“Yeah. Not to mention. The grandmother-Diantha Atwood-always had a soft spot for Kerm, but she’s not saying a word, not interfering. Momma’s a cold-fish socialite, but that could be style, not substance. And Dad’s a respected, hard-nosed businessman who spent a lot of time on the road and in the office when his kids were little. There are,” she said, blowing smoke out her mouth and nose, “no innocents here.”
“But no secret lives, nothing we can latch onto to explain why a twenty-two-year-old kid had the shit beaten out of him the night before last?”
“If you want that explained,” Helen said, peering at him with a gravity he seldom witnessed in her, “you’re probably going to have to look at his world, not his parents’ world. Their world provided the victims, Jeremiah. Marcie Amerson, Lucy Baldwin, even Mollie Lavender. His world, I suspect, provided the goons.”
Jeremiah frowned at her. “You see why you’re a society columnist, Helen? You deal in gossip and supposition. If you deal in facts, you’ll see that I have to look wherever I’ll find the answers. His world, their world, the goddamned moon. Right now, it makes no difference to me.”
He was halfway to the door before she’d blown enough air out of her lungs to answer his insult. “Kiss my ass, Tabak,” she yelled. “I hope they seal off the building before you slither out of here.”
He winked at her, which further incensed her, and was down the corridor and out to the parking garage before his bosses could grab him by the short hairs and ask him what in hell he thought he was doing, up to his ears in a big story and not one word of it on the pages of the Miami Tribune.
Spies everywhere, indeed. After she cooled off, Jeremiah would tell Helen he appreciated her warning.
There was something to be said for driving a vehicle not his own at such times. He waved to the guard at the garage, who recognized him too late, leaped out of his little cubicle of a building, and chased after him, on the alert for an errant reporter.
But by then, Leonardo Pascarelli’s little black Jaguar was well on its way to the on-ramp of 95 North.
16
Mollie chose a dressy suit from her own closet and joined Deegan, Griffen, and Griffen’s small part-time staff on the terrace. Leonardo’s house and grounds were immaculate, designed for parties, and Griffen, with enviable calm, had whisked in food and drink, tossing brightly colored cloths over folding tables to make instant hors d’oeuvres tables and wine bars. She’d rearranged Leonardo’s pots, added more of her own, did up strings of dried flowers, and somehow, with very little apparent effort, made the terrace look festive.
George Marcotte’s security guard had posted himself at the gates, which he’d agreed to leave open for arriving guests. Mollie was unaccustomed to having security guards lurking. The guard was big and beefy and intimidating enough that if Mollie were a thief, she’d stay away from Leonardo Pascarelli’s house tonight.
The weather was perfect, warm and calm under a cloudless sky. A night for spontaneity and friends, she thought, feeling optimistic.
Jeremiah had called from the hospital. Croc was being released, still no charges filed against him. His parents had compromised, agreeing to let him stay in their guest house until he recuperated. Mollie wondered if Bobbi Tiernay really felt she knew her son after more than two years. She couldn’t imagine becoming that alienated from her own family. Why hadn’t Croc just stewed awhile, then gone home? Was that ever an option?
She found herself articulating her thoughts to Griffen, who was, she said, enjoying the lull before the storm. Guests hadn’t yet started to arrive. Griffen was uncorking wine bottles. “I’ve known kids like Kermit Tiernay my whole life,” she said, looking tired but not unduly so. “The poor little rich kid who’d practically commit murder to get his parents to acknowledge his existence. Or her. I don’t know if it’s worse with girls or not. People feel sympathy for poor kids with neglectful parents, but not rich kids, because they’ve got all the trimmings. The camps, the private schools, the lessons. But they still want the nights home watching TV or playing cards with their mums and dads. That’s only normal.”
“You’re not describing yourself, are you?” Mollie couldn’t contain her shock at the depth of Griffen’s emotion; she seemed personally outraged. “Is that what your upbringing was like?”
“Mine? No, no. I’ve got a great relationship with my parents.” She seemed a bit irritated, even offended, at Mollie’s misinterpretation. “Not all us rich kids are fucked up, you know.”
“Deegan doesn’t seem to have suffered his brother’s fate.”
“No.” She uncorked a bottle of cabernet sauvignon, calmer. “Some people are just naturally more resilient, I think. But imagine, Mollie. You’re the child of rich, selfish parents who think they adore you. I mean, they really believe they adore you. They believe you can do no wrong. That you’re perfect.”
“That would be a hard way to live. Nobody’s perfect. Everybody makes mistakes.”
She set the wine bottle down, a slight tremble to her long, thin hands. “Yes, exactly. So you have these adoring parents, and they never ask you to do anything hard in your life. In fact, they make sure you never do anything hard, which makes you wonder if they really do believe in you-if all that adoration is just an excuse for them to ignore you. If you’re perfect, you don’t need attention. If you can do no wrong, you don’t need attention. If you never have to do anything hard, you don’t need attention. They get to congratulate themselves for the wonderful life they’ve given you.”
“And you end up perpetuating the illusion that you’re perfect, because that’s what’s expected of you.”
“But you grow up craving your parents’ attention, only you’re cocky and you’re fun to be around and you’ve never, ever had to face the consequences of your actions.”
“That would be tough,” Mollie said carefully, wondering if Griffen was trying to tell her more than was on the surface, but she could hear Jeremiah warning her against speculating. “At some point, you will make a mistake. You’ll shatter the illusion.”
“It’d take a lot to shatter that kind of illusion.”
Mollie felt a chill despite the warm temperature. “I suppose you could also grow up and realize your parents are what they are and there’s no changing them.”
“Yeah. I suppose. But how many people accept their parents’ shortcomings before they’ve acted out against them?” She grinned suddenly, but there was no humor, no pleasure, in her dark eyes. “God, I’m sounding like a therapist. Not to worry. I’m just a Palm Beach girl who knows how to cook.”
“Griffen, are we talking about Deegan here? Or are you getting theoretical? Where is he, anyway?”
“He’s out front meeting guests.” She grabbed another bottle of wine, shoved in the corkscrew. “If I give everyone food poisoning, I guess I can always become a shrink. Here comes Chet Farnsworth. The guests must be arriving. I’d better concentrate or I will poison the guests.” She spun around, her cheeks rosy with exertion, a touch of embarrassment. But she was being evasive, and Mollie knew it. “Look, what I said-forget it, okay? It’s bullshit. I’ve been working too hard. It’s my busy season, and I just…I’ve just been thinking too much, I guess. You won’t mention this conversation to Tabak, will you? Reporters. You know what hounds they are. And he was born suspicious. God knows what he’ll read into this, and then he’ll have to know.”
“I understand, Griffen. I don’t need to tell anyone about our conversation, unless you know something that the police-”
“No!” She paled, horrified. “No, of course not. God. I’d better get to work or there go both our reputations.”
She breezed off into the kitchen of the main house, which was brightly lit, almost looking lived in. Mollie greeted Chet and his wife, still feeling vaguely uneasy. But she pushed back her questions and concentrated on her guests and her party.