Coached to Death

by Victoria Laurie

  Holding up my hand, and curling my fingers, I added, “This cat’s claws are coming out, toots, and you’re going to be the one who ends up a bloody mess in the end!”

  With that, I stomped right through the crowd of ladies—mouths agape—and over to the front door, pulling it open hard and making sure to slam it on my way out of the house.

  Chapter 3

  My moment of triumphant satisfaction for having left the party in a delicious huff lasted maaaaybe ten seconds—or about as long as it took to realize that Gilley had my car. If I called him, I’d possibly have to wait ten minutes or longer for him to show up and drive me home.

  “Dammit!” I muttered, thinking that perhaps at least a few of the ladies were craning their necks to look out the window at my departure. Having no other choice, I lifted my chin and proceeded down the steps toward the drive. No way was I going to let a little thing like walking home in high heels stop me, so off I set for the quarter-mile hike.

  It took a bit longer than I’d expected, and my feet were a mess by the time I got through the door. “Owwww,” I moaned, hobbling over to the staircase to peel one of the Stuart Weitzman booties off my foot. They looked gorgeous on, but they were murder to walk in, especially since the heel was rather high. But that’s all I tend to wear, even when I’m more casually dressed.

  My sister had gotten the “height” in the family. She was a smidge under five foot five. I was a smidge over five feet even. Sometimes, it’s tough being tiny.

  Today I’d made up for it with the size of my tempest. No teapot could contain this girl’s temper.

  Ah well.

  The walk home had solidified that I was justified in feeling offended and betrayed, but it’d also solidified the fact that, as usual, I’d overreacted and likely only made a bad situation worse. Nothing to be done about it now, though. I’d just made a town full of enemies, but to hell with them. It wasn’t like I especially needed friends to live a satisfying life here. After all, I had Gilley and . . .

  Crap. Who else did I have? “Well, the boys, of course,” I told myself. “At least when they agree to visit.” Which hadn’t been for several weeks, but I was sure they would come home again soon.

  And, of course, I had friends back in Massachusetts whom I could invite down for a stay. There were Mel, Susan, Julie, and . . .

  I sighed again. I had three very dear friends from college near the town I’d just moved away from, but in the past several years, I’d been so busy with my own corporation that the four of us weren’t as close as we once were.

  Feeling suddenly very homesick, I hobbled up the stairs and into the master suite—a giant room, eighteen feet by twenty, with a California king bed, a spacious seating area, a giant-screen TV, an enormous closet, and a bathroom most spas would envy. The room itself was done in shades of camel and bone white. I’d wanted a very neutral space to rest my often whirling-dervish mind.

  The suite was mostly complete, save for a few decorating touches and some wiring that I’d be having done the following week.

  Still, as lovely as it was, I suddenly disliked it the way one regrets the buying of something supremely expensive that just doesn’t live up to the hype.

  I stood in the doorway to the bedroom for about ten seconds before I blew out another sigh, moved to the bureau in the closet, and pulled out a set of silk pajamas with matching robe and fuzzy slippers. Then I moved to the bath and grabbed a few items there before I made my way back to the stairs again.

  After easing my feet into the slippers, I headed down the steps and out the door, crossing the drive to Chez Kitty, where I let myself in using the master passcode—no key required.

  The guest house was quiet and peaceful. I leaned against the door and smiled. “Sebastian,” I said softly.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Catherine. How may I assist you?”

  Sebastian is a wonder of technology. When I’d been looking at plans for the house, I’d stumbled across a company that specialized in wiring homes with an electronic butler—similar to a system like Amazon’s Alexa, but Sebastian was so much more. He could of course do the simple things like play music or order things off the web, but he could also do more complicated things like adjust the temperature of any room in the house based on that individual’s body temperature rather than some preferred prerecorded setting. He controlled the temperature, the lighting, the ambience, the sprinkler systems, the inventory of both the pantry and the refrigerator, the TV, the security system, and even the plumbing. The house was almost totally dependent on him.

