Delicious Torment

by Linsey Lanier

  “A natural reaction. Unfortunately, it’s our business. Sometimes it’s necessary to get the information we need. I don’t like it either. But you did a fine job.”

  She nodded, smiled.

  Parker took another side road and headed back to the Interstate.

  “What a sad story. They loved each other for decades, and less than six months after they finally get together, Desirée is dead.”

  “Pitiful.”

  Miranda watched the expression on Parker’s face. He was doing a good job of hiding it, but she could see that he identified strongly with Kennicot. He had lost his wife, too. And a young woman named Laura, long ago when he was young. He’d want to find Desirée’s killer now.

  “So what do you think?” she asked him.

  He glanced over at her. “What do you think?”

  He really was taking this lead thing seriously. She thought a moment. “I think Kennicot’s telling the truth.”

  “So do I.”

  “And that brings us back to Usher. So what’s the next step?”

  He chuckled softly, a tinge of sadness in his laugh. “That’s for you to figure out.”

  Well, she’d asked for it. She grunted aloud. “No help from the guru, huh?”

  “I’m just the assistant.”

  She swatted him on the arm. “And the bodyguard. Don’t forget that.”

  His eyes almost smiling again, Parker glanced at the digital clock on the dash. “You can ponder your next move over lunch. We’ll have just enough time for a bite to eat before your session with Dr. Chaffee.”

  “Oh, yeah.” She’d forgotten about that. Just now, she felt like she could use a therapy session. Or a nap.

  * * *

  Parker’s idea of a bite to eat was a place called the French American Brasserie, a.k.a. FAB, on the northeast branch of Peachtree Road near Lenox Square.

  The dining room’s décor was elegantly simple, with black chairs, white tablecloths, and tall windows that must have been at least twenty feet high. They were outfitted with thick red velvet curtains, pulled back for a view overlooking the sunny, sophisticated Buckhead locale.

  Parker asked for a table near the window.

  While he schmoozed with their server and selected from the menu, Miranda watched the small army of waiters in white shirts and black ties scurrying about serving the lunch clientele.

  A few minutes later, she ended up with Pâté de Campagne for an appetizer, followed by Coq au Vin for an entree, which turned out to be roasted chicken in a sumptuous gourmet wine sauce with pearl onions, English peas and egg noodles.

  She knew Parker was trying to spoil her with all this pampering so she’d never want to leave him or his house, but she was determined not to let the royal treatment get to her. If Parker had his way, she’d feel toward him the way Desirée Langford felt about Dr. Kennicot when she was sixteen.

  She cared about Parker. More than what was good for her. At times, he did make her feel like a giddy teen.

  It was a nice fantasy, but they were both too adult not to know whatever this was between them couldn’t last. Both of them had too many scars. She certainly had way too much baggage.

  And yet her feelings for Parker grew more intense the longer she knew him. Who could resist his smooth, debonair ways? His top-notch skill at his craft? His strength, his kindness? He’d been good to her. To top it off, she’d never known what great sex could be like before she met him. Probably would never know it with anyone else. And yet, when she thought of anything that resembled a commitment to Parker, all she felt was…sheer terror.

  She dragged a juicy piece of chicken along her plate to sop up the scrumptious sauce, put it in her mouth, and forced her thoughts back to business and her conversation with Kennicot.

  He was the real victim in this crime, if it was a crime. Still clear in her mind was the doctor’s pained look as he told her about Desirée and Usher. Suddenly she thought of something and nearly dropped her fork.

  Parker’s brows rose. “I’m sorry the chicken’s not as spicy as you like.”

  She blinked at him and shook her head. “I just remembered something.”

  “What?”

  “The day of Desirée’s funeral, Delta Langford left a message on my phone. She said that Usher was challenging Desirée’s Will. She insisted that all he cared about was the money.” She lowered her voice. “If that’s true, it would establish a solid motive.”

  Parker chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “That’s very interesting. What do you plan to do with that bit of information?”

