Hit and Run

by Sandra Balzo

  ‘No, she surely wasn’t. Not that I would have invited her even if you wrote her name a foot high. But the boss saw it differently.’

  ‘So Dickens invited her?’ AnnaLise asked, admittedly a little miffed that in addition to the so-called ‘baby-mamas’ he’d bid her to find, the man had acted independently on his desire to see ‘old flames’ beyond the ones – like Shirley and Joy – he’d managed to extinguish by marrying. ‘Why would he do that?’

  Unnecessarily, Bacchus straightened the placard identifying the room as that of ‘Lorraine Kuchenbacher Griggs and Phyllis Balisteri.’

  ‘Like you said, it might be that Mr Hart’s making amends. Maybe to a wider circle than just the mothers of his blood-children.’

  AnnaLise heard something in Bacchus’ tone. ‘But you don’t think so.’

  ‘What I think is the boss does believe that.’ As the valet crossed to AnnaLise’s room with the final bag, Boozer stepped into Daisy and Phyllis’ suite and surveyed it, pausing to pluck a petal from one of the roses that was apparently not up to snuff. ‘But I do admit some wonder that he’s still …’

  ‘… sweet on Sugar?’

  An embarrassed grin as Bacchus glanced around for a waste basket before settling for stuffing the petal in his pocket. ‘More like … intrigued?’

  ‘By the underaged one who got away?’ AnnaLise shivered and moved into the hallway. ‘Boozer, that’s sick.’

  Bacchus closed the bedroom door behind them. ‘Sure would be, and, hear me now, I’m not saying that it’s true.’

  As Bacchus started down, AnnaLise hesitated on the catwalk. The new arrivals had filtered through beneath to enter the big room facing the lake. The magnificent water view of less than an hour ago was losing definition in the dusk, while, across the water, Bradenham’s flickering lights served as a reminder of Bobby’s own family reunion.

  Smaller, perhaps, but AnnaLise was betting it was every bit as uncomfortable as the one at Hart’s Head. If, hopefully for Bobby, a tad less pretentious.

  On a level with AnnaLise’s nose, an enormous crystal chandelier had sprung to life, illuminating the scene below. Joy was already at the buffet, while a smiling Daisy left Sugar and Lacey Capri to move toward Rose Boccaccio. Rose’s son Eddie was crossing the room from the bar to the window wall, offering drinks in old-fashioned glasses from a tray theatrically, if imprudently, center-balanced on his left palm. He seemed to be introducing guests to each other as he went, like he’d already been crowned the golden child.

  Or, more accurately, middle-aged man.

  ‘It’s just that I’ve known the boss for a long time.’ Bacchus had stopped on the second step down the huge staircase. ‘And he’s given me a good sense for who’s his type and … well, Sugar’s it. And she’s …’

  As Bacchus continued to descend, AnnaLise lost his voice in the babbling of the assembly below, though with each step she was still thinking about her birth father’s ‘type.’

  And that’s when it struck her. Every woman visible below – Daisy, Joy, Rose, Lucinda, Shirley, Sugar, and even Lacey – was petite. And other than Rose, who had let her hair go white, all were various shades of blonde, too. AnnaLise was willing to bet, once she got down there to meet them face-to-face, she’d find the female guests were also blue-eyed, like Daisy and Joy.

  All of which just made Boozer Bacchus right: Dickens Hart had a preferred, even exclusive ‘type,’ one he’d chosen as a randy young male. So much so that, if you squinted, all the invited women could be just one, caught freeze-framed during each decade of his rutting life.

  And then, surprisingly unaccompanied by signature music or spotlight, the man himself appeared in front of the fireplace. He scanned the crowd while absently settling his champagne flute on the rustic mantle beside him.

  ‘That’s not going to stay!’ AnnaLise called down as the base of the crystal teetered on the uneven barnwood.

  Before she could yell a more urgent warning, a thud punctuated by ‘Shit!’ drew her attention toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, where Eddie Boccaccio was struggling to control the drink tray. A ping from the vicinity of the fireplace confirmed the demise of Dickens Hart’s own crystal flute, even as AnnaLise watched its sturdier brethren slide off Eddie’s tray to smash on the tile floor. Beyond Boccaccio, the window appeared to shimmer of its own volition, independent of the sunset it framed.

