Stay (Dunham series #2) (9 page)

“Giselle? Hi, it’s Eric. Didn’t you tell me you
trained with Miller Evanston when you were at BYU? And you’re a
first black belt, right? . . . Uh huh. I know you just had a baby,
but I’m calling because I’m in a bit of a bind since Knox left and
I wanted to ask you if you’d be interested in a part-time job . . .
”

An hour later, with memory lane having been well
trod, he got to cross that thing off his to-do list, making his
burden seem a little bit lighter.

Next thing on his list: a secretary or two. Eric
knew the value of good administrative assistants and he was going
to get a couple or die trying. He picked up a pile of résumés and
began to sort through them again.

Too much to do and too little time to do it in.

Too few resources.

Too little sleep.

Eric, you need to ditch your life for a couple of
hours and go do whatever it is you do when you get all wound up.
Meditate or whatever and then re-prioritize your to-do list. I’ve
never seen you scattered like this. You’re losing it and we haven’t
even started officially campaigning yet.

Annie’s voice rang in his head. Between the court
docket, regular office business, his dojo, campaign tasks, and all
the meetings he’d had with the Republican and Libertarian leaders
who vied for his attention, he hadn’t had a chance to turn around
twice in the same spot. But . . .

Annie had taken it upon herself to deal with quite a
few campaign details.

Giselle had agreed to a meeting to see if she would
care to take over some of Eric’s karate class load.

He did have one new lawyer, but one fresh grad
didn’t hope to meet demand, and he’d stalled out on hiring
administrative assistants.

If he couldn’t get everything under control, he
wouldn’t have time to start actively campaigning for attorney
general.

“Hell, I won’t deserve the job,” he muttered, then
looked at the résumés in his hand. “Screw that. I’ll call a temp
agency tomorrow.”

Eric trudged through the sheriff’s office and walked
home. It was twelve-thirty when he climbed into bed. Annie was
asleep, so he wouldn’t be getting laid tonight even if he weren’t
completely exhausted.

Still, he lay awake, churning through his to-do
list, nagged by his inability to prioritize effectively. Then his
mind rolled back around to Glenn’s visit, and Eric felt a little
bit of unease that perhaps the man could suss out the identity of
the little girl who’d given Eric everything he had.

* * * * *

10: more Down Cellar in a Teacup

Vanessa showed up at the wake, attracting every eye
and dropping every jaw as she strutted by with purpose, feigning
obliviousness to the looks. She’d known this would happen. She’d
wanted it to happen; it was a power play and she’d learned about
power from the best.

Her mother raked her with her gaze, head to toe and
back again. “Well, aren’t we uppity?”

“Yes, I certainly am. You could use a little class
yourself.”

A snicker caught her attention and she saw a blond
boy, not much shorter than Vanessa, standing next to Vanessa’s
mother. She flinched when her mother cuffed the boy in the back of
the head.

“What’d you do to your hair?” LaVon demanded. “You
look like a zebra.”

“I went out in the sun to do productive things. What
did you do to yours? Mix four different brands of discount
bleach?”

The boy snickered again, and again her mother cuffed
him.

Vanessa’s eyes narrowed and she was no longer
amused, remembering how little a child had to do to earn one of
those incredibly frequent painful slaps. “Ma, if you do that again,
I’ll have you arrested.”

LaVon’s jaw worked, but she said nothing and Vanessa
felt free to leave her there and find a seat where she could watch
people in relative peace. She did have to admit that being here,
not forced to be gracious, being able to let loose, was fabulously
cathartic.

Knox had finally explained why he demanded she go to
her sister’s funeral. “You’re in the power position now and you
need that closure.”

“So it’s not about Simone?”

It’s not about Eric?

“No. It’s about your mother. Trust me. My mother was
a bitch, too, and I want you to go give her hell.”

Vanessa hated it when he was right, which, well, he
was
always
right. Besides, she knew how much Knox had hated
his mother and that put her fears about any other motives he might
have to rest.

Vaguely wondering who the boy was, she started to
watch him. It only took a few seconds to figure out he was Simone’s
son. Possibly twelve years old and Vanessa had not known of his
existence. He didn’t seem too terribly heartbroken over his
mother’s death and she couldn’t blame him.

