11

Archibald arrived at the lake house the next morning just as two uniformed police officers and a chaplain were coming out the front door. He waited for them by his car, asked what was going on. One of the officers replied that Jordan Deere was dead.

Archibald backed up. “Dead?” Removing his glasses, he tried to swallow. “Was it … a heart attack?”

“A homicide,” said the officer. “He was out jogging in Bayview Park. Someone shot him.”

“Today? This morning?”

“That’s right.”

“Was it a robbery?”

“His wallet, rings, and watch were still on him. You a friend?”

He nodded. “Close friend.”

“We’ve explained as much as we know to the family.” The cop motioned toward the house.

Archibald called a thank-you over his shoulder as he rushed to the front door. He had to get to Kit. Inside, he found her half lying, half sitting on a couch in the living room. She looked deathly pale, her hands knotted together across her stomach. Beverly, thankfully, had gone to get the brandy. Booker, Chloe, and Tommy stood looking down at her, all grim faced, stunned into silence.

Archibald wanted more than anything to be a source of strength and support. “I talked to the police briefly on my way in,” he said. “They told me.”

Kit looked up at him, extended her hand. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Are you okay?” It was a stupid question, one he regretted as soon as he’d said it. Of course she wasn’t okay.

After handing Kit a small glass of brandy, Beverly sat down on the edge of the white leather couch next to her. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “What can I do? Just tell me and I’ll do it.”

Kit sipped from the glass and stared straight ahead.

Chloe lowered herself to the edge of a chair across the room, covering her face with her hands, sobbing softly. Booker moved to the piano bench. Tommy couldn’t seem to move at all. He remained absolutely still, arms at his side, eyes fixed on a painting of a sailboat above the mantel.

After a few tense, silent minutes, the brandy seemed to steady Kit and she sat up. “I can’t believe … he’s gone,” she whispered, pressing her fingertips to her temple. “It’s too much. How is it even possible?”

Chloe began to weep more loudly.

“Oh, honey,” said Kit, her expression softening. “Come over here and sit by me.”

Chloe gave her head a stiff shake.

Looking up at Archibald, Beverly said, “The detective who’s been put in charge will be here any minute. He should have more information.”

Kit’s eyes widened.

“Don’t try to stand,” said Archibald, attempting to stop her from getting up.

“No,” she said, forcing his hands away. “We don’t have much time.”

She moved unsteadily over to the French doors that led out to the terrace. “We have to talk about this. Please, all of you, listen to me.” She paced back and forth across the carpet as Archibald sank down on the couch, watching a transformation occur. In a matter of moments she’d turned from a grieving widow and concerned mother into a general lining up her troops.

“We have to present a united front. No deviations allowed, do you hear me? We can’t tell the police everything we know. Do I have to spell it out? You all understand why?”

Everyone nodded.

She ran through the story they would tell, hitting every major point several times, stressing that each of them, with the exception of Archibald, had been home all morning. Nobody should offer any information unless a direct question was put to them. “Beverly, go call Ray Lawless. Tell him what happened, that we need him here right away.”

Beverly left the room.

“I have no idea if this investigator will want to question us when he gets here. If we are questioned, stay on point. And if you feel you’re getting into trouble, Ray Lawless will be around to shut the questioning down.” She met each person’s eyes. “Jordan is dead. We all loved him and we will mourn him. But right now, we’re fighting for our lives, you understand that, right? Our futures? In searching for the person who took Jordan’s life, the police will, of necessity, seek answers from his family. We want to be seen as open and honest. We can’t give them everything we know, but, in every way we can, we will help them. Are we clear?”

More nods.

“We have to manage this with great care. We can’t afford to let matters get away from us.”

When Beverly returned with a steno pad, Kit began issuing orders. “Call Morrison in Nashville. I want him to handle the press on his end. Tell him to figure out some way to divert all our landline calls from this house to his office. From now on, we use only our cell phones.” She stopped, a tentative hand rising to her forehead. “We’ll need to put out a statement. That should come first.”

“But we don’t really know much,” said Beverly, her pen poised above the page.

Archibald assumed that, if the police got a search warrant for the house, one look at Jordan’s shell of a laptop and they would smell a rat. From that point on, everyone in the family, and that included Archibald, Beverly, and Tommy, would be under suspicion. Kit could try to manage the situation all she wanted, but she had to know how easily it could spin out of control.

“Call Chuck Rios,” continued Kit. “Have him write the statement. But tell him to run it past me before it’s released. Call Buckminster at the record label. They’ll want to put out a statement, too. Give them what we can. Someone needs to call the band members and his producer. Oh, and Garth Brooks and Alan Jackson. They should hear it from us, not CNN. And I want someone on the front gate twenty-four-seven. Is that clear? That gate will be locked at all times from here on out. Have Hughes come see me. We need to beef up our security.”

“You mustn’t be frightened,” said Archibald, trying his best to sound reassuring. “Extra security is a good idea, but there’s nobody out there who wants to hurt you or the kids.”

