Fool's Gold (A sexy funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 2) (28 page)

“You stay. I can’t wait,” Della said.

“Buck up, Della.”

“How can I face her after the horrible things
I said yesterday?”

“We’ve all done things we wish we
hadn’t”—Chloe paused—“but we do what has to be done in the
aftermath.”

“When she’s in her right mind, she’s not
going to forgive me.”

Maggie held her breath in case they might
hear her in the silence.

“Della Montrose, if you leave before Brax
gets back, I’ll—” Chloe stopped.

“You’ll what, Chloe?”

“Don’t make me say it, Della.”

Maggie never heard the actual threat. They
left the hallway outside her door, though she was sure Della didn’t
drive off. Their arguing was a good thing. They’d never notice her
leave.

She couldn’t remember what Della had said
yesterday. She couldn’t even remember yesterday.

Except that yesterday, Carl hadn’t been dead.
She couldn’t remember what that felt like. She could only feel the
hollow ache in her chest, the pain in her temples, and the screech
of her own words like nails on a chalkboard.
Drop dead
.

For the first time ever in their marriage,
he’d done exactly what she said.

See, that was the thing. Carl never would
have done what she told him to. If she’d shrieked,
Don’t drop
dead
, then he might have fallen into the gorge to spite her.
That’s how she knew someone else had made him fall.

But how was she supposed to explain that to
Tyler? Even she knew how asinine it sounded. He’d say it was grief,
disbelief, and Xanax talking. In fact, he might have said something
like that before she fell asleep, uneasy despite the Xanax. She
couldn’t recall. She only remembered wishing her mother was
here.

She had to go see the chickens. The chickens
had found him. Maybe he’d been alive when they did. Maybe he’d
said, “Mighty Mouse pushed me.”

Maybe he’d said he forgave her for being a
whacked-out, PMSing, premenopausal bitch.

Maggie had to know.

* * * * *

“Darling.” Her mother glided through the
doorway, forcing Simone back two steps. “After that phone call last
night, I knew you needed me desperately.”

What phone call? Simone could only stare,
wide-eyed and slack jawed, with total and complete amnesia about
last night.

Her mother patted Simone’s chin. “Close your
mouth, sweetie. God only knows what airborne germs there are in
this place.”

Then her mother’s china-perfect eyes landed
on Brax.

“Oh my. Who
is
this marvelous person?”
She held out her hand like a queen expecting him to go down on one
knee for the worshiping hand kiss.

Most men usually did.

“This is...this is...” Simone was sure she’d
hyperventilate if she said his name. Or faint.

“Brax,” he supplied for himself. He didn’t
take the proffered hand nor extend his own. Simone couldn’t bear to
look at his face.

He was seeing her mother. For the first time.
In the flesh. Men killed for a glimpse of her mother up close and
personal.

While Simone stood aside in a pantyless
state. Oh God, where were her panties?
Please, not on the
sofa
.

“It’s such an exquisite pleasure to meet you,
Mr. Brax,” Ariana simpered. Why was she pretending Simone hadn’t
told her about Brax on the phone last night? “I couldn’t have
imagined anyone of your ilk would live in such a...place,” she
finally added, her lips plopping around the word. Her eyes roamed
the trailer, from the ancient orange shag carpet and ratty sofa to
the dirty wineglass and cracker crumbs on the coffee table.

Oh my God. The coffee table. Covered with the
beribboned scrolls. It was the ones devoid of ribbons, over half
the pages, that freaked Simone out. The ones her mother could read
if she got close enough.

Simone made a mad jump for the table, almost
tripping over a bump in the shag. She grabbed the bag and crammed
in papers, careful not to bend too much and expose her bare behind.
“I should have cleaned up a bit.”
I should never have been
born
.

“I’ll help.” Brax leaned down, scooping up
one of the scrolls that had rolled between the table and the
couch.

And there were the darn panties.

His mouth quirked.

She almost dove on them, grabbing the scrap
of material and three more scrolls, then shoving the lot into the
bag.

“One more,” he murmured. Darn it, he was
laughing at her.

She glared at him, then took the roll,
stuffed it, and squished the bag to her midsection.

“Well, that’s all cleaned up.” Her blood
roared through her ears like a freight train. Red-faced, she gave
her mother a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

She might have hidden the panties, but her
mother wasn’t done with her yet. “Darling. How could you even think
of entertaining such a handsome man without makeup?”

