High Country Fall

Tina looked at her blankly.

“I ordered some CDs from them, and with all the stuff about Dad and Carla, I forgot till just now. I checked it out on the computer, and according to the tracking number, it came the day Dad died. Have you seen it?”

Tina tried to focus. “CDs? UPS?”

“Oh shit!” Disgust and despair filled Trish’s young voice as she turned away.

“No, wait!” Tina said. “There were some packages and stuff by the deck door that day. I thought they were all for your dad and I put them on the desk in his study.”

If Trish heard, she didn’t respond, just kept going, the little dog at her heels.

Tina turned back to the television. Something else that was going to need cleaning out before they could move. Carl’s study. Where he holed up every night after dinner before coming up to bed. Not her bed, the bed in the room next to this one, through that connecting door.

Only they hadn’t connected in—how long was it?

He’d blamed the vodka for his lack of interest, but they both knew it was his lack of interest that caused her to turn to vodka.

She lifted the skirt of the table next to her lounge chair and reached for the bottle hidden there.

CHAPTER 22

I was rooting around in the refrigerator and not finding much of interest when the phone rang. To my surprise, it was Lucius Burke, who had left the Ashe home shortly before Underwood and me.

“Look,” he said, “I know you’re just ten minutes in front of a preacher away from being a married lady, but I’m down here at the Mountain Laurel and they’re running a special on grilled brook trout and we both have to eat supper, right? And since I’m not arguing any cases before you the rest of the week and I do have a couple of questions about last night, why don’t you come join me?”

I laughed. Not the most subtle invitation I’d ever had, but I love fish of any description and shared meals are always more fun than solitary sandwiches. And it was obvious that Dwight didn’t give a damn about me or how I might be spending my evenings. Out of sight, out of mind.

“Order me a Bloody Mary, not too spicy, and I’ll be there in five minutes,” I told him.

According to the back of its menu, the Mountain Laurel Restaurant on Main Street began life as a summer residence for a robber baron’s granddaughter. Built in the Queen Anne style so popular in the late 1800s, it dripped enough lacy gingerbread from every eave and angle to give a house painter nightmares and stop tourists dead in their tracks with dreams of romantic mountain summers spent lazing in one of the many wicker swings and rockers that dotted the wide wraparound porch.

Inside, most of the downstairs walls had been removed to create an airy open space. Instead of being tricked out like some Victorian fantasy, however, the dining room was almost plain, softened by the pale pink cloths that covered the sensible square tables and by baskets of ferns that hung in front of illuminated stained-glass windows. A few restrained botanical prints hung on the walls.

Here at seven-thirty, all the tables were taken and several people without reservations waited out on the porch even though the night air was cool enough for fall jackets.

The hostess led me to Lucius Burke’s table, and as I approached he stood and held my chair for me. A Bloody Mary awaited in a tall and elegant glass.

“Nice,” I said.

“The restaurant, the drink, or the prospect of dinner?”

His green eyes twinkled in the glow of the tiny lamp on the tabletop between us.

“Everything. I’m glad you called me.”

When I looked around the room, I saw that most of the men wore jackets and ties, although a few bold ones like Lucius wore crewneck sweaters under their jackets. The women were sleek in boiled wool Chanel-type suits and chunky gold or silver necklaces with matching earrings. I took a discreet glance at the prices on the right side of the menu and realized that this place catered to the wealthy seasonal people, not budget-minded day-trippers. Except for the waitresses, there couldn’t have been more than three other women under the age of forty in the restaurant.

Except for the waitresses?

Too late I remembered that the twins worked here, and, sure enough, there was June, deftly distributing plates to a table of six at the far side of the room. With a little luck—

“Did you wish a few more minutes to look over the menu?” inquired a familiar voice from behind me, and I looked up to meet May’s startled eyes. “Deborah?”

“Hey, May,” I said. “You know Mr. Burke, don’t you? Lucius, this is my cousin May Pittman. Her parents own the condo I’m using this week.”

Before they could do more than murmur polite acknowledgments, I said, “Lucius says you have a grilled trout special? That sounds good to me.”

Barely hiding her disapproval, May took our orders and flounced away.

“She didn’t even ask what kind of dressing I want on my salad,” I said.

He smiled. “Does she think you’re cheating on your deputy?”

“Probably.” I sipped my Bloody Mary. It was perfectly seasoned. “You said you had questions about last night?”

“One of Sheriff Horton’s detectives may ask you about this tomorrow. We were wondering about your relationship with Norman Osborne?”