by Diana Miller
“Who isn’t? Which Max Windsor book is your favorite?” Lexie asked, seizing on a topic that would hopefully distract everyone from the embarrassing fact that she alone hadn’t realized Seth’s arrival had been an act. Although to be fair, she also was the only one who didn’t know Seth.
A few minutes later Seth returned, minus the fake blood and torn suit coat, although his hair was still wild. “That was the most fun I’ve had since I played Dracula at the Fresno playhouse. Which was actually the last role of my career.”
“Do you miss acting?” Cecilia asked.
“Not much,” Seth said. “I was never big-screen or even cable TV material. Not like my wife, who just needs the right vehicle. And I prefer directing.” He frowned. “Although I haven’t had a directing job since that kids’ show tanked nearly a year ago.”
“Why was it cancelled?” Cecilia asked. “I never heard, and I thought it was doing well.”
Seth’s frown shifted into a grimace. “It was, until the asshole who played the giant rabbit solicited a prostitute who happened to be an uncover policewoman. And then Mr. Sombrero the Mexican mouse turned out to be an illegal alien from Guatemala. We could have replaced them, but the sponsors decided that wasn’t the type of show they wanted their supposedly wholesome but overly sweetened, artificial-ingredient-filled breakfast cereal associated with, and pulled the plug.”
“Lexie, this is my cousin Seth Windsor,” Ben said. “Seth, my friend Lexie. She’s from Kentucky.”
“It’s great to meet you, Lexie,” Seth said, shaking her hand. “Sorry if I scared you.”
“No problem,” Lexie said. “Maybe you shouldn’t have quit acting. You were very convincing.”
“Thanks, but I think it was the blood,” Seth said. “Use enough fake blood and even the worst actor becomes convincing. When did you meet Ben?”
“Six weeks ago,” Ben said, answering for Lexie. “I was in Lexington for Bill Hansen’s second wedding. Afterward I stopped at a bar for a drink, and Lexie waited on me.”
“Did you know Ben was Max Windsor’s grandson, Lexie?” Seth asked.
“Actually, I didn’t realize it until he called upset because Max had died,” Lexie said.
“Ben really didn’t mention it before then?”
“You think I need Grandfather’s fame to get women?” Ben asked. “You sound like Jeremy. Or maybe I should say you’re confusing me with Jeremy.”
“That’s not what I’m implying at all,” Seth said. “I’m surprised because I use my connection to Grandfather whenever I can. I can tell you’re not originally from Kentucky, Lexie. How did you end up in Lexington, of all places?”
“I don’t appreciate you giving my girlfriend the third degree,” Ben said sharply.
“What third degree?” Seth asked. “I’m interested in people, and I know everyone else here.”
At that moment a crash sounded in the parlor. Igor was standing at the doorway, holding a small gong and mallet. “Dinner is served,” he said.
“And that ends another cheery sherry hour,” Ben said, and then he murmured in Lexie’s ear, “I think you’d better read up on Lexington.”
# # #
Everyone had just finished the delicious first course of figs and mozzarella in a balsamic vinegar reduction when Seth pulled out a camera.
“Smile, everyone.” He got to his feet and circled the mahogany table, snapping pictures.
“What are you doing, Seth?” Ben asked.
“Taking family photos.”
“When did you turn into such a photographer?” Cecilia asked. “I didn’t notice you taking any pictures at Easter.”
“I started taking more photos when we had the boys,” Seth said. “And Grandfather’s death made me realize how important the rest of my family is. This could be the last time the entire family is in one place, since the only thing that’s ever brought all of us together is Grandfather.”
“You have a point,” Ben said. “But could you wait until we’re done eating? I’d like my soup.”
Seth sat down at the table as Igor served the soup. Everyone ate the spicy gazpacho in silence for a couple of minutes before Seth spoke again. “Ben, I heard you’re taking parts from Grandfather’s Ferrari.”
“I’m planning to use whatever I can salvage,” Ben said.
“How much of the car is left?”
