Chapter Forty-Two

When I got back to Trey's, he was just getting off the phone and was back in full Armani mode, his hair still wet at the nape. His kitchen smelled of lemon and herb, and he smelled once again of evergreen and ocean and crisp pressed cotton.

He gestured toward a steaming cup. "I made tea. Oolong. Decaffeinated. Would you like some?"

I put a six-pack of ginger ale in the fridge and a box of saltines on the counter. "We need to talk first. About Gabriella."

He placed the cup on a matching saucer, translucent bone china no doubt made in Italy. Then he nodded, very slightly. I put a hand in the small of his back and guided him to the sofa. He sat, but didn't look the least bit comfortable about it.

I sat next to him. "I'm not trying to interfere.”

"With what?"

"With your relationship with her."

He thought about that. "We don't have the kind of relationship that you can interfere with. She's—"

"It's none of my business what she is. I don't poach on other women's property."

"I'm not property."

He said this with the slightest edge, but his expression was placid, as always. Steam rose from the cup in a wispy curlicue. The scent was calming, relaxing, even if the tea itself was still too hot to drink.

"Duly noted,” I said. “But here’s the main problem. She's up to no good, Trey. And I'm betting it involves the Beaumonts."

Trey looked puzzled. "Why?"

"She and Charley are thick as thieves, and Charley's hiding something, I can tell. And that something involves Eliza." I ticked off the points on my fingers. "Landon's in their pocket, Marisa too. All of Phoenix. Senator Adams. Janie's a member of the fold now, and even the cops seem willing to toe the party line. I promise you, Trey, if you plotted this out on a graph, you'd see them right in the middle, connected to everything."

"The Beaumonts are clients, not suspects."

"So? Remember what Garrity said, everybody's guilty of something, and— "

"— it's a cop's job is to find out what. I know." He shook his head. "We're not cops."

"No, the cops seem to think idiotic drug-addled Bulldog is the guilty party."

"He admitted— "

"Oh, come on! The best they can do for motive is that Eliza refused to sleep with him. Or sheer confounded meanness, that's their other theory. And then he conveniently leaves her purse and the murder weapon in his truck before narrowly escaping death?"

"That's the official narrative."

"Which you are not buying, please tell me you're not."

He exhaled. "It has its weaknesses."

"Hell yeah, it does. That hypothesis is a goldmine of weaknesses. But here's one that isn't—Gabriella put a key logger on your computer, and she did it because she's up to something, and that something involves the Beaumonts."

Trey placed his tea on the coffee table. Then he stood and started pacing a tight line in front of the sofa. Six steps, then reverse, then repeat.

"We have no proof,” he said.

“She was at your desk.”

“Yes, but so were you."

I took a beat. "I hadn't thought of it that way."

"It's not an accusation, just a logical analysis. But until I get the key logger quarantined, I can't use the computer. I can’t do anything.”

He stopped pacing. Frowned. Then he made straight for his desk, where he stared at his computer for a long time, hands on hips. Then he disappeared into the bedroom. I heard a drawer open and shut, decisively.

"Trey?"

He reappeared in the living room wearing his shoulder holster. He headed right for the bottom desk drawer, keys in hand, and my stomach flipped.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm getting my weapon."

Oh great, I thought, he's gone vigilante. I fought the urge to jump up from the sofa and slam the drawer back shut. "Are you sure that's necessary?"

He unlocked the gun case. "The security of my home has been compromised. For your safety as well as mine, I—"

He stopped talking and stared into the drawer. Then he shut it. Then he looked at me.

"My gun is gone,” he said. "Magazines and ammo too."

Another flip of the stomach. "Trey, I swear to you, I didn't—"

"I know. You don't have the keys to the desk or the gun safe, and you don't know where I keep them. Only two other people do."

He headed for the door, not even looking to see if I was keeping up. I scrambled off the sofa.

“You'd better wait for me, Trey Seaver! And you'd better be headed where I think you're headed!”

* * *

The attendant at the day spa was, like all of Gabriella's employees, gorgeous and tall and possessed of a complexion as poreless as a magazine page. Her nametag read Arion, and she had no idea where her employer was.

"Check her book," Trey said.

"I did."

"Not that book."

"There's nothing in that book either."

"Show me."

Arion opened a drawer and pulled out a leather portfolio, which she then spread open on the counter. There was a note inside addressed to Trey. She looked startled to see it, but Trey seemed to have been expecting it all along. He opened it without a word.

"What does it say?" I said.

He slipped it in his jacket. "It's says that she's sorry and that she'll explain later, after tonight." He addressed Arion. "Would you please double-check my delivery order? Everything should be scheduled to arrive no later than four."

Arion looked relieved to have something to do. "Of course, Mr. Seaver."

She tapped some information into the computer. The boutique portion of the store was empty, and the soft sounds of the spa seemed very far away.

"The reception at Lake Oconee is tonight," I said. "I'd completely forgotten."

"Cocktails at six, dinner at seven-thirty."

"You think Gabriella will be there?"

"She's Charley's stylist. She's at every event the Beaumonts attend." He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. "Would you like to come?"

I blinked in surprise. "I wasn't invited."

"You don't need an invitation if you're with me."

"I don't have a dress."

He ran his eyes over my body, lingering at the hips, then looked around the gallery. He went to the red dress that had caught his eye on our first visit, ran his hand along the seam. "Have this delivered too, please," he said. Then he looked at my feet. "Size eight?"

"Wide."

He nodded at Arion. "Shoes too. I'll leave the choice to you."

"Certainly." She was looking at me differently now too. "Will this be on the Phoenix account as well?"

"No, my personal account."

His expression was composed, the same old Trey Seaver I was fast becoming accustomed to. But his eyes held something flickery and sharp, right at the center.

"Marisa will ream you out if you bring me,” I said.

"It doesn't matter.” He signed the bill Arion presented and slid it back across the counter. “She's going to fire me for losing my weapon and allowing a third party to access Phoenix property."

“Oh. That sucks.” I thought hard about my next words. “But listen. Trey. I’m really sorry, I really am. And I know I can't help you with that particular problem. Or your computer problem. Or your Gabriella problem."

He exhaled sharply. "You are correct. You cannot.”

"As for the missing weapon, however…” I smiled at him. “Being partners with a gun shop owner has its advantages."