The Bourbon Kings

God, Rosalinda.

Her phone went off against her hip, the vibration making her jump. As she took the cell out, she exhaled. “Thank God—hello? Lane? Are you okay—yes.” She frowned as Greta looked over. “Actually, I left it in my car, but I can go get it now. Yes. Sure, of course. Where are you? All right. I’ll get it and bring it right to you.”

When she ended the call, Greta said, “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. He says he needs a computer.”

“There must be a dozen of them in the house.”

“After what happened this morning, you think I’m going to argue with the guy?”

“Fair enough.” Although the woman’s expression screamed disapproval. “I’m going to check the front of the house beds and pots, and confirm the parkers are going to arrive on time.”

“Eight a.m.?”

“Eight a.m. And then I don’t know, I’m thinking of heading home. I’m getting a migraine, and it’s a long day tomorrow.”

“That’s terrible! I say go now and come back ready to roar.”

Before Lizzie turned away, her old friend gave her a stern look through those heavy glasses. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, yeah. Absolutely.”

“There’s a lot of Lane around here. That’s why I’m asking.”

Lizzie glanced over at the house. “He’s getting a divorce.”

“Really.”

“That’s what he says.”

Greta crossed her arms over her chest and her German accent became more apparent. “About two years too late for that—”

“He’s not all bad, you know.”

“Excuse me? Is this—nein, you can’t be serious.”

“He didn’t know Chantal was pregnant, okay?”

Greta threw up her hands. “Oh, well, that makes all the difference, then, ja? So he voluntarily married her while he was with you. Perfect.”

“Please, don’t.” Lizzie rubbed her aching eyes. “He—”

“He got to you, didn’t he. He called you, he came to you, something.”

“And if he did? That’s my business—”

“I spent an entire year calling you, getting you out of that farmhouse, making sure you went to work. I was there for you, worrying about you—cleaning up the mess he made. So do not tell me I don’t get to have a reaction when he whispers in your ear—”

Lizzie put her hand up to the woman’s face. “Done. We’re done here. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Marching off, she cursed under her breath the entire way down to her car, and after she got her laptop, she f-bombed the long way back to the house. Deliberately avoiding the kitchen and the conservatory—because she didn’t want to run into Greta as the woman packed up—she entered through the library, and without thinking, headed for the hallway that led to the staff stairs and the kitchen. She didn’t get far. Just as she rounded the corner, she was stopped by two police officers—and that was when she saw the body on a rolling stretcher.

Rosalinda Freeland’s remains had been placed in a white bag with a five-foot zipper that had mercifully been pulled closed.

“Ma’am,” one of the officers said, “I’m going to have to ask you to step aside.”

“Yes, yes, sorry.” Ducking her eyes and swallowing her nausea, she wheeled around. Tried not to think about what had happened.

Failed.

She’d given her name to the police, just like the rest of the staff had, and provided a brief statement of where she’d been all morning as well as over the past few days. When asked about the controller, she hadn’t had much to offer. She hadn’t known Rosalinda any better than anyone had; the woman had kept to herself and her bill processing and that was that.

Lizzie wasn’t even sure if there were any family to notify.

Using the main staircase was a violation of that Easterly etiquette, but considering there was a coroner’s van parked out front and a crime scene down that staff hall, she was confident in letting go of business as usual. Up on the second floor, she made her way over the pale runner, passing by the oil paintings and the occasionals that gleamed with age and superior craftsmanship.

As she came up to Lane’s door, she couldn’t remember the last time she and Greta had fought about anything. God, she wanted to call the woman and … but what could she say?

Drop the laptop off and leave, she told herself. That’s it.

Lizzie knocked on the door. “Lane?”

“Come in.”

Pushing her way into the bedroom, she found him standing at the windows, one foot planted on the sill, his forearm braced on his raised knee. He didn’t turn and acknowledge her. Didn’t say anything else.

“Lane?” She glanced around. No one was with him. “Listen, I’ll just leave it—”

“I need your help.”

Taking a deep breath, she said, “Okay.”

But he stayed silent as he stared out at the garden. And God help her, it was impossible not to run her eyes over him. She told herself she was looking for signs of strain—that she wasn’t measuring his muscular shoulders. The short hair at the base of his neck. The biceps that had curled up and were straining the short sleeves of his polo shirt.

He’d changed clothes since she’d seen him last. Had taken a shower, too—she could smell the shampoo, the aftershave.