Delicious Torment

by Linsey Lanier

  He took a swallow from his bottle and stared off in the distance. “Dredging up the past can be painful. I prefer to let it lie, as you do.”

  That was sure another understatement. He was more secretive about his past than she was. She looked down at the card. Dr. Valerie Wingate.

  “Mention the Agency and she’ll work you in whenever you want.”

  “You’re leaving the appointment up to me this time? What is this? Reverse psychology?”

  He leaned against the counter and studied his bottle. “I thought it was worth a try.”

  She pursed her lips and squinted at the card again. The name sounded familiar. Her mouth opened. “I know her. This is the shrink who came to see me when I was in the hospital. After…you know.” She reached for the pearls covering her scars. “The fight with Leon.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “What? I thought she was on staff.” She blinked at him. “You sent her to me, didn’t you?”

  With that smug half-grin of his, he finished his beer and tossed the bottle in the recycle bin. “While I’m gone, I’ll have Judd watch the house.”

  That comment woke up her rage, started it dancing over her skin again, like angry ants. Why did he treat her like a child? “I’m a big girl, Parker,” she snapped. “I don’t need Judd to watch over me.”

  “Just the same, since we’ve upset a temperamental artist with a gun who may have killed already.”

  She snorted. “I’m not afraid of Ferraro Usher.”

  “I know.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “I know you can. But you won’t even know Judd’s here.” He leaned over to kiss her cheek.

  She pulled away, spun toward the door. Leaving her fancy high heels on the floor, she headed upstairs. They undressed, showered separately. She left his mother’s Tahitian pearls on his side of the dresser, climbed into bed without even a “goodnight.”

  It was the first night since she moved into the Parker mansion that they didn’t have sex.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ferraro Usher sat on the couch in his loft, the shimmering whiskey trembling against the glass in his hand. He stared at the Medea painting he’d placed on his largest easel across the room after he’d had it brought up here about an hour ago.

  He studied the colors, the brushstrokes he had used. So vivid. So passionate. So alive. He could never create that much vibrancy again. This was his masterpiece.

  Feeling suddenly chilled, he rubbed his arm. The loneliness was excruciating tonight. A dark, hollow cave. Empty, echoing with memories that would never be again. Desirée…. Oh, darling. Why?

  He looked up at the face staring down at him, cruel mockery in her eyes. It was a genuine likeness. He’d painted what he’d seen. And ironically had produced something…exquisite.

  Others recognized that. He’d had an offer for the work tonight. An excellent offer. God knew, he needed the money, but he’d turned the buyer down. He couldn’t sell this painting. Especially after those two “visitors” he’d had.

  It was too risky. That portrait held too many secrets. If some bright investigator unraveled them, he was done for. Why had he let them into his loft? Why did he even speak to that conniving, smart-mouthed bitch, Miranda Steele? Because he’d look guilty if he didn’t.

  Rage pounded in his chest. How dare they do this to him?

  And now Wade Parker was involved, too? Parker was the best investigator in the southeast. Just weeks ago, Steele had solved a high-profile serial murder. He should have strangled her when he had the chance.

  Nerves prickled his skin, making it as sensitive as if he’d contracted a rash from his paints. He’d lost so much already. Would he lose his career, too? His life?

  He swallowed the rest of his drink, stood, lumbered over to his desk. He stared down at the gun in the drawer. Miranda Steele had seen that gun. Would she use that knowledge to try to pin Desirée’s murder on him? Perhaps he should use the weapon on Steele. She wouldn’t be able to identify it if she were dead.

  He reached out and softly touched the handle. He picked it up, held it to his temple. So simple.

  Just pull the trigger. Bang. And all his troubles would be gone forever.

  He put it back and shut the drawer, dragged his fingers through his hair. He wasn’t the type for guns.

  Agitated now, he hurried back to the kitchen, pulled a package from his pocket and laid it on the counter. Carefully he drew out a razor blade and worked the stuff into the right shape. It was like sculpting, he had always told himself. The shape of the line reflected the emotions of the cutter. He got a straw from a drawer, snipped it in half with a pair of scissors, put it to his nose.