  But perhaps I was especially partial to him because he always greeted me as “Lady Catherine.” It made me feel queenly.

  “I’d like a bath please, Sebastian,” I said.

  The sound of running water from the master bathroom drifted to my ears. “What temperature would you like your bath today, ma’am?”

  “I’d like it warm, Sebastian, but not too hot.”

  “Your current body temperature is ninety-eight point four. Based on your body temperature, may I recommend a setting of one hundred and four degrees?”

  “Perfect,” I said. Moving away from the front entrance and over to the fridge, I added, “And I’d like some lunch, Sebastian.” Opening the door, I took out a perfectly chilled bottle of chardonnay. “Can you arrange for a salad to be delivered?”

  “Of course, ma’am. Would you like your usual Caesar salad from Guairmo’s?”

  “Yes, please. And have them leave it at the door. I’ll get it after my bath. But please remember to tip the delivery man twenty percent.”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  Sebastian would place my order over the web, supplying my address, credit card number, and the authorization of a tip, and I didn’t even have to power up my computer.

  As I started to walk out of the kitchen with my glass of wine, Sebastian stopped me. “Lady Catherine?”

  “Yes, Sebastian?”

  “Might I recommend some strawberries to go with your chardonnay? There is a fresh quart of strawberries in the refrigerator. Bottom drawer. On the left.”

  I smiled before turning back toward the fridge. “Sebastian?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Have I told you lately that I love you?”

  “It’s been three days, ma’am. I’d almost thought you’d forgotten.”

  * * *

  I soaked in the tub for nearly an hour and a half. Sebastian monitored the water to ensure it was a constant one hundred and four degrees by letting out a little water and running the faucet every now and again.

  Meanwhile, I sipped my wine, nibbled on the strawberries, and tried not to stew about Heather.

  When my fingers began to prune, I got out of the tub and dried off, donning my silk pajamas and matching robe before heading to the door to retrieve my salad. I stumbled a little at the door—the product of too much wine. “Are you well, Lady Catherine?”

  “I’m fine, Sebastian,” I said, bending to retrieve the salad, which remained perfectly chilled given the fall temperature. “But I forgot my book.” Setting the salad on a side table by the door, I said, “I’ll be back in a minute. Empty the tub, and put on some soft music for me, would you?”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  Breathing in the cool air as I crossed the drive back over to the main house, I tried to clear my head, but the wine was hitting me much harder than usual. When I got inside, I had to clutch the railing tightly as I headed upstairs, and I also had to place my feet carefully. As I crested the landing and wobbled into the master suite, I found my book right where I’d left it on the nightstand. “Hello, Ms. Blackwell,” I cooed, picking up the book. Juliet Blackwell was one of my favorite authors. “What letters from Paris might you be writing for me today?”

  I hugged the novel and wobbled some more as I stood there. “Good lord,” I said to myself, “I’m thinker than I drunk.” This sent me into gales of giggles, and I fell forward onto the bed, which was soft and warm and oh so invi
ting. “I’ll just rest my eyes for a minute, Sebastian.”

  He didn’t answer, of course, because the crew had yet to install him in the main house. That was the wiring to be done the following week. “I should call them and tell them to hurry up and get over here,” I mumbled, my lips rubbing thickly against the pillow. Closing my eyes, I added, “I love my sweet Sebasty . . .”

  That’s the last thing I remember saying for the next four hours.

  * * *

  I woke up to a pounding, both in my head and downstairs. “Wha?” I mumbled as I pulled my face away from the pillow. The pounding continued. Putting a hand to my head, I rolled to a sitting position, blinking rapidly. “Catherine!” I heard Gilley’s voice call. “Honey, are you in there?”

  “I’m here,” I called, but it came out as a croaky whisper. Clearing my throat, I tried again. “I’m here!”

  “Let me in!” Gil yelled.

  I wobbled on the bed for a moment, dizzy and out of sorts. “Coming!”

  With effort, I got to my feet, cinching the belt of my robe before stumbling out of the bedroom.

