Chapter 4

It was a scene straight out of a movie: the reading of the will with all the suspects seated in the wood-paneled den. Taft was somewhat amused at being part of the scenario, but the image of Mitch Mangella falling off his roof to his death kept the smile from growing on his lips. He just couldn't picture Mangella on the roof in the first place. Mangella had people who did tasks for him; he never did them himself. Taft didn't believe for a minute that Mangella had been actually fixing something on the roof. So, what was he doing up there? It was a mystery worth pursuing, although the police seemed to be satisfied. For them, it was the end of a thorny problem. Mitch Mangella, River Glen's most successful and famous citizen, who'd tiptoed the line between legality and criminality before taking the plunge into pure criminality, had died before the D.A. had enough to prosecute him. Arrivederci delicate and messy problem.

The estate lawyer and an assistant introduced as Veronica Quick had arranged for the reading to be at the Mangellas' palatial home and now all of the potential beneficiaries were seated in the den, or more aptly, bar. There were bookshelves with ladders on three sides of the room, a bar on the fourth wall, low, comfy chairs scattered around the room.

Taft was standing against one wall of books. He had too much energy to take one of the chairs. Mitch's widow, Prudence Mangella, was seated directly in front of the table where the estate lawyer, Martin Calgheny, sat tall and straight in a dark blue suit, Quick beside him in a prim, long-sleeved gray dress.

Prudence's tan and shapely legs were crossed beneath a very short, black skirt. She wore a white shell beneath a black jacket that matched the skirt.

I want a girl with a short skirt and a loooonnnng jacket.

The words to a song by Cake ran through his mind. Prudence had her hair pulled into a French twist. She looked like an icy blonde out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. She and Mitch had been in a complicated relationship where they played games on each other, serious games that sometimes involved the police, each accusing the other of theft of their personal property or abuse, emotional or physical or both. Several times Prudence had tested the waters to see if Taft was up for an affair, which he'd made sure she knew was a no go, but she would then only smile as if the whole thing tickled her. It was all part and parcel of their twisted marital relationship, but at some level Taft had understood that this was how they added spice to their union. Strangely, he'd always believed that underneath it all, the marriage was solid. Now he wasn't so sure. Now he wondered if there was more behind Mitch's death than what Prudence was telling. He could even believe it was one of their pranks gone wrong. Maybe.

"Very sorry I'm late," Mr. Calgheny said for about the fourth time. Quick darted a glance from him to Taft to Prudence, then down at her notes.

Calgheny was a tall, thin man with clipped gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses. They'd all assembled at the correct time, but then he and Quick hadn't shown up. A fatal traffic accident had stopped traffic on the freeway and Calgheny had been trapped for nearly an hour.

Prudence re-crossed her legs and smiled at him. "It couldn't be helped."

Taft slid his gaze from Prudence to the woman seated next to her, Anna DeMarcos, who was as elegant as her good friend, but her hair was dark whereas Prudence was a silvery blond. Taft had history with Anna DeMarcos as well. He'd been responsible for the death of her lover, Keith Silva, and though Taft had been lucky to survive that encounter—Silva had been attacking him, not the other way around—Anna seemed to blame him entirely. Taft hadn't seen either of them for some time, ever since his association with Mitch had ended, and the two women's friendship seemed stronger than ever. As he watched, Anna reached over and clasped Prudence's hand and squeezed it for a brief moment. Prudence looked at her, her smile brave. Anna nodded sympathetically.

There were several other people in the room. Business associates, Taft guessed. The Mangellas had no children and Taft knew Mitch had cut ties with his family long ago. He wasn't even sure there were any other Mangellas left. Prudence, as his wife, was bound to inherit the bulk of his estate anyway.

Maybe he's left me his hundred-year-old bottle of scotch.

Taft smiled faintly to himself. He'd told Mackenzie he'd commented on Mangella's prized bottle of Macallan once, and Mitch had facetiously told him he'd leave it to him in his will.