“Not a whole lot. Why?”
“I want to take some pictures of the car before you tear it apart,” Seth said.
“For God’s sake, why?”
“As a remembrance.”
“A remembrance that Grandfather burned up in his car? That’s morbid as hell,” Ben said.
“Perhaps Seth wants to remind himself to drive carefully,” Muriel said, twisting the enormous cross she wore on a long chain around her neck. “Or to show it to those boys of his when they’re of driving age to remind them to drive carefully.”
“Or perhaps he wants to sell it to a tabloid,” Ben said, glaring at Seth. “Like he’s done a couple of times in the past year.”
Seth responded with a glare of his own. “I have not sold anything to a tabloid.”
“Well, someone did, and you’re the most likely suspect,” Ben said. His voice hummed with anger. “Who else has your Hollywood gossip rag connections? And the first article was all about how Grandfather wouldn’t help out his grandson, the poor struggling director, by requiring or even requesting that he be hired as an assistant on the movie version of his latest bestseller.”
“That was common knowledge.”
“If it was, it was because you leaked it,” Ben said. “Grandfather sure as hell didn’t. He was furious when it came out. And a couple of months ago you sold the story about the group who’d shot out Grandfather’s living room window. The ones who’d been sending him threatening letters because they were upset about the bleeding Virgin Mary statue in his last book.”
“I didn’t know there’d been a shooting until I read an article about it,” Seth said. “I wasn’t here when it happened.”
“But you’ve got friends still in Lakeview who were. Including Eddie Maxwell, who was your best friend in high school and just happened to have fixed the window for Grandfather.”
“I haven’t talked to Eddie in years,” Seth said. “You not only have contacts here, you live here, Ben. How do we know that you didn’t leak it?”
“Because I don’t care about money and fame,” Ben said. “You can’t deny that you do. I’ve made sure that no one has photographed Grandfather’s car, and you’re not going to change that. Grandfather deserves his privacy even more now that he’s dead.”
“You don’t own the car, Ben,” Seth said. “I assume it’s part of the trust, which means it belongs to all of us. So tell me where it is. You have no right to object if I take a few pictures of it.”
Ben dropped his spoon into his bowl, splattering tomatoey gazpacho onto the white damask tablecloth. “I can object to any damn thing I want to,” he said, jumping to his feet. “Lexie, we’re out of here.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her out of her chair.
“Thanks for dinner. It was delicious,” Lexie got out before Ben dragged her from the dining room, although she wasn’t sure who she was thanking. The cook was in the kitchen, and the host of this two-week house party was dead.
“What was that about?” Lexie asked. “Is it such a big deal if Seth takes a photo of Max’s car?”
“It is if he sells it to a tabloid,” Ben said. “You must know how much Grandfather hated publicity. He was furious about both those earlier stories and was sure Seth was behind them.”
“Furious enough to threaten to disinherit him?” Lexie asked, spotting a possible motive.
“No, but furious enough that I don’t want Seth to disrespect Grandfather’s memory by publicizing a photo of that car. Change into jeans and meet me in the hallway outside our rooms.” He started up the stairs.
“Why?”
“I’ll explain later. Meet me in five
minutes.”
Refusing would result in an argument, and Barringtons didn’t argue—except in a courtroom, of course. Rule Number 17. More important, her law firm dictated that the client was always right. Ben wasn’t her client, but the trustee would want her to keep the trust beneficiaries happy. Lexie went to dig out her jeans.
“It’s hard for me to believe pants that cost nearly three hundred dollars can be considered jeans,” Ben said when she returned to the hallway.
“How do you know how much these cost?” Lexie had been appalled by the price, but the jeans had been so flattering she couldn’t resist. Besides, this wasn’t like college when she’d owned a dozen pairs in assorted sizes, styles, and shades of denim. She actually owned only this one pair—if PMS had her too bloated to zip them, she didn’t wear jeans.
“I read an article about outrageously expensive jeans that mentioned that brand. In Playboy.”
