Table of Contents
Widow's Row
Praise for Lala Corriere
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
An Intruder in My Father’s Home
Chapter Two
Two Boxes & a Gun
Chapter Three
Bitches & Brandy
Chapter Four
One Small Town
Chapter Five
He Made His Bed
Chapter Six
This One’s a Virgin
Chapter Seven
Like a Rabid Dog
Chapter Eight
The Raging Bovine
Chapter Nine
Camelot Disappears
Chapter Ten
It’s Good to be The King
Chapter Eleven
He’s a Real No-Hair Man
Chapter Twelve
Semen For Sale
Chapter Thirteen
Speak No Evil
Chapter Fourteen
Surrender to Seduction
Chapter Fifteen
No More Sprinkle Cookies
Chapter Sixteen
Paranoia
Chapter Seventeen
Benny’s Story
Chapter Eighteen
Betrayal
Chapter Nineteen
First Words
Chapter Twenty
Kate’s Secret
Chapter Twenty-One
Warnings Become Death Threats
Chapter Twenty-Two
Know Thine Enemy
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Sacral Chakra
Chapter Twenty-Four
Aspen’s Allure
Chapter Twenty-Five
Mistaken Identity
Chapter Twenty-Six
Bad Company
Chapter Twenty-Seven
She’s Still My Little Girl
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Dead Mistress
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Like Spanish Fly
Chapter Thirty
Family Photos
Chapter Thirty-One
The Shrine & The Snake
Chapter Thirty-Two
An Intentional Death
Chapter Thirty-Three
Anything But Lucky
Chapter Thirty-Four
Daffodils
Chapter Thirty-Five
Spoiled Little Rich Girl
Chapter Thirty-Six
Bye Bye, P.I.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
An Admission of Guilt
Chapter Thirty-Eight
What the Hell Does He Have In There?
Chapter Thirty-Nine
An Ally & Trouble
Chapter Forty
The Unforgiving Past
Chapter Forty-One
Patsy Recline
Chapter Forty-Two
What Sins?
Chapter Forty-Three
Oops, There Goes Another...
Chapter Forty-Four
Ready. Aim. Aim. Aim>.
Chapter Forty-Five
All In The Family
Chapter Forty-Six
The Bermuda Triangle of Men
Chapter Forty-Seven
He’s Dead, Isn’t He?
Chapter Forty-Eight
He Whom Had the Most to Lose
Chapter Forty-Nine
My Mother’s Blood
Chapter Fifty
The Russians Are Coming
Chapter Fifty-One
The Catrina
Chapter Fifty-Two
Couldn’t Put Humpty Together Again
Chapter Fifty-Three
Vanished
Chapter Fifty-Four
You’ll Always Be My Little Girl
Chapter Fifty-Five
The Stairstep Secret
Chapter Fifty-Six
Hell Hath No Fury
Chapter Fifty-Seven
For Sale
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Are You Alive?
Chapter Fifty-Nine
The Row
Chapter Sixty
A Cabin in the Woods
Chapter Sixty-One
Putrid Air & Warm Breath
Chapter Sixty-Two
That’s Not Détente Written On Your Face
Chapter Sixty-Three
Change of Plans
Chapter Sixty-Four
Fire on the Tarmac
Chapter Sixty-Five
S.W.A.T.
Chapter Sixty-Six
And Then There Were None
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Final Revenge
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Sometimes Sleep Isn’t Restful
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Daffodils Are Non-Negotiable
About the author :
COMING SOON!
CoverBoy
Widow's Row
Praise for Lala Corriere
Here’s what the Master of Suspense, Sidney Sheldon, said about the Mistress to Suspense,™ author Lala Corriere:
“[Her writing is] provocative and fast-paced, with vivid descriptions and skillfully crafted dialogue. Real page-turners.”
You have a winner!"
Andrew Neiderman Author, The Devil’s Advocate
“A first-rate storyteller and an articulate writer. Her characterizations and descriptions are very good, and the dialogue is wholly believable."
Gary Tilman, writer, screenwriter.
"Lala Corriere delivers reader's satisfaction with sparkle, sizzle, and tension. She’s the new female Sidney Sheldon.”
