Murder Follows Money (24 page)

More shouted questions. “Where is she? How did Ms. Matthews die? Were you kidnapped?”

“I’ve explained that no abduction occurred, and no charges have been filed. The police will answer your further queries.” Hannah stepped back and, despite the surging microphones, managed to get back into the hotel. The camera switched to Scarlatti, looking very mediagenic with her long blond hair. Next to her, Daly seemed pale.

“As Ms. Couch said, we have determined that Ms. Matthews died from accidental causes, and we are closing the case.” Scarlatti smiled at the cameras. “As far as the supposed abduction is concerned, Ms. Couch has explained that to our satisfaction, and her driver, Elizabeth Sullivan, has declined to press charges.”

This occasioned another barrage of yapping. I wondered how Hannah would like that.

Kim squeezed my arm. “I’m so glad, Liz.”

Don shook my hand. “Way to go.” He smiled at Kim. “I was wondering if you would mind me flying back to Boston with you. I scheduled all this time for the tour, so I’ve got nothing on for the next few days.”

“That would be nice.” Kim’s face glowed. “I’ll love introducing you to Mom and Dad and everyone. They’ll all be so surprised.”

“As long as they don’t hate me.”

Her smile faded. “They won’t hate you. But it may be hard for them to hear about Uncle Tony. You being there will make a good distraction."

Hannah came back into the suite, followed by Officer Diaz. “That was most unpleasant,” she said with masterly understatement, “but at least it’s over.”

“I let Judi Kershay know you’re canceling the rest of the tour.”

“Thank you. I won’t be sorry to get home and get away from all this.” A shadow crossed her expression. “Poor Naomi. I will really miss her when I have time to think about it.”

“Judi offered to tie up any loose ends for you if you want.” I gave Hannah the piece of paper with Judi’s number on it. “And I’m out of here.”

Hannah offered me her hand. “You’re a trouper, Liz. I thank you for your patience. If you’re ever on the East Coast, let me know.”

“Right.” I did not add that it would be a cold day in hell before I’d look her up. I think we both knew that. And I extended no reciprocal invitation, no matter how impolite that might be.

Drake and Bruno shook hands all around. Kim came to give me one last hug. “Thanks,” she whispered. “Thanks for holding on to me. I’m glad I didn’t jump. I must have been crazy.” Her face was red.

“We all get crazy sometimes.” I wrote down my address for her. “Listen, let me know how it goes. I’m curious how Don feels about his new relatives.”

She promised she would, and then we left. I was ready for bed. Especially if it was Drake’s bed.

Chapter 23

It had been a long day of skiing, and I was tired. The snow was soft and wet, typical of March. I had never skied before, but Drake had persuaded me to go away with him for a long weekend at Lake Tahoe, and since I knew he needed a vacation after a couple of intense cases, I had agreed.

“You did very well for someone who’s rusty,” he said, only slightly condescending.

“Rusty, hell. I’ve never been on skis before in my life.” I stretched my feet to the fire he’d built in the fireplace. The little log cabin he’d rented had won my heart when he’d pulled up in front of it the previous evening. It was near the Homewood ski area, amongst other cabins scattered under the snow-laden branches of tall sugar pines.

I had driven through Truckee on I-80, but never gotten into Tahoe. The beauty of the lake was overwhelming, and the quaint, alpine ambiance had an undeniable appeal. Despite being a Colorado girl, I had never been able to afford trips to the mountains in the winter. Skiing was expensive, and my family was poor. I had been horrified at the amount Drake had shelled out that day for lift tickets, ski rentals, and snacks in the lodge.

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” He stretched out beside me on the couch. “The way you took those turns, I could swear you knew what you were doing.”

“I listened to the instructor this morning. That’s all.”

“And you’re short,” he said, pulling me closer to him on the couch. “That helps.”

We watched the flames contentedly, and then I went to the kitchen to make hot chocolate with a tot of brandy in it, according to Drake’s instructions. He flipped lazily through the TV channels.

“Hey,” he called. “Here’s your friend.”

I lowered the heat on the pan of milk and went to see what he was talking about. On the screen, Hannah Couch was showing how to pipe filling into deviled eggs.

“Thank goodness someone else has to be at her beck and call.” I lingered, listening to the autocratic way she explained the only method worth using.

“Didn’t she give you some money or something?”

“Yeah.” She’d sent me a check, quite a generous one, to make up for any loss of income, the card had said. I thought of donating it to some worthy cause. In the end, I bought my vagrant pal Old Mackie some warm socks, and passed a chunk along to the Urban Ministry, but I kept the rest. My property taxes are a pretty worthy cause too.

“She’s a piece of work, all right.” Drake sniffed. “Is that milk boiling?”

He went into the kitchen to see to the hot chocolate—I had known he would at some point, because he cares about making it the right way, like Hannah cares about that, and as far as cooking goes, I don’t care.

I stayed in front of the TV, watching Hannah arrange the deviled eggs on a special plate she had decorated herself (and you could too). I was about to change the channel when she went over to some windows and gestured gracefully at the curtains.

“A fun idea,” she said, smiling at the camera with animation, “is to use old tablecloths to make curtains for your kitchen windows. The bright colors and patterns of vintage linens really complement a kitchen with collectibles in it. I like to display my salt cellars and old tin match holders.”

I couldn’t help myself. I started laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Drake called over the counter that separated the tiny kitchen from the small living room.

“Nothing. Nothing, really. Turns out I earned that check Hannah sent.”

“Every penny.” He brought in the cups. Hot chocolate was good with brandy in it.

“You know,” Drake said, turning off the TV, “they have wedding chapels in South Lake Tahoe.”

“Is that so?” I waited for the familiar internal alarms to go off, but they didn’t. Maybe because I was so pleasantly tired. Maybe because of the brandy.

“Yep. You can get married in half an hour. No muss, no fuss.”

“No friends, no family.” I met his smiling eyes. “That has a lot of appeal.”

He stilled. “You mean, you’d actually consider—”

I took his face between my palms and kissed him. “Not this trip, mate. I need some time to really get used to the idea. But maybe next time, I’ll ask you to Tahoe. And I’ll bring along some rice.”

* * * *

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’d like to thank Kathy Goldmark for giving me a glimpse of the media escort’s world. Any inaccuracies are mine, either outright mistakes or plot exigencies. I’d also like to thank Phyllis Malpas, toxicologist and vet, for her knowledgeable assistance. All characters herein are fictional and bear no resemblance to any real person, living or dead.

* * * *

I raise my wineglass to three fine women, wonderful traveling companions, and excellent mystery writers: Jonnie Jacobs, Lee Harris, and Valerie Wolzien, aka Nuns, Mothers and Others.

Copyright © 2000 by Lora Roberts Smith

Originally published by Balantine Books as a Fawcett Book

Electronically published in 2003 by Belgrave House

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.