by Lora Roberts
Everyone looked at me. I looked at Hannah.
“I’m sorry I did that, Liz.” Hannah looked abashed, but I wondered cynically how good she was at calling up whatever emotion seemed currently useful. “All I can say is my mind was most unsettled by Naomi’s death. If there’s any way I can make it up to you . . “.
“Ms. Sullivan may, of course, press charges.” Scarlatti didn’t sound too enthusiastic about it. Prosecuting Hannah Couch probably struck her as a public relations nightmare.
“I’m not going to press charges.” I had meant to string Hannah along for a while, make her sweat in return for the damage she’d done my livelihood, but the words popped out of my mouth. Sometimes my mouth knows too much about what my brain intends.
“That’s generous,” Hannah said approvingly. “Thank you, Liz.”
Scarlatti smiled. “I think you’ve made the wisest choice, Ms. Sullivan. If you don’t want media scrutiny, at any rate. Because pressing charges against a celebrity is a good way to get stuff splashed all over the papers.”
“Speaking of the press, will you be issuing a statement?” Hannah gave Scarlatti a steely look. “After all, you were the ones who led them to believe that something untoward happened.”
“Something untoward, as you say, did happen.” Scarlatti was made of sterner stuff than to buckle at this juncture. “You were lucky to escape death. Is that what you want me to say?”
“Not at all.” Hannah was a master at backpedaling. “I merely wondered if you would tell them that no charges will be filed, no crime was committed, and the death was accidental.”
“Thank you for writing the script.” Scarlatti gave an ironic bow. “We’ll be making a statement to the press, as it happens.”
“Speaking of a statement,” I said, feeling as if I’d somehow gotten short shrift through my own stupid readiness to let go of my grievances, “I’d like to point out that I’ve been branded as an abductor and ex-con all across the nation. I will find it hard to get temp work, and the only writing assignments anyone will want to give me will involve dishing dirt on you, Hannah. ‘The untold story of my terror ride with Hannah Couch.’ That sort of thing.”
Hannah exchanged glances with Richard Kendall. “I don’t agree that my client is totally to blame for this situation, Ms. Sullivan,” he said smoothly, “but of course she wouldn’t want anyone to suffer through her actions, no matter how innocent they might have been. I’m sure we can come to some reasonable settlement.”
“I don’t want a settlement,” I said, beginning to get steamed. “I want Hannah to announce to the world that no kidnapping occurred on my part, and she was in complete control the whole time. It’s the truth. I know she believes in the truth.”
Hannah sighed. “You’re right, Liz. I do believe in the truth. But you don’t understand the consequences. I’m not just me, Hannah Couch. I’m a whole corporate empire.”
“Well, your whole corporate empire can apologize to me on national TV, or kiss my ass in court.”
“Children, please don’t quarrel yet.” Scarlatti smiled around at us all. “Wait until we leave the room. And turn on your TV set. I guarantee, our sound bites will be on every network.” She looked at Hannah. “They’ll be after you like vultures. And you’ve lost your pit bull person who used to protect you, haven’t you? Do you want to come down and make a statement with us? We can have an officer escort you back up afterward.”
“That might be best.” Hannah hesitated, then stepped forward and hugged me. I couldn’t have been more surprised. “I am sorry if I impinged on your life, Liz. That was truly thoughtless. I have … I had a habit of riding roughshod over people who didn’t seem important to my business. You’ve helped me see the fault in my behavior. I’ll try to do right by you. I promise.”
She sailed out of the room after Scarlatti and Daly. Richard Kendall paused to say to me, “I don’t advise you to write anything for the tabloids, Ms. Sullivan. It might be considered actionable.”
After they left, I turned to Kim and passed the hug to her. “We knew you would be okay.”
“I don’t feel okay,” Kim said wanly. “They really put me through the wringer. I thought they were going to charge me with second-degree murder.”
“They just say that to make you talk.” I ignored Drake’s snort of laughter.
“That’s what Mr. Kendall said. He was very nice, really. He also said Hannah won’t do the rest of the tour, at least not now. Maybe in a few months, when the furor has died down.” Kim shivered. “I’m so glad. I just want to get home.”
“I think we all feel like that. I know I do.” I looked at my stalwart police companions. “Can we leave yet?”
“Don’t you want to see Hannah on the news?”
