Jasi grinned. "Champagne wishes…"
"And caviar dreams," they said in unison, laughing.
"I think caviar is disgusting," Jasi said, making a face.
Natassia released a contented sigh. "Caviar and sushi. Two of the four food groups. Or they should be. You don't know what you're missing."
"I'll live just fine without sludge in a tin. Give me a charbroiled steak any day."
Jasi maneuvered the SUV along the perfectly paved main road, then turned down a secondary street lined with pruned black willow, red maple and hundred-year-old hackberry trees, and assorted trimmed bushes, no doubt the responsibility of an expensive lawn care service. In Rockcliffe, the lack of sidewalks stood out. People liked their privacy at Rockcliffe Park. They expected it.
She slowed the car in front of two brick pillars. There were rough iron gates on either side. An ornate wooden plaque was centered on the pillar on the right side.
Winkler Manor, it proclaimed in a floral scroll.
"That's odd," she said.
"What is?"
"Most people in this neighborhood keep their gates closed."
The Winkler's gate was wide open.
Natassia frowned. "Did you call Marilyn Winkler to let her know we were coming?"
"Nope. I prefer the element of surprise."
"It looks like she's expecting someone."
"I wonder who."
Jasi turned down the long driveway and was silent for a moment, taking in the rich green lawn and colorful flowerbeds. She envied people with yards like this. She couldn't keep a houseplant alive for more than a month.
"Matthew said you're training for the position of team leader," Natassia said hesitantly.
"Uh, yeah. They think I'm ready."
"What do you think?"
"I know I'm ready. Ben's been drilling me for over a month."
"You're lucky to have someone who believes in you the way he does."
"I know." She studied her new partner. "So, how shall we do this?"
"I'll follow your lead."
Well, Natassia was certainly accommodating.
"Since Marilyn is a victim of sorts, can you read her?"
Natassia shrugged. "I do better with people who have directly experienced a violent crime. I feel the energy from their trauma."
"So you probably won't get anything from her then."
"I doubt it."
The scenery suddenly flared open and an impressive coffee and cream brick house, roughly five thousand square feet, lay before them. Owning the land with its grandeur, Winkler Manor resembled a medieval castle with two towering turrets and a peaked roof. An oversized balcony looked down over the driveway.
Natassia whistled. "That's some house."
Jasi couldn't agree more.
The driveway circled around in front of the estate, with a three-car garage forking off the main curve. A one-lane paved road continued past the garage and disappeared between the bushes. Parked in front of two garage doors were a silver Sebring and a blue Cadillac.
"The Winklers like their toys," Jasi observed.
They climbed out of the SUV.
Flat slabs of beige and gray stone carved a sidewalk to a porch with two white columns that framed arched double doors inlaid with etched glass panes.
"Custom built," Jasi determined.
Natassia nodded. "There's some serious money here."
Jasi found the doorbell and pressed it. They were rewarded with a familiar waltz tune that played inside and out. Mid-tune, one of the heavy doors opened, the archway appearing even larger as it dwarfed a bone-thin bald man in a disheveled burgundy suit.
Wordlessly, he glowered at them with cold eyes.
Jasi glared back. Why is he so annoyed?
"We're here to see Mrs. Winkler."
The man squinted at her badge. Without a word, he turned away, leaving the door ajar.
Natassia gave her a questioning look.
"Good help is so hard to find," Jasi quipped.
Inside, they followed the clicking of the man's dress shoes. The scent of roses lingered in the air as he led them across a marble floor and into a carpeted sitting room decorated in pale shades of lavender and pink. Pink roses in crystal vases graced every surface, along with potted African violets of various shades. A quick once-over of the room told Jasi that it was rarely used by anyone other than the lady of the house.
Like an old-fashioned Victorian parlor, everything was delicate and flowered, from the Queen Anne sofa and loveseat, to the embroidered pillows and window valances, to the ruby and gold decanter set that accented an elaborately carved mantle over the wood fireplace. Massive oil paintings in intricate gilded frames hung on the far wall, threatening to buckle the pastel mauve wallpaper behind them.
