The Dangerous Edge of Things - By Tina Whittle Page 0,79

And her connections.”

I remembered what I’d read about her in the files I’d returned to Landon, how she came to Atlanta with a stack of money and an impressive Old Charleston family tree. “She’s not one of the Good Old Boys, is she?”

“No. She’s properly respectful, but she is an outsider and always will be.”

“Which is why she threw her lot in with Senator Adams. He is a Good Old Boy.”

Gabriella smiled. “It was a risky investment. Less so now. Adams has an excellent chance of winning.”

“Which means Phoenix wins too. And the Beaumonts.” And Landon, I thought, since I was sure he’d brokered the Beaumont-Phoenix-Adams partnership. But I didn’t share this with Gabriella, who dropped her still smoldering cigarette into the Pellegrino bottle from last night. She picked up her tarot deck and cocked her head.

“Have you seen the Beaumonts’ new resort property, on Lake Oconee?”

“No. They’re holding the reception there, I know that much.”

“The boat dock is especially nice—slips for the yachts, a gorgeous view. It’s the water that makes the place, you know, especially now, after the drought two years ago.”

I waited for her point. There wasn’t one. “So?”

She shuffled the cards in her hands, smoothly. Not like a poker player. Like a magician.

“If you do your research, you will notice that the wife of Senator Adams has a sister who has a husband on the water board of Greene County. Not yet, of course. He begins his term next year. But he has a reputation for protecting the commercial interests of property owners.”

“Friends tend to have friends in high places.”

“Yes, in high places you can always find some friends for sale.” She was cutting and restacking the deck now. “This is the nature of business.”

“What about Eliza? Was she starting to make noise about this business?”

She looked at me with puzzled amusement. “You think this is a secret? Don’t be naïve. As for Eliza, I’m afraid I can’t help you—I’ve told you everything I know about her. Ask Trey if you don’t believe me. He knows I don’t lie.”

She pulled a card from the deck and laid it face-up at my feet. A woman on a throne, some clouds, butterflies.

“The Queen of Swords,” she said. “Intensely perceptive. Quick and confident, independent and clear-thinking, sometimes rashly so. She has suffered loss, but has the strength to bear her sorrow.”

I shook my head. “I don’t believe in that stuff.”

“That hardly matters.” She pulled another card and laid it down at a right angle to the first. It was a man this time, also on a throne, also armed with a formidable piece of steel.

“The King of Swords. A card of power, of strength, of a man who holds life and death in the palm of his hand. He is firm in both friendship and in enmity, but often over-cautious. Usually solitary. And sometimes ruthless.”

I regarded her carefully. She was playing me, yes, but I was curious enough to play along. “So what are you and Trey? Friends? Lovers?”

“Both. But only because he isn’t in a relationship…is he?”

“You’re the one with the cards, you tell me.”

“That’s not how it works.” She turned over one more card. “This is the final outcome—The Magician, the card of creative archetypal energy. Whatever you choose to do, you will have the power to do it. Because there will be a choice, an important one—for both you and Trey.”

She collected her cards and tucked them in her basket. “He’s not what he seems to be on the surface. He’s very brave, yes, but also afraid. Only fear could make someone so brave.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will. Mark my words.” She stood and headed for the sliding glass door, her dainty slides clip-clopping with each step. “Tell Trey to enjoy the soup—it’s good for his electrolyte balance. And you should get some sleep—you’re going to need it.”

“Why? What—?”

But she was already gone.

Chapter 41

Trey slept through everything, which was just as well. When I checked on him, his breathing had deepened, dropping into a steady rhythm.

I left him to rest and flipped on the television just in time to catch the press conference. The gist was this: the APD announced that they had arrested William Aloysius Perkins, AKA Bulldog, and were charging him with the murder of Eliza Abigail Compton. Mark and Charley did a nice concluding piece about community, culminating in a big fat check to the Police Benevolent Fund with lots of hurrah-hurrah and general back-patting.

Mark spoke with solemn relish. “There will be justice now,