Silk and Stone (26 page)

“What the hell are you talking about?” Malcolm snatched at his belongings, and the stranger dropped them on the pink tile beneath the lounge. “Alexandra Lomax,” the unwelcome visitor said.

Malcolm’s breath rattled in his throat. He lied automatically and well. “I never heard that name before. What do you want?”

“She hired you to wipe out the Ryders’ bankroll, and you did it.” The stranger stood, leaned over, plucked Malcolm’s designer sunglasses between long, thick fingers, then closed his fist around them. The plastic bridge gave a nerve-racking
crack
when it broke. The stranger dropped the mangled sunglasses on Malcolm’s oiled stomach. “I thought I could get some of the money back. Too bad.”

Without another word he walked away. Malcolm Drury sat in petrified silence, afraid to move or speak, for a long time. When he could catch his breath, he cursed raggedly, grabbed his belongings, and jumped up, scanning the crowded pool patio. The intruder was gone.

Malcolm checked out of the hotel minutes later, booked a room on a cruise ship leaving for the States within the hour, and hyperventilated during the taxi ride to the dock. It didn’t occur to him to return to North Carolina and confront Mrs. Alexandra Lomax about her damned carelessness in letting someone discover their little business deal; his instincts had told him from the first that she would chew him to shreds if he crossed her. He was not into confrontation; he was into easy living, and
tucked into his luggage was a fist-size bag of cocaine that would keep his lifestyle rolling as soon as he peddled it to the right people in Miami.

At the dock, he anxiously waved off the helpful hands of the lithe, smiling porters and hurried toward a huge cruise ship. Suddenly he was surrounded by lithe, unsmiling customs officials and policemen, and his luggage was pulled away, and Malcolm Drury stared in shock as his belongings were scattered across the gleaming white concrete and the bag of coke was quickly confiscated.

He thought of the brutal Bahamian prisons and drug laws, and his knees collapsed. He sank to the pavement as they were cuffing his hands behind his back, protesting loudly that he was innocent, that someone had planted the drug in his luggage.

As they dragged him toward a police van, he began to cry. It wasn’t fair. No one could have known. No one.

They had had many unusual people in the store, Sam thought, but never an FBI agent. He looked exactly the way one should look too—in a dark suit with a small leather folder held open in one raised hand, showing his credentials. Mom stared at him over the cash register and nearly dropped a bag of Charlotte’s whole-grain muffins.

“Just thought you’d like to know, Mrs. Ryder,” the agent said. “We picked up some information on Malcolm Drury. He was caught in the Bahamas. Drug possession.”

Mom sagged against the counter and put her head on the top of the cash register. Sam stepped in front of her and looked up at the agent with unblinking regard. “Do they lock people up and throw away the key down there?”

“Yes, they do.”

Good
, Sam thought, but didn’t say so. “Can we get any of our money back?” she asked.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Do y’all think we had anything to do with him buying drugs? That we were going to fence them for him, or something?”

The agent smiled at her as if she were the quaintest creature he’d ever seen. “No, miss, you and your family aren’t under suspicion.”

Sam nodded. “That’s all I need to know then. Oh, except—how did they catch him?”

“Someone made an anonymous phone call to the customs officials.”

Dressed in pale gray riding britches and a matching blouse, carrying tall black riding boots and thin socks in one hand, Alexandra breezed down the marble staircase and halted on the landing where, a little more than ten years earlier, William had Iain with the life slipping out of him. Bare feet planted cozily on the cool marble tile, she nodded to her secretary, a slender, bespectacled young black woman who was extremely efficient and whose employment added a discreetly open-minded touch to Orrin’s conservative political image. North Carolinians shunned nosebleed liberals like the plague, and nutty right-wingers like Jesse Helms stole the national spotlight, but she and Orrin knew the future lay in cultivating the moderates.

Orrin would be governor someday. She was planning the route with unerring attention to detail. “Good morning, Barbara.”

Smiling at her over an armful of notepads and mail, Barbara said, “Good morning, Mrs. Lomax. I’m all set. We can get through the day’s business quickly. I know you want to get to your horses.”

“You know I do.” Alexandra nodded greetings to Matilda, a housekeeper she’d imported from England, who scurried out of the downstairs office as they walked to a broad antique desk. As always, Matilda had placed a silver coffee service on one end of the desk, and the secretary poured coffee into two china cups as Alexandra dropped her boots and sank into a damask-covered chair across from her.

Barbara settled onto a chair on the other side and began studying a large notepad, a pen in one hand, as
Alexandra nibbled a bran muffin. “Get Dole Hopkins on the phone today and tell him not to let the DuLanes have the Owl Creek Road property for one penny less than twelve five an acre. I didn’t buy that land to lose money on it, and I’m not going to let the DuLanes waddle their rich fannies up here from New Orleans expecting a bargain. If Dole continues to go limp on the negotiations, tell him I’ll broker the deal myself.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Barbara scribbled quickly on her pad.

“I’ve written Mrs. DuLane a sweet little note inviting her to stay here as my guest during the fall leaf season. Make sure it gets to the post office today.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Call the club and double-check all the arrangements for the brunch next week. I don’t want to see even
one
lousy carnation in the centerpieces this time. When I host a flock of dim-witted hick senators’ wives, they are going to go home properly impressed.”

“No carnations, I promise.”

