The Kill (32 page)

A
bigale clutched the stack of linens to her chest, steadying them with her chin as she stretched up and pulled down the hatchback on Margaret’s Subaru. The old car looked forlorn parked between the hulking black Hummer and the black Mercedes-Benz SUV. She wiped her hand on her jeans, wondering how the other two vehicles could be so clean when the back of the Subaru was caked with road dust. Sure, the Jenners’ driveway was paved, but they had to travel on gravel roads to get there. She imagined someone dashing out to wipe off the Jenners’ vehicles as soon as one was parked.

Abigale eyed the immaculate landscaping, the neatly mowed fields, the mature dogwood trees evenly spaced lining the long drive. Of course.
Dogwood Lane
. She remembered that from the first notation about Tiffanie Jenner in her uncle’s journal.

Margaret had described the house as a McMansion, and Abigale saw why. It was at least ten thousand square feet, probably more, covered with what looked like enough bright-red brick to pave the square in central Baghdad. The roof was slate, undoubtedly the real thing, and the keystone above each window bore the impression of a fox head. A four-tiered fountain bubbled merrily in the middle of a cobblestone courtyard surrounded by boxwoods. Abigale admired the lush moss that checkerboarded the stone pavers; she knew from years of listening to her father and various gardeners discuss the walkways behind the hotel that it wasn’t an easy feat to keep crabgrass from creeping in.

She climbed the flared stairs to the front door and pressed the button for the bell, listening to the melody chime inside. A few moments passed and she wondered if she should push the button again when she saw movement through the stained-glass panel in the door. The woman who opened the door was about Abigale’s height and Hollywood thin. Her honey-colored chin-length bob was tucked behind her right ear, to which she clutched an iPhone. She flashed the emerald-cut diamond rock on her left hand with practiced ease as she motioned Abigale inside.

Abigale stepped into an entry hall that soared the full three stories of the house, crowned in the center with a crystal chandelier almost large enough to be lowered in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. The woman gave Abigale a pained look and opened and closed her hand, as if to say the person on the other end of the phone wouldn’t shut up. Abigale smiled politely.

Tiffanie said, “Belinda, I understand
completely
what you’re saying, but just because the children have used the same old costumes for the last umpteen years doesn’t mean we shouldn’t get new ones for the pageant this year. My contact in New York promised to email pictures first thing on Monday and assured me he’d have the costumes here in time if we make our selections by the end of next week.”

Abigale averted her eyes, studying a foxhunting mural painted on the entry wall.

“I told you before, the cost is not an issue. Charles will pay. Listen, Belinda, I have to go. I have company. We’ll get together next week and make the selections. ’Bye.”

Tiffanie slid the phone into the pocket of her mustard-colored blazer, cashmere from the looks of it, which was stylishly coordinated with her Chanel mustard-and-black ballet flats, black wool slacks, black silk turtleneck, and cream, gold, and black Hermès scarf. More New York than Middleburg, but stunning nonetheless.

“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. I’m Tiffanie Jenner. And you must be Abigale.”

“Yes, hi.” Abigale shifted the bundle of linens. “Margaret asked me to drop these off.”

Tiffanie eyed the linens but made no attempt to take them. “Yes, Margaret called and told me you were on your way. Can you stay a minute? Would you like an espresso?”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“Lovely. Follow me.”

Tiffanie led Abigale to a kitchen that belonged on the pages of
Architectural Digest
, complete with wood-burning pizza oven, trompe l’oeil walls, and mammoth Viking range. Dozens of gleaming copper pots that Abigale would bet had never touched the stove hung suspended over the center island.

“Where would you like me to put these?” Abigale asked, extending the armful of linens.

Tiffanie waved a hand at the black granite counter. “Just set them there.” She pressed her deep red lips together, causing a tiny row of lines to appear like crescent moons on either side of her mouth. “I don’t know what to do about those.”

“What do you mean?”

Tiffanie reached out a slender finger and pressed a button on the front of a shiny espresso machine. “I bought some fabulous linens for the reception,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the grinding noise spewing from the machine. “When I told Margaret, she said it was nonsense to waste money, that she had a set the hunt has been using for years. She all but ordered me to return the ones I bought and use hers.”

Abigale set the linens on the counter. “Can you still return them?”

“I probably can, but I’d rather not.” Tiffanie poured two shots of espresso into a bone china cup and handed it on a saucer to Abigale. “The ones I bought are gorgeous.”

She brewed an espresso for herself and tugged back one of several bar stools tucked under a high counter at the end of the island. “Please, have a seat.”

Tiffanie perched on the edge of a stool one over from Abigale’s. “What would you do if you were in my situation?”

You don’t really want me to answer that
, Abigale thought. She said, “That’s a tough one. But I’m sure you’ll handle it just fine.”

Tiffanie eyed Margaret’s linens and wrinkled her nose. “Much as I hate to offend Margaret, Richard did put me in charge of the reception…”

She sipped her espresso, shifting her wide brown eyes to Abigale. “I’m so sorry for your loss, by the way. You must just be devastated. Richard was such a wonderful man. The hunt will never be the same without him.”

“I understand you worked with my uncle quite a bit organizing the race reception.”

“Yes. And as ornery as Margaret can be—don’t tell her I said that—Richard could not have been more agreeable. I have to admit, I was nervous when I first met with him to discuss the reception. But he could not have been more patient with me. Everyone told me he was such a perfectionist about the races and would try to micromanage all the details, but he pretty much turned the whole VIP reception over to me. Within no time he went from being this larger-than-life master to treating me like I was important to the hunt.”

“I’m sure he really appreciated your help.”

