Hot & Bothered (23 page)

“You gotta love the Old Guard. It's a point of pride with them to be in the know.”

The waitress came over to take their order and John
automatically flashed her the Miglionni Special before requesting a Corona with lime and the clubhouse sandwich.

She smiled back. “Would you like me to put that on the Hamilton tab, Mr. Miglionni?”

He hid his surprise that people whose names he didn't know at all apparently knew his. “No, thank you, darlin'. I'll pay for my own. And put Frank's on my bill, too.” He leaned back in his chair and studied her. She was a plump, attractive brunette who looked to be around his own age. “Have you worked here long, Abigail?” he asked, glancing at her name tag.

“Five years.”

“Yeah? That's definitely a while. So you must like it here, huh?”

Her eyes went cautious. “Sure. I like it just fine, thank you.”

He gave himself a mental head slap for saying something so stupid but flashed her an affable, self-deprecating smile and said easily, “It was a dumb question.”
Like you'd tell a member your job sucked even if it did.
“So let me pry my foot out of my mouth here. You got any kids?” When all else failed, disarm 'em with honesty, he always said.

And it worked, for she visibly relaxed. “Yes. I have a five-and a three-year-old.”

But no husband, if the lack of rings on her left hand was anything to go by. “Boys or girls?”

“One of each.”

He looked around the bar, which was beginning to fill up. “I can see you're going to be hopping for a while. But if you have any pictures of your kids and get the chance, be sure to bring them over. I'd like to see them.”

“I'll do that.” She smiled at him with a mother's pride, took Frank's order, and left.

“Damn,” Frank murmured. “You're good.”

John grimaced. “A large part of this business is simply being able to talk to people, to bring them to a comfortable level where they're willing to talk to you in return. And at least with Ms. Abigail I don't feel like a snake-oil salesman, which I was beginning to feel like with Frederick and Roger before they finally unclenched their sphincters a little.”

He dismissed that with a gesture and returned to the conversation the waitress's arrival had interrupted. “I knew several of the employees from the hostile takeover were at Ford's that night. But what's the story on the ‘cuckolded husband' the duffers were talking about?”

Frank snorted. “You ask me, it's a rumor that took on a life of its own. George Sanders was at the last supper with his wife, Terri, who was Ford's administrative assistant. According to the locker-room pundits, which is where Hamlin got that particular bit of information, Ford was messing around with Terri. People—and by that I mean bored golfers and the ladies who lunch—started talking when she suddenly got herself a stylish haircut and more attractive clothing and began taking care with her makeup.”

“You don't believe Ford had anything to do with that?”

“No. There's no denying the man had a monster ego and as far as human beings go he was never going to be voted Mr. Congeniality. But this is a tight-knit little society and I've been part of it since the day I was born. And from everything I've ever observed, I'd have to say Ford's relationships were serially monogamous. They didn't tend to last real long, but I honestly believe he remained true to his current lady for the duration.”

“I imagine if he was anything like his golfing buddies, there'd be a snob factor, as well.”

Frank nodded. “Can't say that ever occurred to me
before, but it's a definite consideration. His AA would have been beneath his notice, just one more piece of the background on par with the office furnishings. DeeDee is probably the lowest down the social totem he ever traveled, and even she has shirttail connections to the Grants. That sort of thing holds a lot of significance for the older set.” He raised ginger-colored eyebrows. “Speaking of DeeDee, interesting that she was one of the ones out of the room during the crucial time. Don't the cops always look at family members first?”

“They do. But although it apparently isn't common knowledge, DeeDee signed a prenup and isn't getting enough to make it worth her while to take that big a risk.”

“Do tell.” Studying Rocket, Frank fell silent a moment. Finally he said, “Hearing that Miles Wentworth was at the last supper seemed to light your fire.”

“Oh, yeah,” John agreed grimly. “It did.”

“Because he was also away from the dining room around the zero hour, or because he tried to make a scene with Tori at your engagement party?”

“Both. I don't mind telling you that I'd be tickled pink if he turned out to be our guy. But you can rest easy that manufacturing evidence to bust his chops isn't my style.” He gave Frank a smile that was all teeth. “He did let slip at the party that Ford may have promised him something. Now, it could be that the old man's death simply dashed Mr. Suave's hopes of ever seeing whatever he aspired to get, so he turned his attention to regaining Victoria's regard. But maybe, just maybe, Ford had the bad luck to tell Wentworth he'd changed his mind about whatever he'd promised and got a letter opener through the heart for his trouble.” He shrugged. “It's impossible to know without a deeper look, but it's definitely a thread I want to follow.”

