back and allowing her and her friend entrance into Melinda’s home. The idea that Senator Ashland had been asked to run on the Democratic ticket for the vice presidency in next year’s election was downright scary.
“Where’s Melinda?” Gloria asked sharply, skimming Lacy and immediately flashing disapproval.
“She’s in the family room.”
Gloria headed in that direction, a flurry of Gucci and Dolce & Gabbana. What a bitch, Lacy fumed. Well, giving Mrs. Ashland grace, Lacy released a weary sigh. The woman had just been forced to relive the loss of her son all over again. Lacy’s lips tightened into a grim line. But then, Gloria Ashland had always been a bitch, even when her son was very much alive.
“I’m Renae Rossman. You remember me, don’t you, Lacy? I served as mistress of ceremonies at your debutante ball.”
Lacy closed the door behind the woman who had just spoken. Fifteen or so years younger than Gloria, Renae was even more striking than Lacy remembered. And she remembered her all right. A former Miss Alabama, Renae had married Wes Rossman when she was only twenty-one. The rumor was that she had dropped out of college and married so abruptly because she was pregnant, but nine months later that rumor remained unproved. Only about ten at the time, Lacy could remember wondering why such a pretty lady, blond haired, blue eyed, and built like a runway model, would marry such an old man. Wes was at least twenty years older than Renae. Eventually Lacy had come to understand that he was a very rich man, and money talked. He was connected as well. He’d served as the senator’s campaign manager in his every political race. Their ties ran deep.
Turning to face the woman, Lacy affected her most charming smile. “Why, of course, I remember you, Mrs. Rossman.” She offered her hand.
Renae clasped Lacy’s hand briefly but firmly. “Call me Renae. The ‘Mrs.’ always makes me feel old. You’re looking well.” Remorse flickered in her eyes. “I regret these circumstances have brought us together again.”
Again?
Lacy supposed she was referring to the memorial service the Ashlands had held for Charles shortly after he was officially pronounced dead. Lacy, Kira and Cassidy had surrounded Melinda then, as well, providing an insulating barrier between her and the harsh reality of their own actions. A shiver raced through her at the memory.
“So do I.” Lacy turned away from the beauty queen’s scrutiny and hurried to the family room. She’d left Melinda alone too long with Gloria. Cassidy would not approve. With good reason, Lacy chastised herself. Melinda was vulnerable right now.
“You know I only have the child’s best interest at heart,” Gloria was saying as Lacy and Renae entered the room. She sat alone on the sofa, her back ramrod straight as she perched on the very edge. “She and Chuckie mean the world to the senator and I.”
Melinda stood behind a wing chair opposite the sofa. She gripped the back of the chair, her fingers digging into the elegant brocade, whether for support or protection, Lacy couldn’t be sure.
“I know you mean well,” Melinda offered, her voice trembling. “But I would prefer Chelsea be with me. I’m her mother. She needs to be with me.”
You tell her, Lacy cheered silently.
Gloria sighed dramatically, then pressed her handkerchief to her flushed cheek. “Tell her, Renae, about the reporters.”
Lacy went on instant alert.
Renae sat down on the sofa next to Gloria and took her hand in hers in a comforting gesture. “They’ve gathered at the courthouse,” she explained quietly.
The woman’s voice oozed Southern charm. Lacy could hear her Miss Alabama acceptance speech now, all warm and chock-full of false humility. There was something oddly unsettling about the woman, something Lacy couldn’t quite put her finger on. Renae’s words filtered through her distracted focus and Lacy went as cold as ice.
“What do you mean?” The question came from her, but Lacy didn’t remember forming the words.
“The news of—” she moistened her lips and swallowed “—the discovery has apparently garnered the attention of the media, local and state. There are at least a dozen reporters hanging around the chief of police’s office. As soon as they’ve exhausted their efforts there, they’ll come here.” Her focus shifted from Melinda to Lacy and back. “I don’t think Chief Summers will be able to stop them. This story has too many possible ramifications with Charles, Senior, having just been asked to run for vice president.”
Damn. Lacy hadn’t even considered the media circus that would no doubt descend as soon as the news reached the right ears.
“God, I hadn’t thought of that.” Melinda stared at the back of the chair she clutched. “It’ll be a nightmare—even worse than before.”
Lacy moved to her friend’s side. The damned chair was probably the only thing keeping her fully vertical at the moment.
“Then you see that I’m right,” Gloria offered, her eyes shining with self-satisfaction. “With the security we have at home there’s no way a reporter is going to get near Chelsea if she’s with us.”
Melinda nodded her surrender.
“Why don’t we go up and pack those bags?” Lacy suggested softly. Even she could see the justification in the move. Melinda nodded again, and with her leaning heavily on Lacy, the two walked slowly toward the hall.
“Chelsea’s going to be fine,” Lacy assured her. “You know Gloria will take good care of her.” She laughed drily. “She’ll probably spoil her outrageously.”
Melinda paused at the bottom of the stairs. “What if they won’t give up, Lace? What if they keep digging until—”
Lacy shook her head firmly, hoping to convey the certainty of her words. “They won’t.”
Rick studied the mass of paperwork before him. He had cleared his desk and then spread the Ashland file so that he could review it all at once.
“I’m gone, boss.”
Rick scrubbed a hand over his stubbled chin as he glanced up at his deputy. Brad Brewer, his right-hand man, leaned through the open door. He looked like hell. Rick knew, without the aid of a mirror, that he looked just as beat. Neither of them had bothered to go home last night and the lack of sleep was catching up on them.
“Yeah, Brewer, thanks for hanging in here with me.” It was nearing midnight. Everyone had left hours ago, except the two of them.
“In the morning I’ll stay on the Birmingham office until I get that preliminary forensics report for you.”
Rick nodded though he imagined that the senator had already pressed for a speedy turnaround. “Thanks, Brewer. See you in the morning.”
The deputy’s steps echoed down the empty hall, then faded as he exited the Law Enforcement Center. Rick blew out a breath of frustration and exhaustion and turned his attention back to the puzzle before him.
Dozens of interviews had been conducted with friends, work associates and family members when Ashland first went missing ten years ago. Rick scowled at the stack of neatly typed reports. Preston Taylor, the chief of police in Ashland