"Maybe that's coming true," Taft had told her.

Ever practical, Mac responded, "Drink it. What good is it holding onto a bottle of liquor?"

"Some people would call it an investment."

"Then sell it. Seriously. I see a dust collector." They'd been at his condo and she'd pointed to the tops of his kitchen cabinets where, yes, he'd set a fondue pot and where it had sat ever since. The fondue pot had been his sister's and after her death he'd been hard-pressed to donate any of her belongings, even though he knew Helene, who was his muse to this day, would roll her eyes and tell him to move on. He could almost see her now, outside the window on the Mangellas' front yard, smiling and shaking her head at him.

Maybe he would drink that scotch in honor of both Mitch and Helene.

Calgheny cleared his throat and started reading from the will. Prudence slid a look Taft's way, her expression hard to read. Since he'd left Mangella's employ her demeanor had shifted from kittenish to cold and stony mistrust. The only hint he saw that she was truly feeling sorrow over her husband's death was her pallor. Anna, however, looked in the pink of health and there was a glitter in her eyes, and a kind of repressed energy, like a cobra coiling to strike.

He glanced back through the window to his vision of Helene, but she wasn't there. He was disappointed, wanting her to shake her head at him some more, letting him know that her little brother's suspicions were unfounded.

" ‘. . . and to my wife, I leave all the jewelry I have ever given her. Even the pieces she stole from me that I gave her back again.' "

There was an uncomfortable titter from the assembly. No one knew what Mangella was talking about except Taft and maybe Anna. Prudence had once pretended that jewelry Mitch had bought her was stolen when in actuality she'd taken the gems herself and placed them in a pawnshop. Then when the truth came out she just shrugged it off, and so did Mangella.

" ‘She may also have the three cars that are in both of our names. Pru, remember that long drive through the Tetons? Do with the cars what you will. I don't give a sh—'" Calgheny cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Mangella."

"It's all right." Her lower lip quivered. "It's how Mitch and I talked. There was no drive through the Tetons." She half-laughed.

The lawyer and Quick both regarded her soberly. After a pause, Calgheny said, "I so rarely read the contents of a deceased's will. But your husband requested this formality."

"I understand."

"‘The rest of my estate, all financial considerations, the house, all my personal effects, I leave to Mr. Jesse James Taft.' "

The room went dead silent.

After a charged moment, Calgheny read on: " ‘Mr. Taft is the only person who never lied to me. Taft, do what you will with my money, just don't give any of it to my loving wife.' "

It was Anna who erupted first. She turned to glare at Taft with pure venom. "What did you do?" she hissed. Yes, definitely a cobra.

Taft's head was reeling. Wouldn't you know it. He didn't want anything from Mangella in any way. No more jobs. No more money. Nothing. He'd made that perfectly clear to the man and Mangella, with his warped sense of contrariness, had purposely dumped it all in Taft's lap.

He opened his mouth to say that it was another of Mangella's games, but he didn't get anything out before Prudence slowly swiveled in her chair to face him, then pushed herself up from her seat. "You knew," she said, moving toward him.

Other guests, Mangella's business associates, stood up awkwardly, sensing some kind of standoff, but it was Quick who stepped between them.

"It's all right," Taft told the young woman.

Ruffled, Calgheny also stood. "There's a bit more. ‘If anything should happen to Mr. Taft, some unfortunate accident to himself or any of his friends, contact Detective Cooper Haynes of the River Glen Police Department or anyone else who works there and tell them that the culprit will be my loving wife, Prudence Mangella. Taft, keep an eye on her. You know what she's like.' "

"What a fucker," Anna DeMarco said, faintly appreciative.

Prudence just kept staring at Taft, her head tilted, her eyes filled with a kind of curiosity. "This won't stand."

"We're going to contest," agreed Anna.

"Of course we will," said Prudence.

Taft kept quiet, processing. He hadn't wanted Mangella's money. He still didn't want it. What he wanted was to let Prudence know that he didn't want it. But Mangella had warned him. From the grave he'd let Taft know that he didn't trust his wife and that this time it was no joke.

