Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery #3)

Chapter 31

For a moment, words failed. I stuck my hand out. "Sam McRae. It's nice to meet you." Your fiancé is an idiot.

Lisa smiled, but without mirth. "I know what you're thinking. You must think I'm some kind of sap to put up with Junior's shit."

"That wasn't what I was thinking." Not in those exact words.

Lisa drew in a long breath as if poised to dive underwater. She closed her eyes and blew the breath out through pursed lips. She looked at Junior, on the ground still clutching his crotch, and shook her head.

"C'mon," she said. "There's someone who'd like to meet you."

Lisa led me past a small rose garden through a side door into a kitchen larger than my entire apartment. We walked into another room and I realized that the kitchen had two parts. A room where things were cooked and one where the cooked things were consumed: like a breakfast nook, only really big. A nook should be small, right? Whoever heard of a huge nook?

From there, she led me through the dining room with its mahogany table long enough for roughly a thousand people. The walls must have been mighty thick and the windows well insulated, because the noise from the orgy had been reduced to a low rhythmic murmur. Chandeliers dripped with crystals, throwing off flashes of color in the milky light seeping in between the maroon velvet drapes. Lisa stopped and drew them shut with a snap, plunging the room in shadow. Much better.

We marched on in silence. Lisa proceeded toward the stairs and began to climb. I followed her up the zig-zag staircase. When we reached the top, Lisa turned right and headed down the hall. The door at the end was shut. She knocked on it.

"Yes?" A muffled voice came from within.

Lisa opened the door and entered, ushering me in with her.

My first impression was that of a library or den. The walls were almost completely lined with books. My idea of heaven. The floor was covered with a Persian carpet of salmon pink, gray, and turquoise. A dark brown leather chair sat in one corner, a tall lamp behind it.

"Ms. McRae, this is Marshall Bower, Sr."

Lisa's words snapped me from my reverie. I focused on the man sitting at the desk before me. Late fifties or early sixties. Broad shoulders. Thickening a bit in the middle, perhaps? Graying, but still handsome. The suggestion of Redford looks buried under middle age and too much drink and responsibility. On the desk, a neat stack of papers sat to one side, anchored by a pair of reading glasses. Must have caught him working at home. Bower scrutinized me. Not looking friendly, but not unfriendly either.

"How do you do, sir," I said, attempting a quick recovery. This was a lot to absorb in one morning.

I walked up to the desk and extended a hand. He rose and shook it, giving it a good squeeze. I gave as good as I got. I think it surprised him.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" he asked, nodding an invitation to sit. I took him up on it. Lisa took the other vacant chair.

On one of the bookshelves, I saw a framed family photo. A casual group shot with everyone all smiles. Bower, Sr., in younger days with a dark-haired, brown-eyed woman. A beauty. Two children. A girl around eight or nine who resembled her mother and tow-headed toddler who must have been Junior.

"Sir, as you probably know, I'm assisting—"

"Ms. McRae." Bower waved his hands. "I know who you represent. You came by my office at one point."

Right. You wouldn't see me without a lawyer. Guess you changed your mind.

"I'll admit I was reluctant to talk to you at first," he continued. "However, now that I've thought it over, I see no harm in doing so. I'm just not sure how I can help you."

Yeah, I'll bet you wouldn't mind knowing what I'm trying to find out, huh? And I have no idea how you can help me, either.

"I just wanted to ask you a few questions," I said.

"Okay. Fire away."

I was trying to think of the nicest possible way to put this. But there wasn't one.

"Sir, may I ask, why did you decide to let your stepson run your business instead of your son?"

Lisa barked a laugh. "Oh, Jesus! You're kidding, right?"

Bower held up a hand. "Now, Lisa. Let's be fair."

Lisa could barely contain herself.

"Ms. McRae. You may have noticed that my son isn't exactly the most responsible person," Bower said. "I love him dearly and want to see him do well, but he is not capable of handling great responsibility."

Lisa's expression was contorting as Bower spoke.

"It is my sincere hope that with their impending marriage," Bower continued, "Lisa will have a steadying influence on Junior. That their love and partnership through life will have a salutary effect on him and make him stronger and more capable as a man."

At this point, Lisa lost it. She snickered loudly, then collapsed into guffaws, nearly falling out of the chair.

Bower glared at her.

Pulling herself upright, Lisa faced me.

"Enough of the bullshit. Junior knocked me up. Now he's marrying me. He'll work for my father's business. And we'll babysit him."