“I’m not concerned about that,” said Kit dismissively. “I’m concerned about paparazzi falling out of trees to take photos of us.”

“What about … a funeral?” asked Chloe, biting at her trembling lower lip. “Seems like that should be our first priority.”

“I better make more coffee,” said Beverly, though she didn’t move.

Everyone, with the exception of Kit, seemed shell-shocked.

People reacted in different ways to the death of a loved one, thought Archibald. Kit might not show her sadness the way Chloe did, especially when she thought she needed to take charge, to be the strong one for her children, but Archibald understood that when the spotlight was off, when the police had come and gone, when Kit was alone with her thoughts, the emotion she’d hidden out of necessity would all come rushing out. And once again, Archibald’s deepest hope was that he could find a way to help. He would do anything and everything in his power to keep her safe.

*   *   *

Jane needed coffee. After her father, Cordelia, and Kit had left her restaurant last night, she’d stayed up late working in her office, not returning home until shortly before two.

Stumbling out of bed just after eight, she padded downstairs, her two dogs trailing after her. In a sleepy haze, she found fresh coffee beans and ground them, dumped them into the coffeemaker, poured in the water, then let the dogs outside. It was a beautiful, chilly autumn morning. She thought about going for a run with her lab, Mouse, but simply didn’t have the energy. Gimlet, a curly-haired black poodle, didn’t entirely understand the concept of proceeding in a straight line. She also happened to think sniffing was the point of every outing, which was why Jane left her home and only took Mouse when she ran. Jane adored Mouse. Mouse adored Gimlet. Gimlet adored everyone. They were an adoring family.

While the dogs roamed around in the backyard, she returned to the second floor to shower and dress. Sundays were her day off—if she took a day off, which was rare. The restaurant served a buffet brunch, straightforward service and rarely problematic. She’d glanced through the reservation log last night and saw that they were full up from eleven until three.

Since she didn’t have to dress in business drag today, she slipped into a pair of soft gray cords and found a black cotton turtleneck in her dresser drawer, which she tucked into her slacks. She piled her long chestnut hair, still wet from the shower, on top of her head and secured it with several bobby pins. Socks and boots came next.

As the dogs ate their morning kibble, Jane built a fire in the living room fireplace. While she enjoyed a fire at night, she loved sitting by a warm, quiet hearth in the morning. She supposed it was a leftover from curling up next to her grandmother’s morning fires in her cottage on the southwestern coast of England. But mostly, she was a Minnesotan—suffering through increasingly stifling summers, yearning for the first crisp air of fall.

Sitting down on the oriental rug, her back against the couch, both dogs snuggled next to her, she sipped her coffee and watched the flames lick the bark off a birch log. She would have felt completely content if Avi had been with her, not hundreds of miles away in Chicago. Jane was old enough to remember when she wasn’t constantly tethered to a cell phone. Because Avi’s preferred form of communication when away was text message, and because business these days necessitated constant cell phone contact, Jane figured she might as well give up on her dream of being deliciously unreachable and go with the always-connected flow.

Pulling her cell from her pocket, she clicked it on and immediately felt the buzz that alerted her to messages. One was from a waiter—a guy who was angry with last night’s manager and one of the runners. Jane would deal with that later. The message she was most interested in came from Avi last night at 3:14 A.M.

I think I’m drunk. Scratch that.

I know I’m drunk.

Chicago is a party town. Lucky me.

Dinner with Julia. We talked … about

you. It’s weird that she knows you

better than I do. Did a couple

clubs. We danced. The music was

awesome. I hate the word awesome.

But some things ARE awesome.

Sorry. Didn’t mean to yell.

I kept thinking you should be here.

Why aren’t you here?

You’re so sexy when you dance.

I let go tonight.

Shhh. Keep it under your hat.

To bed, to bed.

Stay tuned.

Jane put down the phone and gazed into the fire. She stayed like that, trying to decipher the meaning and intent of Avi’s words, until Mouse raised his head and gave a deep growl.

“I heard it, too, babe.” It sounded as if someone had knocked softly—almost timidly—on the front door. Why not ring the doorbell? she thought, scooping Gimlet into her arms and getting up. If she’d been in her study, or upstairs, she never would have known someone was outside.

She looked through the peephole before opening the door. “Dad,” she said with a smile. “What are you doing here? Come in.”

He was dressed casually in tan khakis, a light blue oxford cloth shirt and a navy-blue crewneck sweater. He looked almost as tired as she felt. “I know our dinner went kind of late last night,” he said, bending down to give Mouse a scratch. “I didn’t want to wake you if you were still in bed.”

“Can I interest you in a cup of coffee? It’s fresh. Or, hey. Why don’t I make us breakfast?”

Patting the top of Gimlet’s head, he said, “I’ll take the coffee—if you’ve got a to-go cup. It sure smells good.”

“You can’t stay?”

