The Old Deep and Dark (9 page)

“But you had a lock on your locker.”

“A combination lock. His locker was right next to mine. I'm sure he saw me dial the numbers a bunch of times.”

“So you brought a gun to school. You were going to shoot him.”

Booker willed himself to stay calm. “That was never my intent. I just wanted to scare the shit out of him. In the book—Dad never said I tried to kill him.”

Archibald swirled the wine around in his glass. “You see how problematic these things become when only part of the story gets told? I think it's a fait accompli that if Jordan somehow gets that novel published, people will trace it back to him. When a man is willingly blind, there's nothing you can say to change his mind, no way to get him to see reason.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his suit coat pocket and looked around for a book of matches. “I could strangle him for what he plans to do to Kit—and to you and Chloe. I could really do it. I'm not kidding.”

Booker couldn't imagine Archibald, with his pale, intellectual softness, ever following through on a threat like that.

“Get in line,” said Beverly, her chin quivering.

Booker's cell phone rumbled in the pocket of his robe. Pulling it out, he saw that it was a text from Chloe.

Come to my room NOW.

Offering Archibald and Beverly a hard look, he took off down the hall. Reaching Chloe's door, he knocked.

“It's open,” she called.

He found her on her stomach, lying on the carpet next to the bed, chin resting on her balled-up fists. Unlike the baggy sweater she'd been wearing last night, the shimmery black workout suit she had on today allowed him to see how truly thin she'd become. The sight of her shook him. “You okay?”

“This is like water torture,” she said, wiping more tears off her cheeks. “You read the manuscript last night, right?”

He nodded.

“Now you know.”

He sat down on the bed. “What should we do?”

“What can we do?”

She twisted into a sitting position, drawing her legs up to her body. “There's something I haven't told you,” she said, brushing her bangs off her forehead. “There's a guy.”

“There's always a guy.” If there was one thing his sister never lacked, it was male attention.

“This time it's serious.”

“You're saying you love him?”

“More than anything on this earth.”

“That's incredible news.”

“I met him last year at a fund-raiser. His name is Hector Diaz. He's an ADA in L.A. He's so beautiful, Booker. He's funny and decent. And he's ambitious. He wants to spend a few more years in the district attorney's office, then move into politics.”

It stunned him that he knew so little about Chloe's life.

“But Booker, there's more. I've always known that if something is terrible, it's also wonderful. You know?”

“Not really.”

“I'm just beginning to see that the reverse is true. If something's wonderful, it's also terrible. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

“Umm—”

“I love Hector so much, but that love also means my life is no longer just about me. If I marry him and all this crap comes out, what happens then? If he's running for office and he's married to Jordan and Kit Deere's crazy daughter, with all the bad publicity it will generate, he might as well quit right now.”

“How ambitious is he?”

“You mean, if it came down to it, would he chose me or his political career? I hope it would be me, but I can't say that for sure. And I can't risk losing him. I
can't.
” With her eyes wide, wet, and brimming, she said, “I don't know what I'd do if he called it quits. That's why we've got to stop Dad from publishing that piece of trash. That's all I've been thinking about for days. We
have
to stop him.”

Booker got up and walked over to the window to give himself a moment to think. Outside the summerhouse, the world looked serene as a purple dusk settled over the lake. Inside his head, Booker's thoughts were like sharp needles scribbling on his brain.

“Listen to me,” he said, turning to face her. “Your copy of Dad's book. Did you burn the whole thing?”

“Every last page.”

His copy was back in his room. “I need you to do something for me. Run out to the boathouse and tell Tommy to give you his copy. Then come and ask Archie and Beverly for theirs.”

“And then what?”

“Build another bonfire.”

She looked momentarily buoyed.

“Do you know how many people he sent it to?”

“The night I arrived, he gave me his word that nobody but family had seen it.”

“So that's six copies, seven if we include his.” Booker headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Dad's study. I'll tear that room apart until I'm positive I've found every last manuscript and backup. And then I'm going to detonate his Dropbox account and his computer.”

“There's always a way to retrieve computer data.”

“Not if you remove the hard drive.”

“And then what?” asked Chloe.

With his hand on the doorknob, Booker said, “Then we wait. When Dad gets home tonight, we need to be there to watch his reaction. We have to determine if he's got another manuscript stashed somewhere else. If he doesn't, then we're home free.”

“If he does?”

“Then, between now and then, we better come up with an ironclad plan B.”

 

11

Archibald arrived at the lake house the next morning just as two uniformed police officers and a chaplain were coming out the front door. He waited for them by his car, asked what was going on. One of the officers replied that Jordan Deere was dead.

Archibald backed up. “Dead?” Removing his glasses, he tried to swallow. “Was it … a heart attack?”

“A homicide,” said the officer. “He was out jogging in Bayview Park. Someone shot him.”

“Today? This morning?”

“That's right.”

“Was it a robbery?”

“His wallet, rings, and watch were still on him. You a friend?”

He nodded. “Close friend.”

“We've explained as much as we know to the family.” The cop motioned toward the house.

Archibald called a thank-you over his shoulder as he rushed to the front door. He had to get to Kit. Inside, he found her half lying, half sitting on a couch in the living room. She looked deathly pale, her hands knotted together across her stomach. Beverly, thankfully, had gone to get the brandy. Booker, Chloe, and Tommy stood looking down at her, all grim faced, stunned into silence.

Archibald wanted more than anything to be a source of strength and support. “I talked to the police briefly on my way in,” he said. “They told me.”

Kit looked up at him, extended her hand. “I'm glad you're here.”

“Are you okay?” It was a stupid question, one he regretted as soon as he'd said it. Of course she wasn't okay.

