Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me.
— F. Scott Fitzgerald
If there was ever any doubt about who was in charge of the Peevers household, the person making the inquiry had obviously never been a guest at dinnertime.
Even before dinner, during the obligatory cocktail hour, Dickens was busy herding the family and guests into the drawing room, reminding them that they were expected to stay where he put them until dinner was served.
“However, Mr. Junior, we will excuse you for a moment while you go upstairs and locate the necktie I took the liberty of laying out for you on your bed,” the butler said, holding a half-full glass of scotch in front of the youngest Peevers heir, then leading him toward the foyer before putting it within reach. “There’s an obedient little idiot,” Dickens then muttered under his breath, although Grady heard him as he walked by, entering the room.
“Evening, Dickens,” Grady said happily, giving the man a small salute. “How goes the war?”
Obviously not believing the question worthy of an answer, Dickens turned his back and headed toward the center of the room once more, this time to neatly remove a glass from A.W.’s reach, tip its contents in a nearby plant, then replace the now empty glass on the table, all without missing a step.
From there, he walked over to Mitzi, bowed to her slightly, and inquired if she would care for a glass of sherry.
Before Mitzi could answer, Daisy, who had been picking at the wide pink ruffle around her daringly low-cut bodice, piped up, “What about me, Dickens-poo? Aren’t you going to ask me what I want?”
“You are an open book, madam,” Dickens said, now bowing in Daisy’s direction. “I am already well aware of your desires.”
Daisy giggled, Dickens’s sarcasm sailing straight over her fairly vacant blond head, but Grady coughed into his fist rather than laugh.
A.W. picked up his glass, frowned when he saw that it was empty. “Dickens? Oh, never mind, I’ll get it myself,” he said, and followed the butler to the sideboard and its inventory of light, heavy, and downright dangerous booze.
Which left Grady to stand there, still very pointedly not being acknowledged by anyone in the room, to decide between approaching Mitzi or Daisy. No question. Daisy won, hands down.
“Ms. Goodenough,” he said, still secretly amused by her surname, “would you mind if I joined you?”
Daisy looked up at him, giggled, pulled at her ruffles some more, to the point where Grady was pretty sure he was seeing something he probably shouldn’t be seeing. “Oh, Mr. Sullivan, of course you may join me,” she simpered, patting the sofa cushion next to her. “But only until Junie gets back. He’s so jealous, you know.”
“And with good reason,” Grady answered, automatically polite. “His fiancée is a beautiful woman.”
He wasn’t stretching the truth all that far, either. Daisy Goodenough was a beautiful woman. She had the hair, the teeth, the boobs, the body. The only problem was, if there was a bright light in her big blue eyes, it only served to show how empty the rest of her head was.
No more than twenty-two or twenty-three, she was years younger than “Junie,” which is probably how the man liked his women. Young, stacked, almost too dumb. And wearing a rock on her third finger, left hand a person could serve dinner on.
Dickens returned, handed Daisy a tall frosted glass with a straw, some bits of fruit, and a paper umbrella topping it. “Next time, if you’re good, I’ll even put some liquor in it,” he said, and Daisy laughed again.
“Isn’t he wonderful?” she said, as Dickens looked at Grady levelly for a moment, then walked away, his spine stiff as a poker. “He thinks I’m too young to”—her voice lowered to a whisper— “imbibe strong spirits. That’s what he said—imbibe. That means taste, I’m pretty sure. Personally, I think he’s got a crush on me.”
Junior returned to the drawing room, just in time to save Grady from having to answer, and he got up quickly, taking up a new position in front of the fireplace.
Junior, now wearing a tie of rigidly striped maroon and navy with his yellow-silk shirt and baggy brown slacks, called out a drink order to Dickens, then sat down next to Daisy. Within two seconds, he was nibbling her ear, and Daisy was giggling again.
Once more, Grady did a mental inventory. Archie, Junior was about thirty-eight or forty. He dyed his thinning hair boot black, all the better to see the bare patches of white-white scalp. His body was long, and too lean, but with the beginnings of a belly hanging over his belt. His eyes were the same near-colorless grey of his father’s. He appeared to have the libido of a dozen rabbits. And, if his IQ could be raised a few points, he probably would have all the native intelligence of a pork roast.