  The trick of light must have distracted the show-off, AnnaLise thought, or— ‘The window!’ she screamed. ‘Get away from—’

  At the sound of her voice, Eddie dove for the floor as the rest of the guests pivoted to look up at her. The gigantic pane behind them seemed to distort, roiling like an angry sea once, then twice, before it finally crumbled from the top down like a glass tsunami shattering on the beach.

  EIGHT

  AnnaLise ran down the steps, wine splashing out of her glass.

  ‘Ohmigod!’ a voice was saying while the journalist rounded the newel post and exploded into the Lake Room. Lacey Capri was at the now non-existent window, pointing at the receding silhouette of a winged creature over the lake. Having probably knocked itself senseless by running into the window, it was gaining altitude, albeit unsteadily. ‘Did you see the size of that bird?’

  ‘Our resident Great Horned Owl, my dear. I’m afraid it’s tried to … crash our party.’ Smiling at his joke, Dickens Hart crossed the room to help up Eddie Boccaccio. ‘Are you all right, son?’

  Boccaccio was examining the back of his hand, but brightened at the word ‘son.’ ‘Of course, but what—’

  AnnaLise had trailed in her birth father’s wake. ‘A bird must have hit the window just right.’ She nodded at Boccaccio’s hand, which was bleeding. ‘You’re cut.’

  ‘Hell of a bird, but this is nothing,’ Eddie said with a glance at Hart. ‘Barely a scratch.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ their host said, throwing his arm over the younger man’s shoulder. ‘Let’s get you a Band-Aid and a drink.’

  As the two went off toward the bar, a male intoned behind AnnaLise, ‘Seems I’ve missed the opening act. What happened?’

  She turned to see Dickens Hart’s lawyer, Patrick Hoag, approach with Daisy. ‘Probably not a good omen for this weekend, but a great horned owl took a wrong turn and smashed into the window.’

  ‘I’m so glad it wasn’t hurt, poor thing.’ Daisy seemed more concerned about the bird than any damage done.

  Though only in his early thirties, Hoag had prematurely graying hair above old-school black-framed eyeglasses. Now he pushed the frames up on his nose. ‘I’m sure the owl will be fine. But we have a more immediate problem. It’s November, and even with a practically balmy day by our High Country standards, that respite’s not going to last.’

  As Hoag stepped sideways to survey the massive, gaping hole to the left of the French doors, his shoe sent a shard of old-fashioned glass from Eddie Boccaccio’s tray skittering across the floor.

  Boozer Bacchus bent over, carefully picked it up between thumb and forefinger and joined their threesome. ‘Watch yourselves. We don’t want anybody else cut, though that’s not likely, given the tempered glass in these big windows.’

  ‘Sure made a mess,’ Daisy said. ‘Thousands – maybe millions – of fragments came raining down.’ She shuddered. ‘That Eddie got off lightly.’

  ‘Mostly dull pellets and less than thumb-size, thank the Lord, rather than jagged shards like this one that could have sliced somebody open or even blinded them,’ Bacchus said. ‘I’ll get those college kids in to sweep up the glass and help me cover the hole before they leave.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Hoag said. ‘I’ll make sure they’re compensated for the overtime.’

  AnnaLise noticed he didn’t offer to help. ‘Is there anything we can do?’

  ‘Just keep everybody,’ Boozer nodded toward the rest of the group, ‘on the far end of the room by the fireplace.’

  Daisy touched his shoulder. ‘Thank you, Boozer. Truly.’

  ‘No n
eed to thank me,’ he said, seeming embarrassed. ‘It’s my job.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  AnnaLise didn’t hear anymore because Hoag began drawing her away. ‘Where did you get that wine?’

  Surprised, she looked down at the still-intact glass in her hand. ‘Huh? I forgot I had it.’

  Apparently the broken window had shaken AnnaLise more than she’d realized. Looking off in the direction Hart’s owl had flown, she saw the lights of Bradenham and wondered how Bobby was faring with Roy Smoaks. Imagining the old man’s ‘soap opera glasses’ focused on them from across the lake, she shivered, thinking how pleased Smoaks would be that Hart’s ‘party for his bastard offspring’ had already taken a dramatic turn.

