The Demise (10 page)

“I told him the next time he tried something like that, I would file a sexual harassment complaint and wouldn’t hesitate to round up all those other girls I’d seen him with and invite them to join me.”

“What did he say to that?”

Julie snickered. “He laughed! But not in a bad way. He said I was the first one who’d ever rebuffed his advances, and that he actually admired the fact that I stood on my convictions. Can you imagine? And right then and there, he promised he’d behave himself around me. And he did. He treated me with respect from that day on.”

“Good for you. That took guts.”

“No kidding. And the crazy thing is, I’ve been able to use that whole scenario with him as a motivation for roles I’ve had on stage. I just walk myself back through it, and it always puts me in the right place, mentally.”

“Proving yet again that the world’s a stage for Julie Parker.”

“But of course. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Chapter 11

“Hey, do you want more coffee?”

“Sure.” He handed her his empty mug. “What else did Donella talk to you about this morning?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, filling their mugs then suggesting they go sit on the sofa. She propped her feet on the coffee table then continued. “Where was I? Oh—her apology. Here’s the thing, Matt. When Donella was saying all that, I realized she has no friends, no one she’s close to. She stumbled all over herself trying to explain how she’s not a joiner, not one to buddy around. That sort of thing. But I got the distinct impression she was, I don’t know, reaching out to me or something. Asking me to be her friend without actually
asking,
of course.”

“Of course.” A trace of a smile lit his eyes as he took another sip of coffee.

“I knew she was still distraught over Peter’s death, so I assured her she could count on me, and to let me know if there was anything she needed.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes, but when I got back to the reception area, Mr. Smithe was there waiting for me. Georgia was standing behind him doing all kinds of bizarre antics. It was just like that scene in
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
when the principal is on the phone making a bunch of snarky threats, thinking he’s talking to Ferris. But then his secretary finds out it’s
not
Ferris, because Ferris was on the other line—”

“—and she thinks it actually
is
the girlfriend’s father the principal is talking to, which of course, it wasn’t because it was Ferris’s buddy Cameron
pretending
to be the girlfriend’s father.”

Julie laughed as she set her mug on the coffee table. “And that’s when his secretary, played by Edie McGlurg—who I absolutely adore—starts jumping up and down.” Julie stood up, animating the part. “She’s waving frantically trying to get the principal’s attention—‘ED! ED! FERRIS BUELLER’S ON THE OTHER LINE!’”

Matt laughed with her. “I love that movie. It’s such a classic.”

Julie flopped back onto the sofa. “Me too. Gevin and I watch it at least once a year. Of course, we have a sanitized version.”

“Of course.”

She smiled back at him. “Of course.”

“Sanitized, huh? Interesting concept for an aspiring actress—I mean,
actor
.”

“You’re learning.”

“So tell me. When you get signed to do a movie or a television role, how will you handle scripts like that with so much obscenity?
Ferris Bueller
is hilarious, but it’s got a PG-13 for a reason. Most of what comes out of Hollywood these days is pretty rough. I heard the other day that one of this year’s biggest box-office hits has more than 500 f-bombs in the film.”

“I heard about that. It’s ridiculous.” Julie groaned, sinking back into the cushions. “You think that’s bad? They say the book it was based on used that particular word 706 times. Some kind of record. What really irks me is why that’s considered “creative” in books or films. If I handed in a script in my writing class using the same word or phrase that often, I’d flunk. It’s lazy writing and lazy scripting. Not to mention vulgar. Why do you think the powers-that-be in the entertainment industry purposefully drag us all down into that gutter? What’s the point?”

“Beats me, but it’s intentional. Maybe it’s part of the whole ‘dumbing-down’ riptide in our culture.”

Julie smiled. “Listen to you! The whole ‘riptide’ in our culture. Why, Matt Bryson, you sound positively professorial.”

“Professorial, eh? Cute. Very cute. But you still haven’t answered my question. What will you do when you’re offered roles that compromise your beliefs? Refuse the part? Can you get some kind of no-swearing or no-nudity clause in your contract?”