“Which you only buy for the articles, of course.”
He snorted. “You gotta be kidding. Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“Trust me.”
“Now you’ve got to be kidding,” Lexie said as she followed him down the stairs. “Where?”
“We’re checking out Grandfather’s Ferrari.”
The outside air had cooled enough that Lexie was glad she’d put on a long-sleeved shirt. The sky glowed dull orange, the sun already setting behind the pine and birch-forested hills to the west.
She stopped beside Ben’s pickup, but he continued walking until he reached a motorcycle. “We’ll take this.”
Lexie’s stomach backflipped. “I am not riding on a motorcycle.”
“Why not?” Ben asked, picking a helmet off the grass. “Lexie would love it.”
“Only if Lexie has a death wish. A motorcycle is a hopeful organ transplant recipient’s best friend.”
“I’m not some wild teenage kid. I’m an excellent driver, and I only had one drink.” Ben walked toward her, holding out the helmet. “It’s perfectly safe.”
“Don’t you have to worry about deer and moose crossing the road around here?” Lexie asked, grasping the back of the pickup with both hands. “It’s dangerous enough when a car hits those things.”
“On a bike they’re easier to dodge.”
“I’ll follow you in my car.” She was gripping the pickup so tightly she could feel her racing heartbeat in her palms.
“I think you should ride with me, and the client is always right.” He thrust the helmet at her.
“You’re not my client.” To hell with the trustee’s wishes. Risking her life to keep a beneficiary happy went way beyond her job description.
Ben lowered the helmet and tapped it against his black-jeaned thigh. “You know, if I get upset enough, I’ll bet I could find a reason to sue the trustee for mismanagement of the trust.”
“Your grandfather was the trustee.” The corporate trustee had taken over only after Max’s death.
“He hasn’t been for five days,” Ben said. “Big as the trust is, I’m sure at least one investment decision or lack of decision has already resulted in financial loss. Corporate trustees are held to a high standard.” He offered the helmet again.
Lexie was surprised he knew that, but the Internet provided all sorts of information. She doubted he’d win a lawsuit, but he could find one to bring. And corporate trustees truly hated being sued.
She released her death grip on the pickup and reached for the helmet. Her shaking hand had moved only a couple of inches before common sense reasserted itself. At least she hoped it was common sense. “You’re not going to sue the trustee because I won’t ride on a motorcycle,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “You’re just trying to manipulate me.”
Ben looked at her for a moment, his lips pursed, and she held her breath. Then his expression turned sheepish. “Guilty. But we need to check out the car, and after the last few days, I need to ride. This would kill two birds with one stone. Please.”
Lexie looked at his face, at the helmet, at his face again.
“Please,” he repeated, his eyes fixed on hers, his voice low and compelling.
She could certainly understand why he was upset. He had just lost his grandfather. Sighing, she reached for the helmet. “As long as we’re not the two birds you’re planning on killing.”
By the time she was helmeted and situated behind Ben on the motorcycle, Lexie was regretting her momentary weakness. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around him. Her heart hammered against his solid back, his warmth barely permeating her cold and stiff body.
Ben started the engine, then immediately shut it off. “I lied before,” he said, his voice muffled by their helmets.
Lexie opened her eyes to see him looking at her from behind his visor. “I hope it wasn’t when you said you were an excellent driver.”
“About the Playboys.” Although his helmet hid his mouth, she could hear his smile. “I don’t think I’ve even seen one since high school. I actually knew about the jeans because my ex-wife had a couple of pairs.”
He turned his head and restarted the engine. Lexie closed her eyes again, said a quick prayer, and hung on as he took off toward the road. Between a clenching stomach and a heart beating nearly hard enough to burst through her chest, she could barely breathe. Addendum to Rule Number 148: Avoid involvement with any man who calls women “babe” and/or rides a motorcycle.
Ben drove fast, although not so fast he had any trouble with the curves, and the motorcycle didn’t wobble or swerve or do anything that made Lexie feel they were about to tip, flip, or rocket off the road. But Ben’s relatively smooth driving didn’t change that she was on a motor vehicle going fast, with no protection besides a helmet, and they called things “accidents” for a reason.
