The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings #2) - J. R. Ward Page 0,62

candy dish that sat on the curved tail of an upside-down carp.

But the Englishman wasn’t coming on the approach to talk about his polishing plans.

“Oh, well done, sir. I was just going in search of you. You have a visitor. Deputy Ramsey is in the kitchen.”

“Yes, I saw his sheriff’s vehicle parked outside.”

“Also, the notification for the visiting hours has gone out. The e-mail was necessary due to our time constraints. I would have preferred proper mail, of course. The responses have already began streaming in, however, and I believe you will be pleased with the turnout.”

Three things went through Lane’s mind, one after the other: Hopefully the guests wouldn’t eat or drink much; wonder what people would say if they did a cash bar; and finally, God, he’d never thought about per-head costs before.

As he became aware that the butler was looking at him expectantly, Lane said, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“There has also been a new arrival in the household.”

The butler stopped the news flash there, as if he had been offended by Lane’s mental recession and was going to force interaction as payback.

“So who is it?” The Grim Reaper? No, wait. Bernie Madoff on a work-release program. Krampus—nope, wrong season.

“Miss Amelia has returned. She arrived by taxi about ten minutes ago with some of her bags. I took the liberty of having them placed in her room.”

Lane frowned. “Is it summer vacation already? Where is she?”

“I gather she went to find her mother.”

“So the mushroom cloud should be hitting the horizon soon. Thank you, Mr. Harris.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

For some reason, with the way the man said the words, they always came out sounding like “screw you.” Which made one want to take that black tie from around his neck and—

No, enough with the dead bodies, even on the hypothetical.

Lane flushed his brain, walked across the foyer, and entered the stark hall that preceded the entrance to the kitchen. As he came up to Rosalinda Freeland’s old office, he paused and traced the police seal that remained on the door.

The fact that he wasn’t allowed in there seemed emblematic of what his whole life had become.

Maybe Jeff was right. Maybe he couldn’t keep a lid on everything that was falling apart. Maybe the world didn’t run like it had back in his grandfather’s, and even his father’s, day, when families like his had the power to protect themselves.

And honestly, why the hell was he ruining relationships that mattered to him for his father’s bullshit?

“Hello, sir.”

Lane glanced over. A blond woman in a maid’s uniform was coming out of the laundry room, a long, loose swath of fine cotton over her arm.

“It’s Tiphanii,” she said. “With a ph and two i’s.”

“Yes, of course. How are you?”

“I’m taking good care of your friend Jeff. He’s working so hard up there.” There was a pause. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, thank you.” Clean duvet covers aside, she had nothing he wanted. Or ever would. “But I’m sure my old roommate appreciates the personal service.”

“Well, you’ll let me know, then.”

As she sashayed off, he thought of the first season of American Horror Story and the maid who was sometimes old, sometimes young. That one there was definitely the latter. The good news? At least Jeff was no doubt getting a chance to burn off some stress. And Tiphanii wasn’t a ghost who would go post-menopausal on the guy at an awkward time.

Man, you’re just like your father.

“No, I’m not.”

When Lane entered the extensive, professionally appointed kitchen, he smelled hot cross buns and found Miss Aurora and Officer Ramsey sitting side by side on stools at her granite countertop, a pair of coffee mugs and a plate of those sweets between them. The deputy was in his tan, brown, and gold uniform, a gun on his hip, a radio up on his huge shoulder. Miss Aurora was in an apron and loose blue slacks.

She was looking thinner since he’d arrived here, Lane thought grimly.

“’Mornin’,” Lane said as he went over and clapped palms with Ramsey.

“You, too.”

“There room for a third?”

“Always.” Miss Aurora pushed an empty mug to him and got up to snag the coffeepot from its machine. “And I’ll be leaving you two.”

“Stay,” Lane said as he sat down. “Please.”

God, he’d forgotten how big Ramsey was. Lane was a healthy six two, six three. But as he took the stool next to the deputy, he felt like a Barbie doll.

“So the autopsy report.” Mitch glanced over. “The finger is