The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings Book 2) (47 page)

“Hey, there,” the guy said with a flat Midwestern accent and a wide-open smile. “How can I help?”

“Grab some and carry it down to the limo.”

“Sure thing, son.”

“You can’t! You won’t! I can’t—”

“Oh, and this is my fiancée, Lizzie.” Lane smiled in her direction. “I don’t think you’ve met her before.”

“Fiancée!” Chantal stamped her stiletto.
“Fiancée?”

As she stamped her actual foot again, Lizzie thought, Wow, she’d always assumed that move was reserved for
Friends
episodes.

“This is my friend John,” Lane said to Lizzie. “You remember, the Grain God?”

“Hi.” She offered the man a wave. “Thanks for helping.”

“I’m a farmer, ma’am. I’m not afraid of work!”

The guy looked at Chantal, who was still going firecracker, and then he stepped around her, opened the next compartment, and strong-armed about two dozen full-length gowns.

It was like he was hugging a rainbow.

As the two men left with the clothes, Chantal followed after them, tripping over the padded hangers that fell to the floor in their wakes, a trail of sartorial bread crumbs.

Lizzie smiled to herself and went back to her packing.

Man, it felt good to clean house.

O
utside of Gin’s bedroom, some kind of commotion was making its way down the corridor.

She was too busy trying to find her cell phone to care, however. Last time she had used it … the pilots. She had used it when she’d been in the cockpit of Richard’s jet. Had she lost the thing?

It wasn’t on the bed stand. Nor under the bed. Nor on top of the decorative bureau.

And
it wasn’t in her purse.

Distantly aware of a rising panic, she went into her dressing room. The mess she’d made at the make-up station was tidied up—and for a moment, she stopped to think of what might have been involved in the cleaning of it all. There had been powder everywhere on the rolling table, streaks of eye pencil, tubes of lipstick and liner left out. So, in addition to putting everything that was still usable back in its place, Marls must have had to get glass cleaner or something, paper towels … who knew what.

Even the carpet underneath, the white carpet, was pristine.

“Thank you,” she whispered, even though she was alone.

Walking over to the open shelves where she kept her collection of Gucci, Vuitton, Prada, and Hermès bags, she tried to remember what she’d taken with her—

The sound of ringing snapped her head around.

Tracing the ding-a-ling-a-ling across to the hanging sections of the room, she opened the panel closest to the noise … and pulled out a pink, white, and cream Akris silk coat.

She found the phone in the pocket and answered the call even though whoever it was didn’t register in her contacts.

Maybe it was God, letting her know what to do next.

After all, it was entirely conceivable that Miss Aurora might have that kind of pull.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Baldwine?” a female voice said.

“Yes?”

“Hi, I’m Jules Antle. I’m the house parent on your daughter’s floor at her dorm?”

“Oh. Yes. Yes, of course.” This explained the 860 area code. “Are you. looking for me to make arrangements to pick up Amelia’s things?”

Shit, Mr. Harris had left. Who could handle—

“I’m sorry? Pick up her things?”

“Yes, I shall have someone collect her things immediately. Which dorm is she in again?”

“The
semester’s not over with.”

“So you would prefer us to wait until the other students leave?”

“I’m—please forgive me, but I’m not following. I called to see when she was coming back. I took the liberty of speaking with her professors, and if she needs to take her finals from home after the study break, she’s more than welcome to.”

Gin frowned. “Exams?”

Ms. Antle, or Jules, or Mrs. House Parent, slowed her speech down, like maybe she thought Gin had cognitive difficulties. “Yes, the tests before summer break. They’re going to be taken soon.”

“But why would she … I’m sorry, it was my understanding that Amelia was asked to leave school.”

“Amelia? No. Why would she have been? In fact, she’s one of our favorites here. I could see her being a proctor when she’s a senior. She’s always helping people out, generous with tutoring, always there for anybody. But that’s probably why she was elected class president.”

Gin blinked and became aware that she’d turned such that she could see her own reflection in one of the mirrors by the hairdressing chair. Dear Lord, she looked awful. But then she’d fallen asleep with all her make-up on, so that although her hair wasn’t that much of a tangle, her face looked like an evil clown with haunted eyes.

Rather ironic that she appeared such a mess while finding out her daughter’s life was actually going quite well.

“Hello?” Miss Antlers or Anteater or whatever her name was prompted. “Ms. Baldwine?”

There was no reason to go into the lie with the woman. “I’m sorry. There’s a lot going on here.”

“I know, and we’re so sorry. When Amelia learned that her grandfather had died, she really wanted to go home for the funeral. And again, if she would like to stay and be with family, we understand and are willing to make accommodations. We will need to know what she’s going to do, however.”

“I’ll speak with her,” Gin heard herself say. “And call you back directly.”

“That
would be great. Again, we think the world of her. You’re raising a wonderful young woman who’s going to do a lot of good in the world.”

As Gin ended the call, she continued to stare at her reflection. Then she went over to the hair and make-up chair and sat down.

How she wished there was a guru you could go to and have everything put to rights in your life. One could try different styles of fixes: Caring Mother; Charismatic Professional; Sultry, But Not Morally Corrupt Thirty-Three-Year-Old.

There was no Chanel counter to go to for what ailed her, however.

And, yes, she supposed she could follow through on her first impulse, which was to go to Lane and have him firstly find out why Amelia had thought it was a great idea to lie about leaving school and then leave him to deal with getting the girl back to Hotchkiss to finish her finals … but abruptly that lacked appeal.

God, she didn’t even know where the school was really, just its area code.

She certainly didn’t know where her daughter was.

Going into her contacts, she found Amelia and initiated a connection. When she got voice mail, she hung up without leaving a message.