"Please tell Mrs. Winkler we're here," she said, eyeing the bald man.
The look he gave her wasn't any warmer than the one they'd gotten at the door. With a shrug, he turned on one heel and left the room.
"What a strange man," Natassia whispered.
Jasi had to agree.
While they waited, Jasi studied the paintings. She was sure they were all originals, probably handed down from generation to generation. They had that air about them. Valuable. Old money.
"My husband's collection is impressive, isn't it?"
The lady of the house breezed into the room, her entrance marked by a scented cloud of rose, vanilla and a hint of sandalwood. She moved slowly across the floor as though she had all the time in the world, as though her husband wasn't lying dead in the city morgue.
"Welcome to my home."
My home, not our home, Jasi observed.
Marilyn Winkler was not a beautiful woman, but she commanded attention. People would notice her because of the severity of her appearance. Her hair, an indefinable black or dark brown depending on the lighting, was sleeked back from a high forehead, then twisted at the back and fastened with a jeweled clip. The combination of pale iridescent foundation, razor-thin black eyebrows that were drawn on, cold brown eyes and thin blood-red lips made her face look harsh and unfriendly.
Otherworldly.
Red lips lifted into a stiff smile. "I'm Marilyn Winkler."
The woman might not be attractive, but she sure knew how to dress, regardless of the extra thirty or so pounds she was carrying. The two-piece navy skirt suit reeked of New York City. It probably cost more than one of the many rings that adorned her hands. A single string of assorted pearls circled her thick neck.
Marilyn nervously touched the necklace. "So you're with the CFBI."
"Yes," Jasi said. "I'm Agent Jasmine McLellan and this is my partner Agent Natassia Prushenko."
"Please have a seat. James will bring us some coffee."
The bald man who had answered the door stood a few feet behind Marilyn. His subservient posture screamed 'domestic.' James, the butler? If so, Marilyn's dress code for the hired help needed some work. James' suit needed dry-cleaning.
The man shifted under Jasi's concentrated inspection. Then he spun on one heel and left the room.
Jasi activated the voice recorder on her data-com. She set it on the coffee table, then settled beside Natassia on the sofa.
"Now…" Marilyn said, perching on the edge of loveseat across from them. "Let's get this nasty business over with, shall we?"
Nasty business?
"Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Winkler," Jasi said. "We're very sorry for your loss."
"Monty is everyone's loss," came the hushed reply.
Readjusting the pillow under her arm, Jasi studied the woman before her. "Were you and your husband together a long time?"
"We married late in life," the woman answered, clasping her hands primly in her lap. "Both of us were well past thirty. My mother called me a spinster. Said I'd never catch a man. Well, what did she know? I ended up with the biggest catch of the decade." She glanced away, her attention on something else.
Propped against the wall a few feet from wher
e Jasi sat was a briefcase made of high quality leather. It had an unusual design stamped on the top, maybe a family crest. A corner of paper protruded from one side, as if someone had hastily stuffed it inside the case.
Jasi couldn't quite make out the words on the paper, but she did see two interesting things. Monty Winkler's name and a number. $2,000,000.
Monty Winkler's insurance policy?
"Did your husband take out a life insurance policy?" she asked bluntly.
Marilyn gazed down at her hands. "Yes."
"For how much?"
Jasi saw the woman visibly wince.
"I-I'm not quite sure exactly."
Winkler's wife was lying.
Interesting.
Jasi thought about the two vehicles outside. Other than the rude butler, there was no sign of anyone else in the house.
"Is there anyone else in the house right now?"
"No. Just the four of us."
"The police already searched the garage out back. Your husband's Mercedes wasn't among them."
"That's Monty's favorite. Do you think you'll find it?"
"I hope so."
Ottawa was a big city. Finding Winkler's car would help narrow down the search.
"How many vehicles do you own, Mrs. Winkler?"