Simone slapped a hand to her cheek. Horror of
horrors, her mother had caught her with no makeup. A social gaffe
worse than not wearing panties. Worse even than blue panties under
white slacks.

Setting elegant hands at the waist of her
delicate sky-blue silk pantsuit, Ariana gave Simone a head-to-toe
examination. “Why, darling, you’re looking”—she glanced at Brax,
then adjusted her word choice—“robust. The food here must agree
with you. But you know what animal fat can do to a buxom
figure.”

“It gives a woman curves that appeal far more
to the male eye than a bony stick figure.”

At the sound of Brax’s deep voice, Ariana
Chandler stopped her hands in mid-flutter, arms raised, bracelets
jangling until they slipped down her forearms to rest at her
elbows.

Some meteorological phenomenon sucked all the
air from the trailer and replaced it with a storm cloud that built
right over her mother’s perfectly coiffed blond head. A storm built
in eyes so blue they could only have sprung from a contact lens
case.

Thunder in the desert could shake a trailer
from its cinder blocks, but one of her mother’s rages was a
woman-made storm of unparalleled force.

Though not meaning to, Brax had insulted her
mother’s...bony stick figure.

“Ariana, I am not dragging in every damn bag
you brought. Get out here and pick out what you want.”

“Kingston.” Simone blurted his name as if he
were their savior. Which he was. Kingston Hightower, her mother’s
manager, was the only person on earth—man or woman—who could bring
one of her mother’s tantrums back to dead calm. In two seconds
flat.

She grabbed his arm, dragged him over the
threshold, knocking aside the suitcase dangling from his hand, and
threw her arms around him. With her lips at his ear, she whispered
desperately. “Do something. She’s going to explode.”

Brax would never recover. A man of steel who
dealt with dirty, rotten, low-down criminals every day of his life,
he’d never faced Ariana Chandler. He didn’t know what she could
do.

“For you, Simone,” Kingston whispered back,
“anything.” Then he set her on her feet, and threw an arm around
her mother’s shoulders, trapping Ariana’s fragile figure beneath
his beefy arm. Six foot four with a physique like Mr. Universe from
1982, Kingston immobilized her mother’s approaching cataclysmic
outburst with an immovable arm.

“Ariana, sweetie-honey-baby, could you please
help Jackie figure out which bag you want for the night. We’ll
bring in the others tomorrow.”

“Kingston, I need
everything
,” Ariana
whined. She only ever whined for Kingston, though she’d never
allowed her girls the luxury. Not for Kingston or anyone else.

Someday, he’d marry Ariana. When her star had
faded, and she realized she couldn’t go on without him.

“Introductions, please, Simone.” Kingston,
having been with her mother for the last twenty years, was the
father Simone had never had.

“This is Brax.” She said it out without
stumbling this time, but didn’t bother to explain the relationship.
They didn’t
have
a relationship, unless you mentioned Carl’s
death, Maggie’s breakdown, or the last half hour on her living-room
couch.

“Brax, this is my mother.”

He shot her a self-satisfied look saying he’d
known all along. She shot him down with the rest of it. “My mother.
Ariana
Chandler
.”

He raised a brow that said,
Yeah, I got
that
.

She almost thought for a moment that he
didn’t know.

Sticking out his hand to Kingston, Brax said,
“Didn’t catch your name.”

“Kingston Hightower, at your service.”

A firm handshake dispensed with, silence fell
for several seconds while Brax stood there. Saying nothing. Doing
nothing.

He really didn’t know. Simone’s heart jumped
to her throat with hope and glory, then dashed itself as quickly on
the rocky shores of reality. He’d know soon enough. Then he’d be on
his hands and knees begging forgiveness for the stick-figure
comment.

Two bags thumped to the floor, and her sister
leaned against the doorjamb to catch her breath. Flawless skin that
had never braved harsh rays without sunscreen, ethereal blond
beauty like a water nymph, and the fragile figure of a Greek
goddess, men wept at Jackie’s feet in adoration.

Next to her, Simone looked like Brunhilde out
of the “Ride of the Valkyries.”

The end was near. Simone stepped inevitably
toward it. “And this is my sister. Jacqueline Chandler.”

