Mysterious Millionaire

“Monte? What sport?”

“He was in the winter Olympics. In the biathalon. The one where they ski and shoot. He’s a marksman.”

“Who else?”

“Dr. Mancini and Tony Lansing, the family lawyer.” She fussed over the elegant china and crystal, adjusting the place settings one centimeter left, then right. “And Charlene’s friends from Denver. They’re so beautiful, especially Ramon Stephens. He’s dreamy.”

Rachel came into the dining room and gave a snort. “Watch out for Ramon when he has a couple of martinis in him. That young man thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”

Though there were wineglasses on the table, Liz hadn’t noticed a liquor setup. “Where’s the bar?”

“In the downstairs lounge. Which is, undoubtedly, where they’ll go after dinner.”

“I used to be a bartender. Maybe I could—”

“Why didn’t you mention this before?” For the first time, Rachel regarded her as though she were more than a waste of space. “Bartending will be your primary assignment. Run downstairs and make sure everything is in order.”

“I’m on it.”

“Liz, please,” Rachel chided. “Proper response.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Liz skipped down the staircase into a long, low room with a beamed ceiling and a fireplace. Classic leather furniture arrayed around a red-felt pool table and giant flat-screen television. The carved cherrywood bar was stocked with an inventory of mixes for a very upscale selection of liquor. Nothing but the best for the Crawfords.

In the fridge, Liz found garnishes—lemons, limes, cherries and olives—everything she’d need for cocktails. An impressive bit of organization.

From upstairs, she heard the chatter of the first guests arriving. She ought to trot up there and see if she could be helpful, but Liz wasn’t planning on winning any prizes for Maid of the Year. Instead, she went to the far end of the room where sliding glass doors opened onto the forest. Outside, the sun dipped toward the mountains and colored the underbellies of clouds with a golden glow. From this vantage point, she could see down to the lake. To the south, there were two outbuildings. The big one was probably where the Arabian stallions of the first Mrs. Jerod Crawford had been kept. The other, constructed of rough logs, had only one story with garage-sized double doors across the front.

As she watched, she saw Ben emerge from a side door of the log barn. Though she was too far away to clearly see what he was doing, it looked like he was fastening a lock on the door. That kind of secrecy suggested nefarious purposes. The barn might be where he hid his drug stash.

How could he be an addict? The guy reeked of integrity. But she’d seen him making a buy from the dealer in Denver. Seen him with her own eyes.

She went back into the lounge in time to greet two men coming down the stairs. The white-haired man, neatly packaged in a three-piece gray suit with a red bow tie, was Dr. Al Mancini, the family doctor, who had been pointed out to her when he’d arrived at the house. Though the other man wore a casual sweater and jeans, he had the arrogance of a well-paid professional. From his precisely trimmed brown hair to his buffed fingernails, he was polished. In law school, she’d learned to recognize these guys on sight: lawyers. This had to be Tony Lansing, family attorney.

“Gentlemen,” she said. “May I get you something to drink?”

Barely noticing her, the doc ordered a whiskey on the rocks. The attorney wanted vodka with a twist.

“About Jerod’s new will,” the doctor said.

“I can’t discuss it, except to say that the amended document has just been signed, witnessed and filed away in my briefcase.”

“I can guess what it says.” The doctor leaned his elbow on the bar with the attitude of someone accustomed to drinking. In spite of his white hair, he didn’t look all that ancient. He was probably only in his fifties. “Jerod intends to cut the family and leave the bulk of his estate to Charlene. Is that about right, Tony?”

“I can’t say.”

But he gave a nearly imperceptible nod. Liz hadn’t come to the Crawford estate to investigate family matters, but the intrigue surrounding Jerod’s will was too juicy to ignore. She placed the whiskey on the bar in front of the doctor. With a deft flick of a paring knife, she peeled off a lemon twist for the vodka.

Picking up his whiskey, the doctor said, “I’ve known Jerod for nearly twenty years. He’s no fool. Charlene hasn’t tricked him into leaving her the millions. I think he truly loves that little blond cupcake.”

“Can’t blame him for that.”

“But here’s the kicker. I think she loves him back. If Charlene wasn’t here to enforce what Jerod wants, Ben would have put the old man in a hospital with a troop of specialists poking and prodding.”

