I Heard That Song Before Read Free

suit, at the bottom of the swimming pool. An autopsy showed that she was three times over the limit of being legally drunk. The article concluded, “Carrington claimed he went to sleep immediately and did not awaken until the police responded to the 911 call. MAYBE. We’re conducting an opinion poll. Go to our Web site and let us know what you think.”
    A week later, at the library, I received a call from Vincent Slater, who reminded me that I had met him when I had an appointment with Peter Carrington.
    “Mr. Carrington,” he said, “has decided to permit the use of his home for your fundraiser. He suggests that you coordinate the details of the event with me.”

2
    V incent Slater put down the phone and leaned back, ignoring the faint squeak of his desk chair, a sound that had begun to annoy him and that several times he’d made a mental note to get fixed. His office in the mansion had originally been one of the seldom-used sitting rooms at the back of the house. In addition to its remoteness, he had chosen it because of the French doors that not only gave a view of the formal gardens but also served as a private entrance from which he could come and go without being observed.
    The problem was that Peter’s stepmother, Elaine, who lived in a house on the grounds, thought nothing of coming up to his office and entering without knocking. At that moment, she had done exactly that again.
    She did not waste time on a greeting. “Vincent, I’m glad I caught you. Is there any way you can persuade Peter to give up the idea of having that charity reception here? One would think that after all the terrible publicity last week in that trashy Celeb magazine, rehashing Susan’s disappearance and Grace’s death, he would know enough to attract as little attention as possible.”
    Vincent stood up, a courtesy he wished he could forego when Elaine barged in on him. Now, even though he was intensely irritated by the intrusion, he could not resist noticing begrudgingly how exquisitely attractive she was. At sixty-six, Elaine Walker Carrington, with her ash-blond hair, sapphire blue eyes, classic features, and willowy body, could still turn heads. She moved with the grace of the fashion model she had once been, even as, uninvited, she settled herself in the antique armchair on the other side of Vincent’s desk.
    She was wearing a black suit that Slater guessed was an Armani, whom he knew to be her favorite designer. Her jewelry consisted of diamond earrings, a narrow strand of pearls, and the wide diamond wedding ring that she still wore even though her husband, Peter’s father, had been dead for nearly twenty years. Her faithfulness to his memory, Vincent well knew, had everything to do with the terms of her prenuptial agreement, which allowed her to live here for the rest of her life, unless she remarried, and ensured her a million-dollar-a-year stipend. And, of course, she liked to be referred to as Mrs. Carrington, with all the attendant privileges.
    Which does not give her the right to walk in here and act as if I hadn’t considered very carefully the pluses and minuses of having a public event in this house, Vincent thought. “Elaine, Peter and I have discussed this thoroughly,” he began, his tone revealing his irritation. “Of course the publicity is terrible and embarrassing, which is why Peter has to make some move to show he’s not in hiding. That is precisely the perception which must be changed.”
    “Do you really think that having strangers milling around in this house will change the perception most people have of Peter?” Elaine asked, her tone laced with sarcasm.
    “Elaine, I suggest you stay out of this,” Slater snapped. “May I remind you that the family company went public two years ago, and there is a negative side to having to answer to stockholders. Even though Peter is by far the largest stockholder, the fact remains that there’s a growing opinion that he should step down as chairman and