style="font-size:15px;"> “Say nothing more.” She pulled the door to the stairwell closed, making sure they were alone. “If anyone finds out what you’re doing here, I’ll deny any knowledge of your true profession.”
“Yes, ma’am.” In a low voice, she asked, “What can you tell me about Ben?”
“A fine-looking man but brooding. When Victoria told me about his drug problem, I had to act. I can’t stand the thought of his daughter being raised by an addict.”
“He doesn’t usually live here, does he?”
“His home is in Seattle where he runs Crawford Aero-Equipment. They supply parts to the big airplane manufacturers and also build small custom jets.”
Seemed like an extremely responsible job for a drug addict. “Why is he in Colorado?”
“This is his grandfather’s house. Jerod Crawford.” Her forehead pinched. “Jerod is a generous, brave man. He’s dying from a brain tumor.”
“And his grandson came home to take care of him.”
Again, Ben’s behavior wasn’t what she’d expect from a druggie degenerate. Maybe he was here to make sure he inherited big bucks when grandpa died.
“For right now, you’re needed in the kitchen,” Rachel said. “We have a dinner party for sixteen scheduled for this evening.”
Maybe some of these guests would provide negative evidence she could use against Ben. “Anybody I should watch for?”
“In what sense?”
“Other drug users. He must have gotten the name of his dealer from somebody.”
“That’s for you to investigate,” Rachel said. “In the meantime, report to the kitchen.”
“I’ll be there in a flash. Right after I comb my hair.”
Liz tiptoed up the stairs to the second floor. No matter what Rachel thought, her first order of business was to locate Ben’s bedroom and search for his drug stash. She opened the door and stepped into the center of a long hallway decorated with oil paintings of landscapes hung above a natural cedar wainscoting. She peeked into an open door and saw an attractive bedroom with rustic furnishings—nothing opulent but a hundred times better than the tiny garret on the third floor where she’d dropped off her backpack and changed into the starchy maid outfit.
A tall brunette in a black pantsuit emerged from one of the rooms and stalked down the hallway.
Though Liz beamed a friendly smile, the brunette went past her without acknowledging her presence. Apparently, this was what it felt like to be furniture.
“Excuse me,” Liz piped up.
The woman paused. “What?”
“I’m new here. And I’m looking for Ben’s bedroom.”
“My brother’s room is right down there. Close to Grandpa.”
The double doors to Jerod’s room were open, and she heard other people inside. “Thank you.”
There were too many people milling around to make a thorough search of Ben’s room. Later, she’d come back. And right now? Liz wasn’t anxious to report for maid duty in the kitchen. She’d use this time to explore, to get a sense of this sprawling house and the acreage that surrounded it.
On the drive here, she hadn’t seen much. After the turnoff in Evergreen, she’d gone three-point-four miles on a narrow road that twisted through a thick forest of ponderosa pine, spruce and conifer. A wrought-iron gate between two stone pillars protected the entrance, and a chain-link fence enclosed the grounds. She’d had to identify herself over an intercom before the gates opened electronically.
The stone-and-cedar mansion nestled against a granite ridge. The main section rose three stories. Several different levels—landscaped terraces and cantilevered decks—made the house seem as though it had grown organically from the surrounding rocks and trees.
Liz went down a short hallway beside the staircase. A beveled glass door opened onto the second-story outdoor walkway made of wood planks. At the far end, the walkway opened onto a huge, sunlit deck.
Towering pines edged up to the railing. Hummingbird feeders and birdhouses hung from the branches. Several padded, redwood chairs and chaises faced outward to enjoy the view, but no one was outside. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined this side of the house, which was very likely Jerod Crawford’s bedroom. Lucky for her, the drapes were closed.
As Liz walked to the railing, a fresh mountain breeze caressed her cheeks. Twitters from chipmunks and birds serenaded her. Multicolored petunias in attached wooden flower boxes bobbed cheerfully.
People like her didn’t live in places like this. A grassy field dotted with scarlet Indian paintbrush and daisies rolled downhill, past a barn and another outbuilding, to a shimmering blue lake, surrounded by pines. In the distance, snow-covered peaks formed a majestic skyline.
At the edge of the lake, a wood dock stretched into the water. Though she was over a hundred yards away, she thought she recognized Ben. He faced a woman with platinum-blond hair and a bright red sweater.
Though Liz couldn’t hear their words, they were obviously arguing. The woman gestured angrily. Ben pulled back as though he couldn’t stand being close to her.
She stamped her foot.
And then, she slapped him.
BEN RESTRAINED AN URGE to strike back at Charlene. Much as she had earned the right to have her ass thrown off his grandpa’s property, that wasn’t Ben’s call.
Through tight lips, he said, “You’re not always going to have things your way.”
“No matter what you think, I’m the one in charge around here. Me. I’m Jerod’s wife.”
A ridiculous but undeniably true statement. At age thirty-six, she was only two years older than Ben himself. He hated having to consult with her on his grandpa’s medical care and would never understand why the old man listened to her.
“Be reasonable, Charlene. I’ve been talking to specialists and neurosurgeons. They think Jerod’s tumor could be removed.”
“I don’t want your doctors.” She screeched like a harpy. “Jerod is happy with Dr. Mancini. And so am I.”
Dr. Al Mancini had been the Crawford family doctor for years, and he was competent to treat sniffles and scraped knees. But a brain tumor? “Mancini isn’t even practicing anymore. He’s retired.”
“And Jerod is his only patient. Dr. Mancini comes here every single day. Your specialist would put Jerod in the hospital. And he refuses.”
Unfortunately, Charlene was correct. His stubborn, Texas-born grandpa had planted himself here and wouldn’t budge. Every day, the tumor inside his head continued to grow. His vision was seriously impaired, and he barely had the strength to get out of his wheelchair. “If not an operation, he needs access to other treatments. Radiation. Cutting-edge medications.”
“He
