He'd managed to survive last year only because he'd been able to blackmail Aaron Duncan into letting him buy into Duncan's various businesses—and then destroy them. Neville had witnessed a drunken Duncan cut up a whore pretty badly one night—the woman almost bled to death before Neville, terrified of the scandal, called in a doc to take care of her. Duncan had no choice but to go along with Neville's arson plans. Neville got the cash flow he needed. But then the insurance company sent that damned Al Woodward out here. Neville sent him a note luring him to the lake and killed him there.
But he knew he was beyond the help of arson. He needed a large amount of money, and he needed it quickly. That meant his sister's half of the family fortune.
He still remembered the day Rooney had come to Neville's buggy in town one day. The man even looked like a grifter, but it was easy to tell that Rooney thought otherwise. Rooney obviously saw himself as a very sleek-looking businessman. He would've ignored Rooney, but Rooney said, "I have some interesting news about your sister."
My God, you couldn't ask for a better opportunity. The stupid bitch had hired two lowlife grifters to kidnap her to teach big brother a lesson. Rooney offered to do whatever Neville said if the price was right. Neville made sure the price was right. He wanted Cassie murdered, and these scruffy boys were just the two to do it. He would make sure to kill them if he ever got the chance.
And he got his chance.
Now he watched all the hypocrites. They'd be laughing with their mouths and lusting with their eyes until it was their turn to come over and pay their respects to Richard. And then they would put on their grief masks. And natter on about what a loss she was. And how much he'd obviously loved her. And how, someday, he'd be able to carry on with his life.
He had a meeting on Monday with her lawyers. He needed to tap into her fortune, and quickly.
Chapter Twenty-four
The Duncan home had been built on a shelf above a leg of the river. Isolation and privacy were further provided by the fact that it had been built inside a sprawl of pine and pin oak trees so that it could not be seen from the road.
Prine's instinctive first response to this glimpse of the privileged life was one of unworthiness. He'd seen his old man roll over and grovel for rich people. He had the same shameful tendencies. You could try and convince yourself that all people were equal in the eyes of God and the law, but money bought power and power instilled fear. And fear . . .
By the time he dismounted, ground-tying his horse by the river, he felt less intimidated by the Victorian house looming up out of what had once been a prairie. The badge made him equal to anybody who lived here. He just needed to remember that.
Elenore Duncan came out the front door just as Prine reached the front steps. She wore an ice-blue frock that displayed her full but fetching body to advantage. Her hair was perfectly set, too, as if she might have been entertaining this afternoon. When she wobbled coming down the steps—he took her elbow just before she fell down—he realized that she'd been entertaining all right—herself. She was politely and properly drunk. She wasn't the first gentrified, middle-aged woman to suffer at the brutal hands of John Barleycorn.
"I saw you come up," she said. She flung a hand somewhere in the vicinity of the yard to the west. The grounds were elegantly landscaped and tended. Arson must pay better than I realized, Prine thought. "I love to sit in the gazebo. Come."
She slid her hand into his, as if they were teenage lovers. "Oh, God, I hate being sad all the time." She spoke to herself more than she did to him. "I used to sit by the window and wait and wait and wait for him to come home. Sometimes I'd sit up till nearly dawn. I didn't care about his gambling or his whores and all the stupid business deals he was always getting into. I just wanted him to come home to me."
Her hand still in his, she turned her face to him and for the first time he saw, beneath the excess flesh, the fine lyrical bones of the young woman she'd been. One of those wry, melancholy faces you could look at for hours. "And now you know what? Now I don't care if he ever comes home. In fact, I'd prefer if he'd stay away. Because when he's here, all we do is argue."
As they walked, her wide mouth became a full and appealing smile. "Have you guessed my secret yet, Deputy Prine?"
"I'm not sure, Mrs. Duncan."
"Oh, Lord. Don't make me feel older than I am. Please call me Ellie."
"My secret—" She stumbled. He seized her elbow again. She was still smiling when she stood straight again. "I think I just gave away my secret."
"You've been drinking."
"How observant. Are all deputies as observant as you are?"
"Yes. We take an oath to be observant."
"I'm drunk, Deputy Prine."
"Gosh, are you sure?"
She laughed.
"I like you. Do you like me?"
"Very much."
"You know something? My husband's afraid of you."
"Did he tell you that?"
"You paid him a visit the other day. I saw you in his office. That Mr. Woodward scared him, too."
Prine was glad they weren't holding hands any longer. Because when she mentioned Woodward, his entire body tensed.
They reached the gazebo—classically shaped with a blue roof and white sides—and he helped her up the stairs and inside. They sat on a padded bench that allowed them to look at the river.
Prine rolled himself a cigarette. He was trying to figure out the best way to keep her talking. "Did you ever meet Woodward?" he asked.
"Would you roll me one of those?"
"You smoke, huh?"
"Only when I'm drunk."
"Sure, I'll roll you one."
He rolled her one. Got it lit for her. Handed it to her. She knew how to smoke just fine. She looked good, too, inhaling, exhaling, cocking her head at a certain angle so that her long, fine neck was emphasized. The lips she'd just wetted sparkled with erotic promise.
She said, "Don't ask me to betray him."
"I assume we're talking about your husband."
"Yes, unfortunately—yes. All the times and all the ways he's betrayed me. I don't know why I should give a damn about betraying him. I guess I still love him. That's the terrible thing about all this. I still love him."
He wondered if she was going to cry.
As soon as Aaron Duncan got the telegram, he said goodnight to his secretary and left Pentacle Mattress. It was barely 3:30.
He headed straight and fast to the Neville estate. He was trying to work up such an anger that not even Richard Neville could turn him aside. That was the hell of it with Neville. He was such a powerful man—both physically and because of his business reputation—that it was impossible for somebody like Duncan to take his verbal abuse. Like most people, Duncan always gave in to Neville, even when he knew he shouldn't. This time, at least, he was going to taunt him, say that Neville's idea for three arsons was stupid to begin with.
You don't think they'll catch on, Richard? You think insurance companies are dumb? Three businesses I own burn down in a four-month period and they don't have any suspicions? You're so desperate for money, you're not thinking straight, Richard. This third one—They'll catch us before. And this time, they're going to find out who my silent partner is, too. You wait and see. This time, they won't quit until they've found out everything.
Duncan had been drunk when he'd said all this one night in his office with Neville. Maybe that's what he needed now. The fortification, the wisdom of alcohol. But it was still the sunny afternoon. No way Neville would take him seriously if he showed up drunk.