one of the servers approached the table. She set something in a tall, clear glass with a lime on the lip in front of Conrad.
Slipping her hand into her purse, Jessica removed the top from the little atomizer, palmed it carefully as she stepped forward.
“I beg your pardon.” She used the haughty voice she’d practiced, believed it came across well. “Could you possibly direct me to table forty-three?”
“Of course, ma’am. Just one minute.”
As the server rounded the table to serve the other drinks, Jessica leaned down to Conrad. “I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for the good work you and your beautiful wife are doing.”
“It’s all Charlotte.” He beamed a proud smile, looking up as Jessica gestured upward with her empty hand. Misdirection, Grant called it.
“A beautiful setting for a beautiful cause,” she said as she tipped the contents of the atomizer into his drink.
“Thank you for supporting it.”
“I’m proud to be a small part of tonight.”
She eased back as the server came to her side. “This way, ma’am.”
“Thank you so much.” With that regal nod, she followed the server. “Oh, I see it now. And my party. Thank you.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
Jessica continued toward table 43, walked straight past it.
Drink, she thought, drink, drink, drink.
She walked straight out of the ballroom, sliding the empty atomizer back in her purse, taking out the pack of cigarettes. She moved straight to the outside doors, fumbling out her lighter like a woman in need of a smoke.
Someone tapped her shoulder, making her jerk as if struck by lightning.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” The woman in a bold red dress laughed. “I was hoping I could get a light.”
“Of course.” Jessica forced her face into a smile so they walked out like two friends. Afraid her hand would shake, she offered the woman the lighter.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Excuse me, won’t you? I see a friend.”
She moved away, taking her time until she saw the wom
an chatting with another smoker.
She kept walking. Kept walking. And realized her hand wouldn’t shake. She not only felt steady, she felt triumphant.
She’d become someone to write about.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Because she wanted to keep her schedule light for the summer, Cate limited her workload to three hours in the morning. It gave her time to spend with her father, time at the ranch. Just time.
She loved watching the way her father interacted with Julia, Gram, Red, and of course, Dillon. And knew some of her favorite memories would come from that summer. Watching fireworks explode across the sky with the horde of Sullivans, with Dillon and his family, riding with her father and Dillon to herd cattle from field to field.
Something she’d never expected to do.
Walks on the beach, dancing at the Roadhouse, a visit from Gino—thanks to Lily—to add a little sass to her hair.
She imagined today would add more memories with the Coopers’ big summer barbecue. She had a new dress, courtesy of a shopping trip with Lily. White might be a mistake at a barbecue, but it looked so fresh and summery with its floaty skirt and strappy back.
She hoped her contribution of bread and butter pudding held up to what she imagined would be amazing and plentiful food.
She’d just slipped it into the oven to bake when she saw her father through the wall of glass.
Opening the door, she called out, “Just in time! I put bread and butter pudding in the oven, and you can distract me from worrying about it. I dug out Mrs. Leary’s recipe, but I haven’t made this since I was a teenager. Why did I go with something I haven’t made in over a decade?”
Then she saw his face, and the buzz of excitement over the day silenced.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“You haven’t had the news on?”
“No.”
Her pulse shuddered. Someone else? Who? God, she’d convinced herself it was over.
As they stood in the doorway together, Aidan took her hands. “Your mother’s been taken in for questioning over the death of her husband.”
“But . . . They said he’d had a heart attack. I know it got Red’s suspicions up again, but the man was, what, ninety? And he had medical issues.”
“It seems he had some help with the heart attack. They found digitalis, a lethal dose, in his drink.”
“God.”
“Here.” He slid an arm around her waist. “Let’s sit down out here. In the air.”
“Someone killed him. Poisoned him. They think she—But that doesn’t connect with any of the other deaths or attacks. It was his drink? Not hers?”
“His, yes. A gin and tonic, apparently. She was drinking champagne.”
“But then . . . It’s not connected. She didn’t even know him when everything happened.”
“No. Do you want some water?”
“No, no, Dad, I’m okay. It’s awful. A man’s dead, a man’s been murdered, and I’m relieved it isn’t connected to me. Except, I guess it is,” Cate murmured. “Is she actually a suspect?”
“The report said his death’s been ruled a homicide, and that she was being questioned. I don’t have much more than that.”
“Daddy.” She gripped his hands. “I understand neither of us really know her anymore, if we ever did. But do you think she’s capable?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation, she thought, and closed her eyes. “So do I. All that money, and she probably didn’t expect him to live so long. Just give him a little nudge—can’t you hear her think it—what’s the real harm? Or do we think that because of what she did to us?”
“I don’t know, baby, but it’s for the police to figure out. I didn’t want you to get blindsided.”
She reached for the bracelet she hadn’t put on, so just closed her hand around her wrist. “They’ve already rolled back to the kidnapping, haven’t they?”
“Yeah, and it’s going to get a lot more play.”
“I don’t care anymore. God, yes, I do. For what it does to you, Grandpa, G-Lil. How it’ll upset Dillon and his family. Tell me the truth, straight, Dad. Should I make a statement?”
