The entrance to the zoo was packed with emergency vehicles and busses trying to transport Zoo-to-doers back to their vehicles. Bozo beeped his driver, because he didn't ride buses. Even the most diligent chauffeur would have a time getting to him. He looked for a quiet spot and found it occupied by Bubba Joe Henry.
“So, Barnes is dead.” Bubba Jo puffed on his Cuban for a few minutes. “Do you think it will scare her off? I heard she had his blood on her clothes and face.”
Bozo shrugged. The smoke ignited a craving for a smoke, but he didn't think he'd have time and repressed it. “It's not as if this is her first. Sadly, I think it will make her more persistent. She appears to be a determined young woman.”
A quality he himself possessed. Why had he not previously considered the timing of her birth? Certainly Dorothy had been most uninteresting ten years ago, but still, he should have considered the matter. His affair with Emma Merlinn had been brief, but certainly within the proper—or would that be improper—parameters. As many a young person had discovered, it only took once for those inconvenient surprises to occur.
Surely Magus ascertained paternity before allowing her into his life, though? He'd known Emma had an affair with someone. He'd come to Bozo, his friend, spilled his guts, and then they'd gotten drunk together. Bozo had, naturally, taken care to be less drunk and managed to avoid an unwise confession. Magus had wanted to know with whom, but Bozo had managed to persuade him to let it go.
He remembered being surprised that Magus cared. He'd seemed indifferent to anything Emma did to get his attention. The poor, passionate and neglected lady had been ripe for the plucking. He'd almost hesitated, the night she came to him, but she was old enough to know what she was doing. He'd fantasized about her, naturally, but she'd managed to exceed his expectations enough to make him wonder who'd been tutoring her in passion's arts. If Magus had been such a good teacher, no wonder she'd been desperate for it.
He'd been between wives at the time, so it had been a nice, albeit brief, diversion. It was the first, and only time, he'd been a woman's one-night stand, an intriguing reversal of his usual role. What was it about Emma that he still remembered every detail of that night? Had he been a less pragmatic man, she might have haunted him. He'd never found a woman her equal in that respect and he'd certainly tried. Perhaps, had she stayed, she'd have eventually disappointed, too. Maybe it was the briefness of the encounter that gave it its power?
Fortunately Dorothy didn't seem to have inherited Emma's wildness, though it might be lurking there beneath that very controlled surface. Be interesting to find out—as long as she wasn't his daughter. Kinky was all good in its place, but there were lines even he didn't cross.
The situation was worth looking into. If Magus had ordered a paternity test, there'd be a record of it somewhere, probably in that dump of town where he'd found her. Or close by. He wouldn't have wanted word to get out that he was unsure what DNA flowed through the blood of his only child. The Wizard must always appear to be in control.
A pity they'd wanted the same thing. Occasionally he missed Magus's friendship. No one had ever understood him quite so well. One couldn't, however, allow a mongrel to occupy the governor's mansion, particularly one who didn't understood how things were done.
And what if Dorothy wasn't the Wizard's daughter? It would be a most interesting development. He'd bet she wouldn't like the world knowing about her mother's indiscretions. The Wizard's charming little fiction about a fight would be exposed. And if the voters knew she wasn't really he Wizard's daughter? Would that be enough of a look behind the curtain?
It could go either way, he supposed, unless played right. Her paternity wasn't the problem, but the lack of honesty. Yes, that was it. Honesty was it, well, the appearance of it, anyway.
Maybe he needed to shape the outcome a bit? What was truth anyway?
“What—” Bubba Joe began.
Bozo cut him off. “There's my transport.”
Bubba Joe watched Bozo cross the pavement and slide gracefully into his “ride,” a stretch limo that seriously upped the congestion in front of the zoo. The guy walked and talked like a girl. Thought he was bloody royalty, that nothing could touch him and that he deserved the governor's mansion simply because of who he'd been born.
