The Bourbon Kings

  He hadn't responded at all. No, "Yes, I shall attend with pleasure," nor any "No, I am sending my regrets."

  Could she really be surprised?

  And yet it hurt. In fact, the only reason she'd gone to William Baldwine's party the night before was in hopes of seeing Edward in his own home. After he had not returned her calls for days, months, and now years, she had thought that maybe he would make an appearance at his father's table and they could organically reconnect.

  But no. Edward had not been there, either--

  "Miss Smythe, we're ready to seat the guests, if that's all right with you? The salads are down on the tables."

  Sutton smiled at the woman with the clipboard and the earpiece. "Yes, let's dim the lights. I'll make my remarks as soon as they're in their chairs."

  "Very well, Miss Smythe."

  Sutton took a deep breath and watched the herd of expensive cattle do what they were told and find their places at all those round tables with their elaborate centerpieces, and their golden plates, and their engraved menus on top of linen napkins.

  Back before the tragedy, Edward had always been at these things: Shooting her sardonic smiles as yet another person glommed on to him to ask him for money for their causes. Asking her to dance as a rescue maneuver when she got cornered by a close talker. Looking at her and winking . . . just because he could.

  They had been friends since Charlemont Country Day. Business competitors since he'd graduated from Wharton and she'd gotten her MBA from the University of Chicago. Social cohorts since they'd entered the charity-dinner circuit when her mother had passed and his had started to go to her room with greater and greater frequency.

  They had never been lovers.

  She had wanted to them to be. For as long as she had known him, it seemed. But Edward had stayed away, sticking to the sidelines, even setting her up with other people

  Her heart had always been his for the taking, but she'd never had the guts to walk over that line that he'd seemed so very determined to draw between them.

  And then . . . two years ago had happened. Dear Lord, when she'd heard about him heading off for another of those South American business trips of his, she'd had a premonition, a warning, a bad feeling. But she hadn't called him. Reached out. Tried to get him to take more security or something.

  So in some way, she had always felt partially responsible. Maybe if she'd . . .

  But who was she kidding. He wouldn't have stopped going down there for any reason other than bad weather. Edward had been a true competitor in the liquor industry, the heir apparent to the Bradford Bourbon Company not just by birthright, but by his incredible work ethic and savvy.

  After the kidnapping and the ransom demand, his father, William, had tried so hard to get him free, negotiating with the kidnappers, working with the US Embassy. Everything had failed until, eventually, a special team had been sent in and had rescued Edward.

  She couldn't imagine what had been done to him.

  And this was the anniversary of when he'd gotten ambushed while traveling.

  Such a shame, the whole thing. South America was one of the most beautiful places in the world with delicious food, fantastic landscapes, and an amazing history--she and Edward had always joked that they would retire down there on side-by-side estates. The kidnapping and ransoming of business executives was one of the travel advisories for certain areas, but that was no different than someone being told not to go through Central Park at three in the morning: Bad elements could be found wherever you were, and there was no reason to condemn an entire continent because of a minority of bad actors.

  Unfortunately, Edward had become one of the victims.

  After all this time, she just wanted to see him with her own eyes. There had been a couple of blurry photos that had been in the press, and they had certainly not set her mind at ease. He had appeared so much thinner, his body hunched over, his face always turned down and away from the cameras.

  To her, he would still be beautiful, however.

  "Miss Smythe, we're ready if you are?"

  Shaking herself into focus, Sutton saw that the one thousand person crowd was seated, picking at their salads, and ready to hear her speak--

  Without warning, a sudden roar of dreadful energy pounded through her, bringing sweat out across her chest, over her forehead, under her arms. As her heart leaped into a snare-drum rhythm, waves of light-headedness caused her to reach out and steady herself on the wall.

  What was wrong with her--

  "Miss Smythe?"

  "I can't," she heard herself say.

  "I'm sorry?"