  A little irritated with this hands-off routine, she drummed her fingers on the table. She couldn’t ask Usher, of course, he’d deny it. He’d lied about Desirée coming back to him, after all. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on his part. Or maybe Desirée had been leading him on. Still, he wouldn’t admit challenging the Will if he were the killer.

  She picked up her water glass and sipped thoughtfully. “It would be nice if I could talk to Desirée’s lawyer.”

  “The one who drew up her Will?”

  She nodded. “Or maybe the executor.” She put down her glass and lifted her hands in exasperation. “I don’t even know who to ask. Not someone I can trust, anyway.”

  Parker regarded her a moment, as if debating whether to make a move. Then he pulled out his cell. “Antonio might be able to help.” He pressed a button to pull up his number and handed her the phone.

  She looked down at it and grinned. Parker always came through. She took the phone and pressed “Talk.”

  After a moment that smooth Latin accent fluttered in her ears. “What can I do for you, Señor Parker?”

  Antonio Estavez was Parker’s surrogate son. When Antonio was a kid, Parker had picked him up off the streets, gotten him out of the Latino gangs he ran with, brought him into his home, and raised him. Now Antonio was one of the top criminal defense attorneys in the city with the law firm of Chatham, Grayson, and McFee. Parker was very proud of him.

  “Hi, Antonio,” she said into Parker’s cell. “It’s me, Miranda.”

  “Ah, Ms. Steele. How lovely to hear your voice.” Antonio’s flirtatious nature was an involuntary reflex.

  “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

  “I can try.”

  “I’m sure you heard about Desirée Langford’s, uh, accident at the Northwinds Steeplechase last week.”

  “Of course. I read about it in the newspaper. What a tragedy. The police ruled it a suicide, did they not?”

  “Yes. Well, it might not have been a suicide. I’m looking into it.”

  “Oh?” He sounded genuinely impressed. “What can I do for you?”

  “Someone told me Ms. Langford’s ex-husband might be contesting her Will. His name is Ferraro Usher. How can I find out if that’s true?”

  “So you’re looking for motive, Ms. Steele?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You came to the right place. I believe our senior partner, Charles Grayson, handles the Langford estate. Let me see if he’s back from lunch.”

  He put her on hold and soft Musak came over the phone. She picked at her chicken while Parker looked on, satisfied with himself. She was too excited to eat any more. After a moment, Antonio came back on the line.

  “You are in luck, Ms. Steele. Mr. Grayson tells me that Eli Langford was named the executor. Desirée Langford has a large trust fund. She also had some earnings from her work as a horse breeder. She owned no property. Upon her death, all her assets reverted to the Langford estate.”

  “So Eli Langford is her beneficiary, too.”

  “Correct. Mr. Grayson also said that no one has contested the Will at all.”

  “He knows that for sure?”

  “Yes. The court would have informed him if someone did.”

  “Thanks, Antonio. That helps a lot.”

  “My pleasure. Give my regards to your boss.”

  “I will.” She disconnected and handed t
he phone back to Parker. “Everything goes to Eli Langford. Usher didn’t contest the Will at all. Delta lied to me.” She was beginning to wonder whether there was anyone connected to the Langfords she could trust.

  “Perhaps that was her impression,” Parker said. “Perhaps Usher was intending to contest, then dropped the idea. Delta Langford can be given to exaggeration.”

  Hmm. Parker knew Delta Langford a lot better than she did. “Maybe it’s you I should be interviewing.”

  He picked up his wineglass and took sip. “Fire away.”

  She locked eyes with him, staring deep into that knowing face. She’d love to unlock his secrets, find out exactly what that “unpleasant history” was all about. But she was afraid she’d find only pain.

  “Maybe later,” she said at last. “I’ve got an appointment with a therapist to keep.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Strange.