“Here you go, gentlemen.” Placing a coaster on the table in front of them, the waitress set down their drinks. “Your sandwiches will be a few more minutes.”

“Thanks, Abigail.” John took a sip of his beer, then raised inquiring eyebrows at her. “Got those pictures?”

She slipped her hand into the pocket of her black slacks and pulled out a couple of wallet-size studio shots.

He looked them over. As little as a month ago it would have been primarily for show—kids having been of zero interest in his life. But that was before. Now that he had one of his own who he was trying to get to know, he studied the photos with genuine curiosity. He touched the edge of the little boy's photo with his fingertip. “This your five-year-old?”

“Yes. That's Sean.”

“He looks like a pistol. I bet he's a regular little devil to keep up with.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said fervently. “He joined a peewee league this summer, though, where he's learning to play T-ball. It helps.”

“Sure,” he agreed. “Gives him an outlet.” He gave the other photo a second look. “Now this one looks like a little angel.” He shot the waitress a grin. “But I'm guessing she has her moments, too.”

Abigail grinned. “She can be amazingly stubborn, all right.”

“She like dolls?”

She laughed out loud. “Does the moon pull the tide?”

He smiled back at her with self-deprecating humor. “I seem to be full of dumb questions today.”

“Abby,” called an impatient voice from a nearby table. “Could we get some service, please?”

“Certainly,” she said and swept the pictures up off the
table. With a small smile at John she turned away to wait on a quartet of fifty-something women in golf attire.

The men turned back to their drinks and a few minutes later Abigail delivered their sandwiches. John was digging into his when he saw a coterie of little girls in party dresses and shiny Mary Janes and boys wearing dark slacks and white shirts with their conservatively striped ties firmly knotted beneath their Adam's apples, filing past the lounge doorway. He lowered his sandwich, swallowed and jerked his chin toward them. “What's that all about?”

Frank twisted around to see. It only took one glance before he turned back. He grimaced. “Cotillion class.”

“I saw that on the reader board out in the lobby. What the hell is it?”

“Debutantes in training and their escorts. They learn to ballroom dance, deportment, that kind of thing.”

“Are you kidding me? They can't be that much older than our ki—than your daughter and Esme.”

Frank shrugged. “It's all a part of the society they move in.”

“Would you gentlemen like another drink?” Abigail stopped by the table.

John raised a brow at Frank. The other man shook his head and he said, “No thanks.”

“In that case.” She slipped a leather folder off her tray and onto the table. “I'll be your cashier when you're ready.”

“Here.” Raising one hip, he slid his wallet from his back pocket. “I'm ready now.” Pulling out the receipt, he read it then replaced it with a couple of bills. “I don't require change.”

“Thank you!” she said, staring at the denominations. “Your fiancée must be thrilled you're nothing like her
father.” Eyes rounding with horror, she slapped a hand to her mouth, but just as quickly pulled it away. “Oh, my God. I am so sorry. That was a
horrible
thing to say.”

“Relax. I never met Ford Hamilton, but I've heard enough about him to know he wasn't a particularly nice guy.”

The look on her face expressed fervid agreement, but she clearly wasn't about to dig her hole any deeper.

John smelled information, though, and he gave her a gentle smile. “Please,” he said softly. “Won't you tell me your impressions of him? I'd like to understand how he came to be murdered, but I hate to press Tori for details because it makes her so sad.”

She shot a hesitant glance at Frank, who promptly pushed back from the table.

“Excuse me a minute, won't you?” he said. “I need to call my wife to see if she needs me to pick up anything on the way home.” Pulling a cell phone from his belt, he headed for the entrance.

Abigail looked at John uncertainly. “There's really not much I can tell you,” she said. “Except Mr. Hamilton expected the very best service but didn't tip accordingly. And all the waitstaff were nonpeople to him, you know? He treated us like we were invisible.”

“That wasn't very smart of him, then, was it? Because you and I know that the people who work behind the scenes are the ones who notice the most about what's going on. I bet the staff even has a pool going on as to who the murderer is.”

