spoke briefly with the driver before the truck continued its approach. It was ancientlooking—and sounding. A muffler would be a good idea. The driver was Vietnamese, Patrick thought, maybe one of Louisa’s gardeners. He considered speaking to the man about getting the four-wheel drive fixed, and then he saw it draw to a stop outside the entrance to the kitchen. A woman with long, very straight auburn hair climbed out, followed by a boy in a soccer uniform, who promptly began playing with a soccer ball he’d brought with him, dribbling, popping it in the air, regaining control, until the redhead told him to stop.
“Perhaps if you looked at me, Patrick, you would hear what I’m saying.”
“What?” He spun around.
His great-aunt turned sympathetic eyes upon him, an unusual move for Louisa, who was straitlaced and not given to sympathy for herself or anyone else. “Are you worried about Megan being with Dylan?”
“Of course not,” he said, though that wasn’t strictly true. Dylan had regarded Louisa as the chief suspect in Sam’s murder, but he had also been the one to track down Sandy Sanford, the real killer. And he had to admit, in comparison to some of the men Megan had dated in the past, Dylan Hastings was a dream come true. And Dylan’s teenage daughter seemed to add new dimensions to Megan’s life; the two were quite a pair with their shared interest in art and fashion, among other things. “No, I’m sorry. I was thinking about this morning’s news. I apologize.”
“Aristotle Theodoros,” Louisa said with a snap in her voice. “Lower than a snake’s belly. I’m tired of hearing about the man.”
“You’ve met him?” Louisa was a wealthy and powerful woman. It didn’t surprise Patrick to learn she may have met Theodoros at some point.
“Well, of course,” she replied irritably. “His television show sold racing predictions. I was not at all surprised to learn he was involved in doping horses. I’m glad someone finished him off. It will save the country the money that would have been spent prosecuting him.”
“Do you think he was murdered,” Patrick asked, “to keep him from telling what he knew?”
“Probably.” She gave a small snort. “People like that just give the sport a bad name. I know it’s a cliché to say so, but it’s a fact. Then people think racing is populated by underworld characters. Or they think it’s all about money. Some people don’t understand what it is to love horses and to love to see them run, especially an animal who loves running, a great horse whose heart will spend itself to win, win, win. An Indecent Proposal, for instance. That’s a horse. There’s spiritual beauty in horseracing, Patrick, and then on the other side are people like Aristotle Theodoros. Parasites.”
Patrick turned his mind firmly to matters of the present. “How can you be sure Jacko Bullock isn’t one of those?”
“I can’t be. But I trust him more than I do Andrew Preston.”
“What do you have against Preston?” Patrick tried to keep his voice neutral.
Louisa’s face tightened slightly. “I don’t like change, Patrick. That’s all. And I don’t like situations I can’t control.”
Patrick agreed with the sentiment that Andrew Preston wasn’t about to be controlled by anyone. His mind’s eye, however, continued to see the long, straight auburn hair of the woman who’d gotten out of the Toyota, reminding him of another woman with long, straight auburn hair.
“Wesley,” Bronwyn hissed at her son as she finally persuaded him to sit on a stone wall outside the head housekeeper’s office. “I’m trying to get a job,” she said, moving her full-size backpack—one that had belonged to Ari—and Wesley’s smaller tote bag so that they sat together. Bringing everything she owned to Fairchild Acres hadn’t been practical. Instead, she’d hired a small—very small—storage unit in Sydney and prayed that she’d find a way to pay the monthly rentals until she could collect the rest of her belongings, belongings for which she was pretty sure there would be no room in the Fairchild Acres employee bungalows.
“It’s important that you are quiet and stay out of the way here,” she continued whispering to her son. “I have to have this job. Don’t you see that? We have no money since your— Anyhow, we have to make our own way, Wesley, and that means I have to work.”
“Why couldn’t you get a job in Sydney?”
“It’s expensive to live in Sydney.” This wasn’t the whole reason for her calling about the job she’d seen advertised at Fairchild Acres, however, and Wesley seemed to know it.
He said, “You always think you’re smarter than everyone else.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Like Nam. You thought he couldn’t understand English.”
Bronwyn’s cheeks burned anew. When she’d bade their driver farewell, he’d said in perfect English, “He must have caused you a lot of trouble.”
Ari.
Well, that was one way of putting it.
Yes, it was easy to blush, remembering her mistake.
“Wesley, could you please sit here quietly while I go in for my interview?”
“What if you don’t get hired?”
Bronwyn didn’t want to think about that. “I’m going to get hired. Now stay here. Don’t wander around.”
She approached the door of the estate manager’s office, which was labeled Office, as she’d been told it would be. She knocked, and as she did, a small, extremely pretty young woman with short blond hair looked out of the next door, which stood open. It appeared to be the door to the kitchens, though also part of the main house.
“She’s not here,” the woman called.
“What?” Bronwyn turned.
“Are you here about the dishwasher’s job?” the blonde asked.
Bronwyn nodded, noting the perfection of her skin and thinking that Patrick Stafford had no shortage of beautiful women at Fairchild Acres. But he probably had a girlfriend, for all Bronwyn knew. She certainly wasn’t here to resume any romantic relationship with him after a ten-year separation. Nonetheless, this pretty female made Bronwyn want to find the nearest sink and mirror so she could clean up after the hot, dusty truck ride. How could anyone come out of that obviously steaming kitchen looking so good?
“Well, Mrs. Lipton is gone for the day. She’ll be back tomorrow. You’ve come on her day off.”
“But I have an appointment.” This was impossible.
“You’re the woman who’s supposed to be coming tomorrow?” the blonde asked, her eyebrows drawing together.
How could there be such a mix-up? Bronwyn wondered. It was late in the afternoon and Nam had already headed back to Sydney. Not that she could have afforded to have him make the trip again the next day. Were there hotels nearby? Bronwyn wasn’t destitute, but she didn’t want to spend any of the little cash she possessed. She could live on the smell of an oily rag better than most, but there was no point in depleting her resources unnecessarily.
“Look,
