Her Last Summer: A Veronica Lee Thriller

by Melinda Woodhall

  “You don’t think someone was…involved with her death?”

  “Who would want to kill Portia? Everyone loved her.”

  Julian’s tone was defiant as he took a long sip from his wine glass.

  Veronica opened her mouth then closed it again. She couldn’t tell him what she knew, and she bear to watch him agonize over the possibilities. Picking up her bag, she handed him her untouched wine, determined to leave before she said something she’d regret.

  “Please, don’t leave yet.”

  His voice was an anguished plea as he reached out to catch her hand and caught the strap of her bag instead. The bag fell open, causing the contents to tumble to the floor.

  “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to…”

  Kneeling, he began to pick up the things she’d dropped. His hand fell on the menu with Veronica’s handwritten notes, his gaze lingering on Portia’s name, and the name of her suspected killer. He held up the paper, lifting disbelieving eyes to Veronica.

  “What’s this? Some kind of sick joke?”

  Grabbing the paper, Veronica pushed it back into her bag and turned to leave, but Julian jumped up and shoved his hand against the door before she could pull it open.

  “Is it true? Do the police think Portia was killed a serial killer?”

  His voice was thick with the need to know. As she exhaled, trying frantically to think of a response, her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. She grabbed for it, hoping for some kind of rescue. She saw instead that her mother had sent a text.

  Come home, Ronnie. It’s dangerous to be out so late.

  Dropping the phone back in her pocket, Veronica forced her voice to remain steady and calm.

  “That’s my cameraman. He’s waiting downstairs for me.”

  Julian’s face had taken on a haunted expression. He let his hand fall to his side.

  “Go ahead then…leave.” He gestured to the door. “You got what you came for, so go.”

  Veronica hesitated, tempted to tell him the truth. He was Portia’s brother after all. He deserved to know, didn’t he?

  Pulling open the door, Veronica stepped into the hall. There was no other choice. Her first responsibility was as a reporter. If she violated her agreement with Riley Odell, she would put Channel Ten’s credibility and reputation at risk. Hunter had trusted her, and she couldn’t let him down.

  As she waited by the elevator, Veronica looked down the hall. Julian Hart stood silently at the door to Room 1410, his face hidden by shadows. The image of the ghostly, solitary figure stayed with her as she headed home.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Nessa poured herself a second cup of coffee and headed for the interview room. She’d cancelled the department’s standing Monday morning briefing so that she and Vanzinger could interview Julian Hart. She wanted to catch him before he decided to leave town. Hopefully he’d be able to shed some light as to how his sister had gotten caught in Xavier Greyson’s web.

  Stepping into the hall, she nearly spilled her coffee as she swerved to avoid the big figure barreling toward her.

  “In a hurry, Jankowski?”

  She was pleased to note that her ex-partner looked good. His thick blonde hair was neatly styled, his face freshly shaved, and he wore a baby blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his strong, tan forearms.

  It looked like he was finally figuring out how to cope after the rough year he’d endured and was getting back to normal.

  “I’m going over to Kingston Road to finish interviewing Molly Blair’s neighbors,” he said, still moving toward the exit. “I’ll take Officer Ford with me, so it goes quicker. Should be back before noon.”

  Continuing down the hall, Nessa stopped outside interview room three, knocked softly, then opened the door. Vanzinger sat on one side of the wooden table, and Julian Hart sat on the other.

  “Good mornin’, Mr. Hart, good mornin’, Detective.”

  She sank onto the chair next to Vanzinger and set the coffee in front of her. She studied Julian’s impassive face as she cradled her cup, wondering how to start the interview, but Vanzinger had already beaten her to it.

  “We were just discussing the inheritance Julian and Portia were left by their father,” Vanzinger explained. “I was trying to get a feeling for Portia’s financial situation.”

  Irked that Vanzinger had started the interview without her, Nessa summoned her sweetest southern smile. This was Vanzinger’s case after all. She was just guiding and assisting.

