Charlene said. “This is my house. Everything in it belongs to me.”
“Not for long—prenup. Remember the prenup,” Patrice said smugly. “When Jerod dies, you get a payoff and nothing more. Not a stick of furniture. Not one square foot of property. And certainly not my Remington sculpture.”
A sly grin curved Charlene’s glossy lips. “What would you say if I told you that Jerod has decided to change his will?”
Patrice looked like she might faint. Her complexion went ghostly pale. Her arms fell limply to her sides. “How could you say such a thing?”
“Maybe because it’s true.” Charlene preened. “You can check with the family attorney. He’ll be at dinner.”
“Grandpa wouldn’t do that,” she mumbled. “He couldn’t. Not on his deathbed.”
“He’s not going to die,” Charlene said with vehement conviction. “He’s going to get better.”
“Damn straight, honey. You tell ’em.”
Those few words, spoken in a Texan drawl, riveted everyone’s attention to the doorway. A white-haired man in a wheelchair was pushed onto the landing by a nurse in scrubs. Dark sunglasses perched on his beaklike nose. A plaid wool bathrobe hung from the frame of his shoulders. Though debilitated by illness, he was clearly the patriarch. Jerod Crawford, age seventy-six, took immediate, unquestioned control of the situation. “You girls quit your squabbling. And I mean now.”
A laugh bubbled from Charlene’s lips as she bounced toward her husband, leaned down and planted a quick kiss on his forehead. “You look good today. Excited about our party?”
“I’m waiting to see what you’ll wear. I like you all gussied up and smelling like roses.”
“I know you do.” She checked her wristwatch. “I need to run into town and pick up my dress from the seamstress. Don’t get yourself too tired before our guests arrive.”
“Ain’t much strain sitting in this here chair.”
She held both of his gnarled hands and squeezed. “Take care, lover boy. You’re my bumblebee.”
“And you’re my honey.”
Even though Charlene was probably a gold digger, Liz thought her fondness for Jerod rang true. Likewise for Ben, who stepped behind his grandpa’s wheelchair and pushed him along the driveway toward a narrow asphalt path leading toward the lake.
Rachel tapped Liz’s shoulder. “Put the sculpture on the table in the den and report to the kitchen.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As she entered the house, Liz reflected. She’d learned a lot about the dynamics of the Crawford family. Their greed. Their hostility. The seething undercurrent of hate and anger masked by these luxurious surroundings. Unfortunately, she’d gained zero evidence that Ben was an unfit father.
LIZ ALWAYS HAD TROUBLE following orders, but she tried to do as Rachel asked. Now she was baffled. Her assignment was to put together the place settings with half a dozen utensils, four plates, three different glasses and cup and saucer. She stood at the head of the table, shuffled the forks, switched the positions of the wineglass and water glass. Was that how it went?
When she looked up and saw Ben watching her with an amused smile, she felt a hot flush creeping up her throat. Blushing? She hadn’t blushed since sophomore year of high school when the captain of the baseball team had kissed her in the hallway, and she’d let him get to second base.
Ben came closer. “Could you use some help?”
Embarrassed about blushing, she thought of icebergs and snowstorms—anything to cool her off. Though she hated to admit that she didn’t have a clue about the third fork, Liz feared that Rachel would have a coronary if the place settings weren’t perfect. “I could use some expert advice.”
His shoulder brushed her arm as he reached across the plate setting to rearrange the knives. She was aware of his bodily warmth and a natural masculine scent that was far more enticing than aftershave. Not that she should be noticing the way he smelled. Her focus should be on gathering evidence to prove that he was an unfit father.
When he finished with the formal setting and stepped back, she nodded. “I knew that.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “Did you?”
“Not really, but it’s not something that bothers me. In the grand scheme of things, why should I waste brain cells on knowing where to put the forks?”
“You’re not really a maid. Sorry, housekeeping engineer. Why are you really here?”
His intense blue-eyed gaze rested suspiciously upon her face. He wanted the truth, which wasn’t something she could give.
From her other undercover experiences, she’d learned that successful lies were based on truth, so she stuck to reality. “I’m a law student, paying my own way. I need a summer job, and I heard about this maid gig through a friend of a friend.”
His scrutiny continued; he wasn’t totally satisfied with her answer. “I liked the way you handled Monte. You know karate.”
Now the truth got more complicated. If she mentioned Dragon Lou, Ben might check her out with a phone call, which might lead to someone mentioning her part-time work as a private eye. “I learned the basics of self-defense. Seemed like a smart thing for a woman living alone.”
Having offered a rational explanation, she should have stopped talking but really wanted him to believe her. She continued, “You probably won’t find it hard to believe that I’ve gotten myself into a few scrapes. About six years ago, I went out with this guy…” A warning voice inside her head told her to shut up. Shut up, now. “Maybe I had too much to drink. Maybe he did. I don’t know.”
Ben’s attention never wavered. “Go on.”
“Somehow,” she said, “I ended up at his apartment. He got aggressive. When I told him no, he didn’t stop.”
She had never told anyone—not her mother, not her friends, not Harry Schooner—about that night. She’d been date raped. Remembering her weakness made her sad and angry at the same time. “That’s when I started taking karate lessons. And I’m good. No one can force me to do something I don’t want to do. Never again. No means no.”
He took a step toward her, and she feared he would offer sympathy. A shoulder to cry on. Or a gentle platitude that could never make things better.
Instead he shook her hand. “Smart decision, Liz.”
“Thank you, Ben.”
She was beginning to really like this guy.
Chapter Four
To Liz, the flurry of anticipation and activity surrounding the arrival of the dinner guests seemed out of proportion. It wasn’t as if the Queen of England would be popping by for a state dinner. Her attitude was in direct contrast to the other maid, Annette Peltier, who twittered excitedly as she rearranged the centerpiece on the dining room table.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Annette gushed. Her maid’s cap nestled perfectly above a neat chignon at the back of her head. “I just love these dinner parties.”
“Who’s coming, anyway?”
“Patrice and her husband. He’s a famous athlete, you know.”
“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,