The Bourbon Kings
Page 58

“But Mummy has money. She has plenty of—”
“I don’t think we can take anything for granted.”
“So where did you find the bail? To get me out?”
“I have some cash and also my trust, which I broke away from the family funds. The two aren’t nearly enough to take care of Easterly, however—and forget about paying back that kind of loan or keeping Bradford Bourbon afloat if it comes to that.”
She looked down at her fucked-up manicure, focusing on the decimation of that which had been perfect when she’d woken up that morning. “Thank you. For getting me out.”
“No problem.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
Except with what? Her father had cut her off … but worse, what if there was no money to give her her allowance anyway?
“It’s just not possible,” she said. “This has to be a misunderstanding. Some kind of … a miscommunication.”
“I don’t think so—”
“You’ve got to think positively, Lane—”
“I walked in on a dead woman in her office about two hours ago, and that was before I found out about the debt. I can assure you that lack of optimism is not the problem here.”
“Do you think …” Gin gasped. “Do you think she stole from us?”
“Fifty-three million dollars? Or even a part of that? No, because why commit suicide—if she embezzled funds, the smart thing would be to take off and change her identity. You don’t kill yourself in your employer’s house if you’ve successfully taken cash.”
“But what if she was murdered?”
Lane opened his mouth like he was going to “no way” her. But then he closed it back up—as if he were trying that idea on for size. “Well, she was in love with him.”
Gin felt her jaw drop. “Rosalinda? With Father?”
“Oh, come on, Gin. Everyone knows that.”
“Rosalinda? Her idea of letting her hair down was to tie that bun of hers lower on her head.”
“Repressed or not, she was with him.”
“In our mother’s house.”
“Don’t be naive.”
Right, it was the first time she had ever been accused of that. And suddenly, that memory from all those years ago, from New Year’s Eve, came back … when she had seen her father leaving that woman’s office.
But that had been decades ago, from another era.
Or maybe not.
Lane hit the brakes as they came up to a red light next to the gas station she’d visited that morning. “Think about where she lived,” he said. “Her four-bedroom Colonial in Rolling Meadows is more than she could afford on a bookkeeper’s salary—who do you think paid for that?”
“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.