Which didn’t sound like such a bad idea to Liz. Jerod had a brain tumor and gazillions of bucks to spend on medical treatment. Why not get the very best care?

Both men drank in silence.

The doctor licked his lips and grinned. “There’s one big problem with the new will.”

“What’s that?” Tony asked.

“Patrice is going to kill Charlene.”

When the two men had finished their drinks, Liz cleaned up the glasses. Straightening the starched white maid cap on her unruly blond hair, she ascended the staircase into a maelstrom of activity. Guests had been greeted at the door with flutes of champagne and were mostly in the living room, where a wall of windows displayed a magenta sunset. Patrice wore her trademark black, but the other women were a couture rainbow. The men were equally chic but in more subdued tones.

Her gaze went immediately to Ben. Though he still wore jeans, he’d thrown on a white fisherman’s knit sweater that made his shoulders look impossibly broad. She was surprised to find him looking back at her. With a subtle grin and a lift of his eyebrow, he communicated volumes. He’d been here before, heard all the chitchat before. And he’d rather be standing by the lake counting the ripples. Or soaring through the sunset in a sleek jet.

Or maybe she was reading too much into a glance.

Purposely turning away, Liz reported to the kitchen, where she did her best to follow the orders of the very nervous chef and Rachel.

Throughout the dinner, her assigned task would be serving each course and unobtrusively whisking away the dirty dishes. Her real agenda? Listening for clues. One of these guests might be Ben’s drug connection. He took a seat at the foot of the table. To his right sat an impassive blond woman with a plunging neckline and arms as skinny as pipe cleaners. Though she was as gaunt as a heroin addict, Liz guessed that her vacant expression came from hunger rather than drugs. On Ben’s left was Tony Lansing, who held up his empty cocktail glass, signaling to Liz that he wanted a refill.

She darted downstairs, whipped up another vodka with a twist and returned to the dining room in time to see Jerod make his entrance. Rising from his wheelchair, he leaned on Charlene’s arm as he made his way to the head of the table.

Illness had not diminished the charisma of this former Texas oil baron’s personality. As he greeted his guests, he showed dignity rather than weakness. Nor did Charlene treat him like an invalid. Standing close at his side, she effortlessly outshone every other woman in the room. Though small and slim, her hot-pink dress emphasized her curves. Her blond hair caught the light from the chandelier and shimmered as she gave her husband a peck on the cheek and took a seat beside him.

“I’m hungry as a bear,” Jerod announced. “Let’s eat.”

Liz and the rest of the staff leaped into action. Serving a formal dinner wasn’t as simple as when she’d worked as a waitress in a pancake house. Though she tried to follow the moves of Annette and Rachel, she bumped against chairs and the shoulders of the guests. The appetizer plates made loud clinks when she placed them into the formal setting. When she cleared those plates and stacked them one on top of the other, Rachel was waiting for her in the kitchen.

“You’re doing it all wrong,” she snapped. “Take the plates two at a time. One in each hand and return them to the kitchen.”

“Seems like a waste of time,” Liz said.

“This china is antique and worth a small fortune. Handle it carefully. We don’t want chips.”

Serving the clear consommé soup was a choreographed ritual with Liz holding the tureen while Annette ladled. Should have been easy. But Liz had never before moved with a glide. Her steps bounced. The soup sloshed. Hot droplets hit her hands, clinging tightly to the handles. Don’t drop it. Whatever you do,don’t drop this slippery,heavy piece of heirloom china.

When they got to Ben, he looked up at her. “Are we having fun yet?”

How would you like this whole tureen dumped ontoyour lap, Mister? She muttered, “Yes, sir.”

When the main course—filet mignon so tender that it could be cut with a fork—hit the table, Liz realized that she hadn’t eaten. Hunger pangs roiled in her belly as she stood at attention with a pitcher of ice water to replenish the glasses. She tensed her abs. Don’t growl. Please,stomach. Don’t growl.

Dinner conversation twittered around the table. Though the basic topics involved golf scores and vacation plans for the summer, Liz recognized an undercurrent of tension in the too-shrill laughter and hostile grimaces. Patrice fired hate-filled stares at Charlene. One of the couples were former lovers who sniped mercilessly at each other. The dark, handsome man who sat to Charlene’s left eyeballed her cleavage with undisguised longing and spewed compliments as if Charlene herself had cooked this fabulous dinner. That had to be the infamous Ramon.