She saw the moment Brax made the connection.
He cocked his head, glancing from Jackie to Ariana. Three times.
His eyes widened imperceptibly, then his gaze finally rested on
Simone.

She shrugged. “You’ve probably seen them at
the movies.”

Kingston laughed heartily. “That’s an
understatement, sweetheart.” Said like a good PR man. “He’s seen
them on the
Academy Awards
every year.”

“Sorry.” Brax shook his head. “Don’t watch
the
Academy Awards
.” Then he graciously added, “But I’ve
seen a couple of movies and enjoyed the performances.”

He didn’t expound. He didn’t effuse.
He
didn’t grovel
.

Simone’s heart started to pound. With the
extracurricular workout in the last hour, the organ was close to
expiring.

Kingston broke the silence and Simone’s knot
of tension with practical matters. “Show me where to put your mom’s
bags.”

“In my room, I guess. I’ll have to change the
sheets.”

Her mother gasped. “Kingston, we can’t impose
on Simone. I didn’t know her trailer would be so small. We need a
hotel.” She waggled her fingers at Simone, her bangles jangling.
“Darling, is there a Ritz in that town down the highway?”

Kingston snorted. “A Ritz? We’re not in
Hollywood anymore, Dorothy. Simone’s trailer will do fine.”

Ariana afforded them all a very pretty
pout.

“You came all the way here to see Simone. So
let’s spend some quality family time.”

Quality family time? With her mother? Simone
would rather pick a million cactus needles out of her foot with
tweezers.

“Besides, Jackie’s tuckered out.” Kingston
pointed to Jackie, then the two bags at her sister’s feet. “Simone,
sweetie, could ya show us where to go?”

Brax snorted at Kingston’s unintentional pun,
though sobered quickly when Ariana flashed him a look. “I’ll help,”
he offered.

“Got it,” Kingston said, grabbing both bags
in one hand and putting his arm around Jackie’s shoulders to guide
her.

Simone led them away. Leaving Brax alone with
her mother.

Her gorgeous, not-a-day-over-thirty-nine,
adored-by-millions, movie-queen mother. Next to her, Simone was a
chunky frump.

It was like asking a connoisseur if he
preferred chopped liver to pâté de foie gras.

* * * * *

“So, tell me, how long have you known my
sweet little Simone?” She fluttered her eyelashes.

It looked as if she had a nervous tick in her
eye.

Ariana Chandler. Didn’t that beat all. Simone
had her polished, classic beauty, but Ariana’s was a poor imitation
of Simone’s brilliant dazzle-smile. Too practiced. Brax figured she
wiped it off at night the same way she’d remove her makeup.

She batted her extraordinary lashes once
more, and leveled him with the sultry, come-hither look of Marilyn
Monroe.

Not working. At least not on him. “Let me
think. How long have I known her? Three days, six hours and”—he
glanced at his watch—“thirty-six minutes.” He smiled. “And I’ve
cherished every moment. You’ve got a wonderful daughter.” Though he
couldn’t figure out where Simone had inherited her dazzle.

Instead of answering—probably working on a
good comeback—Ariana flicked a white handkerchief across the sofa
cushion, peered at it, then sat. Draping her arm across the couch
back, she folded one knee beneath her and extended her leg,
revealing toned thigh and calf encased in silk, and trim ankles
strapped into dainty sandals. A practiced position designed to
display shapely attributes. Ariana Chandler’s assets came off as a
tad better than ordinary, when compared to her daughter Simone.

Pretty damn dexterous for a woman her age,
she’d kept herself in reasonable shape. Her face wasn’t bad,
either. Simone was close to the thirty mark, which put her mother
near fifty, if she’d had Simone when she was a kid herself. Then
again, she probably charged off a very good plastic surgeon on her
taxes as a deductible salary expense.

Ariana patted the sofa. “Why don’t you sit
beside me and tell me all about those three days, six hours, and
thirty-six minutes? I’m dying to know. Simone’s so inhibited when
it comes to”—she simpered and fluttered—“man talk.”

He wanted to laugh. In disbelief. The
invitation resembled a come-on more than any request for a friendly
chat. This woman was a piece of work. In the space of five minutes,
she’d called her daughter fat, demoralized her for not wearing
makeup on her fresh beautiful skin, trashed the trailer with a mere
look, and now she wanted to know about her daughter’s sex life.