Maybe she did kill him . . .

"Mr. Taft, if you could come to my office early next week, we'll finalize everything." Calgheny gathered his briefcase and papers.

"There'll be no finalizing!" Anna declared.

Prudence had regained her seat and now swivelled back around, putting a hand on Anna's elbow. Unlike her friend, she was cool and collected. She was good at game playing. "Of course there won't." She tilted her head slightly for Taft's benefit. "I think it's time you left my house."

My house , Taft mentally corrected, but knew that was just begging for a scene as he headed for the door.

He felt a stab of cold between his shoulder blades and could imagine Prudence's and Anna's twin frigid glares. He kept walking to his Rubicon, half believing he'd be struck down as he crossed the street. Even when he was safely inside and pulling away from the curb, he braced himself for something cataclysmic to happen to him.

Only when he was pulling into his condominium complex and saw his neighbor, Tommy Carnahan, walking his two pugs in the waning light of the chilly November evening did he breathe a sigh of relief. He got out of the car and joined them, then pulled out his cell phone and called Mackenzie.

"Did you get the scotch?" she asked.

"Uh . . . yeah . . . in a manner of speaking."

"What's so funny?" she asked because Taft had started laughing and thought he might not be able to stop.

* * *

"Holy shit," Mac said into the phone for about the fiftieth time since Taft finally managed to tell her the terms of the will. "Holy shit, holy shit . . ."

"Holy shit." She could hear the smile in his voice. "I gotta go. Plaid and Blackie need attention."

The pugs were snuffling in the background. She could envision their comical black faces and suddenly longed to be with Taft at his condo. He took care of the pugs about half the time as their owner was away a lot. In his early eighties, Tommy Carnahan was still lithe and vibrant and spent a lot of time traveling with various female companions, which put Taft at the top of the dog-sitter list.

"What are you going to do with all that money?" she asked.

"A trip around the world. Wanna go?"

"Ha, ha. Seriously."

"I was thinking of—"

"Don't give it all back," Mac interrupted. "He wanted you to have it, keep at least some of it!"

"—donating it to charity."

"Oh, please. Not all of it. Don't go all noble on me. Mangella had some legit businesses. He wasn't a total crook."

"He left it to me to knife Prudence. That's all. Who knows how many wills he wrote? Probably dozens. He never expected to die and have this be the last one."

"You don't know that."

"Doesn't matter. I'm not going to keep it. I have enough money to be comfortable, any more than that can play with your psyche. Look at Mitch and Prudence. They abused each other with money, played those dangerous, vicious games."

Mac's brows lifted. He wasn't usually so philosophical. "You going to tell Prudence and Anna that?"

"Maybe."

"Ooh, boy," she murmured. "You'll be in their crosshairs."

She could hear the faint smile in his voice as he said, "I'm sure I already am. But the estate's bound to be tied up in court for years, the way these things go. So, what are you doing for dinner?" he asked, changing the subject. She was pretty sure he didn't really care what she was doing, he just wanted to stop talking about Mangella. But she wasn't above holding him to the invitation.

"DoorDash. I'm not really mobile at the moment. Twisted my ankle at the service today."

"Want me to bring food to your place?"

"Yes. Goldie burgers. I've got a few things to tell you, too."

"See you in half an hour."

"Okay."

