Miranda turned back to her former co-worker. She had to make sure she kept quiet. “Hey Fanuzzi, you want to help me out?”
Fanuzzi suddenly brightened. “Sure.”
“I really need to mingle right now. But if anybody asks, pretend you don’t know me.”
Fanuzzi nodded, her dark eyes big. “Right. I get it. Never saw you before in my life.”
Miranda smiled. She liked Fanuzzi. She caught on quick and seemed just as quick to forgive her shortcomings. “Thanks. Glad you understand. We’ll keep in touch. I promise. Hey, maybe we can go out together this weekend.”
Fanuzzi smirked. “Yeah, and maybe the Easter Bunny will bring me a basket of winning lottery tickets.”
“Lighten up. I’ll give you a call.” Though she wondered herself whether she’d keep that promise.
“Sure.”
Peering through the crowd toward the corner, she saw that Usher was still sitting there staring out the window. She tossed her paper plate in the trash, picked up a Styrofoam saucer of cake from the end of the table and headed for him.
Time to practice those interrogation techniques she’d learned about in class.
“My condolences,” Miranda said when she reached Usher’s chair.
The man didn’t budge. As if he were deaf, he sat there, dark and brooding, his lower lip pouting, his eyes swollen. The sensitive, artistic type in mourning. Or giving a good imitation of it.
She cleared her throat. “Mr. Usher?”
He came out of his trance, turned his head. “Oh. Yes, thank you,” he said with a dismissive, superior air. Then he squinted at her. “Do I know you?”
“I think we met once.”
He peered at her more closely. The small scar along his right cheek moved as his jaw flexed. “Oh, yes. The arm wrestler at the Steeplechase.” He didn’t move to offer her his seat, unlike most men of the upper class. Miranda decided she’d rather stand. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Are you a friend of the Langfords?”
Miranda shifted her weight. “I know them distantly. I saw the notice in the paper and thought I’d stop by to offer my sympathy. It was tragic.”
“Tragic,” he repeated, looking straight ahead. He sniffed and swiped his nose. Then he began to mutter, as if talking to himself. “Tragic is an understatement. A beautiful vibrant life cut down in its prime. Desirée had so much to live for, so much to offer.” His voice was soft, almost feminine on the surface, but it had a rough, edgy undertone. He rocked a little as he spoke, digging at his expensive pant legs with his long fingers, his arrogant air fusing with his agitated grief.
“But she didn’t offer it to you?” Miranda asked quietly, allowing just enough sympathy to seep into her words.
He turned back, tried to focus on her. “What?”
“I heard you’d separated.” She paused. “I’m sorry.”
His shoulders slumped. “She left me. But I still loved her.”
“She didn’t feel the same?” She kept her tone soft.
Suddenly, he glared up at her. “I don’t wish to discuss it with you—”
“Steele. Miranda Steele.”
He pulled his long body up in his chair as if trying to get hold of himself. He gave her a condescending look. “Ms. Steele, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m beside myself today, as I’m sure you can understand.”
Oh, no you don’t. She wasn’t going to let him weasel out of being questioned. He might seem genuine, but all that grief could be just crocodile tears. Objectivity. She could hear Parker’s voice ring in her ears. “Maybe it would help to talk about it,” she said as gently as she could. “What was your relationship with Desirée like?”
With a sigh, he stared out the window again. “We had no relationship. She divorced me. It was final three months ago.”
“But you still saw her, didn’t you?”
He didn’t ask how she knew that. He simply shrugged again. “When I could. When she let me.”
When you forced yourself on her, Miranda thought. Now things were starting to add up. Usher abused his wife, got her into using drugs, and when she tried to leave him and clean up her life, he stalked her, tried to get her to come back to him. When she refused, he decided no one else could have her either.
Would be an open and shut case if she had some proof. “Did you ask her to come back to you?” It was getting harder to sound soothing and sympathetic.
“A thousand times.”
Just as she thought. “And when she refused, did it make you angry enough to kill her?”
