"Irene, Irene," Griffin gushed. "You haven't changed in sixteen years."
"You swine. I look better!" Irene laughed, the sound of church bells pealing. She lifted her chin, letting him take in her fine bone structure and the silken skin of her throat.
"How do you do it?" Griffin hugged her tightly.
"Nutrition. Exercise. And a few dents have been pounded out and repainted."
Not to mention a few parts that were brand new, Victoria thought. Her mother's boobs were teenagers and her butt a newborn babe.
"Mother, you still haven't said what you're doing here."
"Grif's in trouble, so I came."
Victoria wished she could cross-examine: "Really? And when's the last time you walked across the street to help someone, much less flew halfway round the world?"
Victoria loved her mother but could be coolly rational about her. As a child, there were times Victoria felt like one of The Queen's matched snow-white poodles, Van Cleef and Arpel. At dinner parties, she'd be summoned from her room to perform for her mother's guests. The gleaming baby-grand piano was a prop, Victoria a bit player in the melodrama that was her mother's life.
"Something Chopin, Princess. Nocturne thirteen, perhaps."
Victoria's proficiency as a pianist, her posture and manners, even her well-groomed looks all reflected on The Queen, whose friends oohed and cooed at the precocious child.
"White wine only, darlings." Her mother's voice flooding back.
With carpets and sofas as white as Van Cleef and Arpel's fluffy pelts, The Queen refused to serve red wine. No wonder, as a rebellious teenager, Victoria was drawn to Chianti, Campari, and Singapore Slings with grenadine. No wonder she had desperately yearned for a normal mother. Home-baked cookies, PTA meetings, maybe even a career other than the full-time job of appearing regal. Now, fully grown, Victoria wished they had a closer, warmer relationship. But her mother was an air-kisser, not a hugger. And just how do you embrace a woman who's deathly afraid of smearing her makeup?
"All these years," Griffin murmured, yet again.
"Forgive me, Grif," Irene said. "I should have returned your letters and calls, but after Nelson died. ."
"I know. I know." They released each other to arm's length, Griffin keeping one hand on Irene's back. It looked as if they were going to fox-trot. "But you should have let me help you."
"It just didn't seem right, Grif. I needed the money, that's for sure. But. ."
The Queen let it hang there, and Victoria tried to remember the days after her father's death. Her mother had gone from society hostess-what's that corny old phrase, "the hostess with the mostest"-to a social pariah. There'd been whispers among the La Gorce Country Club set. Irene Lord's profligate spending had driven the family into debt. Nelson had cut corners in the business. They sank into the quicksand of legal problems, tax problems, money problems.
How much of it was true?
The Queen refused to talk about it.
Uncle Grif and her mother still stared into each other's eyes. Victoria was starting to feel like the uninvited guest at another couple's party, a couple she didn't know all that well. Whatever memories were unspooling, she was not privy to them.
"I'm so sorry about Phyllis," Irene offered. "And forgive me for waiting all this time to say so."
"Thank you, Irene. She always thought so highly of you."
They reminisced a few minutes more before sitting down to guzzle champagne and slather caviar, eggs, and onion onto tiny wafers. Irene had signed the check to the room, meaning Victoria would have to pay.
At a lull in the conversation, Irene lowered her voice to a whisper. "You didn't really kill that fellow, did you, Grif?"
"Of course not. And The Princess is going to prove it. She's outstanding, Irene. Smart like her father, beautiful like her mother."
"I hope she's not in over her head."
"Mother. I've handled murder cases."
"For riffraff, maybe," Irene said. "But Grif's family. He should have the best."
"Not to worry," Griffin said. "Victoria's terrific. Her partner, too."
"Solomon?" Irene wrinkled her nose, which had been expensively sculpted upward, like the prow of a fine yacht. "I suppose he's effective in his own declasse way." She took another sip of champagne, then said, "How's Junior doing? Victoria tells me he's turned into a real hunk."
"Mo-ther," Victoria said in her chiding tone. No surprise that her mother changed the subject from Steve to the only boy-well, man now-considered good enough for her little darling. Oh, how The Queen adored Junior, or at least the memory of him. As for Steve, a few months ago Irene had told Victoria that three things gave her indigestion: raw onions, men in lime velour sweatsuits, and thoughts of her marrying Steve.