Where was the girl?

Getting to her stocking feet, Gin padded out into her bedroom and opened the door to the main upstairs corridor. Whatever drama had been going on had found a resolution or a different location, so she was alone as she went down and knocked on Amelia’s door.

When there was no answer, she cracked the panels and looked inside. The girl was in her bed, fast asleep—or at least pretending to be asleep—and she wasn’t in lingerie. She was wearing a Hotchkiss T-shirt and was on her side facing the door, those eyelashes of hers, which were every bit as long as Samuel T.’s, down hard on her cheeks.

Amelia frowned and twitched her brows, and then she rolled over onto her back. And then continued onto her other side.

With a deep sigh, she appeared to sink back into her rest.

Gin backed out of the room.

Probably
better to get herself cleaned up before she tried to talk sense into anyone.

Back in her own suite, she proceeded into the bathroom and took off the dress she’d slept in. Wadding it up, she threw the thing away and then got into the shower.

She was running a monogrammed washcloth up her arm when the giant diamond on her left hand winked in the overhead light.

From out of nowhere, she heard Samuel T.’s voice in her head:
You’ve got to take care of yourself.

“Y
ou’re
engaged?” Chantal demanded as Lane shut the trunk of the limousine.

“Yes,” Lane answered. For what was it, the hundredth time?

The whole engagement thing had been the woman’s theme song as she had played fruit fly from hell while everyone else had packed as much of her clothes, make-up, and costume jewelry as would fit in the limo’s big extended body. And now she and Lane were alone but for the driver—who was in the vehicle with the doors all shut and his face buried in his cell phone. Like he didn’t want to catch shrapnel.

Good luck getting a tip out of her, Lane thought.

“Really, Lane,” Chantal said as raindrops started to fall yet again.

“You couldn’t wait until the ink was dry even on our separation papers—”

“I should have married her in the first place,” Lane cut in. “And you are not in a position to be indignant about anything.”

As he pointedly looked down at her lower belly, Chantal smiled with as much sweetness as a nine-millimeter pistol had. “When is the will going to be read?”

“My
father’s?”

“No, the pope’s. Of course your damn father’s!”

“It already was. There was no provision in it for you or your child. If you want to contest it, go ahead, but that’s going to be about as lucrative as your professional career—oh, wait. You don’t have one, do you. Not one that’s legal, at any rate.”

She jabbed a finger in his face. “I’m keeping this baby.”

“Unlike mine, right?” He ignored the pain in his chest. “Or are you going to make that trip to the clinic in Cinci again when you find out there’s no money in it.”

“Maybe I only wanted your
father
’s child.”

“Probably. Actually, I don’t doubt that that’s true.” He opened the limo’s rear door. “The executor of the will is Babcock Jefferson. Look him up, give him a call, get in line—and sue the estate or not. Whatever works for you.”

As she got in, she said, “You’ll be hearing from my attorney.”

“Boy, those words roll right off your tongue, don’t they. And I look forward to the call—as long as it’ll keep you off my property. Bye now.”

He shut the door on whatever she was going to say next and took the time to give the driver a wave. Then Lane went back into the house. As he closed Easterly’s heavy panels, he had no idea what time it was.

It felt like one a.m.

Heading deeper into the mansion, he found John Lenghe and his grass shorts in the game room. But the guy wasn’t flexing his fingers over the two decks of cards on the felt poker table. He wasn’t racking balls on the antique pool table. He wasn’t playing chess against himself at the marble top with the hard-carved pieces nor was he fiddling with the backgammon board.

Lenghe was over at the far wall, staring at the painting that had been hung dead center in the middle of the incredible oak paneling.

Spotlit from above, the depiction of the face of Jesus Christ was done in tones of ivory and deep brown, the downcast eyes of the Savior so realistic, you could practically feel the divine sacrifice he was about to make.

“Not
bad, huh,” Lane said softly.

Lenghe wheeled around and clutched his heart. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wander. Well, I did. But I figured you and that lady could use some privacy.”

Lane came into the room and paused at the pool table. The balls were in the rack and ready to go, but he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had put a cue stick to them.

“I appreciate that,” he said. “And your help. You cut the time that debacle would have taken in half.”

“Well, without meaning any disrespect to the lady, I can kind of see why you might encourage her to find happier lodging somewhere else.”

Lane laughed. “You Midwesterners have the nicest way of putting down someone.”

“Can I ask you something?” Lenghe pivoted back to the painting. “This nameplate here … it says …”

“Yes, it is a Rembrandt. And it’s been authenticated by multiple sources. All the paperwork on it is somewhere in this house. In fact, last year a private collector who came to the Derby Brunch offered my father forty-five million for it—or so I heard.”

Lenghe put his hands in his pockets as if he were worried that they might make contact with the oil painting’s surface.

“Why is it hidden all the way in here?” The man glanced around. “Not that this isn’t a grand room or anything. I just don’t understand why a masterpiece like this wouldn’t be displayed more prominently, maybe in that pretty parlor up front.”

“Oh, there’s a good reason for it. My grandmother, Big V.E. as she was called, didn’t approve of gambling, drinking, or smoking. She bought the painting overseas back in the nineteen fifties and installed it here so that anytime my grandfather and his good ol’ boys had a hankering to be sinful, they had a reminder of exactly who they were letting down.”

Lenghe laughed. “Smart woman.”

“She and my grandfather collected Old Masters paintings. They’re all
over the house—but this one is probably among the most valuable even though it’s on the small side.”

“I wish my wife could see this. I’d take a picture on my phone, but it wouldn’t do it justice. You have to stand in front of it in person. It’s the eyes, you know?”