“We worked well with one another. In fact, we planned to get together as soon as the races were over and talk about planning several other hunt fundraisers. Richard was especially excited about an idea I have for a skeet-shooting competition.”

“Do you shoot skeet?”

“Not since we moved down here. But it was big socially in Connecticut.”

Abigale swallowed a long draw of espresso, trying to figure out how to broach the subject of the proposed real-estate development Smitty had told her about. “Your home is beautiful. Have you lived here long?”

“A little over a year.”

“Did you live in the area before that?”

Tiffanie held her coffee cup with her little finger crooked daintily in the air, the way they teach in etiquette school. “No, we moved here from Connecticut. Charles’s idea, not mine.”

“Charles is your husband?”

“Yes,” Tiffanie replied in a flat tone. “Charles is from a Podunk town in the Midwest and really wanted to raise our daughter in a small town. I told him I wasn’t Dorothy and Kansas wasn’t an option, so we compromised. He proposed Middleburg and I figured I could live with that. So we did the whole
Green Acres
thing.”

Abigale laughed. “Except Eva Gabor ended up on a ramshackle farm and your place is gorgeous.” She felt a little disingenuous saying it, but the Jenners’ farm was impressive in a flamboyant, grandiose way. Even though she’d trade it for an old farmhouse in a heartbeat.

“Thank you.” A frown wrinkled Tiffanie’s slender nose. “If I’d lived down here while Charles was building the house there are some things I would have done differently, but I stayed in Connecticut so Brooke—that’s our daughter—could finish her first year of preschool. That was a mistake. For several reasons.”

“That must have a lot of perks, being married to a builder. I guess you don’t have to spend a lot of time sitting around waiting for repairmen.”

“He’s a developer, actually,” Tiffanie said, as if the distinction was obvious. “He doesn’t waste his time with individual building projects. Other than our own, of course.”

“What kind of developments does he do?”

“Planned communities. Themed subdivisions. Last year he completed a Christian-themed community in Tennessee with big old church-looking pillars at the entrance and religious names for all the streets. Pretty tacky, if you ask me, but those houses sold like hotcakes.”

“Sounds like he did a good job designing a community to fit in with the local area.”

Tiffanie shrugged, as if praise for her husband held no interest for her.

“Is he doing a project in this area?”

“Um-hmm.”

“What theme will it have?”

“Equestrian, what else?” Tiffanie sighed daintily. “Charles is ready to break ground as soon as he finishes cutting through all the red tape, but it almost takes an act of God to get subdivision approval in this county. They act as if a few more homes are simply going to ruin paradise. That’s how Charles got the opportunity to buy the land in the first place. Percy Fletcher—do you know him?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Percy had a prior deal to sell the land. The buyers had plans to develop it into an equestrian community, but they got tired of jumping through hoops with the county and walked away. Percy was desperate to sell, so he approached Charles about developing the land.”

Desperate to sell?
Was Manning wrong about Percy not having a motive to see that the subdivision was approved?

“Charles jumped on the deal like a cat on a mouse, dollar signs in his eyes. He redesigned the entire project, of course. Upgraded everything. He says it will be his ‘signature’ development. If he ever gets a green light from the county.” She flicked her hand, as if the situation were a bother. “The whole thing’s a nightmare.”

“Switzerland has very tough building regulations as well,” Abigale said. “I remember my father almost tore his hair out trying to get approval to build an addition to our hotel. In the end, it came down to politics. Knowing the right people.”

“It’s the same all over the world. In fact, Charles asked Richard to speak out in favor of his project at the zoning hearing.”

“Did Uncle Richard do so?”

“He never had the chance. The hearing is still a couple of weeks away.”

“But he agreed to help?”

“I’m not sure if Richard had officially told Charles yes, but I’m sure he was prepared to. I spoke with Richard about it the last time we got together to discuss the reception and he all but told me so.”

“Was that the day he died?” Abigale asked.

“God, no. The details for the reception were finalized and approved by Richard weeks ago.”

Abigale thought back to the notation her uncle had written in his journal. “But didn’t you have plans to get together with Uncle Richard the day he died?”

Tiffanie gave her an odd look. “My only plans for that day were to go hunting, which as it turned out I probably should have canceled. It was a sloppy day and my horse pulled a shoe in the deep footing. I had to hack in early.”

M
anning leaned against the Gator beside Smitty, trying to ignore the sound of Percy popping the tab on a can of beer. He forced himself to concentrate on what his mother was saying to Wendy and Thompson about tomorrow’s race-day assignments.

“I think that covers everything, except we still need to designate an outrider who’ll be responsible for escorting the horses to and from the paddock,” Margaret said.

“What do you mean?” Manning asked. “That’s always been my job.”

“Not this year.” Margaret flipped the cover on a small spiral-bound notepad and shoved it in her jacket pocket.

He frowned at her. “Why not?”

“You’ll be occupied with other things.”

“Like what?”

“Politicking,” Margaret said. “Buttering up the sponsors, making sure they’re happy. Posing with them for trophy presentations.”

“I don’t want to do that,” Manning said with a groan. “You should be in charge of the sponsors. You probably know all of them.”

“I’ll do it,” Percy said. “It sure beats directing cars.”

Margaret clamped her lips together and shot a look at Percy. “It’s not my place to do that, Manning. You’re the master. That’s what the master does.”

He breathed out an acknowledgment, though he felt like saying
why doesn’t the master get to decide what the master does?

“Besides,” Margaret added, “with your broken arm you aren’t in any condition to be an outrider tomorrow anyway.”

Manning’s arm hurt like hell, but he still preferred being on a horse to schmoozing VIPs. “The doctor said I can ride. That’s why he put the cast on,” he muttered, knowing it would make no difference.