  It was the only word Miranda could think of as she sat on the couch in Dr. Arnold Chaffee’s eleventh floor office in a high-rise on Piedmont Street that afternoon, the hot, early June sun, burning brightly in through his tall window.

  Dr. Chaffee was a big, burly guy, whose rugged build and thick, black, shoulder-length hair made him look more like a titleholder from the World Wide Wrestling Federation than a shrink. Dressed in a solid black suit and a solid black tie, he sat muttering to himself in a low, gravelly voice, with the air of an undertaker.

  At last, he consulted the folder on his lap. “So you’re here because of a problem with your ex-husband, Ms., uh, Steele?”

  Miranda stiffened at the question, uncomfortable with the doctor’s dark, penetrating gaze. Avoiding it, she glanced at the heavy mahogany shelves, laden with thick textbooks. There was a matching desk in the corner, covered with doodads. A small globe, a fancy pen set, a silver bell that she guessed the doctor might use to signal when his sessions were over.

  She took a breath. “Something like that.”

  He rubbed his chin. “Are you an unwilling patient, Ms. Steele?”

  Miranda remembered the main reason why she didn’t like shrinks. They always got too personal. She shrugged. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  He smiled and nodded mechanically. “That’s a start.” He picked up a page from the folder. “I take it from your file that you don’t put much stock in psychotherapy.”

  He had her there. When she’d arrived, the receptionist had made her fill out papers for twenty minutes, including a long questionnaire.

  She had gotten annoyed with the repetitious questions and became a little creative. Instead of checking True or False for “I think about my problems all the time,” she’d scribbled in the margin, “Only when my paycheck bounces.”

  “I often worry about what people think of me.” She’d written, “Only when I’m on a nude beach.”

  A sense of humor was a sign of mental health, right?

  But since she wanted information from this shrink about Desirée Langford, she decided it might not be a good idea to piss him off in the first ten minutes. “Sorry about that.” She grinned shyly at the doctor. “It’s just that I think there are other people who need therapy more than I do.”

  That seemed to interest him. He leaned forward. “Such as?”

  She shrugged. This was probably the best shot she would get to open the floor for her topic. “Desirée Langford, for example,” she said, trying to sound off-hand. “What were some of her hang-ups?”

  He sat back stiffly. “The unfortunate young woman who committed suicide last weekend? What made you think of her?”

  “She’s been on my mind lately.”

  He tapped his pen against the papers in his lap. “Do you often think of suicide, Ms. Steele?”

  That question had been on the form. She’d written “Only when I hear the theme song to M*A*S*H.” She pursed her lips. “Not really. I was just wondering what might have driven Desirée Langford to kill herself.”

  “But we’re not here to talk about her.”

  “But we could. Why not? You were her therapist, weren’t you?”

  He cleared his throat. “There is such a thing as patient confidentiality, Ms. Steele.”

  She raised herself on one elbow and looked him in the eye. “The woman’s dead.”

  He seemed to ponder that a moment, then slowly nodded. “Indeed.”

  Miranda knew patient confidentiality extended beyond the grave, but if she could make it about herself, maybe she could get this guy to talk. Some shrinks knew how to rationalize ethics. “I was at the Northwinds Steeplechase when it happened.” She put an anguished tone in her voice, that was only partly false. “It might help me get over that, and my encounter with my ex if I understood why she took her own life.”

  Dr. Chaffee picked up another paper from her file, scanned it and frowned. “You’re with the Parker Agency, aren’t you, Ms. Steele?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you investigating Ms. Langford’s death?”

  Caught. This doctor didn’t get his diploma by cheating on tests. “Sort of,” she admitted.

  He sighed. “I’ll tell you what I can, only what is already public knowledge. Everyone knows Desirée Langford was a troubled young woman. She looked successful on the outside, but inside, there was a lot of turmoil.”

  He’d cracked. She should have been honest to start with. Excited, she sat forward. “Desirée had problems with her father, I understand.”

  With a sorrowful look, he nodded. “Yes. Both she and her sister did.”

