by Nancy Bush
“Yeah, why hasn’t Babette been paid?” Layla murmured. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“I don’t either. Not one bit.”
“Maybe if you talked to Dad—”
“Not a chance. It won’t work,” she cut her off. “No one’s listening to me. You’d probably have better luck.”
“Yeah, don’t bet on it.” Her eyes restlessly moved around the room. “Hold on a sec.” She hurried over to a table where a couple was obviously finished with their meal and quickly smiled and placed a check on their table before returning. “Sorry,” she said to her sister.
“I’m serious,” said Lucy. “About you talking to Dad and Lyle. They might listen to you.”
“Oh, right. If I had a penis, maybe.” Seeing another table was ready with their order, she slipped away again and, managing a smile, gave the family of three all her attention, even finding a coloring book and crayons for the child, who appeared to be three or maybe four, a girl with a big pink bow holding back her bangs.
Lucy watched her, thinking about what Layla had said. Was that it? Did you just need to be a man to be taken seriously in the Crissman family? She’d known her father was fairly misogynistic, but she’d never believed it applied to her. Or maybe she hadn’t wanted to believe it.
When Layla returned, Lucy said, “I don’t think they wanted John there either.”
“He wasn’t family.”
“You’re having a boy,” Lucy said.
“Great. He can have a job at Crissman and Wolfe, if it even exists by the time he grows up.” She shrugged.
“Crissman,” Lucy corrected her. Her sister’s so-what attitude improved Lucy’s a bit. “Are they hiring at Easy Street?”
Layla smiled. “Wouldn’t that just turn Dad’s hair white? Both his daughters working as waitresses.”
They both laughed, then Lucy sobered and said, “Actually, I don’t know that he’d really care. For all of Dad’s posturing, I don’t know that he’s even thinking about us. Lyle told me they didn’t need John, that Dad had felt he was just supporting me and John and now he doesn’t care about that either. He made it sound like the company was going down the tubes.”
“That’s why they’re so rabid to sell Stonehenge to Wolfe,” Layla muttered.
“Maybe Kate knows something more about what’s going on, but I sure don’t.”
“I won’t let them sell Stonehenge to Jerome Wolfe,” she stated positively, again scanning her tables.
“How are you going to stop them?”
“I don’t know.” Layla pursed her lips as she thought. “But I’m going there with you over Easter. Maybe I’ll never leave. Stage a sit-in. Occupy the building. Make a land claim.”
Lucy snorted. “Maybe I’ll join you in that.” She pulled out her phone and checked the time. “But for now, I’m going to see if Evie can go home with Daphne. I’ve got a meeting with my lawyer this afternoon at my house.”
“Dallas?” Layla peered hard at her, even as she was signaled back to the counter by the other harassed waitress.
Lucy nodded, feeling her heart trip a bit.
“Let me know how that goes. I’m out of here in a few minutes. Have some minor changes to a staging I’ve got to take care of. Neil’s out of town for a week, so I’m around if you need me.”
“You can’t marry him.”
“I know.”
* * *
Kate clicked off her cell phone, a little annoyed at Lucy’s presumptuousness. Yes, okay, she had problems. Big problems, and she was meeting with her attorney, so that meant what? That she was about to be accused of murder? That was huge, and yet ... Kate had problems of her own. This afternoon was the next meeting of Lyle and Pat, she of the pink scarf, whatever that meant. Not at the Pembroke Inn this time; at a different spot Kate had cruised by on her way to work this morning, which had earned her a barrage of questions from Daphne.
“What are we doing here? I thought we were getting Starbucks. Why are we going away from the school? You’re not going to take me to some restaurant, are you?” she’d groaned as Kate had cruised through the parking lot of a Mexican restaurant that served happy hour from three to six. Lyle’s appointment with Pat was set for four p.m., a couple of hours before he came home to his family.
