“Wait,” Lane called out. “I have something for you. You know, to remind you of the game.”

Lenghe pivoted back around with a laugh. “If it’s those four aces for framing? You can keep ’em.”

Lane smiled and ducked back under the dash on the driver’s side. “No, those puppies are mine.”

As the Porsche’s hood popped, Lane went over, lifted the panel and exposed a brown-wrapped square that was about three feet long and two and a half feet wide. The thing had barely fit inside.

With a grunt, he lifted the package out. “Here.”

John put down his case. “What is this—”

But the man knew the minute the painting changed hands.

Before Lenghe could say anything, Lane put his palm out. “Take it home to your wife. Let her hang it wherever she wants, and every time you look at it, remember … you’re a father figure to a guy who’s wanted one all his life, okay? And before you remind me that you lost, let’s just look at it like you bought your wife a great present for a very fair price—and you and I got to play one helluva game of cards.”

Lenghe held the thing for the longest time. Then he cleared his throat. “Well. Now.”

“The documentation’s in there. On the back side of the painting. Not the front.”

Lenghe cleared his throat again and looked off into the distance. After a moment, he said, “Did your father tell you?”

“About what? And before you answer, he and I didn’t talk about much.”

“My, ah … my wife and I never could have children, you know.” More with the throat clearing. “So. There you go.”

Guess it was kind of perfect, Lane decided. A man who had no sons being a father to a guy with no parents.

Without conscious thought, Lane went in for the clinch, holding those strong shoulders.

When he stepped back, John Lenghe’s face was florid with emotion, so red it was like he’d gotten a sunburn mowing those acres of his.

“You’re going to come out West and stay with us in Kansas,” John announced. “With that nice girl of yours. The wife’s gonna wanna thank you in person, and she does that stuff with food. So come hungry.”

“You got it.”

With a final handshake, the Grain God tucked his Rembrandt under one arm and picked up his suitcase with his free hand. Then he walked up the stairs and disappeared into his plane.

Lane leaned back against the Porsche and saw through the oval windows as the guy sat down and put his cell phone to his ear.

And then, with a final wave and a big fat smile that suggested “the wife” was over the moon, the jet was taxiing out … and taking off.

Just as the early sunlight winked off its fuselage, and Lane started thinking about his father’s impending funeral that afternoon, his phone rang. He answered without looking. “Hello?”

“Lane, it’s Mitch Ramsey. Get out to the Red & Black. They’re going to arrest your brother for the murder. Hurry—hurry!”

• • •

Lizzie was heading back down to the kitchen with her work clothes on as she heard the purr of Lane’s Porsche disappear down the hill. What a night. What a miracle.

And what a nice thing Lane had decided to do.

She had found the roll of brown paper and had helped him carefully remove the painting from the wall and get it covered safely. Then they’d had the fun of seeing whether or not it fit in the Porsche’s extremely limited truck space under the front hood. In the end, though, just as with the card game, luck had been on their side—and she could only imagine how pleased the man was going to be to bring the masterpiece home to his wife.

God, she wanted to meet Mrs. Lenghe at some point, she really did. Dollars to doughnuts, as the saying went, the woman was going to be as down to earth and kind as that billionaire was.

And now, it was time to get back to work.

The plan for the morning, after she ate whatever ambrosia Miss Aurora was serving, was for her to go for a check-the-grounds tour and try to find something to mow: Making neat on a John Deere outside in the fresh air just seemed like her idea of heaven.

After all, the interment of William Baldwine was scheduled for that afternoon, and watching Lane put his father to rest was not going to be easy.

Pushing her way into the kitchen, she said, “Miss Aurora, what’s cooking—”

Except the woman wasn’t at the stove. And there was no coffee brewing. No fruit out. No sweet smell of cinnamon bread.

“Miss Aurora?”

Lizzie went in further, checking the mudroom and the pantry. Even poking her head out the back door to see if the red Mercedes Lane had given the woman was still there—and it was.

It had been a late night, true, and their out-of-town guest had also left early, but there were still people in the house to feed, and even if the woman had worked the Fourth of July until one a.m., she was always on breakfast—besides, it was pushing eight a.m.

That was almost the middle of the day for the woman.

Going over to Miss Aurora’s private quarters, Lizzie knocked. “You in there, Miss Aurora?”

When there was no answer, fear curled a fist in her gut.

Knocking louder, she said, “Miss Aurora …? Miss Aurora, if you don’t answer, I’m coming in.”

Lizzie gave every opportunity for there to be a reply, and when none came, she turned the knob and pushed. “Hello?”

Taking a couple of steps inside, she saw nothing out of place. Nothing that was—

“Miss Aurora!”

Running into the bedroom, she crouched down by the woman, who was sprawled on the floor as if she had fainted.

“Miss Aurora!”

FIFTY-THREE

Lane made it to the Red & Black in record time, and as he skidded to a halt next to the three police cars parked in front of the caretaker’s cottage, dust and gravel kicked up all over the place.

He didn’t know whether or not he turned off the engine. And he didn’t care.

Taking the shallow steps on a oner, he burst in on a tableau that was a never-forget: Three uniformed police officers were standing with their backs against the wall of trophies while Deputy Ramsey loomed in the opposite corner, looking like he wanted to hit someone.

And in the center of the room, Detective Merrimack was standing over Edward, who was sitting in that chair.