Neither Junior nor Daisy looked particularly dangerous, Grady decided, longing to cross them both off his list of possible suspects. But he couldn’t. Nobody could be dismissed, nothing could be overlooked.
After all, no two people could look dumber, or more innocent, than Daisy and Junior. That alone told Grady he had to keep watching them. He just wished Junior would take his damn tongue out of Daisy’s damn ear.
“You will excuse me for being rude, Mr. Sullivan,” Mitzi said, interrupting his thoughts (and not a moment too soon). “I would very much like to continue to ignore your presence, but I am well aware that this would be impolite. This does not, however, mean that we are less than totally disgusted with Archie for bringing you here, stuffing you under our noses.”
“And the other one,” A.W. added, first looking to Mitzi, as if for permission to speak. “This Kendall woman, who claims to be one of us.”
“Bastard grandchild,” Mitzi reminded her husband. “Totally of no consequence.”
“But, darling—didn’t you say that Dad could be up to something? First the detective here, and now—”
“Oh, do shut up, A.W.,” Mitzi said without much heat, but in much the same tone as if she had just asked him to pass the salt.
“Allow me to refresh that for you, sir,” Dickens said, taking A.W.’s glass from him, and Grady believed he saw a moment’s pity in the butler’s eyes.
The small interruption was enough for Mitzi, who all but pushed Dickens aside, the better to see Grady. “You’re here to prove the girl’s case, aren’t you? To investigate her background, judge whether or not her claim is valid? I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr. Sullivan. I can see what Archie is up to, so you might as well admit it.”
Grady didn’t like Mitzi Peevers. He didn’t like her even a little bit. But he had to say one thing for her, she was right up front with her thoughts. He decided to give her something else to think about.
“As we discussed at dinner last night, Mrs. Peevers,” he said in a slow, easy drawl meant to madden the crisp, fast-talking woman, “I am here to serve Mr. Peevers. That may include checking on the background of Miss Kendall, and it may not. It probably does. But I must tell you now, that’s not the only reason I’m here. Mr. Peevers has informed me he feels his life may be in danger.”
A.W. sprayed very expensive scotch into the air and all over his expensive blue suit. “What? Dad said... but why would... where would he get the idea that... his life in danger? That’s ridiculous!”
A.W. was saying all the right words. He showed a mix of disbelief and outrage. Portrayed an air of shock, and innocence. But he ruined it all by looking, not at Grady, but at his wife as he said all those right words.
“We must have him committed,” Mitzi pronounced coldly, slicing a look at Grady, her eyelids narrowed, assessing him, trying to read his mind, gauge his reaction to her husband’s outburst. “There’s no longer any question, A.W. The man is totally insane.”
“Sandy says—” A.W. began, but his wife cut him off.
“Milton Sandborn is as crazy as Archie. Doctor Sandborn? Hah! Some doctor, A.W. He’s a drunk and a druggie. Half of the prescriptions he writes for your father go down his own throat, into his own arm. And you know why, don’t you? It’s because he wants—” Mitzi stopped talking, her mouth snapping shut like the jaws of a vise.
Wants a piece of the action, of Archie’s money? Is that what you almost said, Mitzi? Those questions flashed through Grady’s head, and he made a mental note to do some checking on one Doctor Milton Sandborn. That shouldn’t be too difficult; Maisie could handle it.
Especially if the good doctor made house calls. Maisie was very good at talking people into saying things they’d had no intention of sharing with the world. Talking to him, measuring him, Maisie could then also get on the Internet and do some more investigating. And still have time left to lounge around at the pool and work on her tan.
The list of suspects, already large and fairly unwieldy, kept getting longer. Being as unlovable as he was, and as rich as he was, and with relatives who hated him and a friend who fed him drugs—no wonder Archie wanted someone watching his back.
There was movement at the doorway, and Grady watched as Muriel entered the drawing room, hanging on to the arm of a man about Grady’s age. A tall man, with broad shoulders, blond “surfer” hair, a great tan, and a wide white smile. A man wearing an Armani suit very easily, probably because he always wore Armani or some other top designer. A handsome man. A man Muriel clearly liked. A man who smiled down at this woman at least twenty years older than himself, smiled at her as if she were the only woman in the world.