Now, she didn’t know quite how she was going to do everything. She’d gotten a sitter for this afternoon from an agency that demanded a four-hour minimum, which was highway robbery at their rates, and now with Evie added into the mix, it would be even more. But on the plus side, with Evie there, Daphne wouldn’t ask too many questions, and even if Lyle reached home before she did, the extra people in the house would send him up to the bedroom to escape and Kate could say she was doing some shopping or something. He wouldn’t look too closely at what she was doing. He never did. She’d put a Crock-Pot together with beef stew this morning, so dinner would be ready. Not that he seemed to really care about that these days either.
He’d swept up the pearl necklace while Kate was getting ready for work this morning; at least it was no longer on his nightstand when she’d hurried Daphne through her morning routine. The dawdling could drive her insane, and it was always worse when Kate had somewhere she had to be. It was like Daphne had radar that picked up the slightest vibe of her mother’s anxiety.
But okay. She could get Daphne and Evie home, set up with the sitter, and still fly out of the house and head to a bathroom somewhere to change into her disguise and make it to Arriba by four ... maybe ... if the traffic wasn’t too bad.
But the necklace . . . the necklace . . . She was so angry she could cry. She had shed a couple of tears into her pillow last might. Lyle was lying to her in all sorts of ways. What had she done to deserve this? Nothing! All she’d wanted was to be a good wife to him, to make his life easy and comfortable. All he needed to do in return was treat her with respect.
The day crept by. April came in and barked at her twice, and Kate had had to drag herself back from daymares about Lyle sweeping in the door and announcing it was over, he was in love with someone else, he’d been seeing her for months, they were eloping to the Seychelles and so he was going to need that divorce right away, okay, Katie?
Her anger coalesced inside her, a hard, dark rock in the center of her being. She would kill him first.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Layla took Uber to the Black Swan Gallery, where she met her friend, Matt, who was a struggling artist like herself but also worked at the gallery part-time. He had an eye for color and had half-partnered with Layla on the staging business, offering free storage space in the building behind the southwest suburban home he’d inherited from his parents. She told him, “I want to look to see what we have. I’ve got to buy some red pillows and cheap art, but I just want to dig through what’s in storage before I add to my credit card debt.”
He nodded. “There’re some really good cerulean vases in there.”
“Blue isn’t going to work. This house is cold. Buyers are mentally shivering already.”
He shrugged and said, “You got a key.”
“All right. Thanks.”
She took another Uber back to her apartment. She was going to have to drive her car to Matt’s house, and to Home-Goods or Bed Bath & Beyond, or somewhere she could pick up what she needed without spending an arm and a leg. Mary Jo expected her to have whatever was required at a moment’s notice, even though she was practically a one-woman operation, unlike the larger stagers around town who had their own warehouses full of furniture and household décor; Mary Jo just liked Layla’s more reasonable prices. Over the past several seasons, Layla had purchased some larger pieces of furniture and redone them, sanding down bedsteads and nightstands, restaining or painting them, buying old lamps and antique tchotchkes, massive picture frames that needed time and elbow grease to bring them back to life. She had a modest stockpile of items, and with Matt’s goodwill, and sometimes the use of his truck and muscle, she’d managed to start her own small business,
broadening her scope, though Mary Jo jealously guarded Layla as if she owned her.
This task meant she needed her own car to bring back items for the staging; therefore, she would have to take the used green Toyota Corolla she’d purchased on time and had paid off a year earlier, the one she rarely ever drove. She thought briefly of the woman who’d died in the car crash, and her husband, who’d continually threatened to sue Layla even though it had been decided in court that the accident wasn’t her fault and he didn’t have a case. Apparently, the truth didn’t matter to him. Only his own truth, which was that someone should pay for his wife’s death, and that someone was Layla.
She hurried up the steps to her apartment, then practically skidded to a stop. In front of her, unwrapped and propped against her door, was her painting, the one Jerome Wolfe had purchased at the auction. A note had been carelessly taped right onto the painting itself, right on the canvas, and she carefully peeled it off as she read: I overpaid, but it was for a good cause, right? Not really something I have any use for. If you resell it, send me a check. J.