  She pressed the index cards she'd so carefully written out into the hands of the assistant. "Someone else needs to--"

  "What? Wait, where are you--"

  She put her palms up and backed away. "--give the speech."

  "Miss Smythe, you're the only one who--"

  "I'll call you on Monday, I'm sorry, I can't do this--"

  Sutton had no idea where she was going as her high heels clipped a retreat over the marble floor. In fact, it wasn't until a wave of heat hit her that she realized she'd left the building via a fire exit and had emerged on the west side of the complex, out in the humid night air.

  Far from the parking lot where her chauffeur was waiting.

  Collapsing against the museum's stuccoed wall, she took deep breaths that did nothing to relieve a crushing sense of suffocation.

  She couldn't stay out here all night. More to the point, she wanted to run fast and far away, run until this feeling of ambient terror worked its way out of her system. But that was crazy . . . right?

  God, she was losing her mind. Finally, the pressure of everything was getting to her.

  Or maybe it was, once again and always, Edward Baldwine.

  Time to get moving. This was ridiculous.

  Shucking her stilettos and holding them by the ankle straps, she started out over the grass, staying close to the pools of illumination thrown by the security lights. After what seemed like forever, the parking lot she was in search of appeared when she turned yet another corner--except then she was confounded by the number of cars and limousines parked in the open-air space.

  Where was her--

  By some stroke of luck, the black Mercedes C63 found her, the large sedan drawing up in front of her, its passenger-side window going down soundlessly.

  "Ma'am?" her chauffeur said in alarm. "Ma'am, are you all right?"

  "I need the car." Sutton walked around to him, the headlights flaring brilliant white against her silver gown and her diamonds. "I need the car, I need . . ."

  "Ma'am?" The uniformed man got out from behind the wheel. "I'll drive you wherever you have to go--"

  She took a hundred-dollar bill out of her tiny evening bag. "Here. Please get a cab, or call someone, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I need to . . . go--"

  He shook his head at the cash. "Ma'am, I can take you anywhere--"

  "Please. I need the car."

  There was a short pause. "All right. Do you know how to drive this--"

  "I'll figure it out." She put the money against his palm and curled his hand into a fist. "Keep this. I'll be fine."

  "I'd rather drive you myself."

  "I appreciate the kindness, I truly do." She shut herself in, put the window up, and looked around for the gear shift or the--

  At the knock on the tinted glass, she put the thing back down.

  "It's there--to the side of the wheel," the chauffeur said. "That's where your drive and reverse are. There you go. And the directional signal is--yup, that's right. You shouldn't need the windshield wipers, and the headlights are already on as you can see. Good luck."

  He stepped back, kind of like you'd do if someone were about to put a match to fireworks. Or a bomb.

  Sutton hit the gas, and the powerful sedan lurched forward as if there were a jet engine under the hood. In the back of her mind, she did a quick calculation on how many years it had been since she'd actually dri
ven herself anywhere--and the answer was not encouraging.

  But just like everything else in her life, she was going to figure it out--or die trying.

  *

  "Mind if I have some more?"

  As Lizzie gave him an Oh, please, do, Lane got up and headed back for the fridge. The food was helping clear his head--or maybe it was her company.

  Probably more just being in her presence.

  "This is really good," he said as he broke open the ice box and took out another serving.

  Her soft laugh made him pause and close his eyes, so the sound could sink into him even more deeply.

  "You're just being nice," she murmured.

  "God's honest."

  Putting his plate into the microwave, he hit six minutes and watched as the frozen block went around and around.

  "So I'm going to have to talk to Edward," he heard himself say.

  "When was the last time you saw him?"

  He cleared his throat. Felt that itch for a little drink. "It was . . ."

  For a moment, he got lost in wondering how he could ask her if she had any booze in the house. "Wow."

  "That long?"

  "Actually, I was thinking about something else." Namely, that it was entirely possible that he had a drinking problem. "But come on, after a day like today, who wouldn't be an alcoholic?"