Jane A. Westwood, Author, Hearts of the Talvarez
“A delightful read with more unexpected twists and turns than a plunge down Space Mountain! This author always has a cast of unique characters and a plot that will keep you guessing what’s coming next.”
Lori Roberson, Author, Night Songs
Copyright Page
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, incidents, places, and dialogue, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. It may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, to include electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission, in writing, from the author.
For permissions contact the author at info@lalacorriere.com
Copyright @ 2010 by Lala Corriere
All rights reserved. Bridge Publishing 2010
Editing Acknowledgements:
Peg Brantley & Lori Robertson
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my soul mate & the love of my life, Chuck Corriere.
To my supportive sons, and to my best friends, forever, who are always there for me.
In loving memory and unyielding gratitude
to my mother, Shirley Jean,
the most stoic and loving woman I’ve ever known.
Posthumous thanks to Sidney Sheldon, the Master of Suspense, for his guidance and mentoring
&
Dr. Stanley Biber, Trinidad, Colorado, who courageously pioneered Gender Reassignment Surgery and by uniting body and soul, changed the lives of many for the better good.
Widow’s Row
The freedom of truth before the last liar dies
By
Lala CORRIERE
Chapter One
An Intruder in My Father’s Home
The withered old man slouched next to me lived life as a curmudgeon. To look at him he seemed the kind of diamond in the rough you’d find glued to a leatherette stool in a stinky bar and drowning in a dirty martini. Rather, he
was an unconscionable prick and a lying cheating good-old boy’s lawyer to the rich and famous. He was also my dad.
I couldn’t see ten feet of pavement ahead of me. The few other drivers on the highway were either behind the wheels of hardy SUVs or snowplows, or suicidal nuts. I didn’t know what category applied to me. I’d rented the SUV at the airport but had absolutely no idea how to drive in blinding snow. Guess that put me in the nut category.
What should have been a ninety-minute drive approached three hours with ten miles to go. And it wasn’t like I could enjoy the good company. Two aides had loaded Dad into the passenger seat, warning me one final time not to expect much. I drove along with a sidekick something like a paralyzed Marcel Marceau. Nothing.
My cell rang, causing a shockwave of already shaky nerves to jolt up an electrified spine. I should have pulled over, but crawling at fifteen miles an hour, I chose to follow a rare shield of safety—a big rigger who seemed to know where he was going. I determined to stay close behind his lead.
“This is Breecie Lemay.”
My fiancé could be trying at times, at best. I guess he thought the ten years difference in our age gave him a license to lecture me. “I’ve been calling for hours. Your damn roaming service isn’t working. I’ve been worried sick.”
“Adam. I forgot to turn on my phone when I got off the plane, and now, well, in this blizzard, I’m surprised any calls are getting through.”
“Where the hell are you?” Adam asked, sounding more irate than concerned.
“Almost to Trinidad. At least I think I am. I can’t see the road signs through the snow. Going straight to the hospital.”
Two months earlier Dad had been airlifted to St. Mary-Corwin Medical Center, in Pueblo, Colorado, where a special stroke center attended to him. The team of specialists did as much as they could. They had physically stabilized him, but full rehabilitation seemed less and less likely with each passing day. His doctor decided to send my father to Mt. San Rafael Hospital, back in his own sleepy town of Trinidad, where the old-fashioned healing elements of visiting friends and neighbors, coupled with physical therapy, would be more likely to provide an effective treatment.
Adam Chancellor, my fiancé of two full years, offered to pay the medical transport service so I didn’t have to get involved. I declined. I couldn’t muster up a cold heart even though Dad probably deserved to be dragged behind me in a rickety old sled.
“You do have your room confirmed for late arrival? You know they won’t hold it for you,” Adam lectured.
“I’ve decided to stay at Dad’s. No reason not to. The neighbor lady opened up his house for me.”
“You call me the moment you get there.”
“Of course.”
I snapped the phone closed, stealing a quick glimpse across at Dad, his failing body slumped against the confines of the seatbelt.
“I love you, Daddy. I’m here for you. Like always.”
Dad let out a gigantic fart, fueled with the ripe stench of the best of them. It was the only noise I heard from him the entire trip.
Easy procedures and a prepared room allowed me to quickly admit my dad at the small hospital and within the hour I found the front door to his home unlocked.
