Нора Робертс - Hideaway

“The report said his death’s been ruled a homicide, and that she was being questioned. I don’t have much more than that.”

“Daddy.” She gripped his hands. “I understand neither of us really know her anymore, if we ever did. But do you think she’s capable?”

“Yes.”

No hesitation, she thought, and closed her eyes. “So do I. All that money, and she probably didn’t expect him to live so long. Just give him a little nudge—can’t you hear her think it—what’s the real harm? Or do we think that because of what she did to us?”

“I don’t know, baby, but it’s for the police to figure out. I didn’t want you to get blindsided.”

She reached for the bracelet she hadn’t put on, so just closed her hand around her wrist. “They’ve already rolled back to the kidnapping, haven’t they?”

“Yeah, and it’s going to get a lot more play.”

“I don’t care anymore. God, yes, I do. For what it does to you, Grandpa, G-Lil. How it’ll upset Dillon and his family. Tell me the truth, straight, Dad. Should I make a statement?”

“Let’s see where it all goes. She could be cleared, and quickly.”

“She could be cleared,” Cate agreed. “But having a second scandal like this? It’s never going to go completely away. She’ll know what that’s like now,” Cate said quietly. “If she’s innocent, she’ll know what it’s like now to be hounded by something beyond her control.”

Charlotte wanted to be angry, to be furious, but rage couldn’t cut through the ice pack of fear.

They’d questioned her. True, this time she had a fleet of lawyers, the best money could buy, but they’d shot her right back to that horrible day after Caitlyn’s incessant whining, to an interrogation room, to police accusing her of horrible things.

Her lawyers had done most of the talking, had called for a break when she’d dissolved in tears. Real ones, too. Not grief tears, but fear tears.

Wishing Conrad would just die didn’t make her guilty of anything. She’d given him the best years of her life. She’d been a faithful and dutiful wife—there’d been billions riding on it.

Why, she hadn’t even been at the table when he’d collapsed, but onstage, basking in the lights, making her selfless speech.

Hadn’t she rushed to his side—after only the briefest of hesitations? Annoyed, justifiably, that he’d chosen that moment to take the spotlight away. But she’d rushed to him.

She hadn’t expected him to die in her arms.

But, Christ, what a moment, she thought as she lay in bed, a cool eye pack over her aching eyes.

Thank God some of the press there had captured that moment. She could play off that for years.

But first, she had to get through this nightmare. The press again, crowding around, tossing questions, taking pictures as her lawyers and bodyguards surrounded her, pushed through them to get her inside her limo.

The way people looked at her, the way the reports added just that horrible touch of speculation and suspicion. They didn’t care how she suffered.

She needed to order some new black suits, and a hat, with a veil. Absolutely needed a veil to showcase the grieving widow.

She would grieve—she’d show them! Once this horror passed, she’d give a memorial worthy of royalty—and she’d be the queen.

No self-tanner, no bronzer for at least two months to lend that pale, stricken look. She’d spend some time in seclusion, maybe traveling to their—her—various properties around the world.

Remembering the happier times with the only man she’d ever loved. Yes, she could sell that.

But she had to get through the horrible first. Then demand the police apologize for putting her through such trauma while she was mired in shock and grief.

She’d make them pay for it. And in private, she’d raise a glass to whoever the hell decided Conrad had lived long enough.

In her white dress, Cate carried her casserole into the Cooper kitchen.

Outside, smokers smoked, grills stood at the ready, dozens of picnic tables lined up. Inside, as she’d expected, Dillon’s ladies prepared a banquet of sides.

“I knew you wouldn’t need it, but I wanted to bring something.” She hunted up space on a counter for her dish. “And get here early enough to, well, get in on some of the action.”

“Grab an apron,” Maggie advised, “or that white dress’ll look like a drop cloth after the ceiling’s painted.”

Julia walked to her while Cate tied one on, cupped her face. “How are you?”

“I don’t know what to think about it, about her, about any of it. So I decided not to.”

“That’s a good plan. It’s a pretty day, and we’ve got enough food for a couple of armies. Maybe you could finish making that gallon of salsa. I’ve heard you’ve got a knack.”

“Happy to. Dillon? Red?”

“Likely icing down the beer and wine and soft drinks,” Maggie told her. “They gotta set up the horseshoe pit, and we usually have a bocce game going, pony rides for the kids. We’ll have some dancing, too. A lot of musicians in the crowd. Whenever Lily and Hugh make it, they have to sing for their supper.”

“I love hearing them.”

“You’ll have to get up there, too.”

“Oh, I don’t really sing.” Cate glanced up from her chopping. “Other than voice-overs.”

“What’s the difference? Anyway, it’s a kick-ass party, with good food, good people, music.”

After an hour in the kitchen Cate accepted the reality. She would forever be an occasional cook. She watched Julia season a serious vat of baked beans while Maggie checked more items off the two pages on a clipboard.

“You know, caterers and party planners make good livings doing what the two of you are doing for fun.”

Julia slid the beans into the oven. “If I had to do this for a living, I’d run away to Fiji and live on the beach. But once a year? It is fun. How’re we doing, Mom?”

“Right on target. Time for party duds.”

“I’ll go see if I can help with anything outside.”

When she stepped out, she smelled grass and herbs, horses and sea breezes. The dogs bolted toward her from whatever business they’d been about.

Bottles of beer speared through ice inside huge galvanized tubs. Apparently a wheelbarrow had been enlisted to hold bottles of wine, and another for soft drinks.

A couple of hands kept busy stringing up party lights. In the distance came the rhythmic sound of metal striking metal and someone singing—slightly off-key—Tom Petty’s “I Won’t Back Down.”

She let the dogs herd her toward the near paddock where Dillon patiently brushed out the mane of one of the two spotted ponies munching on a hay net.

He wore jeans—with a hoof pick in the back pocket—a chambray shirt rolled up to the elbow, a gray, rolled-brimmed hat, and well-worn boots.

She thought: Yum.

He paused, scratching the pony between the ears as he watched her approach. “Now, there’s a sight.”

She did a stylish turn. “Good for a summer barbecue at the ranch?”

“Good anytime, anywhere.” He held up his hands. “I’ve been sprucing up these two, so I don’t want to put my hands on you.”

“That’s okay. I’ll put mine on you.” She reached over the fence, gripped his shirt, tugged him over to kiss. “I didn’t know you had ponies.”

“We don’t. We bring a couple in for this, take shifts leading the little guys around on them.”

“They have sweet eyes.” Cate reached out to stroke a cheek.

“They’ll be bored brainless by the end of the day, but they know their job.”

He gave the pony a pat on the flank before swinging over the fence. “You doing okay?”

“I just spent an hour in the kitchen with two women who leave my culinary and organizational skills in the dust, but otherwise, yes.”