“And you can stop that right now. Do you think I don’t know what he’s like?”

There was a long pause. “I didn’t know how high up the memo went. I thought maybe the stop-buy came from the suits, but I was wrong. I asked around—it was at your father’s specific direction. I mean, the man runs a billion-dollar business. Why does he care about—”

“You need to back up. I have no clue what you’re talking about?”

“He’s cutting me off. He’s stopping production.”

Lane jerked forward. “What?”

“I got a memo the day before yesterday on my desk. I’m not allowed to buy any more corn. No corn, no mash. No mash, no more bourbon.” He shrugged and took another hit of the coffee. “I shut the stills down. For the first time since the move to Canada during Prohibition … I stopped it all. Sure, I’ve got some silos that are full, but I’m not doing a goddamn thing. Not until I speak with your father and find out what the hell he’s thinking. I mean, is the board up to something? Are they selling us to China and want things to look better on paper by cutting expenses? But even that doesn’t make any sense—they want us to delay for six months in the middle of this bourbon boom the country is experiencing?”

Lane stayed silent, all kinds of bad math happening in his brain.

“I wish Edward were around.” Mack shook his head. “Edward would never let this happen.”

Lane rubbed his aching head. Funny, he thought the same thing. “Well … he’s not.”

“So, if you don’t mind lending me a set of dry clothes, I’m going to go find that father of yours. To hell with your English bulldog downstairs—William Baldwine is going to see me—”

“Mack.”

“—and explain why—”

“Mack.” Lane looked the man straight in the eye. “Can I trust you?”

The distiller frowned. “Of course you can.”

“I need to get into the company’s computer system. I need access to financials, account details, annual reports. And I need you to not say a word about it to anyone.”

“What are you—why?”

“Can you help me?”

Mack set the mug down. “As much as I’m able, yeah. Sure.”

“I’ll meet you down by your car.” Lane got to his feet. “I’m driving. Help yourself to anything but the seersucker suit in the closet—”

“Lane. What the hell’s going on here?”

“There’s a possibility that the cut-off isn’t a business strategy.”

Mack frowned as if something had been spoken to him in a foreign language. “I’m sorry, what?”

Lane looked out the window, down to the garden, to the tent. He pictured the people who would be under there in about two hours, all of them basking in the extended glory and wealth of the great Bradford family.

“If you ever say a word about this to anyone—”

“Really. You’re warning me about that.”

Lane glanced back at his friend. “We may be out of money.”

Mack blinked. “That’s not possible.”

Heading for the door, Lane said over his shoulder, “We’ll see. Remember, anything but the seersucker.”

TWENTY-NINE

The first thing Edward did when he woke up was curse. Head was pounding. Body was a patchwork of pain, nausea, and stiffness. Brain was …

Surprisingly crystal clear.

And for once, that wasn’t a bad thing.

As he gathered up the strength to get to his feet, he let images of that woman from the night before filter through his mind. He was still drunk—or pickled, was more like it—so he was able to immerse himself totally in memories of the feel, the smell, the taste of her. The context might have been fake all around, something that had been scheduled and paid for, but the experience had been …

Beautiful, he supposed the word was.

Rearranging himself in his pants, he grabbed his cane, heaved himself up, and wobbled. The bathroom was about seventeen miles away in that corner, and he—

When he went to step forward, he kicked something across the floor.

“What the …?” Frowning, he leaned down, balancing on his cane so that he did not become yet another rug upon the floor.

It was an evening bag.

One of those boxy little silk-wrapped numbers with a rhinestone clasp on it.

The woman had had it with her. He could vaguely recall thinking that it had been exactly the kind of thing Sutton would have used.

Edward was careful as he made his way over and bent to pick the thing up. God only knew what was in it.

Shuffling back to his armchair, he grabbed his phone off the side table. Calling Beau’s number, he glanced at the clock across the way. Seven thirty. The pimp would be still up, winding down from his night shift.

“Hello?” a rough voice said. “Edward?”

“The lady left something at my house last night. Her bag.”

“Y’all sure about that?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, see, I was gonna call you. Your girl, the one what I sent, said someone was done already leaving when she got there?”

Edward frowned, thinking maybe he wasn’t quite as with it as he’d thought. “I’m sorry?” he repeated—because that was the only thing that came to him.

“The girl I sent. She come to your place at ten o’clock, but there was another woman leaving, saying she’d taken care of you. Said she was coming back next week. I can’t figure out which of my girls it was. Can you open the purse up and tell me who?”