Julie smirked. “Thankfully there are still a few decent movies out there without all of that. But yes, it’s a deal-breaker for me. I can’t ask God to bless my career if I throw Him under the bus the first chance I get and take a part that’s filled with obscenity. Or even worse, using the name of Jesus as a form of swearing.”

Matt turned to face her, his knee angled between them, his back against the sofa’s armrest. “Good for you. First Peter Lanham, then Hollywood . . . who knows what extraordinary adventures await someone like you with such strong morals.”

Julie gently squeezed his denim-covered knee. “Thanks, Matt.”

With over-animated eye gestures, Matt’s eyes darted back and forth between her hand on his knee and her eyes.

“Oh!” She snatched her hand back, giggling. “Sorry! Pardon my hypocrisy.”

“I’m kidding!” He reached for her hand. “Just couldn’t resist the chance to pull a Julie on you.”

“I get it. I may be slow, but I get it.” She relaxed as Matt wove their fingers together and placed their hands back on his knee.

“There now. All better,” he said. “But let’s back up. Before you launched into your reprisal from
Ferris Bueller,
you were telling me about finding Mr. Smithe at your desk.”

“Oh, right. He wasn’t just sitting at my desk; he’d obviously gone through it and everything on it.”

“Why would he do that?”

Uh oh. I did it again. Oh, to be able to reel my blabbering words back in! How can I explain this without giving away the fact I’m still sleuthing on my own?

“Julie?”

“Oh, sorry. I’m not usually so ADD, but for some reason my mind keeps running away from me tonight.” She winced, hearing her own voice play-acting the dumb blonde. “I think Smithe was . . . he seemed to be on the rampage this morning, and I suppose it was my turn on his hit list.”

“What did he say to you?”

She avoided eye-contact, winging it as she tried to figure out how to tell him. “He was furious, actually, and even threatened to
fire
me at one point! Which, thankfully, he didn’t. At least not yet.”

“
Fire
you? On what grounds?”

“Well, see, like I said, he’d gone through my desk, and he told me . . .”

“Told you what?”

I hate this. If I tell him, he’ll get all crazy about me impeding his precious investigation again. But I can’t stand lying to him. Look at that face, all cute and kind and trusting . . .

“Hello? Anyone in there?”

She huffed in resignation. “Okay, fine. But promise you won’t get mad and stomp out of here.”

“What? Why would I—”

“Promise me, Matt.”

“Fine. I promise I won’t stomp out of here.”

“Or get mad.”

“Or get mad—no, I take that back. I can’t make that promise if I don’t know what it is. Tell me what happened.”

She debated. Finally, “I don’t exactly know why he decided to go through my desk, but the fact is he found something. I’d made some notes.”

“What kind of notes?”

Julie picked at a piece of imaginary lint from her sleeve. “Well, see, it was mostly just a few things I’d  . . . noticed . . . on the, uh—”

“Spit it out. What were your notes about?”

“All right, all right.” With her eyes locked on a spot on the carpet and her foot bouncing in triple-time, she told him. “I copied some notes off
your
notes from Mr. Lanham’s computer.” She squeezed her eyes shut and sighed loudly for effect as she waited for his reaction. He would blow any moment. She was sure of it.

Finally, she stole a peek in his direction and found his face frozen. Eyes wide open, mouth gaping like the Grand Canyon; he didn’t move a muscle. Then came a series of rapid blinks as his mouth tried to form words that wouldn’t come.

“I knew you’d be mad,” she whispered.

He stretched his neck this way, then that, popping it in both directions. Still, not a word.

She grabbed a throw pillow and buried her face in it. “I
knew
this would happen. I shouldn’t have told you. I didn’t
want
to tell you, but . . .” She dropped the pillow and the words exploded in a mighty rush. “But then you looked at me with those sweet, adorable
puppy eyes, and I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t want to lie! I really like you, Matt. More than you probably know, and I mean, how can we start a relationship if we’re not 100 percent honest with each other? What possible chance would we have if we began our relationship on nothing but deception and lies? Because I don’t know about you, but the way I see it, the world has enough deception and lies, so the very least we can do is be truthful and forthcoming and completely transparent, or else we’ll just be like all the rest of this rotten,
repulsive
old world and all the other
despicable
jerks on the—”

“STOP!” he shouted, his hands raised.

