“Yes, yes, of course, Mr. Baldwine.”
Lane put his forearm back up and breathed into his shirt sleeve as he leaned inside. The office was impossibly dark, the heavy curtains having been pulled shut against the bright sunlight, the air-conditioning unit in one of the windows likewise turned off. Patting around the doorjamb with his free hand, he had a feeling about what he was going to find and couldn’t believe it.
Click.
Rosalinda Freeland was sitting in the stuffed chair in the farthest corner, her face frozen in a gruesome smile, her gray fingers dug into the padded, chintz-covered cushions, her unblinking eyes staring straight ahead at whatever version of the afterlife had come upon her.
“Jesus …” Lane breathed.
Her professional suit and skirt were perfectly arranged, her reading glasses hanging from a gold chain on her silk blouse, her sensible salt-and-pepper bob mostly arranged well. The shoes didn’t make sense. No somber black leather flats, as she had always worn, but a pair of Nikes, as if she were about to go on a power walk.
Shit, he thought.
Jamming his hand into his pocket, he took out his phone and dialed the only person he could think to call. And as the sound of electronic ringing purred in his ear, he looked around the office. There was no clutter anywhere, which was what he could recall of the woman who had been working at Easterly for thirty years: The desk with its computer and its green-shaded lamp had nothing else on it, and the bookshelves that discreetly hid the other office equipment and files were tidy as a library’s.
“—llo?” came the voice on his cell phone.
“Mitch,” Lane said.
“You coming down with a check for her bail?”
“I got a problem.”
“What can I do?”
Lane closed his eyes and wondered how in the hell he’d lucked out to have the guy on his side. “I’m staring at the dead body of my family’s controller.”
Instantly, the deputy’s voice dropped an octave. “Where.”
“In her office at Easterly. I think she may have killed herself—I just busted through the door.”
“Have you called nine-one-one?”
“Not yet.”
“I want you to call it in now while I head your way—so it’s in the log properly and Metro Police can come. They’ll have jurisdiction.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Do not touch anything.”
“Only the light switch as I came in.”
“And do not let anyone enter the room. I’ll be there in five.”
As Lane ended the connection and dialed emergency services, his eyes traced those shelves and he thought of all the work that had been done by the woman in this little office.
“Yes, my name is Lane Baldwine. I’m calling from Easterly.” The mansion didn’t have a street number. “There’s been a death in the house … yes, I’m very sure she is no longer living.”
He paced around as he answered a couple of questions, confirmed his phone number, and then hung up again.
Glancing over at the desk, he respected Mitch’s orders, but he had to get the household checkbook. Dead body or no dead body, he still needed to free Gin from jail.
Taking out his handkerchief, he walked across the Oriental carpet. He was about to pull open the flat drawer in the center when he frowned. Sitting in the middle of the leather blotter, perfectly aligned as if set there with a ruler … was a USB drive.
“Mr. Baldwine? Shall I do aught?” Mr. Harris called to him.
Lane glanced over at the corpse. “The police are on their way. They don’t want anything disturbed in here so I’m coming out now.”
He picked up what Rosalinda had so obviously left for whoever found her. Then he opened that drawer and snagged the eight-and-a-half-by-eleven leather-bound checkbook, tucking it into the small of his back and covering the thing with his shirt.
He turned back to the controller. That expression on her face was like the Joker’s, a horrible grimace that was going to show up in his nightmares for a long time.
“What has my father done now,” he whispered into the death-stained air.
NINETEEN
Lizzie was in the glass-walled conservatory, on the phone with the rental company, when she caught sight of a Washington County Sheriff’s SUV coming up Easterly’s front drive.
Were they serving Chantal divorce papers already? Jeez—
“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking herself back to attention. “What was that?”
“The account is past due,” the sales rep repeated. “So no, we can’t fill any more of the order.”
“Past due?” That was as inconceivable as the White House not covering its light bill. “No, no, we paid for the tent in full yesterday. So we can’t be—”
“Listen, y’all are one of our best customers, we want to work with y’all. I didn’t know the account was still past due until the owner told me. I shipped as much as I could, but he’s shut it off until the balance is paid.”
“How much is owed?”
“Five thousand, seven hundred and eighty-five, fifty-two.”
“That won’t be a problem. If I bring a check over now, can you—”
“Everything’s been cleaned out. We got nothing left to rent, what with all the parties across the city this weekend. I called Rosalinda last week and left her three messages about the balance. She never called me back. I held the rest of the order as long as I was able ’cuz I was wanting y’all to be taken care of. But I didn’t hear anything and other orders had to be filled.”