Slowly Usher turned his head. His large, round, seaweed-color eyes blazed with indignation. “The police concluded my wife’s death was a suicide.”
“Right. From an overdose of PCP. Is that how you see it, since her life was so beautiful and vibrant? Do you think she’d do that to herself?” Her voice had lost its motherly quality.
He sucked in a short, outraged breath. “This is terribly rude of you, Ms. Steele. Are you investigating her death?”
She leaned over him. “Just curious about your opinion, Mr. Usher. Weren’t you the one who introduced her to PCP?”
His mouth opened, his cheeks flamed with what looked like sheer dread. Guilty.
It took him a minute to recover. “I don’t use illegal substances, Ms. Steele,” he spat, straightening his coat. He rose and started to move into the crowd, his bloodshot eyes still shooting lasers at her. At his sides, he was still opening and closing his fists. Then he stopped and turned back. “If you think Desirée’s death wasn’t an accident, you should start with Dr. Kennicot.”
“Who?”
“Dr. Gabriel Kennicot,” he snarled. “Desirée’s favorite horse vet. A man seventeen years her senior whom she worshipped since she was a teenager. Her ‘old flame,’ so to speak. He’s the one she left me for. And he’s the one with access to PCP.”
She put a hand on her hip, resisting the urge to grab the haughty artist by the lapels and shake him. Instead, she stepped close to him and lowered her voice. “And what reason would Desirée Langford’s veterinarian—slash, ‘old flame’—have for killing her with PCP?”
A strange expression crossed Usher’s face, the closest thing she’d seen on him to a smile. “An ancient reason, Ms. Steele,” he whispered. “Jealousy. Desirée was about to leave him and come back to me.”
* * *
The Georgia sun was settling in for the night, spewing a glorious spray of pastels across the sky above the silhouettes of buildings and treetops, when Miranda pulled into the Colonial Towers parking lot. With a tired huff, she got out of her car and made her way down the sidewalk.
Since the funeral that afternoon, she’d tried to work off the lingering frustration from her encounter with Ferraro Usher by running laps around the Parker Agency gym and doing skip traces at her desk, but the nagging questions had kept buzzing in her brain.
Desirée Langford left Usher for a veterinarian she’d been in love with since she was a teen? Surely Delta knew about this little love triangle. Why hadn’t she mentioned it? Who was this veterinarian anyway? How did Usher know he had access to PCP? Miranda had done a little research before she left the office. Vets did use PCP, but it was rare, due to bad side effects.
Most importantly, was Desirée really going to leave the vet and go back to Usher? Or was that a figment of the artist’s wild imagination? If Usher was telling the truth, then both men had a motive for killing her.
She needed to talk to that vet, but that would really be pushing it. She had to see Parker about taking this case. First thing in the morning, she decided.
She reached her apartment door, dug into her pocket for her keys and felt something funny. What was this? She pulled out the metal mass and stared at it.
Oh, God. The keys to the Parker mansion. She’d been so wrapped up in her investigation, she’d forgotten she was a homeowner now. Her shoulders slumped at the thought.
Shrugging off the urge to sulk, she opened her door and went inside. She tossed the
keys on the counter, then looked around at her tiny living space. She put her hands on her hips, tapped her foot.
The Parker mansion had closets this size. Her whole apartment could fit inside its kitchen. It had several luxury showers she never had a chance to try.
She stared at the keys twinkling on the cheap laminate surface and remembered Parker’s smug look when she signed the papers in the boardroom. Irritation bubbled inside her. If she didn’t move in sooner or later, he’d know she was bluffing. She had to make the deal look good. And she sure couldn’t keep up the rent on two places.
She strolled into her bedroom and studied the clothes and boxes in her closet. She had never kept too much stuff around. Made it easier to pick up and go whenever the urge struck her. Though she had more than usual now, after working at the Agency with its fancy dress code, it was still a manageable load.
Yep, if she was going to get Parker to take back his house, she had to make the threat of her living there real.
She reached under the bed for her duffle bag and began to pack. She’d call her landlord in the morning and cancel her lease.