Julie shrieked, springing off the sofa. “Don’t yell at me! Matt, you scared me half to death!”

He stood, his hands outstretched toward her, his fingers curling in like two bear claws searching for something to tear apart.

She backed away from him, her heart racing. “I’m sorry, Matt. I’m
so
sorry!”

He stared at her for a minute more then looked around the room, for what she had no idea. He raked his stiffened fingers through his hair then began pacing in a wide circle around the room. After his third pass, he stopped in front of her, this time raising both index fingers in a brief surrender before dropping them.

“Julie, I’m . . . speechless. I don’t . . . I can’t begin to . . . how could you possibly—”

“I’m so sorry, Matt,” she whispered again, her voice breaking. “I am. I’m
truly
sorry.”

He stared at her again, this time his chest caving when he released all that pent-up frustration in one long, drawn-out sigh. His eyes were on her, but his thoughts were obviously elsewhere.

Probably wondering how to cut me up in little pieces and carry me out in suitcases like Raymond Burr
. She gulped.

“I promised not to stomp out of here, and I won’t,” he began, speaking with obvious restraint. “But I need to cool off before I say or do something I’ll regret.” He started for the door. “I’m going to go take a walk. And once I calm down, I’ll come back and we’ll talk.”

“Please don’t go, Matt.”

He opened the door. “I said I’ll be back.”

“Then let me come with you.”

“No—no, I think it’s best I go alone.” He stepped out onto the landing then started down the stairs.

“Don’t hate me.”

“I don’t hate you. I just need not to be with you right now.”

Chapter 12

Julie spent the next half hour kicking herself for opening her big mouth. She finally calmed down after opening her Bible to the book of Psalms, praying she’d find solace in the words of the psalmist. David knew a thing or two about blowing it. Big time. And yet the Bible says the Lord referred to him as “a man after God’s own heart.” In comparison, her faux pas was nothing. Still, she’d really blown it this time, thinking she’d show Matt and Berkowitz a thing or two by solving the mystery of Lanham’s death. And why? To prove once again that she wasn’t some dumb blonde?
Will I never learn?

In the process of putting herself on a self-made stage and trying to star in the lead role in this investigation, she’d crossed the line. She’d gone against Matt’s directives—again—and angered him to the point he couldn’t even be in the same room with her.

She’d just taken a deep breath to maintain her composure when she heard his knock on the door. Julie uttered a silent prayer for wisdom before answering it.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“You came back.”

“I told you I would.”

She stepped back to let him enter then closed the door. “Can I get you something? Another cup of coffee? Water?”

He shook his head as he passed her then nodded toward the sofa. She followed him as they took the same places they’d sat before.

“First, I need to ask you to let me say what I need to say without interruption. Agreed?”

She nodded, tucking her leg beneath her and trying to control her nerves. “Agreed.”

“Good. You know why I’m upset. You know that I asked you repeatedly to stay out of this investigation. I told you how important it is that this one gets done by the book. Regardless of what you may think, it isn’t about making a name for myself. It’s about doing what’s right and abiding by the law. Because if I find out that someone was behind Lanham’s death and discover who that person is, it has to be a clean case. Not even a
hint
of anything that would interfere with bringing that person to justice. Meaning, I will not let anything stand in the way of doing my job. Not even you.”

Julie tried to swallow the boulder lodged in her throat, but never lost eye contact with him.

“I need to know that from this time forward, you will stay completely out of the investigation. No more snooping. No more stealing—deposit slips or anything else. And if I catch you within an inch of
my
case notes or any other evidence I might have, I won’t hesitate to haul your cute butt down to a cozy little cell at Braxton’s bed and breakfast, otherwise known as jail.”

Julie gasped. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Oh, but I would.”

