A Secret in Salem (18 page)

Authors: Sheri Anderson

S
OME CITIES ROLL UP THEIR STREETS AT TEN, BUT IN
M
ONACO
, life was just getting started.

Olivia’s funeral had ended before sundown, and the reception that followed lasted until eleven. Some of the guests, the partyers who were invited to the Kasagians’ for dancing and debauchery, had headed to the yacht.

Others who had tired of the superficiality of it all opted to stay in the heart of Monte Carlo, and for them, Jimmy’z was
the
place to be.

Chance and Jackson had opted to stay out for a while. They weren’t being insensitive—just the thought of heading back to the villa and watching their father drink himself into a stupor wasn’t the least bit appealing.

Charley wanted to be alone, and they respected her wishes.

Jackson was on the dance floor with Nikki Reed from
Twilight
as Abby and Chelsea entered amid a well-heeled group of smashed partyers.

“Don’t know about you, but I could use a drink,” Abby said above the noise. The room was crowded with international
models, jet-setters, and twentysomething millionaires. “Thanks for the entree,” she said, blowing a kiss to one of the twentysome-things who was just up for a good time.

Chelsea nodded as they peeled away from the group. “This mean you’re done working for the night?”

“Never.” She smiled ruefully. “But I got the shots from the funeral uploaded, so until dawn, I guess I’m good.”

What no one had noticed earlier was the mini–spy cam embedded in Abby’s yellow butterfly pin, which she had worn to the funeral.

“The shot I got of the casket is going to freak people out,” she yelled into Chelsea’s ear.

“What?” Chelsea said, straining to hear.

The music stopped.

“Nothing.” Abby smiled, not about to repeat that bit of news.

Jackson dipped his celeb of the moment on the dance floor, then twirled her toward the table of eager partyers and headed to the bar.

“You throw girls away that easily?” Abby flirted as he brushed past her.

“The last one got me in a bit of trouble,” Jackson said with a slur in his voice.

Jules had indeed screwed over him and his family. She had turned over the keys to the kingdom he hadn’t even known existed. He didn’t really blame her, though, when he realized she’d also been literally screwing his father.

Chance was at the bar refilling his martini glass from one of the thousand-dollar bottles of vodka that were not only de rigueur, but the price of admission at Jimmy’z.

“Hi,” a voice said next to him.

With the flash of the disco lights, it wasn’t easy to recognize anyone, but the guy had a friendly face and looked familiar.

“Hi,” Chance said in a tone that gave away his confusion.

“I think this is yours,” the classically hip man said, dangling Chance’s Jaeger-LeCoultre in front of him.

“Willy?” Chance asked, surprised. “You clean up well.”

“I try.” Willy smiled.

Chance hadn’t realized it when he and Jackson were in Willy’s office, but the medical examiner was actually strikingly good-looking. He was masculine, but not macho, and dressed in a crisp white shirt and beige linen slacks with expensive loafers.

“I hope today wasn’t too tough,” Willy said sympathetically.

“Thanks,” Chance answered. “And we gave that to you.”

“I know,” Willy said warmly. “But the last thing you need is someone using you. At a time like this, anyway.”

It was said with definite double entendre, but not in any way salacious. It made Chance smile for the first time that night.

“Thanks,” Chance said as he took the precious timepiece and slipped it back on his wrist where it belonged.

“I should get your mum’s results back tomorrow. Yeah, I sped them up.”

“Thanks again,” Chance responded.

Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up” blared from the speakers. “You like to dance?”

“To this? Disco’s not my style,” Willy said. “But in your case, I’ll make an exception.”

The two headed past Jackson and Abby out to the dance floor, where their moves complemented each other
perfectly.

“You were at the funeral,” Jackson said as the disco lights flashed over Abby’s face.

“Chelsea was at the scene of your mother’s accident,” Abby said, trying to talk over the music. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

“Sorry, what?” Jackson said, leaning close to hear. In the process, he knocked the bottle of vodka all over her leather handbag.

“I’ll get you a new one,” he apologized as he yanked it out of the spill. “Really sorry,” he added as the contents tumbled out.

Abby’s Spectator.com business cards fluttered onto the bar.

“Abigail Deveraux, Spectator.com?” Jackson said as he read it. “You’re a reporter.”

“Nice to meet you?” she said cautiously.

“Your site and your paper ran that exposé on my father,” Jackson said, incensed.

This is not going well
, Abby thought.
And tomorrow it’ll be even worse.

Marlena had fallen asleep, her head resting on the sumptuous pillows. There was a contented smile on her face as she reached over to John.

He wasn’t there.