She flushed, but after a quick glance around admitted in a low voice, “His wife is a favorite.”

“Because of the tennis pro?”

She stared at him. “You
know
about him?”

“I heard someone talking about it. Is that what makes her a top contender?”

She shook her head. “She didn't actually take up with the pro until after Mr. Hamilton's death. Mostly she's a favorite because of all the cop shows we've seen or mysteries we've read. They all seem to agree that most murders are committed by family members or friends. But there's also a couple of guys running neck-and-neck for second place.”

“Yeah? Who are they?”

She leaned forward. “Well, I heard Mr. Hamilton fighting with a man I don't know. We just call him Silver Hair, because he had a beautiful head of it. He looked important and he was furious over something Mr. Hamilton was doing to his company. And then Kathy Dugan heard him give Miles Wentworth a tongue-lashing. She said if looks could kill Hamilton would have been stretched out on the dining-room floor.” She straightened back up. “I have to get back to work.”

“I know. Thank you for taking a minute.”

“You're welcome, although I don't see how it helps.”

“It just does. I guess it's that knowledge is power thing—it's just better than being completely in the dark.”

He watched her walk off as he absorbed what she'd told him. But his mind soon wandered to the Cotillion kids and Esme. Would she be going to something like that in a couple of years? He knew so little about the workings of his own daughter's life. That wasn't exactly surprising, he supposed, considering the brief span of time he'd even been cognizant he had a kid. But it had to change. He'd been letting things slide because there was so much else going on.

Something about seeing all those little kids getting
ready to be turned into Frederick and “the little woman” clones, though, did something to him.

And it was time he had a serious talk with Victoria.

J
ARED'S DAY TURNED OUT TO BE
both wonderful and lousy. Wonderful was getting out of the house, even if he was forced to leave the grounds hunched down on the floor-board of Rocket's car to avoid being seen by the howling fifth estate. And it was really great to see Dan and Dave and play a little ball.

Other parts of it, though, were not so wonderful. Like the stares of some of the guys at the ball field. Or the sudden silences when he'd join a group. And like the dumb-ass questions several of the kids asked him—all of that was pretty lousy. The way some of them looked at him and the things they said, he might as well be a bug on a pin, because he felt like a goddamn freak. How did they
think
he felt about his father's murder, for crissake? When Rocket called to tell him he was on his way to pick him up, he was more than ready to go.

But when the former Marine arrived at the field a short while later and asked him how it had gone, all he said was, “Fine.” He closed the door, reached for the seat belt and stared straight ahead.

From the corner of his eye he saw Rocket turning in his seat to assess him and for a minute it felt as if the P.I. had X-ray vision. But just as Jared was on the verge of squirming, Rocket faced forward again and said mildly,
“Yeah. Been there.” He let out the clutch and roared away from the curb.

For some odd reason that made Jared feel better. So did the way Rocket didn't try to get him to talk about his fricking
feelings.
As if. Instead, the older man ignored him to sing along with the Cherry Poppin' Daddies in a voice that owed more to enthusiasm than great musical ability, tapping out the beat to the parts he didn't know against the leather steering wheel.

They were about a quarter mile from the estate gates when without warning John pulled to the side of the road. He threw the car into Neutral and turned in his seat once again. “You weren't too happy about being on the floorboards coming out,” he said. “So how do you want to go back in? The same way is definitely the simplest. But if you'd rather lounge back in your seat and thumb your nose at the lot of them, it's your call.”

The attraction of the latter must have shown on his face, for John smiled and said, “Now, how did I know that would appeal to you?” His voice turned serious. “I gotta warn you, though, that the downside to letting reporters know you slipped out right under their noses is that it'll never be that easy to get past them again.”

A laugh that was harsh and unamused burst out of him. “So, in other words, unless I ride the floorboards I won't be getting out anymore.”

“No, in my exact words, it's simplest.” John flashed a smile that was big, white and not particularly civilized. “There's a dozen other ways to get you off the estate.”

“Then I think I'll stay right here.” He leaned back, stretched his feet out in front of him and clasped his fingers behind his head, spreading his elbows wide. He felt the P.I. study him for a moment, then John dipped his
chin in acknowledgment and without another word put the car in gear. He drove back onto the road and gunned it for home.