She felt the first stirrings of pity for the child;
she had had protectors in Dirk, then Knox, who’d kept LaVon off her
back. Vanessa couldn’t begin to imagine how miserable this boy must
be with both LaVon and Simone over him.

Vanessa refused to stand in the family line at the
wake that night, refused to sit with the family up front during
mass the next day, and refused to drive to the cemetery at the
front of the line after the funeral. She stood about fifty feet
away from the tented gravesite, observing the whole mess, and
wondered how LaVon had managed to come up with the money for the
funeral and grave, much less the nice casket.

Somebody else must have paid for it. LaVon would
have left Simone to be buried in a potter’s field.

“Hi.”

Vanessa looked at the stranger who had sidled up
next to her, an otherwise smallish man but for a little bit of a
pot belly. He seemed . . . dapper. That was the word. His
clothes—straight out of film noir—weren’t expensive, but they were
of good quality material and they’d been altered to fit him well.
He removed his fedora to reveal a regrettable comb-over of mixed
brown and gray strands, and his eyes bugged a little behind his
stylish glasses. He wore a decent cologne, not overwhelming and not
so thin as to be considered cheap.

“Hello,” she murmured, wondering which way he would
approach this and how fast she’d be tomorrow’s headline.

“You’re Vanessa Whittaker.”

“Last time I checked.”

“You’re Simone’s little sister?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re the TV chef.
Vittles
, right?”

Vanessa sighed.

“I’m Glenn Shinkle, from the
Chouteau
Recorder
, and I was wondering if I could get an interview?
Apparently,” he said wryly, “no one here knows who you are, except
me.”

“That does seem to be the case, doesn’t it?”

He pursed his lips. “Or at least of your mother’s
crowd. Why is that, do you think?”

She laughed for the first time since she’d hit the
county line.

If LaVon
didn’t
know about Vanessa’s life, it
would be a result of her complete disinterest in computers or the
internet, even if she could afford such, and a complete disinterest
in Vanessa’s whereabouts or doings. While LaVon had always lived
and breathed celebrity gossip, Vanessa didn’t occupy the realms of
celebrity LaVon would follow. LaVon had never cooked, so Vanessa
couldn’t imagine she’d watch cooking shows.

If LaVon
did
know about Vanessa’s little
corner of fame or anything about Whittaker House, she’d have kept
it to herself, ever mindful that any misstep would bring the wrath
of Knox Hilliard down upon her head.

Vanessa suspected the latter. After all, LaVon could
keep a secret better than a dead man if she had sufficient
motivation.

Finally, she cast a vague gesture toward all the
people gathered under and around the tent set up over Simone’s
grave and said, “I have no idea.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Miss Whitta—”

“Mr. Shinkle,” she murmured, laying her hand gently
on his arm. “I’m at my sister’s funeral.”

As a reproof, it was a gentle one, but he seemed the
sort to understand and respect it. He flushed a little, but nodded
and put his fedora back on his head before trotting off.

Vanessa sighed and crossed her arms over her chest.
She turned back to watch the mourners gather and chat and disperse
in small, ever-moving clusters, then glanced at her watch. Noon. If
she left now instead of staying for the family meal, she could make
it home for dinner with more than an hour to spare.

But. When Nephew approached her with some stealth
and muttered, “Aunt Vanessa, will you come to my school tomorrow
night? There’s a program and I’m in it . . . ” she hadn’t the heart
to refuse him. He’d spoken to her as if she were a regular,
sympathetic part of his life, not a random relative he’d just
met.

A whole lot of people Vanessa didn’t know spoke to
her that way, which meant he’d watched her on TV enough to feel as
if he knew her.

“Sure, kid. What time do you want me to pick you
up?” He told her, then scampered off before she could ask him his
name, in case LaVon caught him talking to the family traitor. She
knew exactly how much he’d risked to do so. He probably saw her as
his protector now simply because she’d stood down his
grandmother.

Very few women and only a handful more men could
make LaVon Whittaker back down, and now Nephew knew Vanessa was
powerful enough to do that. LaVon wouldn’t dare do anything to that
boy while she was in town.

