Bowie felt like crying all over again. Instead, he began to read. As he did, he heard the water come on in the bathroom down the hall and knew his mama was probably in the shower.
Bowie knew when Jesse fell asleep because his lips parted and his breathing settled. He set the book aside, taking care to mark the place, and made sure the night-light was on before he left the room.
As he was walking down the hall, he paused. His mother was still in the bathroom, and he could hear her crying. Sympathetic tears blurred his vision. His heart hurt. Without the experience of living with the love of his life, he could only imagine how she felt.
Immediately, he thought of Talia. He thought he’d gotten over her rejection of his marriage proposal—until today. At the time he’d had anger to help him move on. But if her father’s illness was why she’d rejected him, she’d only had the lie and the burden of her father’s future. Had she been able to move on, or had the deception and the years of tending her father broken her spirit? Samuel was right. He would have to go see her. But his first priority was to the family and finding his father’s killer.
*
Every light in the Wayne mansion was on. From a distance it appeared there was a party going on, but inside it was far closer to a wake.
They sat around the dinner table, glaring at each other, wondering who was to blame for the current disruption of their lives. Being under suspicion for murder was horrifying. They hadn’t yet been contacted or questioned by the county constable or the local police, but, as their lawyer had warned them, it was only a matter of time.
He’d ordered every one of them to make sure they had an airtight alibi for the time between eight and ten this morning, then ordered them all to keep their mouths shut in public and feign surprise that anyone had taken the accusation seriously.
The only two out of the whole family who actually had an airtight alibi were Nita and Fiona, because they’d been seen in and around Eden all morning. But they were part of the Wayne empire, and depending on what they knew and when they’d known it, it might not be enough to eliminate them from guilt. The sins of a family like theirs could be hard to live down.
Jack Wayne’s thick shock of white hair was, at best, rarely contained into a regular style, and tonight, thanks to the number of times he’d run his fingers through it in frustration, it looked more like the fanned-out head feathers of a pissed-off cockatoo.
He was stabbing at the food on his plate and poking it into his mouth in short, jerky movements while glaring at his relatives around this table. His nephew Blake had the same expression of flaring indignation. Jack didn’t know if it was all a show, or if Blake was as upset as he was. What really ticked him off was that his nieces and nephews were looking at him suspiciously, too. The only person who knew the truth wasn’t ready to talk—might never tell unless forced. What was bothering him was why it had happened. There had to be more of a reason than some old threat.
They were down to dessert when there was a knock at the door. Jack looked up from his pie à la mode and waved his fork in the air.
“Who the hell comes calling unannounced at dinnertime?” he roared.
Nita laid her fork on the plate.
“It’s probably Andrew. I invited him for dessert earlier. After this morning’s events, I felt it best to carry on as a family, as if none of this shit was happening,” she drawled, giving all of them an accusatory look before excusing herself. “I’ll be right back. Have Cook send out another piece of pie and a cup of coffee, please.”
Jack shoved his hand through his hair again and then rang for the cook as his niece left the room. He was in no mood for a social evening with Nita’s latest lover. She’d brought this one with her from New York but at least had the good sense to put him up in a hotel in town. Last time she’d brought a lover home from one of her travels, she’d put him up in the mansion and he’d stolen some of the family silver when he left.
Nita was all but bouncing on her toes as she strode down the hall toward the foyer. She had just turned fifty, but she would never admit it. She was a sexual woman and unwilling to live her life without a man in tow. She heard the butler answer the door, then heard Andrew Bingham’s voice and shivered, thinking about how good he was in bed.
He met her with a smile and a kiss midway between the foyer and the dining room.
“Um, peach pie?”
She smiled. “à la mode.”
He groaned. “Dessert and you? My day just keeps getting better.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Well, the day has gone to hell for us,” she said, and slid a hand through the crook of his arm and led him back down the hall.
“I heard,” he said. “I assume the mood is less than jovial tonight.”
“You’ve got that right. Just don’t bring it up. Brag on the coffee, instead. It’s one of Uncle Jack’s favorite blends.”
“Will do,” he said, and then they walked into the dining room.
“Good evening, all. Hope I’m not too tardy. I hear the peach pie à la mode is amazing tonight.”