Bubba had been born with a cheap spoon in his mouth. His mother had been trailer park trash of the trashiest kind. Fortunately, she'd fallen down her trailer steps and broke her neck just after he graduated high school with ill-gotten honors and an unearned scholarship in his pocket. He'd been able to pretty up her image a bit, just enough to appear self-made and humble without having to be either of those things. The truth was, Suzanne had made him and made sure he didn't forget it. She was the original ice queen, but it didn't matter how she was in bed because she'd been born with an instinct for politics that made up for any other shortcoming she might have. And she was happy to look the other way and clean up any messes his flings might cause his political future.
Bubba Joe shifted restlessly as more cops streamed out the door, mingled with, but not part of the guests. Suzanne had just put an end to his latest affair, leaving him without the means to satisfy his considerable libido—or mute uneasy thoughts that wanted to revolve around Dorothy Merlinn. He'd gone to see her, hoping that being face to face with her would put an end to his fear she might be his biological daughter. He tried to ensure he shot blanks when he played, but Emma had taken him by surprise. He didn't think she even liked him. Actually, he was pretty sure she didn't like him then or later. Bubba Joe knew enough about revenge plays to recognize one when he saw it and he was happy to oblige a lady. She'd tried to change her mind, but he put an end to that nonsense. You play with him, you pay. No cheating allowed. When he'd heard she was pregnant, the timing was close enough to make him uneasy. Affairs were not the accepted sideline of politicians, but illegitimate children were something else entirely.
Thankfully Emma chose to disappear rather than make a fuss. She'd been smarter than her daughter seemed to be. And if Dorothy was his daughter? Even his possible paternity wouldn't help her if she got in his way. He'd stood aside for the Wizard ten years ago, but he was standing aside for no one this time. He wasn't getting any younger. No way was he waiting eight more years to be a stinking governor, not when he could see and almost taste the presidency waiting out there for him. The party was hungry for someone like him, someone who could charm the voters, energize the electorate and eliminate the competition.
At first, he'd thought about trying to track down the paternity test he was sure Magus had had done, just to be sure, but now he didn't think so. Magus would never have left her his money unless he was sure. Which meant she was fair game—for anything. Maybe there was something of her tasty little mother there.
* * * *
Darius sat quietly in the back of his limousine. The evening had been unexpected, to say the least. While Barnes murder had been remarkable and timely, he had to give Dorothy top honors for interesting. No question she was Emma's daughter. Whether or not she was his, was still up in the air. She could be, but it was hard to see Magus letting himself be fooled, unless he hadn't known Emma had strayed? Of course, Darius had wondered through the years why she came to him that night, why she left and why she never came back. And he wondered why she left Magus and the state. If Magus had found out, or she'd told him that would explain her precipitous departure and Magus's disinterest in his only child. Ten years ago, Magus claimed they had a fight and she never told him he had a daughter.
Whether Magus knew or not, Darius would bet real money there'd been a paternity test. Magus never took anything for granted. Darius made a note to have this researched. If it was out there, one of his people would find it. It might prove useful.
For now, he'd assume Magus had known Dorothy's paternity, for a perfectly selfish reason: she interested him. And it had been a long time since a woman had.
He had no doubt he could pry her from Mistral's grasp. If she didn't come willingly, well, there were many ways to deal with intransigence.
* * * *
Dorothy was relieved when Remy didn't try to talk about what happened until she had a chance to change. Remy waited in her sitting room. As she stripped her dress off and washed the blood from her face, shock made a comeback. Memories flooded her mind, memories of Magus's death. The bullet that passed through Magus's head had thumped into her shoulder, knocking her back a step, but not knocking her out. She'd had ample time to imprint all the awful details of her father's death. Blood and brain matter had splattered her face and clothes because she'd been standing on a riser, slightly higher than him as he gave his stump speech. She didn't see the bullet enter, but she did see it exit his head, and the hole it left when most of the back of his head came off. She'd seen him crumple like a puppet whose strings had suddenly been released, stared down into his sightless eyes, and the bullet hole between them, for what seemed like an eternity, before mercifully losing consciousness
With images of both deaths flashing like strobe lights inside her head, she stumbled into pajamas, then a warm robe, her teeth chattering uncontrollably. Maybe she took too long. She'd lost track of time by the time Remy tapped on the door, and then pushed it open. When he saw her standing there, her arms wrapped around her middle, he strode in, gathered her up and carried her out in the sitting room. He deposited her on a settee, then found a blanket and tucked it around her. A food service tray was sitting there with a pot of hot chocolate.