"Junior never cared much about making a buck," Griffin said. "But lately, he's taken an interest in the business. Been riding me hard, telling me I spend too much money, take too many risks."
Irene cocked her head and rolled a pearl earring between thumb and index finger. "I remember years ago the six of us were at the Surf Club for dinner. Junior must have been about ten and Victoria eight, and they were feeding each other stone crabs with little cocktail forks. And one of us, I think it was Nelson, said wouldn't it be great if the kids got together someday." She paused, relishing the memory. "I think we all were hoping for a Griffin-Lord wedding."
"Plans," Griffin said. "If there's anything I've learned, it's that man's hopes are just God's toys."
Irene sighed. "Don't I know it, Grif."
Victoria decided to intervene before the discussion turned to her kindergarten report cards, her childhood measles, or her first menstrual period. "Mother, Uncle Grif and I were working on trial prep, so I wonder if you-"
"Go right ahead, dear. I won't interfere." Irene hoisted her flute and finished off the champagne a trifle too quickly. Pouring herself another, she said: "So, have the two of you been talking about moi?"
"Mother, the world doesn't revolve around you."
"Since when, dear?"
"You have to leave," Victoria said. "We're discussing the case. You're not covered by the attorney-client privilege, and anything Uncle Grif says-"
"Oh, fiddles! Grif, tell my daughter she can't evict me."
"Now, I-rene," Griffin said with mock exasperation.
"Don't you 'Now, Irene' me."
They both laughed again, and Irene's eyes glistened with pleasure. The way they spoke to each other reminded Victoria of something, but what was it? She tried to dig up a memory but couldn't.
Just what was her mother doing, anyway? She seemed almost flirtatious. But then, flirting was second nature to her. There'd been many men in The Queen's life the past fifteen years, one rich widower or recently divorced tycoon after another. Much like her hammered gold bracelet, Irene was a most presentable trinket. The Queen's modus operandi, Victoria knew, was to show as little interest as possible, which only fueled men's ardor. She clearly enjoyed the fawning attention, the travel, the perks of private jets and five-star hotels.
When Victoria once asked why she didn't marry any of the suitors, her mother dismissed the idea with a wave of the hand. "Heaven knows, I've been asked, but I've had the one great love of my life."
Meaning Victoria's father, of course. Or so Victoria always thought. But just now, another suspicion was nibbling away, like a mouse in the larder.
Those pealing laughs.
Those glistening eyes.
The tenderness between them.
Her mother and Uncle Grif? No, it was utterly preposterous, to use one of The Queen's own phrases.
Or was it?
Uncle Grif was the one who'd christened them The Queen and The Princess. He had always been around, always been attentive to their needs. That day she got lost at Disney World-she couldn't have been more than six or seven-it was Uncle Grif, not her father, who found her. And what about that bank account in the Caymans? Queen Investment, Ltd. Why not Phyllis Investments? Why not his own wife's name? Did the covert account reveal a surreptitious relationship?
"Now, I-rene."
"Don't you 'Now, Irene' me."
It came back to her then. That's the exchange she remembered between her mother and father. Or was it? Had it been Uncle Grif all along? Was she confusing the two men? And was her mother doing the same?
The two couples had been so close. Until her father's suicide. Logic told Victoria that her mother would have needed Uncle Grif even more in those awful days. So, with such a powerful emotional bond between them, why did The Queen cut him out of her life?
There could only be one reason.
Guilt.
Oh, God, no.
Victoria strained to keep her voice under control. "Mother, you can stay if you'll answer one question."
"Anything to help." Irene neatly knifed a layer of caviar onto a wafer.
"When Dad committed suicide, were you and Uncle Grif having an affair?"
Irene's hand trembled and she dropped the caviar-laden wafer, facedown, onto the carpet.
"Oh, Jesus," Griffin gasped.
Irene forced a smile as brittle as an icicle. "What an astonishingly rude question."
"Dad found out, didn't he?" Victoria's question caught in her throat. "Is that why he killed himself?"
Griffin squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his temples with his knuckles.
Irene dabbed a linen napkin at the corner of her mouth, a dainty motion. "My goodness. For poor Grif's sake, I hope you're a better lawyer than a gossip, dear."