Kiss of the Bees

Diana raised her hand and beckoned to the guard. “I think we’re through here,” she said.

The guard glanced at his watch. “There’s still plenty of time,” he said. “Would you like to see your stepson, then?”

“Yes, please,” Diana said.

Ten minutes after Andrew Carlisle was led from the room, the guard returned with Quentin Walker in tow.

“Oh,” he said, his face registering disappointment as soon as he saw her. “It’s you. I was hoping it was my mother. What do you want?”

A year and a half in prison had done nothing to diminish Quentin Walker’s perpetual swagger.

“I came to see someone else, but I thought I’d stop by and check on you to see if there’s anything you need.”

“What exactly do you have in mind?” Quentin returned. “An overnight pass would be great. Better yet, how about commuting my sentence to time served? That would be very nice. And you might bring along a girl next time. Since I’m not married, I don’t qualify for conjugal visits, but I’ll bet my dear old dad could pull a string or two and help me keep my manhood intact.”

“I don’t think so,” Diana replied. “Your father’s not involved in this in any way. I was thinking more in terms of books or writing materials.”

The superior smile on Quentin Walker’s face shifted into a chilly sneer. “Writing and reading materials?” he asked. “Are we suddenly focused on educating poor lost Quent? Trying to make up for the difference between what you guys did for precious little Davy and that baby squaw you dragged home and what you two did for Tommy and me? I don’t think it’s going to work. Let’s say it’s too little, too late.”

If sibling rivalry was bad, Diana realized, stepsibling rivalry was infinitely worse.

“This has nothing to do with David and Lani,” she said evenly. “And I didn’t come here to argue.” She stood up. “Why don’t we just forget I asked.”

“Good idea,” Quentin returned. “We’ll do that. I don’t need anything from you, not now and not ever.”

“Good,” Diana said. “At least that makes our relationship clear.”

“So that’s how you did it then?” Monty Lazarus asked. For a moment Diana wasn’t sure what he was asking. “He gave you access to the material he had written?”

“Yes.”

“But there’s not really any acknowledgment of that in your book, is there? Shouldn’t there have been?”

The question was a sly one, and Monty Lazarus kept his eyes focused on her face as he asked it. Realizing she was about to fall victim to a case of ambush journalism, Diana tried to play dumb.

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying.”

“If you used Andrew Carlisle’s written material, shouldn’t you have said that instead of passing it off as your own work?”

It took real effort to hold off a reflexive tightening of the muscles across her jaw. “It is my own work,” she said coldly. “All of it. I did my own research, conducted my own interviews.”

“Sorry,” Monty Lazarus said. “I didn’t mean any offense.”

The hell you didn’t, you bastard! Diana thought. She took a careful sip of her iced tea before she trusted herself enough to speak. “Of course not,” she said.

Her reaction was so blatant that it was all Mitch Johnson could do to keep from bursting out laughing. And if she was prickly when it came to questions concerning her literary integrity, he wondered what would happen when they veered off into more personal topics.

“What kinds of interviews?” he asked.

“I tracked Andrew Carlisle’s mother down at her retirement home up in Chandler. I thought hearing about him from her might help me understand him better. But he was already several moves ahead of me there.”

Mitch Johnson knew exactly what Diana Ladd Walker was leading up to—the tapes, of course. He and Andy had discussed Andy’s giving them to her in great detail, long before it happened. But he had to ask, had to convince her to tell him.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Andrew Carlisle was a master at mind games, Mr. Lazarus,” Diana answered. “At the time we started the project, I still didn’t understand that.”

“Games?” he repeated. “What kind of games are we talking about?”

“Andrew Carlisle was toying with me, Mr. Lazarus, the same way a cat torments a captive mouse.”

So am I, Mitch Johnson thought, concealing the beginnings of an unintentional smile behind his iced-tea glass.

“In the beginning,” Diana continued, “I don’t think he had any intention of my writing the book.”

“Really. That’s surprising,” Monty returned. “Why, then, did he bother to write to you in the first place?”

“Of all his victims,” she said slowly, “I’m the one who got away. Not only that, even before this book, I had achieved a kind of prominence in writing that Andrew Carlisle could never hope for. I think that ate at him for years. After all, I’m somebody he didn’t consider worthy of being one of his students.”

“That’s right,” Monty Lazarus said. “I remember now. Your husband was admitted to the writing program Professor Carlisle taught, but you weren’t. Your husband—your first husband, that is—was he a writer, too? Did Garrison Ladd ever have anything published?”