Marlena bolted upright, her heart pounding. Had this all been a dream? Or was it a nightmare?

“Doc?” she heard coming from the open doorway to the bathroom. “You okay?”

She shuddered as waves of relief washed over her. John was there, and this was all real.

“Join me?” he asked.

It was then that she noticed the sound of the Jacuzzi gurgling.

The negligee was still draped over the end of the massive bed, and she reached for the robe as she climbed out of bed.

“Doc?” he said, cocking that eyebrow again.

“Isn’t a little mystery more sensual?” she asked, slipping it on.

John could see how the silk draped over her breasts, and the soft light from outside formed a gauzy outline of her trim figure.

She moved toward him, causing the front of the robe to slide through her legs and then glide over the soft flesh John had tasted for the first time in years.

“Why are you always right, Doc?” he said, gazing at her hungrily.

Marlena picked up the bowl of tiny wild strawberries and cream and, without a word, entered the chamber that held the bubbling tub.

She set the plate of temptations on the edge of the tub and dropped the robe seductively. Then she slowly slipped into the heated water.

“Any more champagne?” she asked throatily.

“Enough for two,” John answered.

He retrieved the crystal glasses from the ice bucket, and they were half-full.

“Should I order another bottle?” he asked.

“Doubt we’ll have the time to drink it.” She smiled.

John handed her the flutes and joined her in the tub.

In a ritual they’d performed so many, many times in their lives, Marlena dipped one of the perfect little strawberries in the rich cream and placed it in John’s waiting mouth. He sucked the tips of her fingers slowly.

Another strawberry was swirled in the cream, and John brushed it against the perfect tip of Marlena’s nose before popping it in her mouth. He licked off the sweet cream and moved his tongue over her lips and then slid it inside them.

Their lips and tongues were together again in seductive exploration.

The temperature of the water was heating up from their passion.

“If this is a dream,” she whispered, “don’t ever wake me.”

It was nearly three a.m., and the casino was buzzing. Not buzzing the way American casinos do, but the European roulette, craps, blackjack, and baccarat tables were filled as jet-setters and tourists alike tried their hands in the elegant setting.

Blake was at a fifty-euro-minimum blackjack table as a twenty-something girl slid into the seat next to him.

“Good or bad idea?” the girl asked with a slight Dutch accent. It was Tara.

“I’m up six hundred,” Blake said.

“Fantastic!” Tara boomed.

“Mademoiselle, quiet please,” the tuxedoed dealer warned. In the most famous casino in the world, chatter was not only discouraged, it was forbidden.

The dealer tapped the felt, then dealt two cards to each player with bets on the table.

Blake and Tara were each dealt an ace and a ten.

“Yes!” she said, fist pumping. “Oh, sorry,” she apologized to the dealer.

A gasp went up from a nearby table. Blake and Tara turned to look. The table had been roped off, and a crowd had gathered.

“You’re a lucky girl,” Blake said quietly, turning back. “That’s the first blackjack I’ve had all night. What’s a pretty girl like you doing here all alone?”

“Just finished a job. I’m a physical therapist, and my patient just graduated with flying colors.” She smiled. “And if you’re hitting on me, I don’t swing your way. I have a girlfriend. But that brunette’s hot,” Tara added, indicating a striking socialite at the next table.

Blake smiled as they each won another hand.

“Good for you,” he said. “And I wasn’t hitting on you. I’m actually more happily married than I thought.”

Interesting
, Tara thought.
This guy may not give the best first impression, but he isn’t a bad guy after all.

A loud wail was heard coming from a roped-off roulette table nearby, and the crowd began to disperse. Chief of Staff Roisten, from Princess Grace Hospital, came storming past them, swearing profusely in Afrikaans.

“Wow,” Tara said as the man sailed by them, still sputtering, his face red with anger and despair. “He just blew over two hundred thousand euros.”

Blake drew a pair of aces.

“Too bad he didn’t have your luck at his table.”

L
IGHT WAS STREAMING IN THROUGH THE PALE SHEERS THAT
covered Charley’s bedroom windows, when a tap came at her door.

She didn’t answer.

“Lovely girl,” she heard. “I’m coming in.”

It was Richie, and she was not in the mood to see him.

Before she could protest, the door opened, and Richie entered. He was wearing lightweight white cotton drawstring pants and a lavender fine linen shirt rolled up at the sleeves.

He carried a bed tray with yellow roses and a glass of orange juice, toast, and an egg in a porcelain coddler.

“Sophia doesn’t quite have Kelsey’s cooking skills, but she’ll learn,” he said as he brought Charley the tray. “If the egg’s done a little too much, she can do it again.”