After handing Kit a small glass of brandy, Beverly sat down on the edge of the white leather couch next to her. “I'm so sorry,” she said. “What can I do? Just tell me and I'll do it.”

Kit sipped from the glass and stared straight ahead.

Chloe lowered herself to the edge of a chair across the room, covering her face with her hands, sobbing softly. Booker moved to the piano bench. Tommy couldn't seem to move at all. He remained absolutely still, arms at his side, eyes fixed on a painting of a sailboat above the mantel.

After a few tense, silent minutes, the brandy seemed to steady Kit and she sat up. “I can't believe … he's gone,” she whispered, pressing her fingertips to her temple. “It's too much. How is it even possible?”

Chloe began to weep more loudly.

“Oh, honey,” said Kit, her expression softening. “Come over here and sit by me.”

Chloe gave her head a stiff shake.

Looking up at Archibald, Beverly said, “The detective who's been put in charge will be here any minute. He should have more information.”

Kit's eyes widened.

“Don't try to stand,” said Archibald, attempting to stop her from getting up.

“No,” she said, forcing his hands away. “We don't have much time.”

She moved unsteadily over to the French doors that led out to the terrace. “We have to talk about this. Please, all of you, listen to me.” She paced back and forth across the carpet as Archibald sank down on the couch, watching a transformation occur. In a matter of moments she'd turned from a grieving widow and concerned mother into a general lining up her troops.

“We have to present a united front.
No
deviations allowed, do you hear me? We can't tell the police everything we know. Do I have to spell it out? You all understand why?”

Everyone nodded.

She ran through the story they would tell, hitting every major point several times, stressing that each of them, with the exception of Archibald, had been home all morning. Nobody should offer any information unless a direct question was put to them. “Beverly, go call Ray Lawless. Tell him what happened, that we need him here right away.”

Beverly left the room.

“I have no idea if this investigator will want to question us when he gets here. If we are questioned, stay on point. And if you feel you're getting into trouble, Ray Lawless will be around to shut the questioning down.” She met each person's eyes. “Jordan is dead. We all loved him and we will mourn him. But right now,
we're
fighting for our lives, you understand that, right? Our futures? In searching for the person who took Jordan's life, the police will, of necessity, seek answers from his family. We want to be seen as open and honest. We can't give them everything we know, but, in every way we can, we will help them. Are we clear?”

More nods.

“We have to manage this with great care. We can't afford to let matters get away from us.”

When Beverly returned with a steno pad, Kit began issuing orders. “Call Morrison in Nashville. I want him to handle the press on his end. Tell him to figure out some way to divert all our landline calls from this house to his office. From now on, we use only our cell phones.” She stopped, a tentative hand rising to her forehead. “We'll need to put out a statement. That should come first.”

“But we don't really know much,” said Beverly, her pen poised above the page.

Archibald assumed that, if the police got a search warrant for the house, one look at Jordan's shell of a laptop and they would smell a rat. From that point on, everyone in the family, and that included Archibald, Beverly, and Tommy, would be under suspicion. Kit could try to manage the situation all she wanted, but she had to know how easily it could spin out of control.

“Call Chuck Rios,” continued Kit. “Have him write the statement. But tell him to run it past me before it's released. Call Buckminster at the record label. They'll want to put out a statement, too. Give them what we can. Someone needs to call the band members and his producer. Oh, and Garth Brooks and Alan Jackson. They should hear it from us, not CNN. And I want someone on the front gate twenty-four-seven. Is that clear? That gate will be locked at all times from here on out. Have Hughes come see me. We need to beef up our security.”

“You mustn't be frightened,” said Archibald, trying his best to sound reassuring. “Extra security is a good idea, but there's nobody out there who wants to hurt you or the kids.”

“I'm not concerned about that,” said Kit dismissively. “I'm concerned about paparazzi falling out of trees to take photos of us.”

“What about … a funeral?” asked Chloe, biting at her trembling lower lip. “Seems like that should be our first priority.”

“I better make more coffee,” said Beverly, though she didn't move.

Everyone, with the exception of Kit, seemed shell-shocked.

People reacted in different ways to the death of a loved one, thought Archibald. Kit might not show her sadness the way Chloe did, especially when she thought she needed to take charge, to be the strong one for her children, but Archibald understood that when the spotlight was off, when the police had come and gone, when Kit was alone with her thoughts, the emotion she'd hidden out of necessity would all come rushing out. And once again, Archibald's deepest hope was that he could find a way to help. He would do anything and everything in his power to keep her safe.

*   *   *

Jane needed coffee. After her father, Cordelia, and Kit had left her restaurant last night, she'd stayed up late working in her office, not returning home until shortly before two.

Stumbling out of bed just after eight, she padded downstairs, her two dogs trailing after her. In a sleepy haze, she found fresh coffee beans and ground them, dumped them into the coffeemaker, poured in the water, then let the dogs outside. It was a beautiful, chilly autumn morning. She thought about going for a run with her lab, Mouse, but simply didn't have the energy. Gimlet, a curly-haired black poodle, didn't entirely understand the concept of proceeding in a straight line. She also happened to think sniffing was the point of every outing, which was why Jane left her home and only took Mouse when she ran. Jane adored Mouse. Mouse adored Gimlet. Gimlet adored everyone. They were an adoring family.

While the dogs roamed around in the backyard, she returned to the second floor to shower and dress. Sundays were her day off—if she took a day off, which was rare. The restaurant served a buffet brunch, straightforward service and rarely problematic. She'd glanced through the reservation log last night and saw that they were full up from eleven until three.

Since she didn't have to dress in business drag today, she slipped into a pair of soft gray cords and found a black cotton turtleneck in her dresser drawer, which she tucked into her slacks. She piled her long chestnut hair, still wet from the shower, on top of her head and secured it with several bobby pins. Socks and boots came next.