“Are you pregnant?”
I shook my head. “Accused of murder. Disappointed?”
“I need a drink.”
Dave and Robin drove up in his white Ford Explorer and parked behind us. Dave hustled out of the car in a rumpled sport coat to open the passenger door. Robin exited as fresh as a spring bouquet in a silk rainbow sherbet sundress and heels.
As Nick and Dave walked to the front door, she slowed her pace and said, “Dave’s suspicious. I wouldn’t tell him the reason you wanted us here. Better get this over with fast.”
Decades ago, after my parents sent Dave and I off to college, Mom celebrated her independence from dirty uniforms, empty pop cans, and greasy pizza boxes by redecorating. She transformed the Gordon ranch house into a beige extravaganza, from the carpet to the walls to the bricks on the fireplace. Beige chairs and sofa in the living room, beige tiles and appliances in the kitchen. Dad joked that they were living in a carton of vanilla ice cream.
Give Mom a reason to entertain and the beige becomes her canvas. Dave, Robin, Nick, and I were greeted by bright splashes of summer. Bright yellow daisies in red vases dotted every table in the living room. Dozens of sunflowers in a tin bucket adorned the center of a dining room table set with a festive rust-colored tablecloth, six green plates, brown napkins, and a tall pitcher of lemonade.
Dave and Nick hung a left and joined Dad to watch SportsCenter on the flat screen in the living room. Robin and I headed to the kitchen, where we found Mom in a white linen tunic and tangerine capris, stirring a large pot of turkey chili. She tucked a strand of her white hair behind her ear and glanced knowingly at my stomach. I made a face and silently vowed to avoid the cornbread at dinner.
“Everything is ready, girls. Liz, take the salad out of the refrigerator. Robin, bring the cornbread. Call the men in and let’s eat.”
We took our seats around the dining room table. Mom, Dad, and Dave stared at me, then at Nick, then back to me.
I spread a napkin across my lap and said, “I was at Jarret’s house yesterday morning before he found Laycee Huber’s body.”
They listened in hushed silence, a Gordon family first, as I told my story over the salad. Robin huffed with sympathetic indignation while passing the cornbread. I glanced at Mom, waiting for her to interrupt in Jarret’s defense. She ate slowly without saying a word. Dad and Dave exchanged glances over Carla’s trumped-up allegation then each took second helpings of chili. When I finished my tale, Nick circled his hand on my back.
“What did your lawyer say?” Dad said.
“Oliver thinks Jarret and his lawyer are using me to create reasonable doubt.”
“Damn lawyers pull that crap all the time,” Dave said between bites. “Carla leaned hard on Jarret so they turned suspicion on Liz. Makes sense.”
Mom slapped her palm on the table. “Makes sense? Makes sense to accuse my daughter—your sister—of murder? To save Jarret Cooper? Not on my life. How dare that lowlife, miserable excuse of a man let someone use my daughter as his scapegoat.”
Dad blinked in astonishment. Nick suspended his fork midair. Robin sat still. Dave shot me a who-is-this-woman look. I wanted to jump up and hug Mom for taking my side.
“Who is this lawyer of yours?” she said. “How did you find him?”
“His name is Oliver Paul,” I said. “Kitty recommended him. She thinks he’s incredible.”
“He better be incredible. What is he going to do? Walter, how can we stop this? What—”
“Viv, calm down,” Dad said. “Easy, easy.”
“No. I will not take it easy. Absolutely not. We have to fix this. I want to know what Oliver Paul’s plan is and I want to know now,” Mom said.
“He’s hiring a private investigator named Hank McCormick,” I said. “I—”
“Private investigator? Another stranger?” She shook her head. “No. There are two men, excuse me, three men at this table who can investigate a murder case better than all of the police, all of the private detectives, and all the lowlife, finger-pointing lawyers in this city. Walter? David? Nick? Find out who killed Laycee Huber. If the evidence points to Jarret Cooper—fine. He can sit and rot in jail for the rest of his miserable life for all I care. Imagine, letting my daughter be accused of murder.”
I clapped, proud and impressed. Dad, Nick, and Robin joined me.
Dave leaned back, crossing his arms. “I can’t be involved. Internal aff—”
“We’re all going to help Liz.” Dad turned to me. “When did Laycee get to town?”
“I’m not sure. She was staying at the Sportsmen’s Lodge,” I said. “I first saw her at the gym Tuesday morning with Kyle Stanger and Billy Miles, the producer of Atlanta Wife Life. She went to the game with them that night.”