Julie clenched her jaw and crossed her arms over her chest.

“But here’s the thing,” he began, his voice softening a degree. “As much as I know I should walk away and keep a safe distance from you to avoid any further complications
 . . .
the fact is, I really like you.”

She turned, surprised.

“And much more than you probably know.”

Her heart rate began to slow.
Is he serious?

“But Julie, if you and I are to have any chance at this, we have to set some rules.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” she whispered.

“I’m sure you don’t. But it’s the only way. Either we keep the necessary boundaries so I can do my job, or we end it here and now.”

“I don’t like the sound of that either.”

“Then promise me you’ll back off, and let me handle the investigation.”

“You drive a hard bargain, you know.”

“Otherwise I’m out of here.”

“But can I still—”

“No.”

“You didn’t let me finish!”

“No buts. Either agree or disagree. It’s that simple.”

Julie raked her fingers through her hair, then gave in. “Okay, fine. I agree. I’ll stay out of the investigation.”

“Good.”

“But—”

“No buts!”

“All right, all right!”

By the time Matt drove back to the motel, he was already second-guessing his decision to give Julie another chance. It went against everything inside his head. There was so much at stake and everything to lose if she went back on her word. Could he trust her to be that strong? Clearly, Julie was propelled by emotion and curiosity. She reminded him of those pop-up games at arcades where the plastic moles keep popping their heads up, and no matter how hard or how fast you whack them with your rubber mallet, they just keep popping up.

Back in his room, he tossed his briefcase on the bed, kicked off his shoes, and went to the bathroom to wash his face with cold water. When he looked up at the mirror, he was surprised to find a smile on his face.

“Oh yeah. You’ve got it
bad
for her.”

He dried his face and shuffled back across the carpet to the bed where he flopped down. Lying on his back with his arms folded behind his head, he wondered how everything got so complicated so fast. It wasn’t rocket science—he had a job to do, and he needed to stay focused to get it done. Period.

He’d always prided himself on knowing what he wanted, mapping out a game plan to make it happen, then methodically moving forward until he achieved or acquired his goal. If he’d learned anything during all those years living in his brother’s shadow, he’d learned that hard work, honesty, and perseverance were the keys to making life happen instead of letting it pass you by. He might never be as successful as Mitch, but nothing would stop him from finding his own life journey.

Until now.

Until her.

He took a deep, deep breath then slowly let it out. The long walk had helped tamp down his initial anger. He’d decided to make a swift, clean break from her before it was too late. It had to be done. He wasn’t about to let someone he’d known only a matter of days sabotage his case before he barely got started. He was good at what he did, and he intended to wrap up the details of Lanham’s suspicious suicide in a way that would prove his competence, not just to Berkowitz and his superiors, but to himself as well. It would be the launching pad for a career he’d wanted since he was a kid. He’d never doubted that he’d be good at it. Not once.

Until tonight.

He’d walked back up the stairs to the loft, knocked on the door, and the minute he saw her, he knew he’d cave. He couldn’t walk away. So he’d put on his best bravado, and tried to sound assertive as he laid out the conditions and boundaries she’d have to agree to. He was actually surprised when she promised to abide by his rules.

But the million-dollar question remained: could she keep her promise? And what would he do if she didn’t?

He sat up rubbing his hand over his stubbled chin. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was only eight-thirty. Plenty of time to get some work done. After grabbing a Coke from the vending machine down the hall, he spread out his notes on the small desk in his room. For an hour, he shuffled papers, organized his interview notes, and tried to connect the dots.

In retrospect, he was relieved he hadn’t told Julie about his visit to the Lanham estate earlier that afternoon. The ornate electronic gate had slowly opened after he’d identified himself on a closed-circuit television at the entrance. He guessed the paved driveway to be at least a quarter of a mile long as it cut through wooded countryside and gently wound up a hillside. He pulled to a stop in the circular drive where half a dozen other cars were parked, then got out. The view was breathtaking in every direction, and the sprawling mansion reminded him of an Italian villa.