  The house was gloomy in the fading light, and I realized I’d slept the afternoon away. I made my way downstairs much like I’d made my way up them . . . carefully. At last, I reached the door and unlocked it, letting Gilley in. “Ohmigod!” he gasped when he saw me. Gripping me by the shoulders, he added, “Are you okay?”

  “More or less,” I told him.

  “You look terrible!”

  I frowned and pushed at a stray bang. “Thank you?”

  “No, Cat, I mean it. You look awful.”

  “Please do continue, Gilley. My ego needed some pumping up.”

  He let go of me and stepped back. “Sorry. It’s just that I’ve been worried sick about you, and when you didn’t call me or answer your phone, I raced back here to check on you, and then I saw all those lights at Heather’s house and thought the worst—”

  My anger from earlier returned. “Don’t even get me started on that hateful, horrible hag!”

  Gilley placed an arm around me. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me what happened.”

  My stomach gurgled loudly. “Let me eat something first.”

  “There’s a salad from Guiarmo’s on the table in the foyer at Chez Kitty,” Gil said. “Sebastian said he ordered it for you hours ago when he also said you left to retrieve a book from your bedroom.”

  “Ooo, the salad. That’ll be perfect,” I said, following him to the door. Fishing around in my pockets, I couldn’t locate my phone, then I remembered it was in the bathroom at the guest house. “What time is it?”

  “Quarter to six,” Gil said, closing the door behind us and taking my arm to steady me.

  I leaned against Gilley as we walked across the drive, grateful for both the steadying presence and his company. “Wow,” I said. “I slept most of the afternoon. I must’ve been really tired.”

  “Or it could’ve been the chardonnay.”

  I eyed him sideways as we reached the guest house. “You saw that, huh?”

  “The nearly empty bottle next to the tub with the wet towel draped over the edge? Yes, Cat, I saw it. I concluded that it must’ve been a rough lunch if it demanded most of a bottle of chard and a bubble bath.”

  “Rough doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

  “Judging by the number of strobe lights over there, I bet you’re right.”

  By now, we’d stepped inside the guest house, and I paused by the delivery bag from Guiarmo’s to consider Gilley. “Strobe lights?”

  He tilted his head slightly and thumbed over his shoulder. “Yeah. You know. The ambulance and police cars.”

  My mouth fell open. “Ambulance?! Police cars?!”

  Gilley’s brow furrowed. “You didn’t know?”

  “Of course not! What happened?”

  “No clue. I was hoping you could tell me.”

  I raced to the window facing Heather’s house and pulled back the drape. Sure enough, a series of flashing red lights flared in the dimming daylight. “Ohmigod!” I gasped. “I wonder if it was one of the guests!”

  “So . . . you didn’t cause that?” Gilley said.

  I whirled around. “NO! How could you think that?”

  Gilley shrugged sheepishly. “Can you blame me? You once ran over a guy’s car with a bulldozer.”

  I waved a hand dismissively. “It wasn’t like he was in it at the time, Gilley.”

  “Still,” he said.

  I sighed and went back to the kitchen counter, sitting down heavily in one of the gray suede-covered chairs. “What could’ve happened over there?”

  Gilley went into the kitchen and took down a plate from the cupboard along with a set of utensils. Dishing out my salad onto the plate, he said, “I’m wondering that too. What went on at the luncheon?”

  I sighed dramatically and pulled the plate he offered close. Poking at the lettuce with my fork, I said, “I was sucker punched.”

  “Somebody hit you?”

  “No, no. Not literally. Heather set me up.”

  I proceeded to tell him all about what’d happened, and Gilley stood across from me with a shocked expression on his face. “That bitch!” he said when I was done.

  “Yes,” I said, taking a bite of the salad. “She’s as rotten as they come.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I may hire a private detective to look into her background and dig up some dirt. I’d like to expose her to the community and rub that smug smirk right off her hateful face.”

  “You think Heather has dirt?”