“Not really.” I went over to the library desk, found Judi Kershay’s cell phone number in my knapsack, and dialed, while Don opened the doors of what I had thought was an antique armoire to reveal a huge TV. He turned it on and changed through the channels.
Judi came on the line. “Hi,” I said. “It’s your most troublesome temp worker.”
“What’s the latest?” She sounded worried. “I’ve been thinking about all of you.”
“Well, the latest is, no one’s arrested. Naomi’s death was the result of an accident. And Hannah’s canceling the tour.”
“That would be best.” Judi sounded relieved.
“I guess they’re going to be leaving. Will the publisher make arrangements?”
“I’m sure they will.” Judi hesitated. “Look, if Hannah wants me to, I’ll clean up the loose ends for her. But then that’s the end of our association.”
“She’s changed, I think.” I stared at the TV screen. Don had found an all-news cable station, and they were doing a live feed from the hotel lobby downstairs. Flanked by the two police inspectors, Hannah began to speak. “Hold on. She’s on TV. I have to hear this.”
“I want to see it too. Call me later, or tell her to call me,” Judi said. She hung up.
Mesmerized, all of us moved closer to the TV. A forest of microphones, a cacophony of shouted questions, greeted Hannah. The front steps of the hotel appeared to be rendered impassable by the phalanx of news people we’d avoided earlier by being brought up in the service elevator.
Hannah raised her hand to quiet the jackals of the press. Richard Kendall stood at her shoulder. As usual, she looked totally in command, although, without the special makeup, washed-out and pale. “As you can see, I am fine. Thank you for your concern. The unexpected death of my close associate Naomi Matthews overset me this morning, and I insisted that my driver get me away. She did not constrain me at all; I’m afraid the shoe was on the other foot. She very kindly drove me around until I could regain my composure, at which point we returned.”
More shouted questions. “Where is she? How did Ms. Matthews die? Were you kidnapped?”
“I’ve explained that no abduction occurred, and no charges have been filed. The police will answer your further queries.” Hannah stepped back and, despite the surging microphones, managed to get back into the hotel. The camera switched to Scarlatti, looking very mediagenic with her long blond hair. Next to her, Daly seemed pale.
“As Ms. Couch said, we have determined that Ms. Matthews died from accidental causes, and we are closing the case.” Scarlatti smiled at the cameras. “As far as the supposed abduction is concerned, Ms. Couch has explained that to our satisfaction, and her driver, Elizabeth Sullivan, has declined to press charges.”
This occasioned another barrage of yapping. I wondered how Hannah would like that.
Kim squeezed my arm. “I’m so glad, Liz.”
Don shook my hand. “Way to go.” He smiled at Kim. “I was wondering if you would mind me flying back to Boston with you. I scheduled all this time for the tour, so I’ve got nothing on for the next few days.”
“That would be nice.” Kim’s face glowed. “I’ll love introducing you to Mom and Dad and everyone. They’ll all be so surprised.�
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“As long as they don’t hate me.”
Her smile faded. “They won’t hate you. But it may be hard for them to hear about Uncle Tony. You being there will make a good distraction.”
Hannah came back into the suite, followed by Officer Diaz. “That was most unpleasant,” she said with masterly understatement, “but at least it’s over.”
“I let Judi Kershay know you’re canceling the rest of the tour.”
“Thank you. I won’t be sorry to get home and get away from all this.” A shadow crossed her expression. “Poor Naomi. I will really miss her when I have time to think about it.”
“Judi offered to tie up any loose ends for you if you want.” I gave Hannah the piece of paper with Judi’s number on it. “And I’m out of here.”
Hannah offered me her hand. “You’re a trouper, Liz. I thank you for your patience. If you’re ever on the East Coast, let me know.”
“Right.” I did not add that it would be a cold day in hell before I’d look her up. I think we both knew that. And I extended no reciprocal invitation, no matter how impolite that might be.
Drake and Bruno shook hands all around. Kim came to give me one last hug. “Thanks,” she whispered. “Thanks for holding on to me. I’m glad I didn’t jump. I must have been crazy.” Her face was red.
“We all get crazy sometimes.” I wrote down my address for her. “Listen, let me know how it goes. I’m curious how Don feels about his new relatives.”
She promised she would, and then we left. I was ready for bed. Especially if it was Drake’s bed.