She could almost hear his sarcastic tone, see his evil grin. “Asshole,” she muttered.
The man hated her, hated her family, and wanted to provoke them any way he possibly could. She’d played right into his hands by asking for a ride.
She thrust open her door, frustrated and angry right down to the tips of her toes, wrestling the painting inside. It was large, too large for either her apartment or her car . . . but ... it was full of brilliant oranges, reds, and golds. Just what the doctor ordered. She couldn’t help but smile at the irony of the situation.
Yanking her cell phone from her purse, she called Matt and ordered the gallery truck and a worker to help her. “I’ve got a painting to move to an open house today. Think you can find someone to ferry it for me? Hang it on the wall ... ?” She would have to pay them for the expense with what she made from the staging.
“Got it,” Matt said.
“Thanks.” She clicked off. Matt was the only man in her life she could depend on, she realized. Too bad he was gay and in a committed relationship.
She looked at the painting, said a few choice swear words in her mind about Jerome Wolfe, who loved twisting the knife, then decided she was the winner in this one. Hell if she was going to pay him a dime if she resold it.
Or maybe she would see if Neil wanted it after all. She didn’t know if he’d been bidding on it at the benefit just to compete with Wolfe or to play with her like Wolfe had, but there was a chance he actually wanted it.
She wasn’t going to marry him, in any case. She’d toyed with the idea, but Lucy was right. It wouldn’t work. No matter how much she wanted Eddie, any marriage she would agree to would just be because of the baby. The whole thing would fall apart and could be even uglier than the last few months between them. But ... she could work on making peace and getting what she wanted at the same time by offering the painting as an olive branch.
All courtesy of Jerome Wolfe, who loved to throw his money around and make the point that his family had prospered while hers had declined.
* * *
Lucy rinsed her sweating palms beneath the kitchen faucet, then wiped them with a paper towel. Nerves. She’d never particularly been a palm sweater, so why now?
Like you really don’t know. Dallas is coming to your house. Better recheck your deodorant, too, because this could become a full-fledged sweatathon.
She took her own advice and hurried upstairs, applying more Secret under her armpits. Then she surveyed her outfit. Black slacks and a white fuzzy sweater with a cowl neck. She tried a smile at herself in the bathroom mirror and decided she had on too much blush, the result of realizing she was too pale and going full tilt into the beauty products.
And what do you care anyway? You’re not going to tell him about Evie. He’s just coming over as your attorney. You shouldn’t even really like him.
She patted off some of the color on her cheeks, then fussed with her hair for a few minutes, hating it, finally snapping it back into a ponytail and adding small faux pearl earrings, aware that her hands were trembling slightly ... and beginning to sweat again.
She blasted the room with another string of swear words just as she heard the doorbell ring. Swiping her palms on her slacks, she hurried downstairs, allowing herself an extra five seconds at the door while she mentally composed herself.
Jesus Christ, what are you, fifteen?
* * *
Dallas looked at Lucy Linfield gazing up at him, her smile a little unsure as she answered the door and invited him in. Something there.
And then a forgotten memory tackled him like an NFL linebacker. The ponytail . . . the curving lips ... the slight insecurity . . . He knew her.
“Lucy,” he said in a stranger’s voice.
“Come on in. Is September with you, or is she coming separately?” Lucy glanced past him, unaware of his shock.
“No, she’s on her own.”
