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A shiver of excitement zipped up Camille’s back. All that money. It was almost too incredible to be true.
“Unfortunately, our final contestant has not yet arrived,” Fern said, her voice cracking nervously, “but will be here soon. I’m going to step out for a moment and check on her status. In the meantime, please get to know one another.” Fern hurriedly moved from the room, the library door closing behind her with a loud click.
Everyone remained quiet, eyeing each other until Senator Crowley stepped forward and smiled. “Well, I’m Richard Crowley, I’m from Texas.”
“Senator Richard Crowley,” Camille couldn’t help but say. “Champion of traditional family values, small government, big guns, and states’ rights.”
While Camille found Richard Crowley to be one of the more polite, less rabid politicians out there today, he was also big on obfuscation, scant on substance, but for some reason, his constituents kept reelecting him every six years. Recently retired, there was buzz that Crowley might make a run at the White House.
“Former senator,” Richard clarified. “And I can’t believe I’m celebrating my retirement by taking part in a reality show.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh.
Camille looked down at her wineglass, now empty. How had that happened? She moved to an espresso maker perched next to the wine bottles. She was done drinking alcohol for the night.
“And who might you be?” Richard asked, homing in on Camille in that silky way that she had heard him speak hundreds of times while watching the news. Senator Crowley was not a proponent of mental health services. It made her skin itch.
“I’m Dr. Camille Tamerlane,” Camille said, setting her wineglass on the nearest surface.
“And what is it that you do, Dr. Tamerlane?” Senator Crowley asked, reaching out to shake her free hand. His grip was strong. Despite his weathered skin and advanced age, and the way his paunch pressed against his golf shirt, the senator was in pretty good physical shape. And behind that good old boy facade was a ruthless politician used to getting what he wanted.
“I’m a psychiatrist and therapist,” she said, extracting her fingers from the senator’s grip. “From just down the road in San Francisco.”
“Wonderful,” Crowley said. “It’s good to know someone will be able to tend to our psychological needs while we’re here.” The senator laughed and glanced around to see who might be enjoying his joke.
Camille smiled patiently, then turned to the tall man with the goatee. “And your name? Please don’t tell me you’re a politician too.”
“Well,” he said, with a small laugh, “I guess it depends on who you talk to. I’m Samuel Rafferty and I’m just an attorney from Atlanta.”
“Not just an attorney.” The redhead spoke up in a soft voice. Samuel’s head snapped toward the woman, his face unreadable.
“I saw the news in the airport,” the woman said. “You were the prosecutor in the Ricky Lee Forrest murder case down in Georgia.” She shook her head with a slight shudder. “He’s a monster, he killed all those boys. You convicted him.”
“The jury convicted Ricky Lee,” Samuel clarified. “I simply presented the case.”
“I saw how his brother tried to come after you,” she said, taking a sip from her wineglass. “You were so calm, so controlled.”
Was that an edge to her voice? Camille wondered.
“It’s not hard when you have an armed bailiff standing by,” Samuel said, setting his plate aside, his eyes narrowing. “Thank goodness for that.”
“That was you?” Camille asked. “I saw that on the news too,” she said. “I’ve always been fascinated by the criminal mind.”
“Well, while I’m no psychiatrist, I can say that the motives for crime usually come down to three things.” Samuel held a fist and then extended a finger as he made each point. “Vengeance, greed, and jealousy.”
“What about fear?” Camille asked, taking a drink from a tiny espresso cup. The hot liquid burned her throat, but she was grateful for the sobering sensation.
Samuel raised his eyebrows. “Sure. Fear can make someone do terrible things.”
He was right. In Camille’s experience, fear was quite the motivator.
From her spot in the shadows, the redhead cleared her throat. “Well, I’m no one. I mean compared to you all. My name is Maire. I’m just a mom from Calico, Iowa.” She held out her hands as if to say sorry, but this is all you get. “Oh, I do own an Etsy shop where I sell jewelry. It’s called Calico Rose.”
An artist? At first blush, Camille hadn’t pegged the woman as an artisan. Maybe a teacher or a nurse. That’s what she got for making assumptions. “Is that one of your pieces? May I see?”
Maire fingered the delicate silver chain at her neck and nodded. Camille stepped forward and lifted the small pendant that held one tiny blue flower. “How sweet,” Camille said, dragging out the word. She looked up into Maire’s gray eyes. Camille knew she was being bitchy, but anything to get into her competitors’ heads. “A forget-me-not?” she asked.
“Yes,” Maire said, taking a small step backward so that Camille had to drop the chain. “I use lots of different flora and create custom pieces for customers.”
“What would you suggest for me?” Camille asked.
