When no one spoke, she continued. “That brings me to my next point. If at any time you deem me unsuitable or incapable of carrying out my responsibilities to SunSouth Airlines and its employees, if you don’t wish me to represent the airline as CEO or in any other capacity, request my resignation and I’ll tender it immediately and without argument. I want you all to understand that.”

Finally Joe McDonald raised his hand. “I’ve been appointed spokesperson for this meeting.”

“All right.” She braced herself. Perhaps they’d already decided that a woman whose husband had died under unexplained but violent circumstances, who was involved with a felonious ex-football player in any way, wasn’t fit to be their CEO.

“We discussed this in advance of the meeting,” Joe told her. “And we’re in unanimous agreement that we want you to remain in your present position. That is, CEO.”

“I’m very pleased to hear that,” she said, struggling to keep her emotions under control. “I would hate to lose my husband and my job in the same week. But what I told you remains in effect. The continued success of SunSouth must be your priority. If ever you feel the future of the airline is in jeopardy, it’s your duty to replace me.”

“It’s our duty to support our leader,” Joe said. Several others said, “Hear, hear.” Joe continued. “We stand with you, Laura. You have our complete trust in your integrity, as well as in your ability to run this airline.”

“Thank you.” She blinked away tears. “Now, with that matter settled, let’s talk about Select.” There were murmurs of surprise. “Are there still copies of the syllabus circulating?” she asked Joe.

“I collected them all. You told me that, for the time being, Select was tabled.”

“For the time being, it was. I’m officially untabling it.”

It was an exhausting day but a rewarding one. She accomplished much. The reintroduction of SunSouth Select had been received with the enthusiasm she had hoped for. Many commended her for moving ahead and focusing on the future, rather than dwelling on the unhappiness of the past.

Following that meeting, she had conferred with the senior partner of the law firm that handled Foster’s personal affairs. In deference to her, the venerable gentleman had come to her office. They went over Foster’s will, the various bequeathals he’d made to charity groups, and specifically to the foundation named after Elaine.

“I’d like to deliver that donation personally,” Laura told him. “As you know, the foundation was very dear to Foster. In fact, once the estate is sold, I want all the proceeds to go to it.”

“Sold?”

He was surprised that she wished to sell the estate and tried to dissuade her from making such a radical decision at a time when her emotions were running high.

She remained steadfast. “This isn’t a rash decision. I’ve had two years to think about it. If Foster hadn’t survived the car wreck, I would have put the estate on the market then. There are no surviving Speakmans. I don’t want to live there alone, and it’s too magnificent to stand empty. That would be a waste. So please make the necessary arrangements. I want the sale to be handled as discreetly as possible, with no fanfare, and no media. Those conditions must be specified in the contract with the realtor.”

“Understood,” the attorney said.

Rightfully, her unborn baby was heir to the estate. But she couldn’t see herself bringing up a child in those vast, formal rooms. The child would never miss what he’d never known. No doubt the attorney would have argued the unfairness of her decision, but she didn’t tell him she was pregnant.

He, as well as the SunSouth personnel, needed time to absorb the shock of Foster’s death before being further shocked by his having left an heir. She needed time to absorb it herself.

Except for the police car following her back to the hotel, she felt more at peace than she had since Foster died. Her mood wasn’t buoyant by any means, but she felt a sense of satisfaction for having endured the day without succumbing to the sorrow that had kept her inert the night before.

The police officer at the door of her room didn’t forget to ask for her car keys. She relinquished them with a frown, which he pretended not to see. While she sipped a Coke from the minibar, she watched the six o’clock news. The manhunt for Griff Burkett was still the lead story.

Rodarte was on camera, talking about possible leads, but Laura didn’t believe him, and the reporter interviewing him also looked skeptical. When asked about Manuelo Ruiz, he paused strategically, then said, “I’m afraid to speculate on Mr. Ruiz’s fate, although we remain hopeful that he’ll be found unharmed.” His point was made by what he didn’t say.

She switched off the TV and took a shower. She looked at the room service menu, because in spite of a mild residual nausea, she was hungry. She wondered how that could be. Nothing looked appetizing, but she ordered a club sandwich and asked that mashed potatoes be substituted for French fries. At least the potatoes and the toast on the sandwich might settle her stomach.

The food arrived. The policeman signed the tab, grudgingly adding the five-dollar tip she insisted he give the waiter in addition to the fixed service charge. She took the tray onto the bed with her and, while nibbling at the food, began making a list of Foster’s possessions that she wanted to give to people who’d been special to him. There were items from his office, the house, and especially the library, that she knew he would want certain individuals to have.

That done, she started writing acknowledgments. Kay had already tackled that job, but some of the thank-you notes Laura thought it was only proper that she write personally.

The policeman knocked loudly on the door, startling her. “Mrs. Speakman? Are you all right?”

Setting aside the note cards, she got up, went to the door, and looked through the peephole. He almost filled the fish-eye lens, standing with his back to the door, arms extended at shoulder level, as though barring entrance.

“I’m fine, Officer.”

“Good. Stay inside.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Don’t open the door.”

She unlatched the chain, unlocked the bolt, and opened the door.

The policeman turned and pushed her back into the room. He kicked the door shut with his heel at the same time he backed her into the wall.

“Never knew a woman yet who stayed put when told to.”

It was Griff Burkett.

CHAPTER 30

LET GO OF ME.”

“Un-huh.”

She tried to push him away. He tightened his grip on her shoulders, which only caused her to struggle harder. “Stop that!” he said.

“Then let me go.”

“Not a chance.”

She stopped trying to fight him off, but her eyes threw daggers. “How did you get past the guards?”

“They’re in the stairwell. One of them’s missing his hat, shirt, and gun belt,” he said, nodding down at himself. The shirtsleeves were several inches too short, the buttons strained against his chest, and the fit across his shoulders wouldn’t pass close inspection, but it had fooled Laura enough to get her to open the door. He hoped it would fool anyone who saw him escorting her from the building.

“I didn’t hit them hard. They won’t be out long. I’ve got to smuggle you out of here before someone realizes they’re not at their posts.” He pulled her away from the wall. “Get some clothes on.”

She dug her heels in and tried to wrest her hand free from his grip. “I’ll scream this building down before I go anywhere with you.”

He took her by the shoulders again. “I did not kill your husband, Laura.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head, refusing to hear.

“Listen to me. Manuelo Ruiz stabbed Foster, not me.”