It had been a couple of years since I’d been there, and only once. But that’s another non-satisfying memory of dear Dad.
I spotted the decanter of Napoleon brandy exactly where I remembered it, next to my dad’s favorite reading chair. I recalled the rich smell of his leather-bound law books, except this den had taken on an unfamiliar musty smell. Old newspapers and clipped store coupons littered the tables, along with several half-empty bottles of prescription medications and a film of dust that rivaled anything Mt. Vesuvius could spew.
The gnawing feeling began somewhere in my heart and worked its way down into my stomach. How was I supposed to know no one was taking care of my dad? Damn it! How was I supposed to even fathom he needed care giving? He sure as hell didn’t think to mention it. I moaned, resigned to the corkscrew wave of guilt laced with perpetual disappointment I always associated with Father. I poured myself a brandy in the nearby Baccarat snifter. Dusty, but doable.
My safe-call to Adam went directly to voice mail. Probably he’d gone to bed. It would have been nearing midnight in Washington. That meant it was midnight by my internal clock, but I wasn’t ready to retire to my dad’s guest room. Instead, I found myself picking up the snifter and roaming from room to room, an intruder in my father’s home.
He’d moved there after my mother’s death. A city man by all accounts, Dad enjoyed the opera, society soirées, and a slate of intellectually stimulating advisory board meetings. No one understood James Lemay’s urgency to give up his D.C. law practice and retire to the quaint, but remote and culturally challenged Colorado town.
The third step creaked as I made my way up the darkened staircase. Familiar family photos lined the landing wall. There were no photos of Mom, but Dad was big on his kids’ successes, so most of the framed images were of my twin sister and me. They gave proof to our measurable achievements, like when we graduated high school, college, and law school.
My fingers traced the soft wood of several frames as I studied the photographs. My sister looks nothing like me. She has ginger colored hair, wavy, always flowing like wheat moving across the Great Plains of the Midwest. My hair is black as a raven, thick and straight. She is a short woman with a demure attitude to match. At five-foot eight, I tower over her in bare feet, and I guess most often my tenacious nature matched that of the aforementioned predatory bird.
After passing the bar my sister married, and up and moved to London. There she delivered two beautiful children in three years, but there were no photos like that. Dad didn’t consider those Kodak moments. He was pissed she wasn’t practicing what he preached—‘the word of the law’.
I slipped through the double doors leading into Dad’s bedroom. The bed linens were soiled and what had been an unpleasant musty smell downstairs turned decidedly foul. I peered into the coffee mug on his nightstand. It reeked with a greenish-black mold. I’d had enough. I turned fast on my heels and slammed the doors behind me.
My god. What did I expect? The house had been closed up for two months. I should have been there.
Damn. I didn’t want to be there.
Dad’s guest room was further down the hall. Rather than face the bleak prospect of finding refuge there, I slipped back down the staircase, certain I would be more comfortable on the cold leather sofa.
That stair creaked again and my feet froze in place.
The memory filled my mind like wafts of cotton candy laced with chocolate bits. Sweet treats to my mind. The first warm feeling I’d had all day.
I was nine years old, living with my family in Washington. Daddy and I were happy, even laughing, and he was showing me how to strip wood. The board snapped loose in my hand as I worked on the stair step assigned to me. I began to cry, hysterical with certainty I had broken the stair when my daddy had told me our job was to make it perfect. I knew he would be furious.
Daddy only laughed harder and told me it was just fine for making a poor people’s safe. I didn’t understand, so he told me rich people all had floor safes or wall safes and if anyone ever broke into our Georgetown home that’s what they’d be looking for. Like behind the Van Gogh. That kind of thing. But my daddy could outsmart any would-be burglar because we had a fine but old house, and old houses creaked and moaned all over the place. Daddy made his own safe, inside a creaky old stair step.
The memory. One bleak smile.
Huddled tight against the cold wall of my father’s staircase, I clutched the now empty glass of brandy.
My instincts, not my mind, had graduated me summa cum laude. My instincts, nothing else, had won my law cases. And now those instincts began fighting a world match. Half of me shouted, “Run away”. The other half would win.
My fingers snatched away at the wood board, prying it up. Two fingernails ch
ipped when finally the wood step shifted, opening about an inch, enough that I could slip my fingers beneath to release the metal catch I knew would be there.