Chapter 23
It had been a long day of skiing, and I was tired. The snow was soft and wet, typical of March. I had never skied before, but Drake had persuaded me to go away with him for a long weekend at Lake Tahoe, and since I knew he needed a vacation after a couple of intense cases, I had agreed.
“You did very well for someone who’s rusty,” he said, only slightly condescending.
“Rusty, hell. I’ve never been on skis before in my life.” I stretched my feet to the fire he’d built in the fireplace. The little log cabin he’d rented had won my heart when he’d pulled up in front of it the previous evening. It was near the Homewood ski area, amongst other cabins scattered under the snow-laden branches of tall sugar pines.
I had driven through Truckee on I-80, but never gotten into Tahoe. The beauty of the lake was overwhelming, and the quaint, alpine ambiance had an undeniable appeal. Despite being a Colorado girl, I had never been able to afford trips to the mountains in the winter. Skiing was expensive, and my family was poor. I had been horrified at the amount Drake had shelled out that day for lift tickets, ski rentals, and snacks in the lodge.
“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” He stretched out beside me on the couch. “The way you took those turns, I could swear you knew what you were doing.”
“I listened to the instructor this morning. That’s all.”
“And you’re short,” he said, pulling me closer to him on the couch. “That helps.”
We watched the flames contentedly, and then I went to the kitchen to make hot chocolate with a tot of brandy in it, according to Drake’s instructions. He flipped lazily through the TV channels.
“Hey,” he called. “Here’s your friend.”
I lowered the heat on the pan of milk and went to see what he was talking about. On the screen, Hannah Couch was showing how to pipe filling into deviled eggs.
“Thank goodness someone else has to be at her beck and call.” I lingered, listening to the autocratic way she explained the only method worth using.
“Didn’t she give you some money or something?”
“Yeah.” She’d sent me a check, quite a generous one, to make up for any loss of income, the card had said. I thought of donating it to some worthy cause. In the end, I bought my vagrant pal Old Mackie some warm socks, and passed a chunk along to the Urban Ministry, but I kept the rest. My property taxes are a pretty worthy cause too.
“She’s a piece of work, all right.” Drake sniffed. “Is that milk boiling?”
He went into the kitchen to see to the hot chocolate—I had known he would at some point, because he cares about making it the right way, like Hannah cares about that, and as far as cooking goes, I don’t care.
I stayed in front of the TV, watching Hannah arrange the deviled eggs on a special plate she had decorated herself (and you could too). I was about to change the channel when she went over to some windows and gestured gracefully at the curtains.
“A fun idea,” she said, smiling at the camera with animation, “is to use old tablecloths to make curtains for your kitchen windows. The bright colors and patterns of vintage linens really complement a kitchen with collectibles in it. I like to display my salt cellars and old tin match holders.”
I couldn’t help myself. I started laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Drake called over the counter that separated the tiny kitchen from the small living room.
“Nothing. Nothing, really. Turns out I earned that check Hannah sent.”
“Every penny.” He brought in the cups. Hot chocolate was good with brandy in it.
“You know,” Drake said, turning off the TV, “they have wedding chapels in South Lake Tahoe.”
“Is that so?” I waited for the familiar internal alarms to go off, but they didn’t. Maybe because I was so pleasantly tired. Maybe because of the brandy.
“Yep. You can get married in half an hour. No muss, no fuss.”
“No friends, no family.” I met his smiling eyes. “That has a lot of appeal.”
He stilled. “You mean, you’d actually consider—”
I took his face between my palms and kissed him. “Not this trip, mate. I need some time to really get used to the idea. But maybe next time, I’ll ask you to Tahoe. And I’ll bring along some rice.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank Kathy Goldmark for giving me a glimpse of the media escort’s world. Any inaccuracies are mine, either outright mistakes or plot exigencies. I’d also like to thank Phyllis Malpas, toxicologist and vet, for her knowledgeable assistance. All characters herein are fictional and bear no resemblance to any real person, living or dead.
I raise my wineglass to three fine women, wonderful traveling companions, and excellent mystery writers: Jonnie Jacobs, Lee Harris, and Valerie Wolzien, aka Nuns, Mothers and Others.
Copyright © 2000 by Lora Roberts Smith
Originally published by Balantine Books as a Fawcett Book
Electronically published in 2003 by Belgrave House
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this ebook may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.