Sandra Brown - Smoke Screen

George ignored the look, and his tongue could turn to stone before he would apologize for being not only on time but ahead of schedule.

Les, who lived barely a mile away on a similar estate, had pre-arranged to pick George up at promptly seven fifteen, so they could be at the country club by seven thirty and teeing off by seven forty-five. As he ruthlessly pushed the Vette’s stick through the gears, he asked, “Did you bring the plans?”

“Right here.” George wondered what the son of a bitch thought he had in the briefcase he’d brought with him if not the architectural plans for the new municipal athletic complex. Today they were meeting with city planners to officially bid on the job of building it. If Conway Construction was awarded the contract, Les’s pocketbook would be considerably fattened.

This wasn’t the first time his father-in-law had used George’s celebrity, as well as his contacts in city hall, to help him land a lucrative contract. In the four years that George and Miranda had been married, there had been many such contracts. But you would never hear Les, or Miranda, giving George credit for the company’s growth. He’d stopped expecting even a nod of appreciation or gratitude from either of them.

“Let them win,” Les said.

George nodded. When Les’s business negotiations began with a round of golf, it was standard practice for him to let his opponents win. Otherwise, he played a cutthroat game.

George had been an athlete in high school and college, participating in nearly every sport. He didn’t take up golf until he was well into his twenties, but he rarely shot above a seventy-eight. Hitting with power, accuracy, and finesse came naturally to him. It galled Les that, even when he cheated, George could always beat him.

“Just don’t make it obvious that you’re losing on purpose.” He gave George a glance, then looked at his own reflection in the rearview mirror. Like father, like daughter. They never met a mirror they didn’t like.

“I won’t.” George felt like a child, being driven to school and given his marching orders for the day.

“How’s my girl this morning?”

“Still asleep when I left.”

Les laughed. “She likes her beauty sleep.”

“She certainly does.”

“Did you hear?”

“Hear what?” George asked distractedly. He was staring at the scenery on his side of the car, catching a glimpse of the Ashley River now and then. The scent of salt water was in the air this morning.

“The police got the autopsy report on your late buddy Jay.”

George whipped his head around.

His father-in-law smirked, then laughed out loud. “I thought that would get your attention.”

“Well? What was in the report?” George hated asking, but he had to know even if he had to beg the son of a bitch for the information.

Les took his sweet time. He readjusted his sunglasses and gave the mirror another glance before answering. “It concluded that Burgess didn’t die of natural causes or anything relating to his cancer.”

The Vette took the turn into the country club parking lot on two wheels and screeched to a halt in the parking space Les paid monthly rent for. As soon as he yanked his keys from the ignition, he turned to George. Now that he no longer found humor in the situation, the smirk, the laugh, were gone. “I don’t think I need to tell you, George, that a fuckup here would be catastrophic.”

“I know what to do. Play well enough, but let them win.”

Les removed his sunglasses and gave him a hard look. “I wasn’t talking about the golf game.”

On that ominous note, his father-in-law got out and slammed the door so hard the car rocked. George alighted and followed him into the clubhouse. Les actually held the door for him, saying as George went past, “It’s important for these guys to think we’re doing them a favor, not vice versa. So, just to set the tone, be a minute or two late to the tee.”

George nodded, glad of that plan. He was going to need an extra minute or two at his locker, where he kept a flask. He had to have a drink or he’d never be able to grip a golf club. Not the way his hands were shaking.

BRITT PRACTICALLY POUNCED ON DELNO. “WHAT ABOUT THE autopsy?”

Raley braced himself. He figured Britt would probably need bracing, too, so he went to stand near her where she had squared off with Delno.

“They said-”

“Who? Who said?”

“The men on the TV.” Looking beyond her at Raley, Delno said, “Have you gone plumb crazy, kidnapping her?”

“Reporters?”

“Huh?” Delno’s eyes shifted back to Britt. “Yeah, reporters. Them and the cop they was talking to.” Then back to Raley. “What the hell do you expect to gain by-”

“What did he say? The cop.”

Delno was losing patience with her interruptions. “He said that, accordin’ to the autopsy, Jay Burgess died of suffocation.”

She fell back a step. “Suffocation?”

“Smothered-like. With a pillow over his face.”

She stared at Delno with disbelief. “That’s impossible.”

“I ain’t lyin’, lady. That’s what the fella said.”

For several seconds nobody moved, then Britt flew into action as though she’d been jabbed with an electric prod. “Where’s your phone?” Without waiting for Raley to answer, she went tearing around the cabin, knocking a stack of books off a table, scattering a deck of playing cards, flinging aside anything her hands landed on as she searched for a telephone.

“I don’t have a phone,” he said.

“A cell then. You’re bound to have a cell phone.”

“No. And I purposefully left yours behind.”

“A TV. Radio.”

“None of the above. Britt, calm down.”

She rounded on him, her eyes wild, arms held rigid at her sides. “Who doesn’t have a telephone?”

“I don’t,” he shouted back.

She gaped at him as though he’d just arrived from another planet, then she headed for the door. “I’ll take your truck. Are the keys in it?”

She made it through the screen door, over the mound of dogs, and down the steep steps before he caught up with her. He grabbed at her windbreaker. That broke her stride but didn’t stop her. She pulled her arms free, leaving him with nothing but a fistful of synthetic fabric.

She was rounding the truck bed when he managed to hook her elbow and jerk her to a stop. “Will you wait a damn minute?”

“Let go of me!”

“Not yet. Not until you tell me what you plan to do.”

“What do you think? Go back. Deny it. Tell them I had nothing to do with Jay’s dying. Tell them I don’t remember what happened that night, but I would certainly remember killing him. Holding a pillow over his face? My God!” She pulled her arm from Raley’s grasp and put her hands to the sides of her head, grabbing handfuls of her hair.

“You already told them you’d lost your memory. They didn’t believe you.”

“Still don’t.” This from Delno, who’d come out behind them, following the action as though they were staging it for his entertainment. “They’re looking for you,” he said, addressing Britt. “Said a warrant had been issued. They went to your place. Said it looked to them like you’d runned off to avoid arrest.” He grinned at Raley, showing his dental stubs. “Reckon they didn’t figure on her being kidnapped.”

“I’ll make them believe me.” Britt spun away and headed for the cab of the truck.

Raley reached out and caught her arm again, bringing her around. “How? How, Britt? You were there, with Jay, all night.”

“Yes, but there’s no solid evidence against me.”

“They got the pillow,” Delno said.

That statement arrested her attempt to get free from Raley’s grip. She stared at Delno, then looked up at Raley. “How could I have smothered a man and then calmly gone to sleep beside him?”