After what seemed forever, he slowed, and then drove off the road. Lexie opened her eyes to see that they were in a grove of pines. “Why are we stopping?” Not that she was complaining.
“Because we’ve reached the lot. Take off your helmet and come on.”
She removed her helmet and shook out her sweaty hair. Fear combined with the motorcycle’s vibrations had weakened her legs, and she stumbled a couple of times as she followed Ben out of the trees. She couldn’t see Lakeview, but lights glimmered to the south, and she could hear Lake Superior’s quiet lapping, so they must be near town.
They walked until they reached a chain link fence about six feet high, enclosing a brick building and a couple dozen cars. Ben grabbed onto the top of the fence and pulled himself up.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going over. I’ll unlock the gate and let you in. Unless you want to scale the fence, too.”
Lexie snagged his foot. “We are not breaking in.”
Ben lowered himself back down beside her. “It’s not like I plan to steal or damage anything. All I’m doing is checking out Grandfather’s car, which I have a right to do.”
“Why don’t we come back during business hours?”
“Because I don’t want anyone to know I suspect Grandfather’s death wasn’t an accident.” Before Lexie had a chance to object, he was over the fence.
Since her only alternative was waiting outside the fence—and Ben had a point about secrecy—Lexie stepped through the gate once he opened it. Then she followed him across the gravel-paved lot, navigating through cars displaying rusty holes, cardboarded windows, duct-taped parts, and evidence of collisions past.
Three-quarters of the way in, Ben stopped. “This is it.”
Directly in front of them were the charred remains of an automobile.
Max’s Ferrari.
Lexie’s eyes filled and her chest tightened as she stared at the car. The odor of burned metal clogged her nose and throat. “Max’s death never seemed real before,” she got out over a lump. “But seeing this, it’s very real.”
Ben took her hand and squeezed it. “We have to believe that wherever Grandfather is, he’s enjoying it as much a
s he always enjoyed life.”
She swiped at her overflowing eyes with the back of her free hand, smearing tears over her cheekbones. Max had been demanding and occasionally a pain, but she’d been genuinely fond of him. She’d miss him, miss his wit, his warmth, his concern about her. She’d even miss the lectures that resulted from that concern. And he’d been her last real connection to her aunt. “I hope he died right away. I hate to think of him suffering.”
“The coroner said he probably died on impact, before the fire.”
“Were there any remains?”
“A few bones. Enough of his jaw to match dental records and confirm it was Grandfather. Not that he’d have let anyone else drive his Ferrari.”
Lexie closed her eyes for a moment, her fingers tightening around Ben’s. It was hard to think of a vibrant person like Max reduced to blackened bone fragments. “He wanted to be cremated, but I don’t think this was exactly what he had in mind.”
“The only thing we can do for him now is figure out who killed him.”
“Assuming anyone did.”
Ben released her hand. “That’s what we’re here to find out.” He slipped under the car.
Rosy dusk had darkened to an eerie gray, turning the other vehicles into shadowy forms. Lexie’s pulse accelerated, and a shiver slithered across her shoulders and neck, then slid down her spine. “This place gives me the creeps,” she said, hoping the sound of her voice would calm her. “Max should have used it in one of his books.”
“He did, or at least a place like it,” Ben answered from beneath the car. She could see the reflected light of his flashlight. “In The Key.”
“His second book,” Lexie said, nodding. “He wrote that so long ago I forgot about it.” Maybe that was why her subconscious found this place spooky. “Didn’t a woman die in a car lot?”
“The accountant pushed a car on top of her to keep her from disclosing that he was an embezzler,” Ben said. “He later hid in a car wash and was electrocuted when he accidentally turned it on and it shorted out. That book was followed by Water over the Bridge, where the sleazy lawyer tried to drown the hero and instead fell into the water himself and was eaten by an alligator.”