“She has no children.”
“That we know of.”
Gin squeezed her eyes shut as her brother hit the gas again. “I think I’m going to be ill.”
“Do you want me to pull over?”
“I want you to stop telling me these things.”
There was a long silence … and in the tense void, she kept going back to that vision of her father coming out of that office and doing up his robe.
Eventually, her brother shook his head. “Ignorance isn’t going to change anything. We need to find out what’s happening. I need to get to the truth somehow.”
“How did you … how did you find all this out?”
“Does it matter?”
As they rounded the final curve on River Road before Easterly, she looked off to the right, up to the top of the hill. Her family’s mansion sat in the same place it always had, its incredible size and elegance dominating the horizon, the famous white expanse making her think of all the bourbon bottles that bore an etching of it on their labels.
Until this moment, she had assumed her family’s position was set in stone.
Now, she feared it might be sand.
“Okay, so we’re all set here.” Lizzie strode down the rows of round tables under the big tent. “The chairs look good.”
“Ja,” Greta said as she made a slight adjustment to a tablecloth.
The pair of them continued on, inspecting the positioning of all seven hundred seats, double-checking the crystal chandeliers that were hanging from the tent’s three points, making further tweaks to the draped lengths of pale pink and white.
When they were finished, they stepped out from underneath and followed the lengths of dark green extension cords that snaked around the exterior and supplied electricity to the eight cyclone fans that would ensure circulation.
They had a good five hours of work time left before dark, and, for once, Lizzie thought they’d actually run out of punch-list priorities. Bouquets were done. Flower beds were in perfect condition. Pots at the entrances and exits of the tent were done up fit to kill with combinations of plant material and supplemental blooms. Even the food-prep stations in the adjunct tents had been arranged per Miss Aurora’s instructions.
As far as Lizzie was aware, the food was ready. Liquor delivered. Waitstaff and additional bartenders had been coordinated through Reginald, and he was not the type to drop any balls. Security to make sure the press stayed away were off-duty Metro Police officers and all ready to go.
She really wished there were something to occupy her time. Nervous energy had made her even more productive than usual—and now she was left with nothing but the knowledge that there was a criminal investigation going on about fifty yards away from her.
God, Rosalinda.
Her phone went off against her hip, the vibration making her jump. As she took the cell out, she exhaled. “Thank God—hello? Lane? Are you okay—yes.” She frowned as Greta looked over. “Actually, I left it in my car, but I can go get it now. Yes. Sure, of course. Where are you? All right. I’ll get it and bring it right to you.”
When she ended the call, Greta said, “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. He says he needs a computer.”
“There must be a dozen of them in the house.”
“After what happened this morning, you think I’m going to argue with the guy?”
“Fair enough.” Although the woman’s expression screamed disapproval. “I’m going to check the front of the house beds and pots, and confirm the parkers are going to arrive on time.”
“Eight a.m.?”
“Eight a.m. And then I don’t know, I’m thinking of heading home. I’m getting a migraine, and it’s a long day tomorrow.”
“That’s terrible! I say go now and come back ready to roar.”
Before Lizzie turned away, her old friend gave her a stern look through those heavy glasses. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, yeah. Absolutely.”
“There’s a lot of Lane around here. That’s why I’m asking.”
Lizzie glanced over at the house. “He’s getting a divorce.”
“Really.”
“That’s what he says.”
Greta crossed her arms over her chest and her German accent became more apparent. “About two years too late for that—”
“He’s not all bad, you know.”
“Excuse me? Is this—nein, you can’t be serious.”
“He didn’t know Chantal was pregnant, okay?”
Greta threw up her hands. “Oh, well, that makes all the difference, then, ja? So he voluntarily married her while he was with you. Perfect.”
“Please, don’t.” Lizzie rubbed her aching eyes. “He—”
“He got to you, didn’t he. He called you, he came to you, something.”
“And if he did? That’s my business—”