  "What?"

  Oh, shit, had he spoken out loud? "Sorry, my brain's a mess."

  "I wish there was something I could do to help."

  "You are."

  "So when did you see Edward last?"

  Lane closed his eyes again. But instead of doing some mental calculation that would reveal the sum of how much he sucked as a brother, he went back in time to that New Year's night when Edward had gotten beaten for the rest of them.

  *

  He and Maxwell had stayed in the ballroom, silent and trembling, as their father had forced Edward upstairs. As the two sets of footfalls had ascended the grand staircase, Lane had screamed at the top of his lungs--but only internally.

  He was too much of a coward to jump out and stop the lie that had saved him and his brother.

  "I should go up there," he said as time passed.

  "But what can you do?" Max whispered. "Nothing will stop Father."

  "I could . . ."

  Except Max was right. Edward had lied, and their father was making him pay for a transgression that was not his own. If Lane told the truth now . . . their father would simply beat them all. At least if he and Maxwell stayed put here, they could avoid . . .

  No, this was wrong. This was dishonorable.

  "I'm going up there." Before Maxwell could say anything, Lane grabbed his brother's arm. "And you're coming with me."

  Max's conscience must have been bothering him as well, because instead of arguing like he always did with everything, he followed mutely up the front stairs. When they got to the top, the grand hallway was empty save for the fancy moldings, the oil paintings, and the bouquets sitting on antique tables or bureaus.

  "We've got to stop this," Lane hissed.

  One after the other, they moved quickly over the carpeted runner . . . to their father's door.

  On the other side of the panels, the sounds of the whipping were sharp and loud, from the slaps of leather hitting bare skin to the grunts as their father put strength into it.

  Edward was silent.

  And meanwhile, the two of them just stood there, silent and stupid. All Lane could think about was how neither he nor Max would be even half as strong. They would both have ended up crying.

  The drive to be righteous and honest grew weaker with each of those hits . . . until Lane's nerve was totally lost.

  "Let's go," he choked out with shame.

  Once again, Max did not put up a fight. He was obviously too much of a coward as well.

  The room they shared was down farther, and Lane was the one who opened the door. There were plenty of bedrooms to spare for them to sleep separately, but when Maxwell had started getting night terrors a couple of years before, they had become roommates by default: Max had started sneaking into Lane's room and waking up there in the morning. Eventually, Miss Aurora had moved another bed in, and that was that.

  Their bathroom was a Jack and Jill--and the room on the far side of the long, thin space was Edward's.

  Max got in his bed and stared straight ahead. "We shouldn't have gone down there. It's my fault."

  "It's both our fault." He glanced down at Max. "You stay there. I'm going to go wait for him to come back in."

  As he went into the loo, he closed the door behind himself and prayed Max followed orders. He had a bad feeling about what kind of condition Edward was going to be in when their father was done with him.

  Oh, how Lane wanted to go back to earlier and redo the decision to go to the parlor.

  Putting the toilet seat down, he sat and listened to the pounding of his heart. Even though he couldn't hear the whipping anymore, it didn't matter. He knew what was happening across the hall.

  For some reason, he kept looking over at their three toothbrushes, which were standing up in a silver cup by the folded hand towels on the counter. The red one was Edward's because he was the eldest and always got to pick first. Max went for green because it was the manliest of what was left. Lane got stuck with yellow and hated it.

  No one ever wanted KU blue--

  A soft click and the rasp of a door being opened broke the quiet. Lane waited until there was a second click and then he got to his feet and peered into Edward's room.

  In the dimness, Edward was walking toward the bathroom all bent over, with one arm around his belly, and the other thrown out to steady himself on the bureau, the wall, the desk.

  Lane rushed forward and took ahold of his brother's waist.

  "Sick," Edward groaned. "Gonna be sick."

  Oh, God, he was bleeding down his face, their father's signet ring having cut into his skin when he'd been cuffed.

