She left soon after our conversation, said she’d check in with us later. I finished getting the shop ready for Kenny. I had my S&W secured and my carry bag prepped with extra speedloaders, with a change of clothes ready for pick-up at Gabriella’s shop. I finished packing, locked the door behind myself. My phone rang before I was out of the parking space.
“Hey, Tai. It’s Mac. The desk said you’d called?”
I could hear the noise of the gym at Mac’s end. It was hard to imagine him as a slightly chubby twenty-something with surfer-blond curls, but then, that photo was fifteen years old. He’d lost the hair and gained some muscle, but he was the same Jonathon McDonald shaking hands with Trey in the Ritz’s newsletter photo.
“Yeah, I just needed to ask you some questions about your time at the Ritz. Back when you and Trey were valets.”
Mac didn’t say anything. Lawyers and hotel HR managers were as close-lipped as spies, but Mac? Mac had no such limitations. He was still hesitatant.
“Man,” he said, “that’s been a while.”
“You still remember, though, don’t you? Why Trey got fired?”
No reply. I heard clanging iron, the boom of bass, laughter and conversation.
“He was railroaded,” Mac said. “You gotta understand that.”
I smiled. “I’m listening.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
The trip from Kennesaw to Adairsville took less than an hour. A railroad terminus during the Civil War, the city had once delivered arms, munitions, and other supplies from the factories in Atlanta to the Confederate front line. Now it was bucolic, with twisty roads and rolling farmland. The Ferrari ate up every curve, and I had to keep a hard check on the throttle. It felt like chaining concrete blocks to a racehorse.
Beardsley Gardens lay well off the beaten path, past hills specked with solemn cows and fat oblivious sheep. I waited while the attendant checked off my name, then drove into the heart of the property. Instead of one main building, the developers had created a mini-village, with cobblestone streets and climbing rosebushes and English cottages in well-mannered rows. A quarter of the resort had been sectioned off solely for the movie crew, accessible through a second parking gate, this one valet-only.
I drove up to the gate, pulling to a stop behind a silver Jaguar. Except for the hornet-yellow mechanical arm in front, the security station looked as quaint as the other cottages. Behind it, I saw the parking area, a freshly-mowed square bordered by trees. It was only half-full, but I suspected it would be packed before the evening was over.
The door of the Jaguar opened, and Quint Talbot stepped out. A valet jogged up to him while another started unloading the trunk. Quint handed over the keys without looking at either of them; he was too busy checking out his reflection in the car window and smoothing down his hair. Portia exited the passenger side, sunglasses on her face, her mouth set in a straight line. They waited at the station until a club car zipped up, got loaded with their luggage, and then zipped them away just as efficiently. The first valet beckoned me forward, then laid a finger on his earpiece and stepped back.
Trey came out of the station. He said something to the valet, then approached the driver’s side of the Ferrari. I had a sudden flashback to the teenage Trey, working his first job. Nervous. Eager. Nothing like the self-possessed man in front of me, whose suit didn’t fit quite right and whose name tag said “Steve” and who still—still—made my pulse rev.
Trey opened my door, his expression blank and professional. “Ms. Randolph. Welcome.”
He extended a hand. I let him pull me upright.
“Thank you.” I gave him the keys. “I’d appreciate it if you’d see to my car personally. It needs a firm hand.”
He inclined his head politely. “Of course.”
He dropped the keys in his pocket—I knew that’s where they would stay, not in the valet stand. I already had the tip folded between my fingers, one of the crisp new hundreds that Nick had given me as a down payment on the turquoise cactus. I held it out, not breaking eye contact.
“Something for your trouble.”
Trey automatically slipped the bill into his pocket without looking at it, his Ritz training revealing itself. He’d find it later, and then we’d have a very interesting conversation. Before he could call for a club cart, one pulled up with a squeal and lurch. The cinnamon-haired runner from the Kennesaw set fidgeted behind the wheel.
“I have this one,” she said. “Nick’s orders.”
Her name came to me in a rush. Bree. I eased into the seat, shot a look at Trey over my shoulder. He nodded, though his brow furrowed. His first test—letting me out of his sight. While he watched, Bree grabbed my overnight bag from the valet and tossed it into the cart. I barely had time to get my feet inside before she tore down the path at bat-out-of-hell speed.
She consulted a clipboard but didn’t slow down. “You’re in 1540? That’s right around the corner.”
“Is it?”
“You could’ve walked.”
I clutched the seat. “I still can.”
“Nope. Nick said you were to be personally delivered. So that’s what I’m doing.”
We rumbled past the ruins of the old manor house, moss-covered and twined with ivy. I knew it had been an Italianate villa from the early nineteenth-century, roofless now, a labyrinth of bricks maintained by the resort. Its saga was a particularly Gothic tale of the antebellum South, featuring war, murder, hauntings, cotton money, yellow fever, tornadoes, and curses, the perfect setting for a story like Moonshine. There was no filming going on this afternoon, though. Instead, a party team hauled tables and chairs under a cavernous white tent set up next to the crumbling villa.
“Those are the ruins of Luna’s family home,” I said.
Bree