Chapter Nine
It was past eleven when Miranda finally dragged the last of her bags up the grand staircase and into the master bedroom of the Parker mansion. She dropped the last duffle bag next to the boxes of Amy’s gifts and sank down onto the luxurious mattress. Exhausted as she was, she flushed with the memory of its feel. This was where she and Parker had made love.
The room’s blue-and-plum décor seemed more lavish than she remembered, the tall windows with their airy gauze curtains, more elegant. The naked Grecian statues, the cozy chair arrangement in the corner, the brass bamboo fountain gurgling in the other corner, all more sensual and seductive.
The mansion had a slew of bedrooms, all nicely made up and cleaned by the part time staff. Why had she chosen this room? She ran her hand over the silky, pure-white comforter beneath her and remembered the smell of Parker’s skin, the texture of his hair as her fingers dug into his scalp, the wild thrusting of his body into hers, his gentler lovemaking later on that night.
Maybe this place was too much for her. But not in the way Parker had meant.
With a grunt, she forced herself up. Time for beddie-bye. Might as well try one of those fancy showers Parker’s father had installed. She marched into the master bath.
Yep, just about the size of her apartment. The room was a maze of blue-and-gold ceramic and granite, accented with a forest of mirrors. The floor seemed to be heated and thick, pure white towels were piled everywhere.
She opened the shower door and the sight took her breath away. More gleaming ceramic, with over a dozen shimmering showerheads. A control panel mounted on the wall. The area was large enough for a baseball team.
She peeled off her clothes, stepped inside and studied the touch screen. Body zones. Adjustable pressure and temperature. You needed a manual to turn it on. She pressed a button.
Hot water shot out of one of the showerheads, hit her on the side with full force. “Whoa,” she giggled. “Too much.” She tapped the button and it shut off. She tried a different one. Cold shot out from the other direction. “Wait a minute, brr.” This was like wrestling an octopus. She turned it off, tried again. Something pulsed right between her legs. “Now you’re getting fresh.” She bet Mr. P had designed that feature himself.
She stopped the stream and glared at the controls. Spa-luxury-routine. That sounded good. Biting her lip, she touched it.
A nice, warm spray danced out from all directions with just the right pressure. She sighed. “That’s more like it.”
It self-adjusted, began working the muscles between her shoulders. Mmm, nice. After a few minutes, it adjusted again, began working down her back, her hips, her legs. Wow. She’d never felt anything so good. Well, not alone. Goldilocks should have had it so good.
She reached for the soap pump and a delicious odor of lilacs and mountain lilies filled the steamy air.
After about a half hour of ecstasy, the stream stopped. Relaxed and mellow, Miranda considered a second try, but she was already feeling like a prune. Better save some for the next time.
Thank you, Mr. P. Even if she weren’t going to stay in the mansion forever, this was one shower experience she’d never forget.
She stepped out, dried off with a towel so thick it felt like a carpet, lifted a luxurious terrycloth robe off a hook and wrapped it around her. This was the life.
“Can’t get used to it,” she reminded herself as she padded into the huge bedroom and rummaged through one of her suitcases for a T-shirt and a pair of panties. Parker would come to his senses soon. He’d take back the house in less than a week, she bet.
And as soon as Parker moved in, she was moving out. She’d made it plain she wouldn’t live with him. That could only lead to misery for both of them.
A large chandelier hung from the high bedroom ceiling, but Miranda opted for the muted light of the Tiffany lamp on the nightstand.
With a big yawn, she flopped onto the bed, sank her head into the thick satin-covered pillows. Hmm. Nice. “See, Parker? I’m just fine in this big, scary house.” She pulled up the comforter and reached up to turn out the light. Wait. Maybe she’d leave it on for tonight.
She rolled over, closed her eyes, let her mind go blank.
The silent house seemed to groan.
Her eyes shot open. Was that a creak? A footstep? She sat up and listened hard. She could hear her heart beating. Her mind was playing tricks on her. After all, her last night here had been pretty horrific.