"Twelve." Marilyn chuckled. "Monty's passion is cars. He likes to collect older models, rebuild them."
"What did he do with them afterward?"
"Oh, he sells them usually. To other collectors."
"And he stored them here on the grounds?"
Marilyn smiled. "In his car motel. That's what Monty calls the building out back. The cars in there are worth a small fortune. He says they're his investments." She paused. "Occasionally, he donates a car to a fundraiser."
Jasi nodded, her attention diverted by the woman's constant use of the present tense. She'd been around death enough to recognize the stage of grief that Marilyn was in―denial. She knew that stage all too well.
After her mother's murder, it had taken her months to realize that her mother was never going to walk in the front door again or tuck her in at night. And it had taken years to get over feeling abandoned, betrayed.
Betrayal was something Marilyn Winkler knew about.
"I'm sorry to ask this," Jasi said, "but is there any truth to your sister's allegations?"
"You mean the so-called affair with Monty? He swore that nothing happened."
Jasi waited.
"Deirdre has a vivid imagination. She's always wanted what I have. I'm the oldest, you see, by nearly eighteen years. Deirdre was what my parents liked to call an 'oops.' Daddy left me in charge of my sister's inheritance. Deirdre has never forgiven me for that."
"So you think she started that rumor in spite?"
"I think she made it up because she doesn't like to see me happy. Sibling rivalry." Marilyn shrugged. "Monty would never touch my sister."
"What about other women, like Karen Hampton?"
Marilyn's eyes narrowed. "That bitch―pardon my French―was someone I trusted. My former secretary. She used to come to parties and benefit galas with us."
"So you think she lied too?"
The woman looked away. "No. I knew about Karen and Monty. All the late nights, phone calls at all hours. It wasn't too difficult to put two and two together. I knew he was seeing someone. I had no idea it was my secretary until I caught them together in his office."
"What did you do?"
"What do you think I did? I fired her ass." Her eyes settled on Natassia. "That woman knew how to use her body to get what she wanted. Not unlike my sister."
"Deirdre was promiscuous?" Jasi asked.
"When it got her something."
Jasi allowed the comment to sink in.
What would sleeping with her sister's husband get Deirdre? Not much, if what Marilyn said was true. She held Deirdre's purse strings. Not Monty.
"Monty knew I draw the line at family," Marilyn said, reading her mind. "Besides, my sister is in a relationship." On the last word, curled fingers made quotation marks in the air. "Or at least that's what she told me. I never know what to believe with her."
"Where does your sister live?"
"Downtown." Marilyn gave the address. "But you won't catch Deirdre there today. She's in Niagara Falls until late tomorrow night." Her mouth curled in distaste. "She said she needed a break, that she wasn't coping with Daddy's death."
"We'll have to confirm all this with her."
"Just be careful what you believe, Agents. My sister has a plethora of stories. Sometimes I don't think even she knows what's true and what's not."
"Would she have any reason to kill your husband?"
Marilyn's eyes widened. "Is that what these questions are about? You think Deirdre killed Monty?" She smoothed her skirt with her hands. "My sister might be a bit of a pain, as sisters usually are, but she wouldn't know the first thing about killing someone. Except maybe herself."
Jasi raised a brow. "What do you mean?"
"Deirdre started smoking again, after being a non-smoker for nearly six years. I don't understand the attraction of poisoning yourself daily like that. She says she's trying to quit, but I'm not sure I believe her."
"Is she under a lot of stress?"
Marilyn shrugged. "I guess."
"Stress can make people do terrible things."
The woman chuckled. "Well, my sister didn't hate Monty that much. He was too good to her."
"If she had anything to do with your husband's death, it could get ugly," Jasi warned.
"Everything in Deirdre's life is ugly. At least, according to her. She's young, impetuous, immature, and she's always been rather messed up."
"What does she do for a living?"
"She's a research technician at PRC."
Jasi tried to hide her surprise. "Paragon Research Corporation? You work together?"