Jared's bravado faded when he saw the sea of cameras and avid faces that turned their way as they approached. He broke out in a cold sweat when he heard them clamoring for his attention. The two syllables of his name beat in the air outside the estate like the frantic wings of a trapped bird.

But he took his tip from John, who was relaxed and cool, one wrist draped over the steering wheel. Rocket hit the gate opener Tori had given him and slowed down, but he didn't stop. The reporters had dealt with his comings and goings during the past several days and knew better than to stand their ground in front of his approaching car. He'd scattered more than one journalist who'd assumed it would be a good method for making him stop and talk to them.

Staying out of reach of the car's front bumper, however, didn't stop the Hounds from Hell from crowding in on either side. Faces pressed close to Jared's window as they shouted questions. Then the front of Rocket's car passed between the posts and the reporters fell back. The gates, which had just opened their widest, slowly began to close again.

A car suddenly roared up the road behind them, horn blaring. With a quick glance at Rocket, who was looking in the rearview mirror, he craned around to peer through the back window at the fast approaching automobile. It was fire-engine red and headed straight for them like a bullet from a gun. He shot another glance at John and saw a slight smile tilting up the corners of other man's mouth. “Do you know who that is?”

“Yeah. It's Gert.” John hit the gate opener again to
reverse its trajectory. “She must have something requiring a signature.”

Jared looked back at the speeding car. “Cool wheels,” he said. “What is that, a sixty-nine Camaro?”

“Close. A sixty-eight. You've got a good eye.”

Unlike Rocket, Gert didn't even bother to slow down for the reporters, and Jared laughed as he watched the ratings-hungry mob that had turned to converge en masse on this newest victim diving left and right to keep from getting run down by her car. Then both vehicles were on the other side of the estate wall with the gates sweeping closed behind them. Grinning, he turned back in his seat. “How cool was that?”

Rocket smiled back. “Pretty damn,” he said. “Mac doesn't take crap off of anyone. It's one of the reasons she's one of my all-time favorite people.” He parked in front of the garage.

They both climbed out, and Jared looked at John over the roof of the vehicle for a moment. “Thanks,” he said slowly. “For—you know—today.”

“You're welcome.” John looked him in the eye. “I imagine you ran into people who said stupid stuff or just didn't get it.”

He shrugged.

“Well, forget about 'em. One of the few good things to come out of bad times is finding out who your real friends are. Don't let the ones who aren't make you feel bad—they're not worth the energy.” His gaze went past Jared to his office manager's car as she parked it alongside his and the corner of his mouth crooked up. “Speaking of real friends, look who else is here. It appears I'm not the only one who has company.”

Jared twisted around to see P.J. climbing out of the pas
senger side of Gert's car. With a whoop he headed for her, the last vestige of heaviness tumbling from his heart.

She, on the other hand, didn't even seem to notice him. Mouth agape, she was staring at the back of the mansion and around the grounds. And for the first time since he'd known her, she was totally, unnaturally still.

It unnerved him, so when he reached her he stooped low, got a shoulder under her midsection and surged upright with her firmly flung over his shoulder in a fireman lift. It wasn't until his hand gripped bare skin at the back of her knee that he realized she was wearing a dress.

It stunned him, because P.J. and dresses weren't exactly an automatic association in his mind. For a moment he froze and so did she.

Then, in typical P.J. fashion, she came up fighting, legs kicking and arms flailing.

When she started bitch-slapping his head he had no recourse but to set her back on her feet. “Jeez, Peej!”

“Jeez, yourself!” She brushed at the skirt of her thin floral sundress as if he'd covered her in dust. Shiny red-brown hair hanging over one eye, she glared at him. “What's the matter with you?”

“Nothing. I was just glad to see you.” He watched as she jerked the dress's straps into place and realized that she had breasts. Really
little
breasts, but still. He'd never noticed that before.

Her head snapped up as if she could read his thoughts and Jared felt a heated flush steal up his throat.

All she said, though, was, “Yeah, well…I'm glad to see you, too. But I got myself all dressed up for this visit, so don't go swinging me around like some sack of smelly old gym socks.”

Glancing around, he was relieved to see Rocket and
Gert had disappeared inside. Some of his tension faded with the knowledge that no one had witnessed his less-than-suave technique with the ladies. He looked back at P.J. “I can see that, now the cars aren't between us. You look—”
Man, older than thirteen!
“—really nice.”