  “I don’t see what our inheritance, or our finances, have to do with my sister’s death,” Julian said, crossing his arms over his lean chest. “And I don’t know why I should divulge our personal financial information to you.”

  Reminding herself that Julian Hart was in mourning, Nessa forced herself to count to five before answering.

  “Mr. Hart, we aren’t trying to cause you undue pain or inconvenience. We just need to understand what was happening in your sister’s life leading up to her death so we can figure out exactly what happened to her, and why.”

  When Julian didn’t respond, Nessa leaned back in her chair and sighed. No use delaying the inevitable.

  “Mr. Hart, we’ve requested a warrant to access your sister’s bank accounts, but that could take another day or two if the judge isn’t in a good mood.” Nessa met and held Julian’s gaze. “I was hoping maybe you could go ahead and tell us what we’re likely to find.”

  An awkward silence followed, then Julian emitted a heavy sigh.

  “My sister wasn’t great at finances, and she wasn’t the best judge of character,” he said, looking at his hands, which were clenched into fists on the table. “She made some disastrous investments in some very dubious start-ups. She ended up losing most of her inheritance.”

  Hiding her shock, Nessa glanced at Vanzinger to gauge his reaction. He stared back with wide eyes.

  “So, your sister was broke?” Vanzinger’s voice betrayed his surprise. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say she was broke.” Julian ran a distracted hand through his hair. “But her net worth was substantially reduced.”

  He thought for a minute, as if deciding how much to say.

  “Although recently things were improving. I’d helped her settle all outstanding debts, and she’d started receiving royalties from her book. She even had a million dollar advance for another book deal.”

  “So, she was a millionaire, not a billionaire?” Nessa tried to rein in her sarcasm. “Is that what you mean when you say she was having financial difficulties?”

  Julian shrugged.

  “I’m not sure how much money she had. We’ve lived separately for many years and have our own accounts. But from what she’d told me, she was regaining control of her finances.”

  “So why would she take out an insurance policy and name you as the beneficiary?” Vanzinger asked with a puzzled frown. “If she was reduced financially and you kept hold of your great big inheritance, why would she need to do that?”

  Shaking his head in confusion, Julian seemed to be lost for words.

  “What insurance policy?” he finally managed to say.

  Nessa studied his reaction, sure that he was genuinely stunned.

  “We’re still trying to get all the details, but someone claiming to be from Sterlington Trust Insurance Group is investigating your sister’s death. He says she had a policy, and that you’re the sole beneficiary.”

  Julian narrowed his eyes.

  “What do you mean claiming to be from this insurance company?”

  Glancing at Vanzinger, Nessa nodded.

  “We aren’t sure this guy is legit,” Vanzinger admitted. “But we’re checking it out just to be sure.”

  “Portia was easily led and persuaded to invest money,” Julian said. “This was probably another such unfortunate situation where she was misled by some shady character.”

  Nessa wondered if Xavier Greyson had been one of the shady characters that had taken ad
vantage of Portia’s trusting nature.

  “So, you had no expectation of benefitting financially from your sister’s death?” Vanzinger asked.

  The blunt question hung in the air; Nessa waited for the explosion.

  “I have more money than I’ll ever need or ever wanted, Detective. So, if your little theory is that I played some part in my sister’s death for financial gain, you’re dead wrong.”

  “Okay, I hear you,” Vanzinger replied, unfazed by the outburst. “But what about the pills we found in her hotel room? Why didn’t you tell us they were yours?”

  Banging both fists on the table, Julian glared at Nessa and Vanzinger, his cheeks red and his eyes blazing behind his glasses.

  “That’s ridiculous. Why would I give Portia pills? She never took any drugs. She even told me I should give up my pain pills because they were addictive. Why would she…”

  The blood drained from his face and he sat very still.

  “Wait…how do you know they were mine?”

  “The prescription on the bottle was in your name,” Nessa said. “It was a prescription for Oxycodone. The bottle was empty.”