"It's a family project," Marilyn said with a shrug. "Daddy had no sons to follow in his footsteps, so I went to work for him eight years ago. He left me in charge when he died."
"And your sister?"
"Deirdre joined us about three years ago."
"Do you get along with her?"
Marilyn's mouth curved into a dry smile. "Like sisters."
Or brothers…
With startling clarity, Jasi pictured her brother Brady and his constant struggle to gain Pop's approval.
Maybe Deirdre wanted to get back at her sister, make her pay for taking away Daddy's attention and approval. Maybe she was so jealous of Marilyn, who seemed to have it all, that she thought she'd take something away, make her suffer.
Did Deirdre kill Monty Winkler?
Jasi gave her new partner a quick nod. Your turn.
Natassia leaned forward. "It isn't easy to lose a parent, and I can only imagine what it must be like to lose a husband."
"I don't even remember the last thing I said to Monty."
"I'm sure he knew you loved him."
Jasi had no idea if her partner's words were true. But she did know one thing. It didn't really matter what Marilyn Winkler had said to her husband on his last day on earth.
Words were never enough.
8
Using the guise of needing a testimonial release form signed, Natassia sat down beside Marilyn. "Just sign at the bottom, please."
Marilyn obeyed. "Monty was everything to me."
Natassia reached for her hand and patted it gently. The caring part of her felt for the woman, but the PSI part wanted only the truth. She closed her eyes briefly when Marilyn turned her face away. She could feel the woman's energy. It radiated with a low hum. Marilyn was exhausted, unfocused, confused.
Within seconds, Natassia was inside. She was Marilyn.
"We have to talk, Monty."
A mirror reflected Marilyn Winkler's angry face.
Her husband's eyes burned with anger. "Can't you see I'm busy?" A hand waved across his empty desk.
"What are you busy with?" Tears welled in her e
yes and her throat burned. "Or maybe I should ask…who are you busy with?"
He must be seeing someone again. She knew it.
The phone rang, but Monty ignored it. It rang a second time and she was about to tell him to pick up the damned thing, but the ringing stopped.
"For God's sake, tell me who she is," she begged.
"Not this again. Marilyn, I'm waiting for a call."
She turned away just as the phone rang.
This time Monty picked it up. He listened for a minute, then in a perfectly calm voice said, "Yes...I understand." Without another word, he hung up.
"I'm not going to stand here and be made a fool of while you go off gallivanting with some slut," she said.
He smiled as if he hadn't heard her. "I have to go, dear. We'll talk when I get home." Whistling a tune, he shrugged on his jacket.
"Maybe you shouldn't come home," she snapped.
He gave her a cool look. "Careful what you wish for."
Marilyn gasped.
Natassia hissed in a breath of air. Marilyn had released her hand and was staring at her with concern.
"Are you okay, Agent Prushenko?"
"I, uh…sorry, I was thinking about something else."
She caught Jasi's eye and gave a subtle smile to indicate she'd seen something.
"Mrs. Winkler," she continued, "did your husband have any known enemies, past or present?"
The woman shook her head. "I don't know. He never really discussed work with me."
"Any financial problems? Did he owe anyone money?"
"You mean besides the bank?" Marilyn glanced uneasily at a briefcase on the floor. "We're in decent shape, financially. I make very good money too."
Natassia caught the tightness in her voice. Money made the Winkler world go round. Marilyn Winkler had lived her life in the shadows of her well-known husband, yet she probably made twice the income.
"What exactly does Paragon research?" she asked.
Marilyn shrugged. "A bit of this and that. We started off looking for UFOs." At Natassia's raised brow, she chuckled. "Yes, we're looking for E.T., but we haven't found him yet. Seriously though, we're involved in satellite research, boring stuff to most people."
"Was your husband involved in your work?"
"No, Monty steered clear of PRC. He and Daddy had never seen eye-to-eye. Monty told me the company was in my hands alone. He was very adamant about that. Said if it sank it would be my fault and mine alone."
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