Free Killer Weekend by Ridley Pearson

of fifteen thousand dollars per tree, it was a most conspicuous display of wealth. But nothing compared to the house itself. Fashioned from five antique New England barns, each dismantled and transported and reassembled into an interconnecting village, the compound looked like a small New England village. Two well-dressed hostesses, both wearing C 3 badges, greeted Walt and offered an Orrefors crystal champagne flute bearing a frosted C 3 logo. The flute bubbled with a 1990 Krug, judging by the chilled bottles just inside the front door.
       "The glass is compliments of Mr. Cutter," the blonde informed Walt.
       Walt had worn a freshly pressed button-down shirt and his best pair of chinos, but knew how out of place he looked compared to the linen, poplin, and silk on display.
       The front door, cut within the enormous barn door, opened into a vast space of weathered wood and glass broken into several smaller rooms. The living room's most prominent feature was a dry stack fireplace with a six-foot-high open hearth that currently held an opulent arrangement of cut flowers and cattails. A balcony surrounded the second floor looking out onto a massive chandelier made of interconnecting antlers.
       Walt tried not to stare at the women, the jewelry, the sheer blouses, the tempting necklines. Tried not to succumb to the swirl of French perfumes, the gleaming white teeth of flashing smiles, and the heady rush from the champagne. He retired the half-filled glass on a passing tray and spotted a few faces he knew, all of whom were private security, keeping to the walls or behind one of the dozen hand-hewn timber posts, allowing their employers free rein. All told, he counted four, one hovering near Bill Gates, another close to Sumner Redstone. He expected to find most of the guys out back with the rest of the help— the drivers, chefs, and personal assistants.
       He looked for Liz Shaler, expecting he'd find Dryer within an arm's length, and caught sight of Patrick Cutter coming down a staircase, looking very much like a man in a hurry attempting to look casual. In less than a minute, Walt declined offerings from four different hors d'oeuvres trays.
       He watched as Cutter reached the bottom of the stairs and seemed to change directions, heading straight to the front door. Some faces turned in that direction. The buzz of conversation briefly diminished.
       Walt glanced back over his shoulder. New York State Attorney General Elizabeth Shaler had arrived.
       Cutter succeeded in reaching her first, though nearly out of breath.
       Conversation slowly resumed. Shaler's name echoed around the room.
       Flanked by two men in blue jeans and blue blazers, one of whom was Adam Dryer, she looked right past Cutter and spotted Walt and waved. Walt wasn't sure of etiquette. He returned a small wave, feeling the eyes of a hundred envious strangers bearing down on him.

Twenty

    D anny Cutter saw Ailia approaching—without Stu. Wanting to avoid any gossip, he excused himself from a group of his brother's friends and headed to the toilet. He passed one of the bars, dodged a few greetings, cut through the library (done sumptuously in suede and African leathers) following discreet signs to the powder room taped on doorjambs. He needed a GPS. He passed another of the directional signs, noticing that someone had already crossed out the "d" in Powder.
       There had been a time when Danny had been caught up in all this himself: the show, the exaggerated lifestyle, the pretense. There had been a time—prior to the 1990s—when Sun Valley had been about skiing in the winter and hiking, tennis, or golf in the summer. But L.A. riots, earthquakes, and fires had given way to White Flight. The Hollywood set. The arrival of Attitude. The glass and steel replacing the funky log establishments on Main Street. He and his brother were a part of that sea change for the valley, and it wasn't anything to be proud