  Drawing it over the shape he’d formed, he inhaled deeply. Yes. Yes. That was better. He felt the effects immediately. The champagne of drugs. He sniffed, rubbed at his nose, glad he’d made the purchase tonight, though it was risky to do it here.

  No, he wasn’t the type for guns.

  But his connections were. The people who supplied him with his recreational substances. Perhaps he could make a deal with them concerning Steele.

  But that would cost money.

  With a grunt, he turned and glared at the Medea painting again. Flaming corals and saffrons and golds and crimsons. His signature colors. Fire. Blood-red and white-hot. The colors of a seething inferno. Those eyes. Glowing. Burning. Blazing.

  And that face. That inescapable face.

  It seemed to ridicule him, pity him, scorn him.

  Fear ripped through him. They would come for him. They would take everything, wouldn’t they? They’d taken so much already. Soon, they would take it all. His art, his being, his life.

  What had he done to deserve such disgrace? He’d only fallen in love with a beautiful woman. A haughty, heartless woman who didn’t love him back. Who’d betrayed him with another.

  Secrets. No one could ever discover his secrets. That would be the ultimate humiliation. He would not stand for it. If they got too close to the truth, if they learned too much, he would have no choice. He would have to do…something.

  Perhaps the best course was to act and let the chips fall where they may. If he tried hard enough, he could find the courage. Besides, now that Desirée was gone, did it really matter if another woman died?

  No, not really. Nothing mattered now. Nothing at all.

  He grabbed the bourbon bottle, sauntered back to the couch, poured more into the tumbler on the coffee table. Lying back, he felt the drug taking effect. It was a pleasant buzz.

  So what to do? He had no idea. He picked up the drink, ran his finger around the rim of the glass, stared at the shimmering amber liquid. Desirée would have called him an indecisive fool. A coward.

  He glared up at the painting. That exquisite face, so marred and broken. It was so wrong for her to die that way. And yet at the same time, fitting.

  His mind grew fuzzy. Those blazing eyes seemed to bore into him from across the room, scorch him with their fire. The glass in his hand dripped with condensation, like blood. He put it down on the coffee table.

  You see me, don’t you? You’re watching me, waiting to possess my very soul. Can I never break free of your spell?

  His pulse hammered in his head. His whole body poured sweat. He got to his feet, tore off his coat. It wasn’t enough. His picked up the drink again, desperate to cool his parched throat. Suddenly, the glass felt like a hot coal. It was the painting. It was Medea, setting him on fire.

  “Will you never leave me alone? Will you always haunt me?” Crying out in sheer agony, he hurled the glass against the canvas.

  It hit the face with a thud. The glass tumbled to the floor and shattered. Bourbon streamed silently down the face in the image. He sank onto the couch, buried his head in his hands.

  He would never be free of her.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Late Sunday morning, Miranda awoke alone in the chandeliered, blue-and-plum master bedroom, the sun streaming in through
the gray-gauze curtains. Vaguely she remembered Parker kissing her and telling her he was leaving for the airport.

  “Yeah, right,” she’d grunted and rolled over and gone back to sleep.

  She yanked off the covers and sat up to blink at the paintings, the chair arrangement in the corner, the copper bamboo fountain. You could rent the whole room out as an apartment.

  “Too damn big,” she muttered as she got up, ran her fingers through her unruly hair, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. With a huff, she slipped her feet into a pair of sneakers and went downstairs.

  In the kitchen, there was coffee, freshly-brewed on a timer that Parker had set, guessing the time she’d wake up. In the fridge she found a fresh plate of huevos rancheros next to a bottle of extra hot sauce, with a note taped on it.

  Cook is off today. Dinner is in the freezer.

  Shaking her head, she popped the plate into the microwave and poured herself a cup of java.