“I figured you'd need it,” he said, pouring her a cup and pressing it into her hands. He kept his hand wrapped around hers as he guided the cup to her mouth. The warm, sweet brew flowed down her throat, spreading heat along its downward path. “Bring back some old, bad memories, did it?”
She nodded. “For some reason, I didn't expect it. It's not like I knew Barnes.”
“It's death you know, all too well,” he said. “A/C is set to
Ice Station Zebra
levels in this damn room.” He found the controls and adjusted them, then turned to study her.
Dorothy produced a wan smile for his efforts, and was happy to change the subject. “I liked that book, but thought I was freezing the whole time I was reading it.”
“Something else we have in common,” he said, sitting in the chair near her.
“Else?” Dorothy arched her brows.
“Besides the desire to find out who hired Vance to kill your father.”
“Oh, that. Not a lot to build a fake relationship on.” With the slow retreat of shock, came the return of her sense of humor. “Reminds me of
Best in Sho
w. What was it? Soup and peas she and that old guy had in common?”
“And talking and not talking,” Remy finished, with a grin. “Another one for our “in common” column.”
“Talking and not talking?” Her smile felt natural this time. It was too easy to like him. She thought about the moment he almost kissed her and felt her face flush. She lifted the cup to hide it.
“The movie,” he chided.
“Right.” As a different kind of warmth built from her middle out, she remembered Remy's mouth hovering above hers instead of blood and horror. She liked the memory much better, but in its own way, it was just as dangerous. So she kept the cup close to her mouth. “So, who do you like for Barnes’ murder? All our suspects were there, unfortunately.”
There was a pause, as if Remy were thinking of not letting her change the subject, then he said, “And all of them positioned to see Barnes talking to you.”
She was relieved and disappointed. “So one of them knew what he was trying to tell me?”
“Or suspected he knew something.”
“That's cold, killing him for mere suspicion.” Dorothy shivered as she remembered how close the bullets came to her, though it had its comic side, too. She, Titus, the killer and Remy had all been milling around in the dark within a few feet of each other like the freaking Keystone Cops and not known it.
“You're sure he said Vance left a letter to give to someone?” Remy frowned.
Dorothy nodded. She lowered the cup to the table, taking extra care as a sudden thought sent excitement surging through her. “Wasn't Vance married?”
Remy arched a brow. “Yeah, he was.”
“I wonder if she'd talk to me?”
“Why do you think she wouldn't?”
“Well, it is my fault Vance is dead.”
The phone rang. Dorothy picked it up. “Yes?”
“You have a message, ma'am, but the caller wouldn't leave it in the voice mail system,” the desk clerk said.
“What it is?” Dorothy grabbed the pen and paper next to the phone.
“A Vonda Vance asked you to call her.” He gave her the number.
“Thank you.” Dorothy re-cradled the receiver. “Vonda Vance wants to talk to me. What do you remember about her?”
“She's a librarian, by all accounts a nice woman, had no clue what Vance really did.”
“I don't remember her,” Dorothy said, pulling up pictures from the trial from the file of her memory.
“You wouldn't. She was pretty nondescript. Kind that blended into the wall. Lucky for her. We lost interest in her pretty quickly.”
“I thought I was pretty nondescript back then, too,” Dorothy said.
“Yes, but you were the Wizard's heir. There was no place you could hide. I'm sorry.”
She shrugged. “Do you think it's too late to call her?”
“It's two in the morning.”
“Oh, right.” She slanted him a look. “I'd still be waiting up if it was me.”
Remy pushed the phone toward her. “Give it a shot.”
She gazed at the phone with longing. She was close, if Barnes had given this woman a letter from Vance. What other reason could she have for calling? But her mother had taught her it was rude to call a friend after ten. To call a stranger? Infamy.
“I'll wait for morning. Rats.” She looked at the clock. “Now I won't be able to sleep in.”