Mackenzie had an ongoing argument with herself about her feelings for Jesse James Taft. She'd been working with him for a couple of years now and had grown to think of him as a mentor and partner, at least in the private investigation business, but she also had other feelings as well. They surfaced at night, when she was alone and thinking about her life and the people in it, and sometimes an ache would suddenly envelop her so deep that she would drag her pillow over her face and scream into it. During the day, she didn't feel that way . . . much. Sure, she would look at him sometimes and marvel at how much she loved the dimples that peeked out from his close-cut beard, or what exact color of blue his eyes were, somewhere between cerulean and sky, or look at the brown hair at his nape, sometimes a bit shaggy, and think about its texture. She wasn't in love with him. She'd never been in love with anyone and wasn't sure she ever would be, or that it even existed. She was intrigued and infatuated. Definitely horny. But more than any of that she wanted to keep working with him, and she didn't believe a quick fling, or a short romance, or whatever you want to call it, was going to do anything but harm that relationship. In her experience, indulging in romance and sex and wild swings of joy and exuberance to despair and sadness wasn't a healthy way to live. Her last relationship hadn't been quite so up and down, which was good, she supposed, but it hadn't lasted either. If she was missing the highs and lows of so-called love, so be it. She knew she couldn't have both her career with Taft and a relationship. One or the other, and she'd chosen the long-term one.

Didn't mean she had to look like a hag when he came over. With that in mind, she hobbled to the bathroom and checked the remnants of her makeup. Yeah, she could use a little help. Mascara, eyeliner, some blush. God, was that a zit trying to develop beside her eyebrow? She swore beneath her breath and added some concealer.

"Connect with some high school friends and watch your face break out," she muttered. She shot a black look at herself, then limped back for more ice, unlocking the front door on the way and leaving it ajar. She then eased herself back into her chair, plopping the ice on her ankle.

It wasn't that there hadn't been awareness between her and Taft. More than once she'd contemplated kissing him and sensed that he'd felt the same way on other occasions. But Taft had a reputation as a serial dater, or maybe just a player, as he never stuck with one woman long and yet always seemed to have women circling around him. Mac had run into several already onetime lovers, or "friends," as he liked to call them, in the course of working with him. She wondered if Prudence Mangella, now that she was a widow, would reconsider her animosity toward Taft and decide to use a new tack. Mac could easily picture her wrapping herself around him. She winced at the thought.

"Door's open," she called a few minutes later when she heard Taft's footsteps on the outside stairs.

He appeared in the doorway carrying a white, green, and yellow Goldie's bag. Taking one look at her in the chair with her leg up on the ottoman, he frowned. "What happened?"

"I told you. I twisted it when I was going up this little, grassy hill at the grave-site service. I looked over at someone and lost my footing."

"You're gonna need it taped."

"Okay." She wasn't going to argue with him.

"Who'd you look over at?" He began pulling the burgers from the bag and the hot, salty scent of the French fries caused Mac's mouth to water. She hadn't eaten since a banana and orange for breakfast and she was starving.

"I don't know. I just saw movement. Everybody was already there but us. Maybe it was Leigh. I sure didn't see her, but she apparently was skulking around."

"Who's Leigh?"

Taft grabbed several plates and placed the burgers and helpings of fries on each one. He carried Mac's to her, then sat down on the edge of the chair and looked at her Technicolor ankle.

"Where's your burger?" she asked.

"Over there." He hitched his head toward the other plate still sitting on the counter, never taking his eyes off her foot. The bag of ice had shifted some and Mac reached down to readjust it, but he stopped her by picking up the bag himself and setting it aside. She opened her mouth to protest, then sucked in a breath as he gently rotated her ankle a bit to get an all over look at it.

"That hurt?" He looked up, his blue eyes intent on hers.

"No, no, not really . . . I'm just . . . worried."

Actually, she was totally distracted by that intent look. Taft was a guy who went from clean-shaven to a three-day beard and back again with regularity. She knew he just got tired of shaving but also didn't want a full beard. This habit only increased his attractiveness in her opinion. Clean-shaven was nice. He almost looked like a businessman, but the raffish beard was even better.

She swallowed as she felt every one of his fingers against her skin.

"You really did it. That's gonna be pretty for a while," he proclaimed, replacing the ice pack.

"Yep."

"So what was it you said you had to tell me?"

"Go get your burger and let's eat." She was struggling a little with having him so intimately check out her injury.