  Parker was a real good wife, she thought, tapping her foot as the microwave hummed. He was getting to know her far too well. Much better than she’d ever wanted him to.

  After a minute, the microwave buzzed, and she grabbed a mitt and took the steaming plate, the bottle of hot sauce, and her coffee cup out onto the big redwood deck overlooking the backyard garden. She set her breakfast down on the tiled table, settled into an Adirondack chair, picked up her fork and took a bite.

  Heavenly. The huevos were bathed in a delicious sauce, gooey with jack cheese, and had a great kick of heat, even without the Tabasco.

  Okay. She might be furious at the man, but she had to admit Parker knew good food. That didn’t make him any less pigheaded. Can’t work the case without him. Didn’t he see he was choking her? What the hell was she supposed to do with herself?

  She sat back and took a sip of Parker’s sinfully delicious coffee and thought of that haunting portrait of Desirée Langford. Medea, huh?

  A spiteful woman engulfed in the fiery red flames of her own vengeance. A bizarre emblem of her love-hate liaison with Usher. That face was crueler than any photos Miranda had seen of Desirée in the case file. It seemed older, haughtier. What had made Usher paint her like that? Her involvement in her own career? Their stormy relationship? Because she left him for Kennicot? Probably all of it. But one thing was clear.

  Usher was pissed as hell at his ex-wife.

  And then there was the gun in the drawer. What was a budding artist doing with a handgun? She couldn’t even imagine him holding it in his shaky fingers.

  Still, a volatile, emotionally unstable drug user could be capable of anything. Usher had been seeing Desirée before the Steeplechase. She went to his loft to pose, probably regularly. If Desirée had made him angry during one of those sessions, and the gun was in a nearby drawer, Usher would have pulled it out and shot her then and there.

  Then Desirée’s death would have been a crime of passion. A violent response provoked by…God knows what. The kind of spontaneous fits Leon used to have.

  But Usher hadn’t used the gun. He’d used PCP. That was much more calculating. A fit of passion she could buy. But calculating? Usher didn’t seem the type to be calculating. He seemed half crazy.

  And the suicide note was calculating, too. Could Usher have forced Desirée to write it? No, he would have had to do that at the steeplechase and there wasn’t enough time, according to the reports. Was it a note Desirée had written that had some sort of double meaning? How could Usher have known about it if they were separated?

  That left forgery. What if Desirée hadn’t penned that note? Might be worth it to look into the handwriting.

  She stared at the gorgeous landscape and thought about what she might do without arousing stealthy old Judd’s suspicions.

  Birds twittered in the trees. Around a rock garden, white day lilies and red roses swayed softly in their perfectly edged beds. Trees flowering with purple buds bordered the yard, along with tall oaks, firs and pines, all giving the spot a secluded feeling.

  Lush green was the color of Atlanta. The way slate blue was the color of Portland, Maine, where she’d worked on a fishing boat for a few months. Or tan was the color of Denton, Texas, where she’d been a laborer on an oil rig for a time. Where Leon had found her.

  Long ago she’d made up her mind not to stay in one place more than a year.

  She thought of Dr. Valerie Wingate’s card that she’d left lying on the counter in the kitchen. Parker was coddling her, trying to help her get over her past. He wanted her emotionally healthy enough to have a permanent relationship with him, she guessed. But he was in for a rude awakening. She’d never get over her past no matter how many shrinks she went to. No matter how good they were.

  They’d admitted their “ploys” to each other about this house, and it hadn’t changed a thing. If he wanted to be that stubborn about this piece of real estate, then there was nothing she could do. He’d left her only one choice.

  After this case was over, she was out of here.

  She reached for the hot sauce and shook it over the eggs, which had gone cold.

  A latticework fence knit with climbing vines ran along the hedges bordering the neighbor’s yard. From the corner of her eye, Miranda saw movement behind the leaves, near the ground.

  Her breath caught in her throat. A faint noise rustled in her ears. She swallowed, got to her feet. That had to be Judd, right? Or had Usher surmised she was living at the Parker mansion and come to visit with his gun?