“Let’s see where it all goes. She could be cleared, and quickly.”
“She could be cleared,” Cate agreed. “But having a second scandal like this? It’s never going to go completely away. She’ll know what that’s like now,” Cate said quietly. “If she’s innocent, she’ll know what it’s like now to be hounded by something beyond her control.”
Charlotte wanted to be angry, to be furious, but rage couldn’t cut through the ice pack of fear.
They’d questioned her. True, this time she had a fleet of lawyers, the best money could buy, but they’d shot her right back to that horrible day after Caitlyn’s incessant whining, to an interrogation room, to police accusing her of horrible things.
Her lawyers had done most of the talking, had called for a break when she’d dissolved in tears. Real ones, too. Not grief tears, but fear tears.
Wishing Conrad would just die didn’t make her guilty of anything. She’d given him the best years of her life. She’d been a faithful and dutiful wife—there’d been billions riding on it.
Why, she hadn’t even been at the table when he’d collapsed, but onstage, basking in the lights, making her selfless speech.
Hadn’t she rushed to his side—after only the briefest of hesitations? Annoyed, justifiably, that he’d chosen that moment to take the spotlight away. But she’d rushed to him.
She hadn’t expected him to die in her arms.
But, Christ, what a moment, she thought as she lay in bed, a cool eye pack over her aching eyes.
Thank God some of the press there had captured that moment. She could play off that for years.
But first, she had to get through this nightmare. The press again, crowding around, tossing questions, taking pictures as her lawyers and bodyguards surrounded her, pushed through them to get her inside her limo.
The way people looked at her, the way the reports added just that horrible touch of speculation and suspicion. They didn’t care how she suffered.
She needed to order some new black suits, and a hat, with a veil. Absolutely needed a veil to showcase the grieving widow.
She would grieve—she’d show them! Once this horror passed, she’d give a memorial worthy of royalty—and she’d be the queen.
No self-tanner, no bronzer for at least two months to lend that pale, stricken look. She’d spend some time in seclusion, maybe traveling to their—her—various properties around the world.
Remembering the happier times with the only man she’d ever loved. Yes, she could sell that.
But she had to get through the horrible first. Then demand the police apologize for putting her through such trauma while she was mired in shock and grief.
She’d make them pay for it. And in private, she’d raise a glass to whoever the hell decided Conrad had lived long enough.
In her white dress, Cate carried her casserole into the Cooper kitchen.
Outside, smokers smoked, grills stood at the ready, dozens of picnic tables lined up. Inside, as she’d expected, Dillon’s ladies prepared a banquet of sides.
“I knew you wouldn’t need it, but I wanted to bring something.” She hunted up space on a counter for her dish. “And get here early enough to, well, get in on some of the action.”
“Grab an apron,” Maggie advised, “or that white dress’ll look like a drop cloth after the ceiling’s painted.”
Julia walked to her while Cate tied one on, cupped her face. “How are you?”
“I don’t know what to think about it, about her, about any of it. So I decided not to.”
“That’s a good plan. It’s a pretty day, and we’ve got enough food for a couple of armies. Maybe you could finish making that gallon of salsa. I’ve heard you’ve got a knack.”
“Happy to. Dillon? Red?”
“Likely icing down the beer and wine and soft drinks,�
�� Maggie told her. “They gotta set up the horseshoe pit, and we usually have a bocce game going, pony rides for the kids. We’ll have some dancing, too. A lot of musicians in the crowd. Whenever Lily and Hugh make it, they have to sing for their supper.”
“I love hearing them.”
“You’ll have to get up there, too.”
“Oh, I don’t really sing.” Cate glanced up from her chopping. “Other than voice-overs.”
“What’s the difference? Anyway, it’s a kick-ass party, with good food, good people, music.”
After an hour in the kitchen Cate accepted the reality. She would forever be an occasional cook. She watched Julia season a serious vat of baked beans while Maggie checked more items off the two pages on a clipboard.
“You know, caterers and party planners make good livings doing what the two of you are doing for fun.”
Julia slid the beans into the oven. “If I had to do this for a living, I’d run away to Fiji and live on the beach. But once a year? It is fun. How’re we doing, Mom?”
“Right on target. Time for party duds.”
“I’ll go see if I can help with anything outside.”
When she stepped out, she smelled grass and herbs, horses and sea breezes. The dogs bolted toward her from whatever business they’d been about.
Bottles of beer speared through ice inside huge galvanized tubs. Apparently a wheelbarrow had been enlisted to hold bottles of wine, and another for soft drinks.
A couple of hands kept busy stringing up party lights. In the distance came the rhythmic sound of metal striking metal and someone singing—slightly off-key—Tom Petty’s “I Won’t Back Down.”
She let the dogs herd her toward the near paddock where Dillon patiently brushed out the mane of one of the two spotted ponies munching on a hay net.
He wore jeans—with a hoof pick in the back pocket—a chambray shirt rolled up to the elbow, a gray, rolled-brimmed hat, and well-worn boots.
She thought: Yum.
He paused, scratching the pony between the ears as he watched her approach. “Now, there’s a sight.”
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