Rarities Unlimited 03 - Die in Plain Sight

dog at Ward’s feet wagged its tail, dreaming along in key.
    “You lazy old son,” Ward said, and thumped the dog fondly on its well-padded ribs. “Too fat to hunt and too old to care.”
    Honey Bear opened one eye, slicked his tongue over Ward’s fingers, and went back to sleep. Ward smoothed his hand down the dog’s coat several times. He’d had a lifetime of Honey Bears romping at his heels: different dogs but the same sex, breed, and name, the same eager-to-please nature, and the same unquestioning love for the hand that fed them. Smooth coats, too. The older he got, the more he appreciated that silky canine warmth and reliability.
    In his opinion, when it came to company on a lonely night a good dog was worth twenty women. Dogs didn’t ask fool questions, didn’t argue about how the ranch should be run, and didn’t throw a shit fit when they didn’t get what they wanted. His wife had done all that and more.
    Being widowed had its good points.
    “Ward? You back in your den?”
    Rory Turner’s voice lifted Ward out of his reverie. “What took you so long?” he called out.
    “Got here as soon as I could,” Rory said, yanking off his tie as he walked into Ward’s sanctuary. “Why don’t you just come to the meetings or wire me for sound?”
    “Because I keep hoping my kids will grow up and get the fucking job done.”
    Disturbed by the tone of voice, Honey Bear lifted his head and nosed Ward’s calf. Absently Ward gave the dog’s head a go-away kind of pat. Honey Bear took the hint and went back to sleep.
    Rory knew better than to comment on the business abilities of his ex-wife or his former brother-in-law, so he just unbuttoned his shirt collar, shifted the shoulder harness he wore in or out of uniform, and settled into a chair.
    “Well?” Ward said. “What happened?”
    “Blow-by-blow, or leave out the sniping?”
    “Jesus” was all Ward said.
    “There will be two tables at the art auction—one Savoy, one Pickford.”
    Ward’s mouth flattened at the Pickford name. Every time he thought of how his mother-in-law had finessed fifteen percent of the Savoy Ranch out of his control, he wished all over again that he’d known in time to change things. But he hadn’t, so now he had to live with “relatives” he’d rather bury than kiss.
    “Do you want the tables together?” Rory asked.
    Ward just gave Rory a look out of glittering blue eyes that hadn’t faded one bit in more than seventy years.
    “Right. Opposite sides of the room, as requested,” Rory said, hiding his amusement. “Savvy surprised me,” he continued, calling Savoy by his childhood nickname. “He said he’d negotiated a more generous settlement in the Artists Cove development and would appreciate our support. Bliss started screaming that he couldn’t get away with that, Sandy Cove was sacred to her, that she’d see him in hell before it got developed, and stormed out. Meeting over.”
    “What about the New Horizons offer?”
    “We didn’t get to it.”
    Ward shot out of his chair with a speed that brought a startled yip from Honey Bear. “Are you telling me that—”
    “Yo, Dad, are you back there?” Savoy called from the front of the house.
    Honey Bear stood, stretched luxuriantly, and started for the hall door to greet Savoy.
    “Damn, I thought the nitpicking Pickford would keep Savvy longer than a few minutes,” Rory said, standing up hastily. “Cribbage tonight?”
    “Unless I’m in jail for killing my stupid son,” Ward muttered.
    “Not a chance. I’m the sheriff, remember? See you after dinner.”
    The outer door closed behind Rory a few seconds before Savoy walked into the den. While everyone knew that Rory reported to Ward, everyone got along better if their noses weren’t rubbed in it.
    “Hi, Dad,” Savoy said. He bent down and scratched the dog’s ears. “You, too, Honey Bear.”
    The dog looked more enthusiastic than Ward did.
    “Well?” the older man demanded.
    Savoy gave the dog a final pat and sat down in the place recently vacated by Rory. If he noticed that the seat was still warm, he didn’t mention it. As for loosening his tie to be more comfortable, he didn’t have to. One of the perks of being the business head of the Savoy Enterprises was that he didn’t have to wear a tie. Ditto for a suit. His silk sport coat was soft and unstructured, like the sleek slacks that were the same toast brown of the leather chair he sat on.
    “We’ll all be gathered around a fancy