Killer Summer

17

Fiona entered the tent on the arm of Roger Hillabrand, the CEO of a multinational defense-contracting firm, who’d been a central figure in a recent investigation of Walt’s office. He had a Robert Redford thing going: rich, rugged, and ready for action.

Seeing her, Walt wanted to simply disappear. “Another junior high reaction to an adult situation,” is how Gail would have labeled it. His relationship with Fiona was not entirely professional, though he wasn’t sure she knew that. If forced to say hello, to acknowledge the pair, he might blush or stammer or otherwise give himself away. That was to be avoided at all costs.

He should have realized she’d attend, should have realized guys like Hillabrand didn’t give up. He’d gone after her before, during the investigation. Fiona had pushed back, but had now obviously had a change of heart. Walt barely recognized her in the skintight designer jeans, high heels, and red silk, western-style shirt unsnapped to the third button.

They arrived to the party like Sun Valley royalty. Thankfully, they were swallowed up immediately by the social crush.

“Hey, Sheriff, isn’t that-?”

“Yeah,” Walt said, cutting Brandon off, forcing himself to look away.

“She sure cleans up good.”

“I’ll be at Mobile Command. Stay on comm.”

He headed for the far entrance of the tent.

The tent itself was now crowded with guests, a confusing mix of pretensions and loud talk that went with wine connoisseurs. Overhearing such descriptions as “a buttery nose” and “a chalky vanilla finish,” he wanted to laugh. To him, wine came in a box, and eventually went down the toilet.

The more tasting that went on, the louder the voices became, a shouting match with built-in laugh track.

Nearly out of the tent now, Walt overheard a young woman arguing with a volunteer hostess that she should be allowed in the party. The volunteer politely explained it was by invitation only.

“I won’t be but five minutes,” the young woman complained bitterly. “I promise, I won’t drink any wine. I could care less! I just need a minute with one of the presenters.”

“Who?”

“Arthur Remy. It’s extremely important.”

Mention of Remy’s name caught Walt’s attention. The volunteer hostess said something Walt couldn’t hear. The young woman seeking entrance, clearly disgusted, charged past her into the tent.

When Fiona spotted Walt, she gripped Roger’s arm more tightly and steered him toward the whites.

“Do you ever play that game where you make up what other people do, who they are, what they’re thinking?” she blurted out before realizing how childish it sounded. “Forget I just said that,” she added, embarrassed.

“Heavens no! It’s a wonderful game. The only problem is, I know everyone here.”

“Everyone?”

“Damn near.”

They each accepted a small glass of white wine.

“What about him,” she asked, “the anxious-looking guy?”

“You guess first,” he said. “I’ll tell you how close you are.”

“You know him?”

“Of him, absolutely.”

“Someone intense. A surgeon maybe. Or a broker who lost everything in the crash last year. He’s a wannabe, worried sick, by the look of him, at not being the center of a conversation.”

“That’s Teddy Sumner,” Hillabrand revealed. “His wife was the film producer Annette Dunning. You know, The Last Look, A Farewell to Harm-”

“I loved that movie!” she gasped.

“She died of breast cancer… two years ago, now. Teddy took over the reins, soon confirming the old adage that there can’t be two geniuses in the same bed.”

“There’s no such adage.”

“There ought to be. He’s squandered most of the fortune she’d made them-not helped any by the crash, of course-living well beyond his means. Has a teenage daughter, I think, which can’t be easy. A nice enough guy who should have been content to live off her earnings rather than trying to prove himself, which rarely works. You want to feel sorry for him, but he was his own undoing.”

“Your turn,” she said, looking around the tent. She pointed out the Engletons, whose guest cottage she was renting. He was tall, with a wisp of white interrupting his dark hair. She was exotic-looking, wearing a shawl from India or Pakistan.

“I know Michael and Leslie very well. You know that.”

“But if you didn’t…?”

“But I do… That’s not how the game is played, is it?”

