"No. That's not true, Ward. Not from their perspective, and you know it. How can I tell them it does look like Todd and not mention that his birth mother's name was Staci?"
"It wasn't Staci Rosalier."
Carol waved that off. "So she changed it. Or maybe the slut had gotten herself married. Two or three times even."
Ward pursed his lips. To Carol, the girl who'd borne their son's, now their own, child, had always been and would always be "the slut." It bothered him, but he didn't suppose he was going to be able to do anything to change it now.
"And then what if it is her?" she asked. "Staci. Todd's birth mother."
He turned to her. "Well? We both agree that it might be. So what?"
"So what is that it then involves us, Ward. You and me and Todd. You know we weren't involved in killing anybody, but they'll just rake up all that history, look into Todd's adoption, everything. I know you remember how awful Staci's people were. I don't want to give them any excuse to get back into our lives."
He seemed vaguely amused at the idea, shaking his head at the absurdity of it.
"It's not funny, Ward. I told you George Palmer called me at home that last day…"
"To ask us to a party, right?"
"Yes, but all they'll know-"
"Who are they now?"
"The police. All they'll know is that he made the call. What if they see it as a connection between us and that slut?"
"What if? What if? But while we're at it, using the slut word will not help you appear disinterested. The woman, after all, is a murder victim. She deserves a little sympathy."
"All right. But the point remains, I did hear from George, and then I did place a call to the Parisi woman. That's a lot of coincidence, a lot of interaction with people who are involved in this."
"Now that you mention it." Ward was still smiling. "If I didn't know better…"
"Don't you dare even tease!"
"Easy, girl," he said. "There's no call for that."
She took a beat, gathering herself. "It's far better if we simply stay out of it completely. If we say that the picture doesn't really look like Todd did at that age, that ends it."
"Carol." His own calm more than matched hers. "You're not exactly some prowling murderer, after all. I think we're both rather above all that, don't you? You're acting paranoid, and that isn't like you at all."
She shook her head. "I think you're underestimating how badly they want to bring us all down. We are rich and, therefore, evil. Just look at what we're doing today."
"And what exactly is that?"
"The auction."
"Giving six figures to charity? I fail to see the evil there."
"Paying criminal prices for wine, Ward. Flaunting it for those who don't have it. Paying seven thousand five hundred dollars just to buy tickets to bid. You don't seem to know how our kind of money affects some people, how we feed their envy."
"No, of course, I understand that. The worst crime a person can commit in some circles is to be successful. But people who think that way are always with us, and they should be none of our concern. They're far beneath us. Even our contempt."
"Until they smell that we've done something wrong, where they can bring us down. Look at Martha Stewart, in jail over a handful of peanuts. Michael Milken. All the CEOs."
"But we haven't done anything like any of them, Carol. I say if we acknowledge that the picture might be Todd, and that Staci might well have been his natural mother, we nip any inquiry in the bud. It's likely one of our acquaintances will have called the police, anyway, one of Todd's teachers, somebody. We're just pointing to ourselves as hiding something if we don't come forth." He put a large, gnarled hand on her thigh. "We don't want to appear to be hiding anything, Carol. We don't want to be hiding anything." He patted her leg. "I say we bring the matter up to one of our security people down in the city, who after all are the police, at our first opportunity. Tell them what we know. Answer their questions if they have any and ask them to be discreet as they've always been. Live with what little fallout there may be."
Carol turned away from him, then faced forward. Her mouth was set, her jaw clenched, the eyes hardened down. She snapped open a pair of sunglasses and put them on, looked at Ward as if she were about to say something, then thought better of it, and lapsed into a brooding silence.
Wine lovers mingled, schmoozed, grazed, and drank on a flawless gem of an afternoon in the elegant expanse of the Meadowood Resort. The croquet lawn/putting-green area was a sea of humanity. Woodsmoke hung in a fragrant cloud amidst the oaks and the pines. Celebrity chefs plied their wares on enormous open grills while equally famous winemakers freely poured their best libations into the Reidel crystal glasses of their colleagues and the other assembled guests-the sports heroes, movie stars, industry captains, and other notables from all over the world who shared both a love of all things grape and extravagant wealth.
The young couple chatting with the Manions were well dressed, articulate, charming, and obviously very much at home in the rarefied Napa culture. Making their acquaintance at one of the white wine tables under the enormous tent that shaded the first fairway at Meadowood, Ward Manion had taken the gentleman under his wing, and the two were now in deep conversation about the stunning recent popularity of Rhône-style varietals in California-syrah, mourvedre, carignane-and what it all meant to the local industry, which was so heavily invested in cabernet, chardonnay, pinot noir, and merlot. "Frankly, if you would have asked me to name the new hot varietal, say ten years ago," the young man named Jason was saying, "I wouldn't have even looked to the Rhône. My bet would have been on sangiovese."
Ward broke a satisfied smile. "Don't sell that idea short," he said. "I took that bet just about at that time." Ward was always happy to talk wine, especially in a setting like this one. "Now I've got nearly seven acres of sangiovese to blend with my cabernet."
"California Super Tuscan," Jason said. "Good way to go."
"It's hardly original," Ward said, "but it beats ripping out my good vines that are finally producing and guessing wrong on granache or some other damn thing."
The men clearly would be able to go on in this fascinating vein for a while, but even here and now on her second glass of chardonnay, Carol Manion seemed to be fighting herself to remain engaged, half-smiling in a vacant way, her mind clearly elsewhere, in a self-contained universe of her own.
At Carol's elbow, her own champagne in hand but untouched, Jason's young woman moved a step nearer to her and spoke in a confidential whisper. "It's really so wonderful to be here. It's our first time, and I must say we feel a bit like crashers, though. We shouldn't really be here at all technically, but we're kind of close to Thomas, and he got us in."
In this context, it went without saying, Thomas could only be Thomas Keller of the French Laundry, überchef of the valley if not, according to many, of the civilized world. "But if you happen to be lucky enough to get offered a couple of tickets on a fabulous day like this one, I say you go, n'est-ce pas?"
"Oui. Sans doute." Carol dredged up a smile that for all of its weariness seemed genuine enough. "I'm sorry. I'm a little distracted. What did you say your name was?"
"Amy."
The well-bred society manners were kicking in, as Amy had hoped and Hunt had assumed they would. Carol Manion, they both knew, spent a good deal of her time at charity events and benefit dinners. Social patter would come to her as easily as breathing, and now the very banality of it all offered an apparent respite from what they believed would be her overriding preoccupation.
"Well, Amy," she said, "it's very nice to meet you, even more so if you won't be in competition with us when the bidding begins."