The Bourbon Kings
Page 127

“What now?” he heard himself ask.
Mitch cleared this throat. “Unofficially, and do not hold me to this, we’re pretty sure it was a suicide. Given everything that has been … well, you know.”
“Yes. Clearly.” And law enforcement wasn’t even aware of the missing money.
What a fucking coward, Lane thought at his father. Creating this huge mess and then opting out by throwing yourself off a bridge.
Asshole.
“We’d like your consent to do an autopsy,” Mitch said. “Just to rule out foul play. But again, that’s not what’s on our minds.”
“Of course.” Lane glanced over at the deputy. “Listen, I need some time before this gets out in the press. I have to tell my mother, my brothers, my sister. I don’t even know how to get in touch with Maxwell, but I do not want him hearing about this on the six-o’clock news. Or worse, TMZ.”
“Law enforcement is committed to working with you and your family.”
“I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“That would make it easier on everyone here.”
A clipboard came out of nowhere, and he signed a variety of things. As he gave the pen back to the coroner, he thought, Shit, they were going to have to plan a funeral.
Although, to be honest, the very last thing he had any interest in was honoring his father in any fashion.
•   •   •
“I’m not hungry.”
As Edward sat in his chair in his cottage, he was fully aware that he sounded like a four-year-old refusing dinner—but he didn’t care.
The fact that the smells coming out of that galley kitchen were making his mouth water was beside the point.
Shelby, however, had selective hearing. “Here you go.”
She put the bowl of stew on the table next to his bottle of … what was he drinking now? Oh, tequila. Well, wasn’t that going to go swimmingly with the beef gravy.
“Eat,” she commanded—in a tone that suggested he either did the job himself or she was going to puree the stuff and force feed it to him through a straw.
“You know, you can leave anytime you like,” he muttered.
For godsakes, the woman had been in his house all day long, cleaning, doing laundry, cooking. He’d pointed out to her a couple of times that she had been hired to take care of the horses, not the owner, but again … her hearing was very spotty.
Damn, that’s good, he thought as he took a mouthful.
“I want to make an appointment for you with your doctor.”
The sound of a car driving up was a welcome intrusion. Especially as he struggled to remember what day it was—and hoped it was somehow Friday once again: He rather liked the idea of her seeing a prostitute come to service him. Hell, she could watch if she cared to, not that it was much of a show—
For a split second, he recalled the feel of Sutton straddling him, moving up and down, looking into his eyes.
A sharp pain through his chest made him eat faster just to get rid of the sensation.
The knocking was loud.
“Would you mind doing the honors?” he said to Shelby. “If it’s a woman, invite her in. If it isn’t, tell them to get the hell off my property—and use the word ‘hell,’ will you? We both know it’s in your vocabulary.”
The glare she shot him probably would have blown him off his feet if he hadn’t been sitting down already.
But she did go to the door.
Opening it up, she said, “Oh. My.”
“Who is it,” Edward muttered. “Your fairy godmother?”
Except, no. It was Lane.
As his brother came into the cottage, Edward started shaking his head. “Whatever it is, you’ve gotta go somewhere else with it. I told you, I’m not going to help you anymore—”
“May we speak in private.”
Not a question.
Edward rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t matter what you say.”
“This is family business.”
“Isn’t it always.” When Lane didn’t budge, Edward cursed. “Whatever it is, you can say it in front of her.”
If anything, hopefully Shelby’s presence in the little room would speed things along.
Lane glanced at the woman. Looked back. “Father’s dead.”
As Shelby gasped, Edward slowly lowered his spoon back to the bowl. Then he said in a rough voice, “Shelby, will you please excuse my brother and me for a moment? Thank you kindly.”
Funny how the manners came back out of him in times of crisis.
After Shelby scuttled out the door, Edward wiped his mouth on his paper napkin. “When?”
“Sometime last night, they think. He threw himself off the bridge, most likely. The body washed up on the other side of the falls.”
Edward sat back in his chair.
He intended to say something. He really did.
He just … couldn’t remember what it was.
Lane evidently felt the same way, because his youngest brother went to the only other chair in the room and sat down. “I told Mother before I came out here. I don’t think … she has no idea what I said to her. She’s not tracking at all. Also told Gin. Her reaction was just what yours is.”
“Are they sure,” Edward asked, “that it’s him.”
For some reason, that seemed vitally important. Although how could a mistake of this magnitude be made?
“I was the one who identified the body.”