He obediently got up to oblige and Mac let out a pent-up breath. She concentrated on her food and ten minutes later they were both making short work of their fries. She wiped her fingers on her napkin and proceeded to tell him about Gavin approaching her at the funeral and then Leigh surprising her at her apartment. She finished with, "Which had nothing to do with Tim Knowles's funeral. It was like they were both lying in wait for me. Detective Haynes was the only one I spoke to who seemed focused on Tim's murder."

"What did Haynes say?"

"Nothing, really. He seemed to feel there was something off about the circumstances of Tim's death. I don't know. I wanted to ask him what he meant, but I didn't get the chance."

"Beer?" he asked.

"Water, please."

Taft picked up her empty plate and took it into the kitchen, then returned with a water bottle for her and a beer for himself. He handed her the water and said, "So, you have a couple of potential jobs, and something hinky about the burglary/homicide of Tim Knowles."

"I told both Gavin and Leigh they should talk to you."

"And they said, no way. They want you," he guessed.

"How'd you know?"

"Classmates."

"Huh," she agreed. "They don't really see me as a professional, but they want to use me."

"Have 'em write up a contract."

"Leigh gave me a fistful of cash and I put it in the drawer." She pointed toward her kitchen junk drawer. "I wanted to give it back, but I'm not moving fast enough." She'd already told him that Leigh was hiding her payment to Mackenzie from her husband. "And Gavin wants to get together and convince me to look into the death of Ethan Stanhope, which is his white whale. Ethan's death was an accident." She lifted her hands and dropped them.

"Any good reason to think it wasn't?"

She slowly shook her head. "I don't know. He and his sister died in a car accident. High speed around a tight corner, which Ethan didn't make." She thought about it a moment. "I never heard about toxicology. Maybe I can check on that. I went to the funeral to pay my respects. I don't know what it says about Gavin that Tim's death wasn't top of mind for him. Or maybe it was, and Ethan's death is a distraction? Something else to think about? Either way, the result is he talked to me about Ethan at the grave site, then he called me and started pushing for me to open an investigation. He's serious."

Taft picked up the ice pack, which was half melted, and took it back to the kitchen. "So, what do you think Haynes meant about Tim's death?"

She heard him open the freezer and rattle the ice tray. "He wasn't satisfied. He was talking more to himself than to me. He seemed angry."

Taft returned with a new bag of ice. "An officer shooting . . . Bet he wants to dig into it further."

"Maybe." She sucked air through her teeth as he settled the cold pack on her ankle again. "Why? What are you thinking?"

"Maybe I'll do some digging myself."

"You think there's something there?"

"If Haynes thinks something's there, I wouldn't be surprised if he's right. But the department's closed the books on it, so he'll be hampered looking into it. I won't."

"I want to help." Mackenzie regarded him earnestly.

He pointedly looked down at her ankle. "This is going to take a while to heal."

"Not that long," she argued.

"And what're your plans for Gavin Knowles and your friend Leigh?"

"Elayne," she corrected, aware that she was lucky Leigh didn't object to being called by her high school name because Mac wouldn't be able to call her anything but Leigh at this late date. "She's not really a friend . . . more of an acquaintance. I don't know what I'm going to do with either of them. Make a few phone calls." She carefully turned her ankle a bit and the cold pack slipped off. Taft picked it up again and held it aloft for a moment as they both looked at her blue and purple stretched, and swollen skin—skin that had already swallowed up her ankle bone.

Taft said, "If you need me, I'll help. You've been the legs for me before. Guess it's my turn now."

"I'm not going to like being incapacitated."

"Your patience is legendary."

"Ha," she groused.

"Well, let me know what you want and I'll be there."

She met his gaze. For reasons she couldn't explain—maybe just her overall weakness right now?—her inner core felt molten and her emotions were too close to the surface. Her nose was hot. Swallowing, she nodded.

He left a few minutes later and she blew out her breath. She felt unsettled that he was making enemies of Prudence and Anna, and though Taft was certainly capable of handling his own life, she had a prickling sense of danger waiting in the wings.