  I shrugged. “Most people—especially most rich people—have dirty little secrets they don’t want the general public to know.”

  Gil considered me thoughtfully. “Do you have dirty little secrets?”

  “I once ran over a man’s BMW with a bulldozer, Gilley. And on another occasion, I, along with my sister and her best friend, was a fugitive from the law. Both of those things aren’t common knowledge, and I’d like to keep it that way, okay?”

  Gilley’s expression turned contrite. “Point made. But is it really worth the effort, Cat? I mean, wouldn’t it be easier to ignore her and get on with your life?”

  “No,” I said, getting up to retrieve a water from the fridge. “Heather Holland is a bully, my friend, and the only way to truly handle a bully is to come back swinging. If she put that amount of effort into embarrassing me, I can only imagine what she’s done to others in this town. She’s probably had a reign of terror going for as long as she’s lived here.”

  “But what if it comes back to bite you in the butt, Cat?”

  “I’ll make sure it doesn’t by finding a way to expose her without it connecting back to me.”

  “How’re you going to do that?”

  “Well . . . I don’t know yet, but I’ll figure it out. First, we need some dirt to work with, and then I’ll worry about the details.”

  Gilley eyed me slyly. “Catherine Cooper, such a vengeful sly fox you are. I like it!”

  “There’s a reason nobody messed with me in the corporate world, my lovey,” I said. “I never forgot a betrayal, and I always got even.”

  “You should’ve been a litigator,” Gil said. “You’d would’ve made a great shark.”

  “You know, I considered going to law school when I was fresh out of college.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  I shrugged. “I had a marketing idea that took off before I was twenty-three. After that, all my focus went into building an empire and raising the boys. There was never enough time for law school.”

  “How’re you going to find a private investigator?” Gilley asked me next.

  “Well, I could hire the P.I. I had following Tommy around when he was schtuping that bartender from the country club, but the man reeked of day-old onion sandwich with a healthy side of liverwurst.”

  Gilley made a face. “Eww.”

  “Yeah. It always surprised me
that Tommy never smelled him coming.”

  Gilley chuckled. “You know, Cat, I’d be willing to snoop around a little. I could follow Heather and see what she’s up to.”

  “You?”

  “Yes. Moi.”

  “Can you be stealthy?”

  “Can I be stealthy . . .” Gilley repeated mockingly. Crossing his legs and picking at a spot of lint on his pants he said, “I can become invisible at a moment’s notice.”

  “Are you invisible right now? Because I can see you. In fact, I’d be hard pressed not to notice you, my friend.”

  Gilley rolled his eyes. “I cannot help it that I’m beautiful. It’s the curse no one appreciates.”

  “Ah, yes,” I said. “The beauty curse. How do you live with it, Gilley?”

  Gil ran a finger along his hairline. “I simply put on a brave face and soldier forward.”

  I opened my mouth for a rebuttal, but at that moment, there was a loud pounding on the front door.

  “Who could that be?” Gilley said.

  I put a hand to my forehead, feeling the first pangs of a hangover headache coming on. “They need to knock more softly.”

  The pounding came again. It was the sort of knock you answer, holding your breath.

  Gilley and I exchanged looks of concern, and we both moved to the door. He pulled it open, and on the doorstep stood a great-looking man in jeans, gray shirt, and a dark charcoal blazer. Tall, with light wavy brown hair and eyes the color of topaz, he stood with an air of confident—but cold—authority.

  I felt my already nervously fluttering heart beat a little faster.

  “Well, hello,” Gilley said, his voice brimming with flirtatious interest. “How may I help you?”

  The man eyed Gilley up and down before his gaze shifted to me. “Catherine Cooper?” he asked, all but dismissing Gil.

  “Yes?” I said, a little unsure if I should admit that, given the man’s super serious demeanor. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  With the practiced hand of a gunslinger, the man whipped out his billfold, flipped it open, and revealed a shiny bronze badge. “Detective Shepherd from the East Hampton Police Department. I’d like to speak with you privately, if I may?”