  Slumping back in his seat, Julian once again clenched his fists.

  “Portia must have taken them the last time she visited me in Hart Cove. She had occasionally struggled with depression.”

  He looked at Nessa as if seeking absolution.

  “She couldn’t have known the pills were for pain, not anxiety. I should have secured them…I should have-”

  “Why are you taking Oxycodone, Mr. Hart?”

  Nessa’s question cut through Julian’s recriminations, and he turned to her as if in a daze.

  “I was injured in the plane crash that took my parents lives. My injuries resulted in chronic pain.”

  “And your sister?”

  “She was in college at the time, so she was spared the ordeal.”

  “That seems a little unfair,” Vanzinger said. “Portia escaped injury and then blew her part of the family fortune. Then after you bail her out, she goes out and becomes a celebrity and leaves you all alone. Did that piss you off?”

  Julian stood, his whole body shaking with rage.

  “Portia was the only family I had left. The only person in the world I loved. Now she’s gone, and I have…no one. And you think I played some kind of role in her death?”

  “No, Mr. Hart. I’m sure Detective Vanzinger isn’t suggesting that,” Nessa called out as Julian strode to the door. “But we do need to know if you can think of anyone would have wanted to hurt her.”

  But Julian Hart didn’t hear her; he was already gone.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Nessa decided to walk the few blocks to City Hall. She and Riley Odell needed to plan out their appeal for information on Xavier Greyson, and the walk would give her a chance to clear her head.

  But by the time she’d reached the corner, her blouse was sticking to her clammy skin, and she was wondering if she’d made a mistake by venturing out into the stifling summer heat.

  Waiting for the light at the crosswalk to turn green, Nessa saw a sleek black Audi pull up to the curb. The tinted window rolled down to reveal Hunter Hadley’s handsome face.

  “You got a minute, Chief Ainsley?” he called out. “I need to talk to you about the Molly Blair case.”

  Nessa leaned in the window, relishing the sweet cold air blowing from the car’s vents.

  “If you’ve got air conditioning, I’ve got time.”

  Nessa opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. She was surprised to see a furry white face peering over the seat back.

  “Well, hello there, cutie.” She reached back to scratch the dog’s soft fur. “Who have you got here, Mr. Hadley?”

  “That’s Gracie,” Hunter said, smiling back at the white Lab. “She’s my house guest for the time being.”

  Reaching out to adjust the air vent, Nessa closed her eyes and let the air blow her red curls back from her face.

  “I found some interesting information when I was at the Kingston Road crime scene last night. I thought you’d want to hear it.”

  “What I want is to get to City Hall,” Nessa said. “But if you drive me there I’ll listen to your news on the way.”

  Hunter signaled his agreement by steering the car back into traffic. He wasted no time in sharing his big news.

  “One of Molly Blair’s neighbors saw Nick Sargent at her house.”

  Nessa frowned.

  “Okay…so what? Every reporter in town was there yesterday.”

  “No, he was there before Molly Blair was killed. Apparently more than once. The neighbor seemed to think he was coming regularly to visit the young girls that hung out at Ms. Blair’s house.”

  Recalling the tearful confession Lexi Marsh had made the day before, Nessa felt a stir of unease.

  “Molly ran an escort service and I was…one of her girls.”

  “That’s not all,” Hunter continued, pulling up to the curb outside City Hall. “I have information that Mr. Nikolai Sokolov was a guest at the Riverview Hotel the night Portia Hart died.”

  Nessa raised one eyebrow and cocked her head.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Nick Sargent,” Hunter said. “Nikolai Sokolov is his real name. He just uses the name Nick Sargent professionally.”

  “How did you get that information?”

  “I have my sources. Let’s just say I got a look at the guest list for that night. I was looking for people to interview for the show. Needless to say, his name stuck out.”

  Nessa stared at Hunter, unsure how to handle the unexpected revelation. She’d never had a reporter provide incriminating information on another reporter.