“Okay, fine. How about the man with the pinup, the blow-up doll… Do you know them?”

“Aren’t we generous?”

“I don’t feel sorry for someone who looks like a teakettle. You don’t wear a copper top like that unless you’re starved for attention.”

“I’d peg him as ex-military. German, maybe something more exotic like Czech or one of the -zakis. Extremely confident. Runs his own business, plays by his own rules. Is rough in bed-and she likes it.”

Fiona punched him in the arm. His wine sloshed, nearly spilling, and they both laughed.

“She’s the rough one,” Fiona said. “Wants all the attention all the time. Insufferable. Fired from the evening news in some backwater TV market like Bakersfield.”

“More like Atlantic City,” Roger said.

“Exactly! Skipped college for a shot at showbiz. Failed miserably. Married three times, no kids. Loves dogs.”

“Little dogs… yappy little dogs she dresses like dolls.”

“Perfect!” Fiona finished off the glass of wine. “See? You’re good at this.”

For a moment, there was something between them, something she found dangerous and seductive at the same time. But the feeling threatened her as much as excited her, and it ruined the moment for her.

“You okay?” he asked.

Just then, there was a commotion at the entrance on the far side of the tent. A woman charged through the crowd, stopping only a few feet from them.

Walt signaled the volunteer hostess and pursued the crasher himself. He reached out for the rushing woman’s arm but missed.

The woman was dressed casually, and inappropriately for this crowd, in department-store jeans, a green polo, and brown Keens.

Intrigued by what the woman might want with Remy, he gave her some distance. He knew he stuck out in his uniform, but no one seemed to notice him.

Coming within earshot, Walt was disappointed that the confrontation between the crasher and Remy lasted only seconds. Remy had rebuked her immediately, turning his back on her. But she was determined, pulling a pen out of the purse slung over her shoulder and scribbling something on a cocktail napkin. Interrupting Remy a second time, she pressed the napkin into his unwilling hand.

“Call me,” she said.

Remy leaned in close to her and apparently said something disagreeable. Her head jerking back as if slapped, she turned and hurried out an opening in the tent’s wall, a move Walt had not seen coming.

He tried to catch up with her but became tangled in the crowd. One didn’t push around members of this set. He politely squeezed his way through the throng, making for the opening. He was several steps past one couple before stopping abruptly to get a better look at the woman’s face. Ignoring the hair and makeup, the outfit that made her look like a copper-topped battery, he realized she reminded him of someone. It took him a few seconds too many to wonder if she wasn’t the woman in the Hailey crosswalk, the woman caught on the traffic cam. The camera was too high up the pole and too far away to get a decent shot at any face, and yet…

His moment of hesitation cost him.

He caught Brandon’s eye, hand-signaling him over other people’s heads to get going out of the tent.

Brandon, who’d seen Walt pursuing the party crasher, took off.

Then Walt looked back for the woman in the copper top.

Gone.

Not for the first time in his life, he cursed his short stature. In a sea of six-footers, he was forced to lift up to his toes and crane his neck. The Duracell battery and her man were moving away from Walt but in no particular hurry. He took a step in that direction, then heard Brandon speaking in his right ear bud.

“She’s getting into a car, Sheriff. What do you want me to do?”

Grabbing the handset clipped to his epaulet, he answered, “Wave her down and stop her, if you can.”

“No way.”

“Get the plate, then. Take down the registration.”

“Ten-four,” Brandon mumbled.

Walt glanced back toward his quarry as another volunteer hostess blew into a microphone and began making introductions. Walt again lifted to his toes, searching for Miss Duracell.

Not seeing her or her escort, Walt hurried back out of the tent. He caught up to Brandon, describing the woman’s copper outfit as the two jogged over to the sea of parked SUVs.

The couple was nowhere to be found.

“How’s that possible?” a winded Brandon asked.

“Professionals,” Walt answered, a sense of dread overcoming him.

He’d had her within arm’s reach.