Paul Shepherd refused to talk to anyone. The Macintosh brothers tried to get Ernie to let them have ten minutes alone with him. Ernie, a man of principle in spite of his prejudices against the Macintosh women, declined. Since Tuck had admitted digging once in Clate's yard, that meant Paul was responsible for everything else. Andrew figured out that Shepherd must have poisoned Hannah's water jugs while they were at the inn, before Robert Macintosh had run them out to her. Then, when father and sons rushed off to see Hannah in the hospital, Paul took advantage of the chaos to borrow one of their keys to her townhouse, slip in, and remove the jugs, to prevent them from being tested for poison. Afterward, he resumed whipping Stan Carlucci into a frenzy over Hannah's designs on his digestive system.
Carlucci had apologized to Hannah for jumping to the wrong conclusions about her. They still disagreed on everything, he still didn't appreciate her help with his problem, but he knew the tincture of bistort and agrimony was Paul's doing, not hers.
Sally Shepherd was cooperating with the investigation of her husband's activities, neither rising to his defense nor condemning him. She was calm and dignified, throughout. Piper couldn't decide if this was a result of Sally's nature, or if she just didn't feel any real emotion where her husband was concerned, as if the last drop of any passion that had ever been there had drained out of their relationship long ago.
When Clate left for Tennessee, he promised to return soon. He indicated that business duties called, but Piper suspected otherwise. Not that he was lying to her, precisely. Just that he wasn't telling her everything. She sensed unfinished business that concerned not just him, but them. Which, in her view, made it her business, too.
So, she decided to let her curiosity get the better of her.
She discovered he didn't fly commercial. He had his own plane at the airport in Hyannis. He flew it himself. A pilot. Every time she thought she had the man figured out, she learned something new about him.
When she decided to follow him to Tennessee, she bought her ticket through a travel agent, drove to Boston, and climbed on a Boeing 737 at Logan Airport. She'd had to pay top price because she had only had fourteen hours' notice. Her flight was uneventful, which was just fine with her, and when she landed, she hoisted her borrowed overnight bag on her shoulder and marched out to the taxi stand, suddenly realizing she hadn't the vaguest idea where to go.
She didn't know the name of Clate's company. She didn't know the address of his house. She didn't even know the name of his hotel.
So she climbed into a cab and asked the driver, "You know Clate Jackson's hotel?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She loved the South already. "Take me there."
Nashville occupied a basin of rolling hills of oak and cedar and hickory between the Cumberland plateau and the higher plains of western Tennessee. It was pretty country, and as her cab shot out onto the bustling interstate, Piper could feel its energy. Clate must have responded to that energy when he'd wandered down from the hills at sixteen. Through hard work, drive, and nerve, he'd survived. Now he owned a company that employed hundreds. And it still wasn't enough, not because it was wrong, but because he'd hoped it could do what it couldn't do. In her mind, commerce was never a good substitute for family. More manageable and less intrusive in some ways, but no substitute.
The hotel was on a tree-lined road off the interstate, an impressive building of contemporary design and convenience and old-fashioned service and sensibility. Hard to believe the builder and owner was only in his mid-thirties. Piper overpaid the driver, since he'd known Clate Jackson, and slid out, turning down a doorman's offer to take her bag. Doors opened, and she heard more "ma'am's" than she had since she'd turned old enough to be called ma'am.
She walked up to the front desk and asked for a room.
There were no rooms. The hotel was booked. They were sorry, ma'am, but would be happy to direct her to another hotel.
She frowned. So much lor Plan A. "Do you know ii Clate Jackson's here?"
"Ma'am?"
"The owner," she said blithely. She was small-town Cape Cod. This was big-city South. She wasn't sure how things worked down here, but she was pretty sure front desk clerks would know the name of the owner of the hotel that employed them. "I figure there's no point in trying to find his office if he's not even here. He's why I came to Nashville. I'm his—he's my—" She sighed. "We know each other."
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the clerks motioning for someone, probably security. Plan B wasn't working, either. Her case might have been strengthened if she'd combed her hair and reapplied lipstick after she'd landed. As it was, she was a still-bloodied-and-bruised, chestnut-haired woman in a Red Sox T-shirt with a borrowed overnight bag slung over her shoulder, asking about a man who owned an opulent southern hotel. She'd worn traveling clothes. Her new Tennessee outfits were in her bag.
"We do," she said. "Give him a buzz and ask him. My name's Piper. Piper Macintosh. I'm from Cape Cod."
A big man in a dark suit touched her elbow. "May I help you over here, ma'am?"