Stubbornly, she lay back down and closed her eyes. Morning came early. She let her mind drift to Usher’s drawn, mournful face that afternoon. “Dr. Gabriel Kennicot’s the one with access to PCP.” Desirée’s old flame, the vet. Had she been playing the artist and the vet against each other, the way Farrah Simmons played her lovers? Steeplechase images played in her head, began to blur. She drifted off.
What was that? She jolted up with a start. Was that…water running?
With a grunt, she shoved the blankets away, got up, and went to the bathroom. Had the fancy shower started a routine on its own? No, everything in here was still. Dry as a bone. Maybe it was time to see that shrink. Wait, she knew what it was.
That damn brass fountain.
She plodded back into the bedroom, crossed the floor, and fiddled with the contraption until she found a switch in the back. She turned it off. There.
A shiver went down her spine. She still heard running water.
Her heart pounding, she went for one of her boxes on the floor, opened it. Where was it? Not that box. She grabbed another and dug into it. There. Her fingers curled around hard wood and she drew out Defender. The thirty-four-inch Old Hickory solid maple baseball bat she used to sleep with when she lived in New York.
She turned toward the door and slapped it against her palm. She’d take care of that water bandit.
She stepped into the hall.
Soft nightlights glowed along the walls, but there was no sign of life. This couldn’t be one of her nightmares. It was too real. The coolness of the hard wood under her bare feet was physical. And so was the persistent sound of that running water.
Gritting her teeth, she made her way down the hall. The sound of water grew louder.
Half way down the hall, she spotted light under one of the doors. She hesitated outside it, adjusted her grip on Defender, went through a few karate moves in her head. Swallowing her nerves, she reached for the handle and slowly opened the door.
Inside was another palatial, tile-lined bathroom. This one done in a sensual, oriental style with plum and lavender accents and shiny black trim. It was even bigger than the one with the octopus shower.
A huge sunken tub sat in the middle of the floor. It was filled with fragrant bubble bath, suds peaking high like the meringue on a lemon pie. Near the faucet sat a silver tray. On it was a crystal decanter with a champagne bottle, two tulip-shaped glasses, and a pile of s
trawberries.
Had Mr. P forgotten he’d sold the house?
Along one wall was an opening to another room. The sound of running water came from there. She stepped around the tiled partition and found an opaque glass door with Chinese markings on it, steam rising over its top.
Another shower. And someone was in it.
The dark figure maneuvered behind the panel, soaping itself. Too tall to be Mr. P, but the form looked awfully familiar. Miranda tightened her grip on Defender, slowly tiptoed toward the shower door. Her throat constricted as she reached for the handle. Do or die.
She threw it open. And gasped.
“Parker.”
He turned, stood there gazing at her with the shower pounding down, hot steam rising from its spray, his grin as sly and smug as ever. “Good evening.”
Her breath gone, she sputtered angry gibberish until finally coherent words shot out. “Parker, what in blue blazes are you doing here? You swore you wouldn’t stay in this place.”
She gaped at wet, salt-and-pepper hair, his firm muscles gleaming with beads of water, the dripping black hair matted on his chest. He had the strong, fit body of a martial artist, a fighter, a Southern gentleman. Fully-clad, he was a debonair man-about-town. Stark naked, he was…irresistible.
“I couldn’t let you stay here alone tonight,” he said with that coy, easy smile.
“I almost lambasted you.”
Parker gazed at the irate vision before him. Her wild, tangled dark hair, her deep blue eyes flashing with fury. She was dressed temptingly in nothing but panties and a gray cotton T-shirt that caressed her breasts and revealed her delicious form. She’d thrown his timing off a bit, but otherwise, the plan of attack he’d hatched in his father’s room at the nursing home was working beautifully.
He shook his head and chuckled. “I don’t think so.”
Miranda couldn’t help glancing down. Clearly, she’d aroused him. She was about to say, “Guess you’re glad to see me,” when he reached out, grabbed her under her arms and lifted her off her feet.
Delicious Torment Page 8