  ‘See what I mean?’ Hoag started to shrug out of his suit jacket. ‘Temperature’s already dropping. Why don’t you take this?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’m fine,’ AnnaLise said, lifting her goblet. ‘And as for the red wine, Joy’s the one who found it. You may want to ask her.’

  But the lawyer shook his head, apparently preferring not to deal with his client’s bristly ex-wife. ‘That’s OK.’ Hoag was distracted, scanning the crowd. When the attorney’s gaze reached Sugar and her daughter, he added, ‘My-oh-my.’

  ‘Notice anything?’ AnnaLise asked him.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like Dickens is a High-Country John Derek.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘John Derek – the actor. And director. He was married four times. I don’t know about the first wife, but the last three were beautiful, statuesque blondes with impossibly high cheekbones. In sequence, Ursula Andress, Linda Evans and Bo Derek. Practically identical, except for their ages, of course, which descended in inverse proportion to said cheekbones.’

  ‘Always trading up. That’s Dickens for you, too.’

  AnnaLise elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Jerk.’

  ‘Hey, don’t kill the messenger, AnnaLise. Or, in this case, the receiver of your message.’ He plucked a flute of champagne from one of the silver trays now passing around the room again.

  ‘You do see what I mean,’ she continued. ‘Dickens obviously likes blue-eyed blondes but, in his case, petite over statuesque since he’s short himself.’

  ‘It just happens the gentleman prefers—’

  The lawyer’s unpromising defense was interrupted by the accused himself, Dickens Hart.

  Their host had re-positioned himself in front of the stone hearth facing the guests and, beyond them, the now largely open-air view of the lake.

  Hart passed a hand through his unruffled hair before clearing his throat and raising his voice. ‘May I have your attention, please?’

  Across the way, AnnaLise saw that Daisy had joined Mama. The restaurateur had a drink in one hand and a plate piled with hors d’oeuvres in the other. But who could fault her for taking advantage of other people’s cooking for once?

  What astonished AnnaLise, though, was that the walls had, literally, come tumbling down and nobody seemed to care. Apparently they all figured there were bigger fish to fry.

  And AnnaLise turned her attention to the catch of the day.

  ‘Well, let’s give this another try,’ Hart said with a self-deprecating smile. ‘I apologize for our au naturale air-conditioning.’

  The attendees laughed appreciatively as Hart gestured toward the window wall, where the former valets were already scurrying to sweep up the glass and tote in sheets of plywood to cover the twenty-foot wide expanse. ‘We’re going to pump up the heat so we don’t freeze as Mr Bacchus’ helpers go about their work. In the meantime, I’d like to welcome all of you to Hart’s Head.’

  ‘Dick Head,’ came as a stage whisper from behind AnnaLise. She turned to catch Joy and the woman she’d identified as Shirley, Hart’s first wife, smirking. AnnaLise cut them a dark look, thinking there had already been enough drama for one afternoon into evening.

  ‘Believe me,’ Hart continued with a smile, almost as though he welcomed the heckling as a segue. ‘I’m well aware that this is an unusual situation. Some of you may know each other and others may not, so I’ve asked Mr Bacchus,’ Hart indicated the man who, having set the valets to work, was moving amongst the clumps of attendees handing out cords of some kind, ‘to provide each of you with a name badge.’

  As he spoke, Hart slipped a lanyard over his own head, straightening the badge at the end of it so they could see the Hart’s Head logo as well as his name. ‘They’ll come in handy for now, but I’m hoping, by the end of this weekend, we’ll all be friends and, for some of us, family.’

  Gagging noises.

  AnnaLise launched into a theatrical coughing jag to cover the juvenile antics of the ex-wives, earning her a proffered glass of champagne from one of the white-aproned servers to go with the wine she still held in the other hand. She pointed the server to Hoag, whose glass was empty.

  Switching the two out, Hart’s lawyer said, ‘You realize you can’t be held responsible for the ex-wives club’s behavior, right?’

  AnnaLise put her finger to her lips as Hart continued: ‘… luggage has been taken to your assigned rooms. And Mr Bacchus,’ a nod toward his harried right-hand man who, having practically tossed AnnaLise her lanyard, picked up a stack of folded papers from the table next to her, ‘will distribute a floor plan of Hart’s Head, noting your room. You’ll also find a placard next to each door, should you get turned around on the second floor. It is,’ a markedly immodest shrug, ‘a very large abode, and we’d hate for anybody to accidentally stumble into the wrong room. Though, take it from me, it is a good way to make new friends.’ Hart chuckled, but nobody joined in.

