P. Parrish - The Little Death

Poor, sad Tink .

But sometimes sacrifices had to be made.

Carolyn gathered up the last of her makeup, put it into its bag, rose slowly, and went to the bed. The Vuitton train case was open and she put in her makeup tote and snapped the case shut.

She went back to the dressing table and picked up the crystal bottle of perfume. She pulled off the stopper, closed her eyes, and took a drink. She opened her eyes and wiped the scotch from her lips. She put the stopper back and carefully set the bottle back in its place on the dressing table.

All she to do was act normal and just get away. That was all. Get away and hope that when Tucker realized his gun was missing, he would blame it on the servants, fire someone, and go back to just leaving her alone.

“Senator?”

She looked up. Greg stood at the door. The sight of him was strangely reassuring. His trips back and forth to the car with luggage had kicked up the cowlick in his hair.

“Your schedule is clear today for travel,” he said.

She nodded as she pulled on her suit jacket.

“Tomorrow, you have a ski lesson at ten, your sons arrive at noon, you have a phone meet at two P.M. with Governor Martinez, and then Mr. Denver’s cocktail party at eight.”

“Yes, thank you,” she said. “You can take that case now, please.”

Greg closed his appointment book and crossed the bedroom to pick up the case. But he seemed in no hurry to take it downstairs.

“Is there something else?” Carolyn asked.

“I just wanted you to know,” he said softly, “that I reserved an hour for us tonight at eleven.”

She turned to him slowly. “Excuse me?”

“Just one hour, Carolyn.” Greg gave her a small smile and walked out of the bedroom.

What had he meant-one hour? And why had he called her Carolyn?

The little bastard. How dare he make any assumptions?

She turned and looked to the perfume bottle, but she didn’t reach or it.

The hell with him.

Once she got away, away to the clean snow and air of Aspen, she could forget all this, get the drinking under control, get back to Washington, get her life back under control.

Voices… outside.

She went to the French doors and looked out but there was no one there except the pool boy skimming leaves.

Greg. It was Greg and another voice she didn’t recognize, coming from the front of the house. She went to the other window, which looked down on the driveway.

Through the palm fronds, she could just see the back of the Bentley. The trunk was open, several Vuitton bags still sitting out on the bricks. Then she caught a glimpse of Greg’s red hair in the sun, but she couldn’t see whom he was talking to.

Then the other person moved into her view.

It was the black private eye. He was talking to Greg, and Greg was shaking his head, holding up his hands.

Suddenly, the black man looked up, right at her window. He was wearing sunglasses so she couldn’t see his eyes, but she knew he had seen her. Greg looked up, too. Her heart began to hammer and she pulled in a deep breath. She couldn’t trust Greg; she had to go down there and take control.

Louis heard the front door open and looked beyond Greg’s shoulder.

“Looks like your boss has better manners than you do, Greg,” Louis said.

Greg spun toward the house just as Carolyn emerged. She came down the driveway to stand beside him at the back of the Bentley.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Your assistant here tells me you’re leaving,” Louis said.

“Yes, we always go to our home in Aspen for Christmas. It’s a family tradition.”

“So you’re not hanging around for the funeral today?” Louis asked.

“Funeral?”

“Tink Lyons.”

Carolyn didn’t blink. “I’m sure all her friends will be there.”

Greg edged closer to Carolyn’s side. “We have to get going, Senator, if you want to make your flight.”

Louis took off his sunglasses and stared at the guy, but Greg wouldn’t look him in the eye.

“I just got back from the hospital,” Louis said. “You were there, weren’t you, Greg?”

Greg stayed silent, but a flush of red began to creep up his neck. Carolyn’s face, Louis noted, remained a perfect mask, and for a second he felt a begrudging kind of respect. He had seen a lot of liars in his job, but she had it down to an art. A quote-some long-lost fragment from the Bible school his foster mother Francis had made him attend-flashed into his head. Something about liars and murderers having to suffer a second death.

“I left my briefcase in my office, Greg,” Carolyn said. “Go get it, please.”

Greg gave Louis a final look, then walked back to the house. He paused at the front door, watching them.

“He’s such a good little puppy,” Louis said.

“What do you want?” Carolyn asked.

“I know you were out there,” Louis said.

“Out where?”

“The cow pen.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Your prints were in her Bronco.”

“Whose Bronco?”

“Sam Norris’s.”

Carolyn didn’t blink. “I’ve been in her car many times. We were good friends.”

“No, you weren’t.”

Louis looked to the front door of the mansion. Greg was still there. He looked back at Carolyn.

“What’d you do with the gun, senator?”

“Gun?”

“The one you used to shoot Tink.”

Carolyn was silent.

“The one you probably were going to use to kill Sam.”

“I really have to go.”

“The bullet they scraped out of Tink’s head,” Louis said. “It was nine millimeter, a German antique. Doesn’t your husband have a thing for Nazi stuff?”

Carolyn stared at him. “You can’t prove anything,” she said.

“And you can’t control everything, senator.”

She turned away.

“Bianca Lee? You got her under control?”

Carolyn started toward the door.

“You got your husband under control, senator?”

She kept walking.

“What about Greg, senator? You got him under control, too?”

Greg was standing there at the open door, staring at Louis.

“What about Byrne Kavanagh?” Louis yelled. “How much did you pay him? And how long before he comes back asking for more? You got him under control, senator?”

Carolyn turned, and to his surprise, came down the driveway and stood in front of him.

“I think you should go now,” she said. “I think you should get off our island and leave us all alone.”

A blur of movement at an upstairs window caught his eye. Tucker was up there, looking down at them.

“Oh, I’m going home, all right,” Louis said. “I can’t wait to get out of here. But I’m not going to forget what you did. I can link you to Mark Durand through your husband’s sword. And I promise you, senator, I will find a way to link you to that German gun if I have to visit every antique dealer in this state.”

She tipped up her chin. Her expression held the same smugness he had seen on almost every face he had encountered in this place.

He leaned toward her, finger raised. “And you can tell your little puppy over there that I’m going to watch him, too. Everywhere he goes, everything he does, I’ll be watching. I’m guessing he knows exactly what happened last night, which makes him an accessory to murder. I’m also guessing that someday he’s going to get tired of you and your games and decide you’re not worth protecting anymore.”

Carolyn had gone pale. “Get out of here before I call the police and have you thrown off the island.”

“With pleasure, lady,” Louis said.

He put on his sunglasses and walked down the driveway to the Mustang.