“Tim begins his summer internship with the chamber of commerce tomorrow. Remind Matilda to have his clothes ready. I expect to see him in a suit and tie every morning.”

“Jane Treacher left a message that golf shirts and casual slacks would be all right. She said to tell you everyone’s casual during the summer.”

“A suit and tie,” Alexandra repeated. “I set the standards for my son’s appearance.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The senator will be back from Raleigh tomorrow. His blood pressure’s climbing again and I’m sending him to Dr. Crane’s office in Asheville for a checkup. Get an appointment for Monday or Tuesday.”

“And if Dr. Crane’s already booked? Any alternatives?”

Alexandra thought of the growing community of specialists who’d set up practice among Pandora’s moneyed crowd, and of Hugh Raincrow, who was quickly becoming the only general practitioner in town. She’d heard through her grapevines that the new boys eyed Hugh suspiciously
and considered him uncooperative. He didn’t play golf or charge consultation fees, he still made housecalls, and he refused to refer patients to them for anything less than an emergency.

If Hugh wanted to alienate himself from progress, she was delighted. Indeed, nothing would make her happier than seeing him lose patients to the newcomers. But doctors were clannish, and she couldn’t be certain that word about Orrin’s unstable blood pressure wouldn’t spread among them until it reached Hugh. The less the damned Raincrows knew about her family, the better.

People were still whispering about Tim’s broken nose. She had wanted to shake him into a semblance of manly behavior that night, had wanted to see him fight back after Jake hit him.

And she wanted to see Jake humiliated and humbled until he no longer had the power to make her nervous. Alexandra fiddled with the handle of her coffee cup. “Dr. Crane will work the senator into his schedule,” she said brusquely. “Tell him I insist.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Let’s go through the mail, Barbara. We can finish the rest later.”

Her secretary placed a stack of neatly slit envelopes in front of Alexandra. Alexandra shuffled through them, tossing bills into two separate piles. “These are my sister’s,” she noted, tapping one set. “I’ll write the checks tomorrow morning.”

“I hope Mrs. Ryder is feeling better.”

“She’s fine. A little embarrassed over her poor judgment in men, but I’ve assured her she doesn’t have to worry about the money. Oh, I almost forgot—call her this afternoon and tell her I’ve booked the girls for classes with an etiquette coach in July. A lovely old Asheville lady who used to be somebody.”

“And if Mrs. Ryder asks for details?”

“She won’t. I’ve already convinced her that she’s been entirely too free-wheeling about their social graces. Charlotte’s becoming a flighty little bohemian, and Samantha is apparently in training to become a very dull old woman.”

Barbara laughed. “What do you mean?”

“She’s an excellent student, but she has no interest in other teenagers or any extracurricular school activities. She practically runs my sister’s shop and she, well, in her spare time she
sews
. It’s up to me, obviously, to expand all that marvelous strength of character into something a good deal more interesting. Charm, strength, and brains—that’s the ticket.”

Alexandra laid out the rest of the mail like a game of solitaire. “Invitations,” she mumbled, arranging small pastel envelopes according to the prestige of the return addresses. “It’s going to be a busy summer.”

“A pleasant one too, I’m sure,” Barbara interjected.

“Yes, life can be nearly perfect at times.” She gave in to a brief, dark thought about never being perfectly secure as long as Sarah Raincrow and her brood existed, but shelved the worry as insignificant. She had control of her own life and Frannie’s, and Charlotte’s, and most of all, her glorious, promising Samantha.

“What’s this?” she said under her breath, lifting a cheap white business envelope with no stamp, no addresses, and only her name scrawled across it in bold, masculine-looking script.

“That was in the mailbox yesterday. I guess someone dropped it off in person.”

“That’s odd.” Alexandra slid her fingers into the envelope and pulled out a second envelope that had been folded in half and sealed. The contents felt flimsy. Alexandra tore the envelope open carefully.

A plain white piece of paper was folded in a large square inside it. She spread the mysterious paper on her desk. Centered on it was a dog-eared snapshot of Malcolm Drury. Her stomach lurched, and she gaped at the photo and then, shock draining her, at the words written beneath it in the same strong, intense hand that had confidently penned her name.

You stole from your sister and her daughters. Don’t do it again. Because I’ll find out
.

“Mrs. Lomax? Are you all right?” Barbara’s voice came to her dimly through a buzz of confusion and
fear. Had that spineless Malcolm Drury told someone she’d paid him to swindle her own sister—that she’d paid a professional thief to make certain Frannie didn’t become too independent? Drury was beneath her concern, conveniently put away by his own stupidity. But some stranger was out there, knowing her secret, watching her.

The way Jake, as a child, had known about her affair with Orrin
.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Alexandra lied. She covered the message with her hands. “Get out. I mean, we’re done. Go on. Leave me alone.
Leave.
”

Gaping at her, Barbara hurried from the room. Alexandra forced herself to take several deep breaths, then, with barely controlled panic, ripped the photo, the paper, and both envelopes into bits.

Jake
. She refused to succumb to hysterical paranoia about him. Sarah’s eccentric son was not going to harass and intimidate her.

But the fear remained, rising up from the deep well of apprehension Jake had created years ago, and it infuriated her and obsessed her until she was convinced he had sent the photograph.

She waited, day after tormenting day, to see if there would be more messages, or some specific form of blackmail. She despised the fear, the uncertainty, the
control
over her thoughts and happiness.