  “I think you need to spell it out for me,” she said, reaching for the door handle, “because I’m already late for my meeting. Just what is it you’re trying to say?”

  “That something doesn’t smell right, and that I’ll be looking into Nick Sargent’s recent whereabouts. I just wanted you to know in case you wanted to investigate him yourself or ask him about it.”

  Hunter offered Nessa a sardonic smile.

  “As you can imagine, he’s not likely to grant me an interview.”

  As Nessa climbed out of the car, she wondered if the popular, clean-cut Nick Sargent could somehow be involved with the Portia Hart and Molly Blair cases.

  The forensic evidence links both deaths to Xavier Greyson. So where would Nick Sargent, or Nikolai Sokolov, fit in?

  Unable to come up with a quick answer, Nessa hurried toward the entrance to City Hall. Maybe Riley Odell could make sense out of Hunter’s tip-off.

  After all, he was an experienced reporter, and she trusted his instinct. And based on what he’d found out about the Channel Six reporter, she’d have to look into it.

  But first she and Riley needed to decide what to do about Xavier Greyson. At least three women they knew of had died at his hands, and there could be more victims out there that had never been found. If they didn’t find him soon, there was no telling who would be next.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Riley was just leaving City Hall when she saw Nessa climb out of a black Audi sedan and hurry toward the building. She waited for the chief of police to approach, curious as to the owner of the sleek car, but anxious to get going.

  “Does Jerry know you’re driving around town with another man?”

  Nessa stopped short, catching sight of Riley with a startled laugh.

  “Jerry knows I don’t have enough free time to start an affair,” Nessa replied, checking her watch. “And speaking of time, aren’t you and I supposed to be meeting right about now?”

  “There’s been a slight change in plans.”

  Gesturing for Nessa to follow her, Riley marched across the courtyard toward the sidewalk. She stopped at the intersection and turned to Nessa.

  “I got a tip that Maxwell Clay is at Barker and Dawson’s Investigations over on Townsend right now.” She looked both ways, th
en darted across the street even though the crosswalk light was still flashing red. “It’s only a few blocks away.”

  Her words seemed to spur Nessa to walk faster, and ten minutes later they were at the threshold of Willow Bay’s newest private investigation agency. Frankie Dawson and Pete Barker stood over a man in a straight back chair. Riley assumed the interrogation had already started.

  “Maxwell Clay?”

  The man nodded, and Riley felt a strange surge of disappointment at the man’s ordinary appearance. She noted the sheen of perspiration on his pasty forehead, and the damp strands of thin grey hair he’d combed over to hide his receding hairline.

  He’s definitely not a cool, confident con man like Xavier Greyson.

  “I’m Riley Odell with the state prosecutor’s office, and that’s Nessa Ainsley, Willow Bay’s chief of police. We’d like to ask you a few questions about your relationship to Portia Hart.”

  Clay stood and adjusted his suit jacket, then offered Riley his hand. Something about the man reminded her of a used car salesman. She ignored his hand and waved him back into his chair.

  “Mr. Clay, I understand that you misrepresented yourself to Mr. Barker and Mr. Dawson here, and made false claims about your employment at Sterlington Group Insurance.”

  It was a statement, not a question, but Clay didn’t seem to notice. He just stared at Riley with growing dismay, and she bulldozed on, confident he would be easy to break.

  “Just what were you hoping to accomplish with your lies, Mr. Clay? And what is the nature of your relationship with Ms. Hart?”

  “Relationship?” Clay shook his head in denial. “There’s no relationship. One of my agents sold Portia Hart an insurance policy through my agency in Hart Cove. That’s the extent or my relationship with Portia Hart. I’ve never even met her.”

  Riley watched as a trickle of sweat worked its way down Clay’s cheek. There was no doubt he was hiding something, but what?

  “So why tell Mr. Dawson that you worked for Sterlington Trust? And why were you trying to investigate Portia Hart’s death?”

  “I was simply trying to find out if Portia Hart had…had taken her own life, or not. There are terms in…in the…the policy that-”