Whoa . . . apparently the grocery business is quite a lucrative one.

“Agent Bryson?”

Matt turned to find an attractive thirty-something woman descending the broad steps from the front entrance. “Yes, but please call me Matt.”

“I’m Milly, Mrs. Lanham’s personal assistant. Please, come inside.”

He followed her up the steps and tried not to gawk as he made mental notes of the home’s lavish exterior. He followed Milly through the front door and into a grand entry area, realizing his childhood home could have fit easily in this one room.

“This is quite a place.”

She glanced back at him. “It’s been in the Lanham family for decades. Peter and Patricia had it completely renovated about six years ago. It’s like a brand-new house.”

A voice called from behind them. “Milly, what time is— oh, I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize you had a guest.”

Matt turned to find an older gentleman approaching them.

“No problem, Underwood. If you’re asking what time Mrs. Lanham wants to go into town, she’d like to leave at eleven-fifteen sharp.”

“Good. That’s all I needed to know.” He nodded at Matt and headed toward the back of the house.

“Come along.” Milly waved him to follow her. They walked through a state-of-the-art kitchen which included a round breakfast table in front of a bay window, seating for four at a working island, and more cabinets than anyone could possibly need. Another hall, two more turns, and they finally arrived in what appeared to be a study. Bookcases, framed portraits, sitting areas, and indirect lighting gave the room a comfortable ambience. Seated near a window overlooking the wooded area to the side of the home, Patricia Lanham removed her reading glasses and stood.

“Mr. Bryson, is it?”

“Please call me Matt.” Once he neared her, he offered his hand to shake, startled by how cold her hand was. “Thank you for giving me a few minutes of your time, Mrs. Lanham.”

“Have a seat, Mr. Bryson. Millicent, that’s all.”

As Milly quietly left the room, Patricia took her seat again, directly across from him. “I’m not exactly sure what you could possibly need from me. I was questioned by someone the day after Peter died. I believe his name was Berkowitz?”

“Yes, that’s my partner. He told me about his visit with you.”

“I only have a few minutes, so I hope we can wrap this up quickly. I have to go into Nashville to pick out a casket for my husband.”

By the tone of her voice and the chilly glint in her eyes, Matt had the distinct impression Patricia was inconvenienced
about the pending task. He’d seen a picture of her in Lanham’s office and recalled thinking she looked much older than her husband. Now, he realized her striking silver-white hair cut stylishly short was either premature in its color or perhaps the work of an expert salon stylist. Regardless, he figured her to be in her late fifties. Her make-up was flawless, as was her black pinstripe slacks and jacket and white blouse. She held herself erect, the way wealthy people often do, and he couldn’t help notice the absence of tears or any trace of emotion. Somehow he doubted Patricia Lanham was the warm and fuzzy kind of gal.

“Thank you for seeing me at such a difficult time. I’m very sorry for your loss,” he began. “It’s obvious your husband was well-liked and admired. I can’t imagine what you must be going through.”

She said nothing, just stared at him with those gray-green eyes.

“Yes, well, I’ll get right to it. As I told Milly—uh, Millicent—on the phone, I need to ask a few more questions about your late husband. You told my partner that he’d seemed distant and distracted the last few days before he . . . before he died. Do you have any idea what might have caused that?”

She paused for a moment before answering. “Peter was larger than life. People often said he could walk into a room full of people, and his mere presence would take their breath away. Every last one of them. And that was true. He was handsome and charming, intelligent and clever, with a wit that made him extremely popular. And not just here in Nashville, but all over the world. He enjoyed life to the fullest and never met a stranger.”

Matt waited, thinking she might continue. When she didn’t, he asked, “He sounds like a great guy. How long were you married?”

She stared at him again before answering. “Mr. Bryson, if these are the questions you intend to ask, I suggest you pick up a copy of the Tennessean and read Peter’s obituary rather than take my time. Nonetheless, we met when I was a student at Vanderbilt. He was a senior; I was a sophomore. We married a month after he graduated. He continued in graduate school, and we both graduated two years later.”