“Thank you.” She smoothed her hand down the skirt of her dress. Then she looked up at him and her uncharacteristic stiffness suddenly disappeared and all the liveliness he was accustomed to seeing blazed forth in her face. “I feel really nice. Gert bought me this.” She gave the skirt another stroke. “Ain't it just the prettiest dress you ever seen?”

“
Have
ever seen,” he corrected automatically.

Her hands stilled. “What?”

“Nothing. Sorry. I was being rude. Yes, I do believe it is the prettiest dress I've ever seen.” But it was too late and as he watched the animation fade, he could have kicked himself. Especially when she wrapped her arms around herself as if she were cold and began humming a song under her breath. The latter scared the shit out of him, for he knew it was something she was particularly prone to doing when she was scared or nervous.

Damn. This was all dicked up. Feeling desperate, he gave her a nudge. “You still singing that country western crap?” She had a surprisingly excellent voice, much clearer and stronger than anyone hearing her raspy speaking voice would expect.

“It's not crap! It's rock and roll with a twang—and better than nine-tenths of that rapper junk you like.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Why don't you come on up to my room and convince me?”

“Fine. Lead the way.”

They passed through the kitchen and walked down
the hallway to the foyer, where P.J. stopped dead. “Omigawd,” she said. She stared up at the one-story, un-lighted chandelier hanging overhead. “Oh. My. God.” Turning in slow circles, she took everything in. “This is so beautiful. This is the most beautiful place I ever—
have
ever—seen in my life. You could probably fit my mama's entire trailer right here.” With a sweep of one delicate arm, she indicated the foyer around them. A shadow crossed her face, but then she pasted on a bright smile. “So let's see your room, hotshot. I bet it's bigger than the whosit—that Taj Mahal place—isn't it?”

“Nah. More like Buckingham Palace.”

For the rest of the afternoon he saw intermittent flashes of the P.J. he knew. Mostly, though, he got the impression she thought she had to be on her party manners. It was like watching the Anti-Peej as she wandered around his room inspecting things, her hands firmly clasped behind her back as if she feared she'd break something if she actually touched it. The most relaxed she got was when he put on a Dixie Chicks CD he'd ordered off the Internet. She sang along, and her butt, which he noticed had filled out some in the week she'd been getting regular meals, wiggled in time.

When the CD was finished, she plopped down onto the bed next to him. She looked at her nails; she looked at the baseball mitt he'd tossed on the bedpost. Finally she looked at him. “My mama called.”

Ice crept through his veins. He'd never met the woman, but he hated her guts anyhow. He kept his voice carefully neutral, however, when he said, “Oh?”

“Yeah. Gert got hold of her. I'm going home to Pueblo.” Her expression was both hopeful and scared. She reached into a little pocket on her dress and pulled
out a slip of paper. “That's really why we came down here today—Gert just made up the paperwork-for-John stuff. She said you and me oughtta have the chance to say goodbye in person.” She glanced down at the paper in her hand then held it out to him. “I'm leaving tomorrow, but I wanted to give you my phone number so we could still talk.” She looked around his big airy room uncertainly. “If you wanna, that is.”

“Oh, I want to.” He grabbed her chin and pulled it around until she had no choice but to look him in the eye. Ignoring her hands tugging at his and her demands for him to let go, he glared into her feisty, frightened—God, so
vulnerable
—golden brown eyes and reiterated unequivocally, “I want to. I plan to. Count on it.”

 

V
ICTORIA LOOKED UP FROM
the invoices she was preparing for the two dollhouses she'd shipped this week to see John standing in the doorway to Ford's old office. She saved her work on the laptop computer and smiled at him. “Gert and P.J. get off okay?”

“Yep.”

She got up, rounded the desk, and perched her bottom against its front. Bracing her palms on either side of her hips, she curled her fingers around the edge and observed him as he lounged against the jamb. “Didn't you think P.J. seemed subdued?”

He pressed his shoulder into the wood. “Mac located her mother and had a little talk with her. The upshot is P.J.'s moving back to Pueblo tomorrow.”

“Oh, boy. I hope that works out for her.”

“Me, too. From everything I've heard of Mom, she doesn't exactly sound like Mother of the Year material and I know Jared thinks it's a lousy idea.”

“But to P.J. she's still Mama.”