Jeremy looked past the green fronds. “Yeah.”
“Okay.” Shaun let out a breath. “In a moment, you’re going to see a young woman come up those stairs. She’s wearing jeans and a jacket that has NORTH COUNTRY HARLEY-DAVIDSON on it. I want you to trail her, discreetly, to the parking lot.”
“What?”
“When she gets into her car, I want you to follow her. See where she goes. Then call me and let me know.”
His son searched his face. “Dad? Are you drunk?”
“Listen to me. This is an emergency. That woman is blackmailing me. She’s… she going to set up an accident at the mill and claim we’re responsible. Somebody could get hurt.”
“Are you kidding?” Jeremy looked toward the lobby, the bar, and the lounge before settling his gaze on Shaun’s face again. “Dad, if that’s so, call the police. Right now.”
Shaun squeezed his son’s shoulders tightly. “I can’t.” He cut off the start of Jeremy’s protest. “I know it doesn’t make sense to you. I know you’re working right now, and I’m asking you to abandon your job.”
“It’s not that. Things are humming along. I’m practically redundant.”
“Never.” He stared into Jeremy’s eyes, so like his own and his father’s before him. “Please. I need you to do this for me now. Please.” He saw Jeremy’s gaze flick away from him. “Is that her? Do you see her?”
Jeremy nodded.
“Will you do it? For me?”
Shaun felt his son’s shoulders relax beneath his hands. “Sure, Dad. If that’s what you need.”
“Go. Do you have your cell phone?”
Jeremy was already weaving his way between the tables, headed for the open lobby. He slapped his jacket in response. “Right here.”
“Don’t get too close to her. Don’t lose her.” Jeremy was moving out of earshot. “Thank you,” Shaun said. But he didn’t think the boy heard.
Clare was watching when Shaun Reid made his return to the ballroom. He paused in the entryway for a moment and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. Her grandmother Fergusson would have approved. Never trust a man who uses tissues, she would say. He will prove flimsy and unreliable.
“Shaun Reid’s back,” she said, pitching her voice to slip under the lively conversations on either side of her.
Russ, across the table, nodded. He twisted his head slightly, as if getting the kinks out, and followed Reid’s progress back to his table. “Shame,” he said. “He’s missed most of the dinner.” Servers were circulating throughout the ballroom, collecting dirty plates and laying out dessert ware.
“You almost missed the dinner,” Linda said, mock-elbowing him in the ribs. “I swear, you’d stop your own funeral for police business.” She leaned on the table and spoke confidingly to Clare. “Listen to a woman who knows. Never marry a cop.”
Clare felt hot color flooding her cheeks. She was saved from coming up with a response by Hugh, who took her hand in his and said, “I’ll do my best to see she takes your advice.” He kissed the back of her hand. Robert Corlew made an awkward harrumphing sound, and Lena and her mayor “aaaahhhhed” as if they were sinking into a vat of marshmallow goo.
Russ looked like one of the great stone faces of Easter Island.
Clare had never been entirely convinced of the doctrine of bodily assumption, but she found herself wishing it were true and that God would see fit in His wisdom to whisk her, dress, hand, flaming cheeks, and all, into His heavenly kingdom. Now. Right now. Any time now.
She gently withdrew her hand and smiled almost convincingly at Hugh. Apparently she still had work to do on earth. To escape the massed gaze of the entire table, she twisted away, looking to where waiters were rolling out a podium next to the head table. “What’s on the schedule?” she asked no one in particular.
Jim Cameron answered. “The president of the ACC is going to give a little speech, introduce a few people, and make a plug for donations. Then the GWP folks and the van der Hoevens-” He tilted his head back, apparently just noticing the dearth of van der Hoevens at the head of the room. “Well, whoever else has to sign the deed of sale will do so. Then the dancing starts.” Beyond the head table, Clare could see where a bandstand had been set up next to the glass wall.
As she watched, the sommelier and her assistant rolled a heavy wine cart to the head table and began unloading some familiar wooden crates. “Oh, no,” she said. She couldn’t remember the damn wine for more than five minutes. She turned back to the table in time to see Linda twine her arm around Russ’s. On the other hand, perhaps she had good reason for her lack of focus.
“Excuse me.” She pushed back from the table and stood. Hugh, Russ, and Jim Cameron all rose.
Robert Corlew looked at them. “What?” he said. “What? Guys still do that?”
Lena Erlander looked sympathetically at the nonentical Mrs. Corlew.
Clare wove her way through the tables, careful to control her skirts. She crossed the dance floor and caught up with the sommelier just as she was unlocking the cart and preparing to roll it away. The crates, with their van der Hoeven Vineyards labels proudly displayed, were stacked in a staggered pyramid in front of the head table. Clare thought she had never seen a sadder sight. “Excuse me.” She touched the sommelier’s arm to get her attention. “Mr. van der Hoeven gave me two crates of his family’s wine to deliver to the banquet tonight. I’m afraid I forgot and left them in my car. Is it too late to bring them in?”
The sommelier frowned thoughtfully. “Mr. van der Hoeven’s instructions-” She caught herself, and Clare guessed that the news about Eugene van der Hoeven had already made the rounds at the Algonquin Waters. “His wishes,” she amended, “were that all the principals get a case as a gift and that the remainder be uncrated and uncorked for the dancing.” She tapped the side of her mouth with a white-gloved hand. “Yours will be awfully cold, but I suppose if we hold them back until the end of the evening… sure, go ahead. Bring them in. Do you need any help?”
“No. I’m right out front. My date and I will get them.” She turned back to her table, paused, then turned again. She crossed to where the slim woman in gray was seated, staring listlessly into nowhere. “Ms. van der Hoeven?”
The woman blinked and looked up at Clare. “Actually, it’s Tuchman. Well, no, I suppose it isn’t anymore. Maybe this time I’ll go back to being Louisa van der Hoeven. That sounds better than Louisa Tuchman, doesn’t it? Or Louisa de Parrada. I always thought that sounded like a flamenco dancer’s name. Who are you again?”
Eugene and Millie’s sister was apparently drowning her sorrows the old-fashioned way. “I’m Clare Fergusson,” she said. “I just wanted to say how very sorry I am about your brother.”
Louisa van der Hoeven de Parrada Tuchman blinked slowly. “I think Gene is one of those people about whom you can say, ‘His sufferings are over.’ ”
“Perhaps so.” Clare chose her words carefully. “I only knew him briefly, but he struck me in that time as a man who cared deeply about many things. Including your family and its history.” She waved a hand at the rough wooden crates framed by snowy linen. “I think it’s lovely that his last gesture will enable everyone to celebrate the van der Hoeven name with the van der Hoevens’ wine.”
Louisa looked down at the crates with a jaundiced eye. “No,” she said. “That’s just another example of how fake we are. Trying to impress everyone with money that was lost two generations ago.”
“I’m sorry?”
Louisa flopped one bony wrist over the edge of the table. “This is that stuff you buy in California and get stamped with whatever label you choose. The van der Hoevens don’t have a vineyard.”