“I got a call from Beverly Elliot, Kit Deere’s assistant, about an hour ago. I’m afraid she had some terrible news. The police in Minnetonka got a 911 call around seven twenty this morning from a man who was doing his morning run along a jogging path through a remote part of Bayview Park. Seems he found a body just off the path in a deep section of brush. It was Jordan Deere.”

Jane gave an involuntary gasp. “Is he—”

“He’s dead. Shot at close range. That’s all I know. Two uniformed officers and a chaplain had just left the lake house. An investigator’s been assigned. He’s apparently still at the scene, but intends to come by the house shortly. Kit asked if I’d drive out.”

“Surely she’s not a suspect.”

“I doubt it. But with Jordan being such a public figure, all hell’s going to break loose in the press when they get wind of it. She may need some help with that. While I was on the freeway, I got to thinking. I know this comes out of the blue, but maybe you’d like to come with me—if you have the free time.”

“Me? Why?”

“Well, for starters, when we’re done, we could have that breakfast together.”

“Sure, I’d like that.” There had to be more.

“The investigator my law firm has used for over twenty years retired a few months ago. So far, we haven’t settled on a replacement. Now that you’ve got your license, I was wondering if you’d like to help me with this one. I’d pay you the same rate we always paid him. It’s good money.”

She was touched that he had such confidence in her abilities.

“If you want, we can include your partner in this, too. Maybe Nolan could stop by my office sometime next week so we could talk. You’ll both need to sign confidentiality agreements.”

“He’s in St. Louis at the moment. His sister is having some kind of surgery. He wasn’t too specific about it. He’ll be gone at least ten days.”

“That’s fine. I’m happy to work with you on this one. What do you think? Are you interested?”

The last thing she needed was to take on something new, especially with Nolan unavailable for backup. The promise she’d made to herself—about spending the fall devoting the bulk of her time to her restaurant and to Avi—also weighed against it. Then again, remembering her conversation with Peter, her promise to take good care of their father, to spend extra time with him, made the decision easier. “Sure. Count me in.”

“Wonderful, honey.”

“Do you think someone in the Deere family might be responsible?”

“Anything’s possible, of course. But for now, let’s just say all is not well. I drove Kit out to their house on Lake Minnetonka last night after we finished dinner. She confided something to me, Janey. I’m trusting that you’ll keep this to yourself, that I can give you certain information before you’ve signed the confidentiality papers. But you’ll need to do it soon. Tomorrow, if possible.”

“Of course.”

“It seems that Jordan’s manager—Tommy Prior—someone they all think of as family, also happens to be one of his oldest and closest friends. Prior apparently made several bad business decisions recently. Kit thinks it may be worse than what Jordan told her—that Prior may have actually embezzled money. Jordan was furious when he found out, but for some reason—Kit thinks it’s misplaced loyalty—he refused to fire him. In fact, the guy has been staying at the house with Jordan, on and off, all summer.”

“Sounds potentially explosive.”

“The other point is, Jordan organized a family reunion for this weekend. Made sure everyone knew it was a command performance.”

Jane had met Chloe and Booker a few years back at a party Cordelia had thrown for Kit’s fifty-fifth birthday. “Did this family reunion have a specific agenda?”

“Kit said it was an effort on her husband’s part to get everyone together in one place, at one time.”

“For what reason?”

“She gave the impression that it was simply a social event.”

“But it could be more.”

He hesitated. “Jordan asked Kit for a divorce yesterday. That’s why she needed to meet with me. I think it’s also why he’d called everyone together. He wanted to tell them in person.”

“So, do Booker and Chloe know about the divorce now?”

“I doubt it. Unless Kit told them, which doesn’t seem likely.” Her father jingled the change in his pocket. “What do you say? Can you scrap whatever plans you had for the day and come with me?”

“Just give me a minute,” she said. She rushed upstairs to the bathroom, ran a comb through her hair and pinned it up into a bun. After applying some light makeup, she looked at herself in the mirror. She was getting older, for sure. Then again, she liked the way she looked—a face with more gravitas.

On the way back to her bedroom to grab her keys, she felt energized by the idea of working with her father. She could still make time for her restaurant. And then she remembered Avi.

For almost a year, Jane had been the personification of patience and support, doing everything she could to help Avi get her writing career on track, cutting her slack whenever she asked, putting up with her roommate, a woman who’d done her best to bed Avi, and in the process, split them up. Why did Avi have to live like that—almost committing, dropping the word “love,” then backtracking, always with other women poised at the edges of her world, people and situations that she knew bothered Jane. And now Julia had entered the picture, a woman who relished playing with people, winding them up for the pure joy of watching them spin until they fell over.

A song had been playing in Jane’s mind for days. She couldn’t recall the name, but the words were a plea to a lover, “not to break her heart slow.” If Avi wasn’t interested, if Jane was just a diversion, a safe harbor for the times when she was feeling down, as she often was, with no real desire to make a life together, then Jane deserved to know. She wanted it quick. Like ripping off a bandage. It would hurt, but it couldn’t hurt worse than the way she felt right now.

“I let go tonight,” Avi had texted. What the hell did that mean?