Grady was instantly suspicious. He didn’t like to think that Muriel was unlovable, because he had seen nothing in her that would make him dislike her. But muddy-faced Muriel and this blond god, this boy-toy with the shrewd, actually intelligent look in his deep brown eyes?
Hardly.
“Hello, everyone,” Muriel said as Grady pushed himself away from the mantel he’d been leaning against, idly wondering what the lucky people in the world were doing tonight. “Isn’t this wonderful? I’ve convinced Jefferson to join us for dinner. Dickens,” she added, a sudden tremor in her voice. “Would it be too terrible of me to ask you to set another place at the table?”
Dickens’s expression said “I’d rather poke myself in the eye with a sharp stick,” but he then bowed and answered, “It would be my pleasure. Attorney Banning? Your usual vegetarian dish, I presume?”
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, Dickens, thank you,” Attorney Jefferson Banning said, smiling around those even white teeth that looked capable of ripping open a still-warm gazelle and munching on its innards. “And how nice of you to remember.”
“Eats here three times a week,” Junior stage-whispered to Daisy, who giggled. “Isn’t like any of us could forget.”
“Jefferson?” Mitzi said, as the attorney approached and shook her hand, having been finally turned loose by Muriel, who was actually blushing as she took her seat. “Have you been upstairs again with Archie? Don’t tell me he’s changing his will again.”
“Now, Mitzi,” Jefferson said, his tone kind yet faintly condescending, as if he’d already fielded this question too many times, “you know I can’t tell you that.” Then he looked at Grady. “Hello. I’m Jefferson Banning. And you must be Grady Sullivan? We spoke on the phone, but I’ve yet to have the pleasure. Archie has already informed me that you were here.”
Grady stepped forward, held out his hand, returned the lawyer’s firm grip with one that should have brought the guy to his knees, and didn’t. Clearly Banning was setting up the battle lines, and Grady’s grip told him he knew it.
Grady instinctively didn’t trust Banning, and the lawyer probably detested the private investigator, just on general principles. Rather, Grady thought, like a shark saying the barracuda’s teeth were sharper. Theirs was definitely not going to be a great friendship.
“You wouldn’t be one of the Philadelphia Sullivans, would you? Of Harford-Sullivan?” Banning asked, his expression saying that, if Grady were from the well-known banking family, it would greatly surprise him.
“Guilty as charged,” Grady answered, making his smile as big and dumb as possible. It was true; Grady had been born to wealthy parents, and wasn’t the sort to rebel and be ashamed of that fact. He liked being rich, he enjoyed moving in Society. But he also liked what he did for a living. Loved what he did for a living. At least until a couple of days ago; now the jury was out.
He’d started his life after college as a beat cop, along with his now partner in D&S, Quinn Delaney. His maternal grandfather liked to tell people D&S Securities was some sort of investment firm, but his grandfather Sullivan, once a Philadelphia cop himself, had been delighted with Grady’s career choices. As for his parents, his dad, Patrick Sullivan, and his mother, the former Miss Leticia Harford—well, Grady figured there was still time, they’d get used to the idea, someday.
Jefferson Banning tilted his head to one side, examining Grady closely through narrowed eyes. “Won the Governor’s Cup last year in a three-hole playoff with Bert Tilson? I heard that was one hell of a battle. Three extra sudden-death holes, until you eagled that par five. Damn long hole, as I recall. You must have an amazing drive.”
“I got lucky. And Bert gave me a good fight,” Grady said, trying not to look too pleased with the lawyer’s comment on his golf game. Okay, so maybe he liked the man a little. It wouldn’t be right to prejudge the guy on the basis of his white teeth and the way he’d been looking at Muriel. Maybe he was just a friendly sort, who didn’t like private investigators. Golfers, he seemed to like well enough.
“Fascinating,” Jefferson said, giving Grady’s hand one last squeeze. “I’d love the chance to take you to my club for a round. Did you bring your clubs?” When Grady nodded, because he went nowhere without his golf clubs if he could help it, Jefferson reached into his pocket, pulled out an ivory-colored business card. “Give me a call, okay?”
“Junie plays golf,” Daisy piped up happily. “Don’t you, Junie. Maybe you could join them for a quadruple?”