  Then she heard a girl’s voice.

  “C’mon, Inky. Where are you?” Dressed in white shorts and a blue knit top, Wendy Van Aarle stepped out from the bushes, looking thoroughly exasperated. Shading her eyes with her hand, she scanned the yard, then caught sight of Miranda.

  Miranda let out a breath of relief and strolled to the railing. “Good morning.”

  Wendy squinted up at the deck. “What are you doing here?”

  “I told you. I’m your neighbor. Remember? After we saw that crazy therapist?” The Van Aarles lived a few houses away.

  Wendy shrugged. “Oh yeah, right.”

  A zing of disappointment shot through her. Why should she feel let down that the girl hadn’t remembered their trip to the ice cream shop? “And what are you doing here?”

  She peered across the yard. “I lost my cat.”

  “I didn’t know you had a cat.” That must have been the movement she’d seen under the fence.

  “I haven’t had her long. She gets out sometimes.”

  “Inky, huh?”

  Wendy nodded, heading toward the rock garden. “I was going to name her Mephisto, but my mother wouldn’t let me. So I named her Inky.”

  “Guess she’s black.”

  Wendy rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

  Bad luck. Guess it fit both of them. “It’s probably best to let her come to you.”

  Wendy scowled up at her from the middle of the yard. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll show you. Hold on a minute.” She went into the kitchen, found a saucer in the cabinet and a carton of milk in the fridge. She brought them back onto the deck and climbed down the long flight of wooden stairs that led to the grassy lawn.

  She placed the saucer on the second step and poured some of the milk into it. “There. That ought to bring her around. C’mon up here so we can give her some space.”

  Wendy followed her back up the stairs and they sat together on a wooden bench along the railing.

  “You want something to eat?”

  “No thanks. I’ve had breakfast.” She looked anxiously back at the yard. “I have to find Inky soon. My mother and I are leaving for Paris this afternoon. We have to take her to a vet to board.”

  “Paris?”

  Wendy’s eyes turned skyward again. “Mama says you can’t really know the business until you get to Paris.”

  “I see.” Miranda remembered Iris Van Aarle had an office for her cosmetics company there. Where she had carried on an affair behind her husband’s back. A
fling that was supposed to be over.

  “My dad’s coming with. He’s playing in the Saint-Omer Open.”

  That was good. “I’m glad you’ll be together.”

  “Yeah. Hey, any luck catching that guy?”

  “What guy?”

  “The guy who killed Desirée Langford. Or the guy who sold her PCP.”

  So she had remembered. “We’re still working on it.”

  “Takes a long time, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you like being a detective?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Wendy was quiet a moment. Her dark hair, with its new highlights, was pulled back in a band that matched her blue top. Even without the heavy mascara she used to wear, her dark eyes were intense. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “About?”

  She gave Miranda’s knee an impulsive shove. “Desirée Langford. She was wealthy, like my folks. So if whoever killed her was in her circle, they didn’t do it for money or anything.” Wendy fidgeted and gazed over the banister. “So it had to be for love. Don’t you think?”

  “That’s an interesting deduction.” Little Nancy Drew.

  “I wish Inky would stop playing games with me.”

  “I had a cat when I was about your age,” Miranda said. “My mother made me get rid of it.”

  “My mother didn’t like the idea either. But I told my shrink I wanted one and she told my parents they should get me one. Guess shrinks are good for something once in a while.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I like mine. She’s good.”

  She must be. Miranda saw a definite change for the better in the girl. “Who is she?”

  “Dr. Valerie Wingate.”

  Miranda started. “Really?” The same one Parker recommended? She must be good. Wait a minute. “But she doesn’t specialize in children, does she?”

  “No. PTSD.”

  “I see.” Post traumatic stress disorder. That made more sense. Maybe she’d give her a call.

  A soft meowing came from down below. They craned their necks and saw Inky lapping from the saucer.

  “It worked.” Wendy jumped up and skittered down the stairs.