Shit-eating grin in place, Van Durbin slid off it. “I didn’t mean any harm.”
“Of course not,” Bellamy said, meaning the opposite.
“Seriously,” he said. “I was just waiting to ask you about Mrs. Lyston’s suicide. Was it grief over your father that drove her to it?”
She took a deep breath. “Van Durbin, you’re a sly, sneaky, bastard who thrives on the misfortunes of other people. You’re a bottom-feeder, the lowest life-form I can think of. But actually…” She paused for emphasis. “I’m glad to see you.”
She felt Dent’s startled reaction.
As for Van Durbin, his ferret grin wavered, as though unsure he’d heard her right. “Where’s your photographer?” she asked.
The columnist hesitated, then pointed toward a hedge that separated the Lyston property from their neighbor’s. “If he takes a single picture, this conversation is over,” Bellamy said. “Tell him.”
Van Durbin assessed her for a moment, then turned toward the hedge and drew a line across the base of his neck, a gesture that caused Bellamy to shiver. She hadn’t had time or opportunity to think about Strickland’s near fatal attack on her, knowing that when she did, she would likely have an emotional breakdown. She was postponing that until she could be alone.
She told Van Durbin to get out his notebook.
He took it from his pocket along with a pencil with a gnawed eraser.
She said, “I have a proposition for you, and these are the terms. You’re going to write them down, word for word, using no shorthand or symbols, and sign it. Agreed?”
“No, not agreed. What kind of terms, and in exchange for what?”
She simply stared back at him. After a moment, he grumbled, “What’re the terms?”
“You’ll never reveal me as your source for anything I’m about to tell you.”
“That’s a given.”
“Write it down.” She waited until he did so before continuing. “You’re to write nothing, and I mean not one allusion to, not one syllable, about my stepmother’s death.”
He gaped at her. “Is this a joke?”
“Shall I call the National Inquirer?”
He stuck the eraser in his mouth and chewed on it while he deliberated, then wrote down a line in his notebook.
Bellamy said, “You’re also never to reference my brother, Steven. His name is not to be mentioned in any article you write about this.”
“This, what? So far you’ve given me squat.”
Dent said, “If I were you, I’d shut up and do as the lady says.”
Van Durbin tilted his head toward him. “I guess he’s off limits, too?”
“Not at all,” Bellamy replied smoothly. “He’s to be hailed the hero he is for saving my life. He’s to be completely exonerated where my sister’s death is concerned. But you’ll write nothing about our personal lives. His or mine. Singly or together. Ever. And no more photographs of us.”
Van Durbin looked ready to balk. “This had better be good.”
“It is.” She took the notebook from him, read what he’d written, then passed it back to him. “Sign it.” Once she had the signed sheet in her possession, she motioned toward the stub in his hand. “You’re going to need a bigger pencil.”
“You can imagine my shock when I learned yesterday that a man in my employ, one to whom I had extended a helping hand, had taken another man’s life in such a gruesome manner.”
Rupe had decided to conduct his press conference in the showroom of his flagship dealership. His sales team provided a captive audience. Customers who’d come in to shop cars this morning were being treated to a show.
He had set up a small podium with a built-in microphone system. He didn’t want anyone to miss a single heartfelt word. All the local television stations were represented. Because of the popularity of Low Pressure, the story about Ray Strickland and Dale Moody—the electrifying final chapter of an eighteen-year saga—would no doubt make national news. The King of Cars could very well be appearing on network TV tonight.
He didn’t even lament his disfigured face. It added drama. He was feeling so good it was hard to maintain the solemn demeanor that the situation called for.