That night at the fraternity house. She was the girl. Wasn’t she? Wasn’t she? She didn’t seem to know him, but that girl’s name had been Lucy. He remembered that much, even if most of that night was a blank thanks to Jim Borden, Jimbo, who’d purposely roofied him, his specialty, apparently, according to some of Luke’s fraternity brothers, a few of whom had suffered the same fate as he had. Jimbo had been indiscriminate, choosing whoever he felt like to drug, though only a fraction of those roofied had come forward as he had, or the jail time might have been a lot longer for his “pranks.” The last Dallas had heard, he’d moved to Los Angeles, trying to break into the Hollywood scene at some level. Luke thought he’d broken into the drug scene instead, which would be no surprise. Dallas had never told Luke the total truth of what had occurred that night. He hadn’t figured it out himself for quite a while, and he suspected his younger brother might do something rash and impulsive and life-altering, meaning Jimbo’s own life might be altered for the worse. Beyond a still-smoldering anger over the shortness of Jimbo’s jail term, and a belief that Borden’s life would likely be taken care of by his own bad choices, Dallas had let the matter go.
But now . . . here ... how?
He was following Lucy into the house, lost in memories, completely out of the moment. He had to drag his attention back, focus on his surroundings. Her place had the homey feel of a family. There were pictures on the mantel above the fireplace in the family room, afternoon light slanting on them: John Linfield and Lucy and a series of a young girl, aging from a baby to about eight, maybe nine.
The doorbell rang again. “There she is,” Lucy said, walking past him as she went to the door again, circling around him as if she was afraid to touch him, a faint floral scent of perfume following in her wake.
He heard their voices. The two women greeted each other like old friends. From what they said, apparently, Lucy had drunk more wine than she intended the night before. Lucy’s voice was bright and eager, almost manic, he thought. Did she know?
Lucy had walked September back to the family room and he greeted her, but his eyes followed Lucy. Did she know?
She was offering them water or sodas, beer or wine. September declined everything, but he said, “Water would be great.”
She smiled and a few minutes later put a tall, cold glass in his hand, ice tinkling inside. He lifted it to his mouth and drank half of it down in a gulp.
Now September was talking to Lucy about Jerome Wolfe, about his wanting to purchase both Wolfe Lodge and the adjacent property, asking Lucy for her opinion on that news, to which Lucy gave her a scathing review of Wolfe himself. Was it his imagination, or did she seem almost eager to focus on September and ignore him?
She had to remember. No wonder she’d seemed so familiar. He’d spoken to her the night before ... talked some ... The night of the fraternity party, all he’d wanted to do was leave. How he’d gotten talked into going there was still a mystery to him. He normally actively avoided those kinds of events.
My friends c
all you Grandpa. You know that, right?
Okay, maybe he’d tried to prove he was something he wasn’t that night. Maybe he’d wanted to show his younger brother he was cooler than he was, but Luke hadn’t even been there that night. He’d stolen away with some girl he’d met, and he’d left Dallas at the fraternity with “brothers” years younger than Luke, ones he hadn’t even known all that well.
Dallas thought of Joanna Creighton, who’d wanted him to represent her son who’d got caught selling drugs. Young adults sometimes made bad choices. He defended people who made those bad choices. He’d made some bad choices himself; case in point. What he couldn’t handle these days was people not owning their mistakes, lying about them.
“What do you think?” Lucy asked him, her fine brows pulled into a line. It made him realize he’d been silent as a tomb throughout their discussion.
He had to cast his mind back to recall what they’d been going over. The Kilgore property. Should September follow up with them as long as she was going to be in Wharton County?
And he realized Lucy was also silently asking if she should bring up her knowledge of Amanita ocreata, which she’d brought up to him yesterday . . . was it just yesterday?. . . how Brianne Kilgore, the nature girl, had shown Lucy, Lyle, and Layla the deadly mushrooms that had killed her husband.
Dallas deliberated. It was a risk, talking about it, especially because Lucy hadn’t told the police yet. If September decided to take that information back to them before Lucy brought it up on her own ...
Lucy must have read something on his face and misinterpreted it as a yes, because she launched in with, “The Kilgores’ daughter, Brianne—my brother used to call her Nell, after the movie with Jodie Foster? She knows all about nature, animals and plants and you name it ... she pointed out the angel of death mushroom to us once. We all knew about it, my sister and brother and I, but of course, none of us ever dreamed of actually using it. It was just a fascinating fact, one of a number that Brianne revealed to us. . . .”