“That’s foursome, sweetums,” Junior answered, having at last taken his tongue out of his fiancée’s ear. “And it would only be three of us. Banning, Sullivan, and me. Three, Daisy.” He grinned up at Grady and the lawyer. “Isn’t she adorable? Pity A.W. here never took up the game. It might be nice, an outing at the club with Dad’s hack lawyer and his bodyguard.”
Mental note to self, Grady thought: Junie isn’t as dumb as he looks. Or acts.
“Junior,” Mitzi said in the tones of one speaking to a particularly backward child, “you know that A.W., being the eldest, has had to devote himself to the company. Not everyone can spend his life like a grasshopper, just singing and playing through the days, marrying and copulating where he will.”
Junior didn’t miss a beat before answering heatedly, “At least I get some, which is more than Asswipe here can say. Hell, he probably thanks God every night that he doesn’t get any. Come on, sweetums. We don’t have to take this, we’re outta here.”
Jefferson leaned closer to Grady as Junior and Daisy made their exit, Daisy asking him what “cop-u-what-she-said” was. “Not exactly the Brady Bunch, are they? Or even David and little Ricky, come to think of it. But they can be fun.”
While Jefferson seemed so friendly and mellow, Grady asked, “Have you met Annie Kendall?”
The lawyer shook his head. “Not yet, which is why I let Muriel talk me into staying for dinner when I have a nice thick porterhouse waiting in my fridge.”
“Porterhouse?” Grady repeated, raising one eyebrow. “You’re kidding, right?”
“It drives Dickens nuts when I unexpectedly stay for dinner and shoot his menu plans straight to hell. Archie’s idea, actually, but I went along with it. God knows I have to do something to keep my humor, and my sanity, running out here several times a week, playing Archie’s games. As it is, right now Dickens is cursing us all as he rearranges the table yet again, removing two place settings after adding one for me.”
Okay, so now Grady didn’t just think Jefferson Banning was all right. Now he really liked him. He wished he didn’t, as everyone who came under Archie Peevers’s roof had to be considered a potential murderer. He decided to introduce him to Maisie, if she ever showed up in the drawing room, she and the absent Annie Kendall. Maisie could see through a fake in ten seconds, five if she was really on her game.
Just as if the thought had conjured them up, Annie and Maisie entered the drawing room together, laughing at some shared joke.
He excused himself and walked across the room, to meet them more than halfway.
“Grady and me?” he could hear Maisie saying. “Honey, when pigs fly! I work with him, remember? That means I know all his faults. If I told you the number of ‘it’s been nice knowing you’ bouquets of roses I’ve sent for that man—oh, hello, Grady. Don’t you look nice tonight, honey, all buffed and polished. Annie and I were just getting to know each other better. Weren’t we, Annie?”
“Remember that raise, Maisie?” Grady growled, and Maisie looked up at him, batting her heavily mascaraed eyes. “Then ask yourself if, with all my faults, I’m to be trusted to keep my promise.”
“Aw, honey,” Maisie said, stepping up to him, running one manicured finger down his necktie, giving the end of it a small flip that pulled it out from his suit jacket, “you don’t really think I’m scared, do you? You sweet, silly man.”
Then, as Grady watched Maisie’s eyes widen, undoubtedly at the sight of the blond god Jefferson Banning, she mumbled, “Excuse me, honey, I think I’ve found me a live one. Be patient, gorgeous, Maisie’s on her way,” and she left Annie and Grady to look at each other, then burst out laughing.
“Is she always so... well, so like that?” Annie asked.
“Actually, she’s pretty much on her best behavior tonight,” Grady admitted as he opened his suit coat, tucked his tie back inside. “You’re lucky, you know. Three more minutes, and you’d have been late. I think Dickens would probably then order you out into the gardens, where he’d chop off your head with a petrified flamingo.”
Annie laughed again, and Grady decided he liked the throaty sound of that laughter very much. He liked the way her dark curls bounced around her head with a life of their own. He liked her smile, and the way she smelled, sort of like honey and cream.
He offered her his arm just as a slightly frazzled-looking Dickens appeared in the far doorway to announce that dinner was now being served in the small dining room.
Maybe, Grady thought, I’ll just relax tonight, take the evening off, and get to know Annie Kendall a little better.
After all, all work and no play had never been one of his favorite plans....