  Like Mr. P had said, and Dr. Kennicot had implied. Nothing confidential about that. “And her relationship with Ferraro Usher? What was that like?”

  He shook his head. “Tumultuous.”

  “They fought a lot?”

  “Constantly.”

  “They used drugs.”

  He sighed aloud. “Yes. The use of stimulants and other recreational substances didn’t help. They both tended toward narcissism. It was definitely what I would call a toxic relationship.”

  Narcissism. Shrink talk meaning they were both stuck on themselves. Usher had given Miranda that impression. “Was Usher ever violent with Desirée?”

  He seemed surprised at the question. “They had loud fights and broke things, but I don’t think he ever touched her. In fact, it was more the other way around.”

  She leaned forward. “Other way around?”

  “During one of Ferraro’s showings, Desirée publicly apologized for tearing up one of his paintings with a knife. Another time, she scratched his face badly enough he had to go to the emergency room for stitches.”

  Miranda remembered the half-inch long scar she’d seen along Usher’s right cheek. Had Desirée put it there? Did Usher kill her to get back at her for humiliating him? She used to want to kill Leon for the things he did to her.

  Dr. Chaffee cleared his throat. “Let’s get back to your issues, Ms. Steele. I feel I’ve said too much about my deceased client.”

  Okay. She’d gotten some information—all nicely public information that wouldn’t get the doctor in trouble. She probably wouldn’t get much else, and she’d better give this session a shot, or Parker would have her hide.

  “Sure.” She leaned back, took a breath. “Go ahead.”

  “What was your childhood like?”

  “My childhood?” She suppressed a groan. How many times did she have to tell a shrink about her childhood? But she’d do it once more or Parker might take her off the case. “Not good,” she said. “My father left when I was little. I think I was about five.”

  She told him what she could remember of her father, a jovial man with red cheeks and nose, who always bounced her on his knee and made her giggle. A man who promised her a dollhouse for Christmas, but who, when Christmastime rolled around, had been gone. Later, she’d realized his red coloring was probably from drinking too much.

  She described her mother, a cold, heartless woman who worked as a cleanup lady at a hospital in the Chicago suburb where Mira
nda had grown up.

  By the time she got to her abusive relationship with Leon, she’d decided Dr. Chaffee must be a Freud man. Ask a question and let the patient talk without much comment. She’d always found that approach irritating.

  Then she heard a low buzzing sound.

  She opened her eyes and turned her head. Dr. Chaffee’s eyes were shut, his chin nestled against his chest. He was sound asleep.

  Without a sound, she got up, reached for her bag and headed for the door. She had a class to make up at the office. Then she turned back.

  She tiptoed over to Dr. Chaffee’s big desk, picked up the silver bell and gave it a hard shake. The shrill tinkling broke into the doctor’s snores and had him raising his head in dazed confusion. Before he came back to life, she was out the door.

  Shrinks, she thought heading down the hall, ignoring the receptionist’s plea to make another appointment. People who go to them ought to have their heads examined.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When Miranda stepped into the Cupid-stenciled dining room that night, she thought someone might be opening a delicatessen in here. “What is all this?”

  Parker strolled to the end of the table and examined the spread. “Gourmet cold cuts, European cheeses, freshly baked sourdough and multi-grain rolls.”

  “Did you order it?”

  “I asked the staff to have some lighter fare set out for us this evening.” He reached for a sterling silver pot and began pouring some of that wonderful coffee Mr. P got from St. Helena into a heavy mug.

  “‘Lighter’ fare?”

  He handed her the mug and held up his hands. She took it from him and sipped. Well, it was lighter than the rich lunch he’d treated her to. But Miranda was eager to get down to work.

  Quickly, they slapped a couple sandwiches together, moved the rest to the credenza, and spread out all the information on the Desirée Langford case—the contents of Parker’s police file and the notes she’d jotted down at the office after her therapy session.

  Reports. Pictures. Interviews.