The maid returned with the pastry cart.
“Pecan pie with bourbon-infused chantilly cream, sir,” she said, and served Jack first.
Jack nodded.
“Looks good. My compliments to the chef tonight.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, then moved around the table, serving the others. She followed up the pie with a carafe of freshly brewed coffee and filled their cups before leaving the room.
“This is really good,” Charles said, as he dug in with enjoyment.
“Indeed,” Jack said, eyeing their youngest family member. “So how did you feel being questioned by the police this morning?”
Charles glanced up from his pie. “Who? Me?”
Jack nodded.
“It was strange, for sure,” Charles said.
“Did any of the questions upset you?” Jack asked.
Charles chewed and swallowed. “No, sir.”
Justin slapped the table. “Why don’t you just spit it out, Uncle Jack? You want to know what each of us said, because you’re mad that the cops showed up at the lake house, right?”
Jack glared. Justin was the nephew who always picked at the scabs this family had until they bled. Every damn time. But now that they knew what he was getting at, he asked point-blank, “So how did they know the guns and motorcycle were out there? I didn’t even know we owned a motorcycle.”
Blake sighed.
“They’re the police. They research shit, Uncle Jack. Since nothing was here, they searched the next place we owned. It’s simple.”
Nita poured two scoops of sugar into her coffee and stirred with enough vigor that it sloshed on to her saucer.
Jack’s eyes narrowed when he saw her fingers shaking.
“What did you tell them, Nita?”
She shrugged and took another bite of pie without looking at him.
Now Jack was the one slapping the table, hard enough that the dishes rattled. “It was you who did it, wasn’t it?” he shouted.
“Who did what?” Nita asked. “You told us to play it cool. You told us to comply without anger. I complied.”
Charles was now completely silent, listening as his uncle began harassing his aunt. Finally he stood up and then clinked his spoon against his water glass.
“Excuse me,” he said, as everyone turned to look at him.
“They interviewed me last. I don’t know what everyone else said before they got to me. They already knew we owned them, remember? I assumed since the killer rode a motorcyle and the family owned one, and Youngblood wrote the name Wayne... Obviously the only thing the cops didn’t know was where they were kept.”
Jack’s glare darkened, and the tone of his voice turned ugly, almost threatening, when he asked, “What did you tell them, boy?”
“That there were guns in a gun case at the lake house. I didn’t know about any motorcycle or I would have been riding it.”
Nita shoved her coffee aside and stood up, too.
“I told them about the motorcycle when I was asked where it was, because I don’t want to be a part of this anymore. I am ashamed that Leigh’s husband is dead because of us, and probably because we continue to feel the need to be richer than we already are. And don’t treat me like this again, Mad Jack Wayne. You aren’t lily-white, and we both know it.”
She walked out of the dining room with her head up and her backside swinging.
Fiona sighed. “Excuse me,” she said, and followed her sister.
Charles glanced at his dad.
“Sorry if I did something wrong. This is the first time I’ve gotten enough insight into this family to realize that I should always lie. I thought I was supposed to tell the truth.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Blake said. “Don’t worry about it again, okay?”
Charles shrugged, then left, as well.
Justin picked up his fork and took another bite of dessert.
“Damn good pie,” he said, chewing as he spoke.
Blake ignored his younger brother just as he’d done ever since Justin learned to walk.
“Uncle Jack, you’re only making a bad situation worse. You’re successfully dividing this family in a way no one has ever done before.”
“Except Leigh,” Justin said, and took another bite of pie.
“Shut up, Justin. As a favor to me,” Blake muttered.
Jack glared at both of them.
“Which one of you did it?” he asked.
Blake shook his head and left the room.
Justin just kept eating pie.
Jack knew his nephew would probably never forgive him for the slap-down, and while a part of him didn’t give a damn, he regretted it just the same.
“Look, Justin, we need—”
Justin dropped his fork and walked out, still chewing the last bite of his dessert.
Jack was, for one of the few times in his life, speechless.
*
An hour had passed since the dessert fiasco. The killer was tired of the turmoil within the family, but staying under the radar was simple. Just act indignant along with everyone else.
So the cops had the rifle. So they had the motorcycle. So what. No matter what fingerprints or DNA they found, it would never be conclusive evidence against one person. Not when there were multiple owners and easy access.