In the old days, he would have bellowed about that.

“I’m not hungry,” she faltered. “But thank you.”

Richie didn’t notice she hadn’t called him Dad, which stuck in her throat every time she even thought it.

“A girl needs to eat,” he said.

Charley could feel him trying too hard, and she liked that even less.

“I’m not sure if I should eat before going to the hospital,” she said.

“Ah yes, you have a checkup today,” he remembered.

“Chance is taking me,” she said.

“He never came home last night,” Richie offered. “I’ll have the driver take you.”

There was a long moment of silence. Finally, she decided to speak.

“Is there something you and Mum should have told me?” she asked simply.

“Why do you think so?” Richie asked. He did not want to offer anything he might not have to. “Is it about her will?” he said.

“God no,” Charley spouted.

“You up?” Chance suddenly called from the hallway.

“Oh yeah,” Charley called back.

Chance entered still wearing his gray suit pants. His pale yellow shirt was untucked, with the sleeves rolled up. He was wearing his Jaeger-LeCoultre.

“Dad.”

That’s right,
Charley thought.
Richie still is his dad. At least I think so, but what do I know?

“Have fun last night, Son?” Richie threw at him lightly.

“Actually, I did,” Chance admitted. “But not for the reasons you obviously think.”

“You’re here to take me to the hospital,” Charley said appreciatively. “I knew you would be.”

“We’re supposed to be there at nine,” he reminded her. “You might want to get ready.”

Charley climbed out of bed and made her way into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Richie and Chance heard the water turn on in the shower.

“We should hear this afternoon when your arraignment will be, Dad,” Chance said.

“One step at a time, I suppose,” Richie answered. “One step restricted by this damned thing,” he said, pointing to the ankle monitor. “Sorry for what this is doing to you kids.”

By now they had realized that until it was all sorted out, they wouldn’t be allowed to sell, leverage, or move any of their belongings or property that was worth more than $1,000.

Like the Madoff sons, they could wear their existing personal clothing and jewelry deemed normal. By whose standards, though? Chance doubted his watch would count in bloody Birmingham. But for the time being, he was pleased to have it back. It wasn’t about the money; it was about the goodness of Willy’s heart.

“For what it’s worth, Dad, I wasn’t out whoring around last night,” Chance said. “Yes, I was with someone, but all he did was be there for me through a pretty tearful night.”

“Will you be seeing him again?” Richie asked. He had long ago accepted Chance’s homosexuality and truly wanted his son to be happy.

“This evening, actually,” Chance said simply.

Jackson was in Richie’s office on his iPad, and he was livid.

He scrolled down the page and was horrified at each new image he saw. It was Spectator.com, and Abby’s pictures from the funeral, both in the cathedral and outside, kept coming. The last was the close-up of Olivia in the casket.

Blake had indeed done a spectacular repair job on the face that had been shattered on one side, and Olivia looked as though she was having the most serene dream.

It gave him a weird feeling of solace to remember his mother this way, looking so free of pain. He still wanted to wring Abigail Deveraux’ neck.

Jackson had heard Chance return to the house a short while ago.

“Chance?” he called out.

“Up here, bruv,” Chance answered. It was coming from Charley’s room.

“Need to see you now,” Jackson said. “In the den. Alone.”

Chance appeared upstairs on the landing, with Richie behind him.

“Alone, he said, Dad,” Chance told his father firmly.

Richie didn’t like it, but at this point he had no bargaining power.

Jackson was pacing, running his hand through his thick chest-nut brown hair when Chance entered.

“What now?” Chance asked.

“Take a look.”

Jackson presented his little brother with the image of Olivia in the casket.

“How…?” Chance was gobsmacked.

“That cute blonde at Jimmy’z last night?” Jackson answered. Chance looked confused. “Oh right, you were a little distracted. She runs the Spectator.com website and sneaked a camera into the funeral.”

“Holy shit.” Chance winced.

“Can we sue her ass?” Jackson was steaming.

“For being an insensitive twit? I don’t see how.”

“This has to be illegal!” Jackson railed.

“Immoral, maybe, but illegal, no,” Chance answered.

“Someone’s got to at least tell Dad and Charley,” Jackson said. “I don’t want Sis seeing it by accident. Him, I really don’t care.”

“We can tell her together,” Chance offered. “I’m about to take her over to the hospital. Why don’t you come with us?”

“Glad I got you, bruv,” Jackson said.

“It’s what family’s for,” Chance answered. “Let me get dressed, and we can go.”

Jackson nodded.

“Oh, and my date last night?” Chance said. “Willy.”

“The medical examiner?” Jackson said, floored.