  It may be decades later, Dickens, AnnaLise thought, but it’s still too early.

  Apparently Hart realized that, too. ‘I do want to apologize for any hurt I may have caused. And to right things as thoroughly as humanly possible.’

  Someone started to applaud – AnnaLise’s money was on a shill, maybe one of the valets hidden away somewhere – and the rest of the group joined in more enthusiastically than she would have expected, given the circumstances and the number of palms already occupied with champagne flutes, name badges and, now, floor plans.

  But then the ‘circumstances’ included people hoping to gain – immensely – from this weekend.

  Setting her wine glass on the end table to accept a sheet of paper from Bacchus, AnnaLise unfolded it. A drawing of the ground floor filled the first side of the legal-size sheet, with the second floor on the reverse. ‘Geez, this is a big house.’

  Patrick tapped the logo at the top of the sheet with his finger. ‘Indeed it is. Eleven bedrooms, each with its own en suite bathroom.’

  ‘Not that I should quibble with your numbers, but I see ten. Six on the south end of the catwalk.’ She pointed at the parallel lines that represented the second floor open walkway where she’d stood earlier, looking down. ‘And four – or, wait, is it five? – larger rooms on the north end where I’m staying.’

  ‘Four in the north wing. That,’ he indicated the door at the end of the north hallway, ‘is just a big storage closet. I know, because I’m staying in the corresponding room in the south wing.’

  ‘Your room is a closet?’

  Hoag laughed. ‘No, though I got turned around and went north instead of south and one of the valets had to assure me I wasn’t to be stashed with the cardboard boxes. My room is one of the smaller ones by this place’s standards, but luxurious by any other’s.’

  AnnaLise found the lawyer’s suite at the end of the floor plan’s south hallway. Rose’s name was on the room to the right, Lucinda’s to the left. Eddie was next to his mother on the other side, and Tyler, the other side of his mother. Sugar and Lacey were sharing a room next to Tyler’s. ‘I still don’t see the eleventh bedroom.’

  Patrick took the map and flipped it. ‘Here. On the ground floor.’

  She saw where he was indicating. ‘The entire north wing, as you put it, of this floor is the master suite?’
r />   ‘Pretty much, except for the media room and office.’

  Sheesh. ‘Excess, thy name is Hart.’ AnnaLise looked more carefully at the logo for the house. ‘Are the “a”s in “Hart’s Head” stylized hearts?’

  ‘Yup,’ Patrick said. ‘Apparently the font dates back to his White Tail Club days. Did you notice the “d”?’

  AnnaLise squinted. ‘Is that something sprouting off the top of it?’ Now she closed both eyes. ‘Dear God, please don’t tell me that’s a—’

  ‘Relax.’ the lawyer said, ‘No human body parts involved. It’s a tail. You know, of a white-tailed deer?’

  Opening her eyes, AnnaLise still didn’t see it. Nonetheless, she was relieved. ‘I’ll take your word for it. And I have to admit the hearts are kind of cute.’

  ‘Cute or not, we don’t know they’re “Hart’s.”’ Daisy had come up behind them.

  AnnaLise was confused. ‘What?’

  ‘Eddie and Tyler. We don’t know they are Dickens’ issue, but I will agree with you that they’re cute.’

  AnnaLise put an arm around her mother and gave her a squeeze, managing to crumple the floor plan in the process. ‘You’re the one who’s cute, Daisy. But I meant “hearts” – you know, like Valentine hearts?’

  ‘It’s only Thanksgiving.’ Daisy was scowling at AnnaLise. ‘You can stop testing me, you know. My mind is fine.’

  From confused to flabbergasted. ‘I’m not testing anything,’ AnnaLise said. ‘I just …’

  But her mother waved her off. ‘Let’s return to the subject at hand. Do you know if any paternity testing has been done?’

  AnnaLise looked at Patrick, who merely shrugged. Typical lawyer. Why were they called mouthpieces if they never said anything? ‘I think the plan is for everyone to get to know each other,’ she said. ‘And then maybe the testing will come later.’

  Another voice chimed in. ‘Probably using the DNA from their saliva when each of them kisses his ring.’