Too bad she’d start in on him again once Vanessa
left.

Thus, Vanessa decided to go back to the mobile home
after the burial just to see if she could get a few licks in at her
mother, but the conversation she’d imagined didn’t come to pass the
way she’d intended. Instead, she saw her father in a broken-down
wheelchair, on oxygen, trying to wheel his way through a fog of
cigarette smoke and people who didn’t notice he existed, much less
make room for him to pass by.

She shoved through the tight cliques, trying to go
to him and wheel him out to the deck.

“Ma,” she snapped when she realized LaVon was right
in front of her father, ignoring his distress. “Why don’t you get
Pops an electric wheelchair?”

LaVon flushed and her jaw worked. Vanessa had
embarrassed her in front of her friends. Good.

“’Cause we don’t have the money for it, Vanessa,”
she finally said, nasty as always.

“Oh, hey, here’s a thought: Quit smoking and maybe
A—Pops wouldn’t have to have so much oxygen and B—you’d have the
money.”

LaVon slapped her face.

The entire assemblage fell silent and stepped back
to watch this. Nephew observed Vanessa warily, as if he were afraid
her power over LaVon was just an illusion.

“How do you like that, Vanessa?” she sneered. “Ain’t
no Knox Hilliard in town to protect you no more.”

“Well, that’s true enough,” Vanessa drawled. “What,
exactly, do you think the
new
prosecutor would do with you
if I went to him to have you charged with assault?”

The tension was suffocating.

“And wouldn’t Dirk laugh his butt off when you
needed an attorney?”

LaVon’s mouth tightened.

“That’s what I thought.”

Then Vanessa turned and continued with her
self-appointed task of getting her father outside for some fresh
air. LaVon didn’t wait until she was out the door before starting
in on the new prosecutor.

That was a show for Vanessa’s benefit, to drive home
the point that LaVon had not forgotten her betrayal, much less
forgiven her for it. Vanessa still wanted to curl up in a little
ball of humiliation whenever she remembered watching Eric, waiting
and hoping for some kind word, some sign that he knew what she’d
done and felt some gratitude. A mere “thank you” would have
thrilled her thirteen-year-old heart beyond reason.

But he’d given her
that
look and walked
away.

“ . . . ting married to that bitch Annie
Franklin.”

“When’s the wedding again?”

“December something.”

Vanessa didn’t stop, didn’t betray in any way how
unexpectedly hard that news hit her behind her breastbone. She
wasn’t sure her mother actually knew of her little-girl crush of so
long ago, but it didn’t matter. Any news about the prosecutor that
could be used to trash him would get the point across to
Vanessa.

She wasn’t sure why she cared. After all, she was
sleeping with a man half the women in the country had
wanted—including LaVon, judging by the Nash Piper shrine that
covered the main wall of the trailer’s living room. The wreckage of
Nash’s plane deep in the Smoky Mountains had been found readily
enough, but his body had never been recovered. Yet here was LaVon,
still keeping vigil two and a half years later.

Why
didn’t it surprise her LaVon would have
built a shrine to a dead man?

“Typical,” Vanessa muttered.

With great determination, she finally got her father
out on the deck, where he hacked and choked, and she pulled up a
dilapidated lawn chair to sit next to him and look at the twilight
sky.

“Nessie,” he rasped once his coughing fit had wound
down. “I want you to know how glad I am you came back for your
sister’s funeral.”

“I didn’t have a choice, Pops. My business partner
made me.”

“Oh?” he asked, his forehead wrinkled. “If she’s
your
partner
, how does she make you?”

“He. And he’s got a bit of a temper. It gets
nasty.”

“Why did he make you come?”

“To make sure Simone was really dead. In case you
didn’t notice, I don’t care about Simone. She got what she
deserved. Live by the sword, die by the sword. And LaVon’s even
worse.”

Her father’s nostrils flared, but since she had no
investment in being warm and gracious at this moment, she had no
qualms about stating her opinion. That harshness, that refusal to
be cowed or apologize, which she’d learned from a master, was
something she very rarely needed to break out. Today, with her
family, she felt not only justified but obligated to push the
envelope, shred it, and set it on fire.