  "I've got you," Lane mumbled. "I'll take care of you."

  The going was slow, Edward's legs struggling to hold his torso up. Part of his pj's top had gotten stuck in the waistband of the pants when they'd been pulled back into place after the whipping, and all Lane could think about was what was underneath. The welts, the blood, the swelling.

  Edward barely made it to the toilet in time, and Lane stayed throughout the vomiting. When it was done, he took that red toothbrush out of the silver cup and got the Crest. After a brushing, he helped his brother back out and over to the bed.

  "Why don't you cry," Lane said roughly as his brother settled on the mattress like his entire body hurt. "Just cry. He'll stop as soon as you do."

  That was the way it was whenever he and Max got beaten.

  "Go to bed, Lane."

  Edward's voice was exhausted.

  "I'm sorry," Lane whispered.

  "It's okay. Go to bed."

  It had been hard to leave, but he'd already screwed up badly once that night and look what had happened with that.

  Back in his own room, he'd gotten in between his sheets and stared up at the ceiling.

  "Is he okay?" Max asked.

  For some reason, the shadows in their room were completely threatening, seeming to have been thrown by monsters moving and lurking on the periphery.

  "Lane?"

  "Yes," he lied. "He's fine--"

  *

  "Lane?"

  Lane shook himself, and glanced over his shoulder. "What?"

  Lizzie pointed at the microwave. "It's done?"

  Beep . . .

  Beep . . .

  He just stood there and blinked, trying to return from the past. "Right, sorry."

  Back at the table, he put the steaming food down and sat in his seat . . . only to discover that he'd lost his appetite. When Lizzie reached across and put her hand on his, he took what she offered and brought it to his mouth for a kiss.

  "What are you thinking about?" Lizzie asked.

  "Yo
u really want to know?"

  "Yes."

  Well, didn't he have so many things to pick from.

  As she waited for an answer, he stared at her face for the longest time. And then he smiled a little. "Right now . . . this very moment . . . I'm thinking that if I have a chance with you, Lizzie King, I'm going to take it."

  The blush that hit her face was covered when she put her palms up. "Oh, God . . ."

  He laughed softly. "You want me to change the subject?"

  "Yes," she said from hiding.

  He didn't blame her. "Fine, I'm really glad I came out here. Easterly is like a rope around my throat right now."

  Lizzie rubbed her eyes, and then dropped those hands. "You know, I can't believe about Rosalinda."

  "That is just plain horrific." He sat back in his chair, respecting her need for another topic. "And get this. Mitch Ramsey, the sheriff's deputy? He called me on the way here. The medical examiner's initial thought is hemlock."

  "Hemlock?"

  "Her face . . ." He circled his own with his hand. "That gruesome smile? It was caused by some kind of facial paralysis--which happens to be well documented with that variety of poison, apparently. Man, I'll tell you what, I'm not likely to forget what that looked like for a very long time."

  "Is it possible she was killed?"

  "They don't think so. You need a good dose of hemlock to get the job done, so it's more likely she did it herself. Plus her Nikes were brand new and had grass on the bottoms."

  "Nikes? She doesn't wear anything except flats."

  "Exactly, but she was found with this pair of running shoes on, which she'd evidently just bought and walked around in outside. From what Mitch said, back in Roman times, people used to take the poison and then ambulate to make it work faster. So again, that points to her doing it herself."

  "How . . . horrific."

  "The question is why . . . and unfortunately, I think we know the answer to that one."

  "What are you going to do now?"

  He stayed silent for a while. And then his eyes lifted to hers. "For starters, I was thinking of taking you upstairs."

  Lizzie blushed again. "And what are you going to do with me on the second floor?"

  "Help you fold your laundry."

  She barked out a laugh. "I hate to disappoint you, but that's already been done."

  "Make your bed?"

  "Sorry. Done."

  "Curse your work ethic. Darn your socks? Any buttons that need replacing?"