“Don’t scare her off,” Miranda warned.
But Inky must have been hungry. She stood perfectly still and let Wendy put both arms around her while her pink tongue scooped up the milk as fast as it could go.
“Bad girl, Inky. Don’t ever run away like that again.” She stroked her back.
Miranda fought back the sudden surge of tender emotions welling up inside her.
Oh, God, she didn’t want to feel this way. But all she could think of was what it would be like to watch Amy playing with a cat that way. What would it have been like to see her off on her first day of school? To bandage up her knee when she fell off her first bike? To feel a parent’s pride when she got an A on her report card?
What would it have been like if Wendy had turned out to be Amy? For one thing, it would have meant a fight to the death with the Van Aarles. They may have neglected their daughter once, but they cared enough about her now to patch up their broken marriage.
It was a ridiculous thought. Besides, she’d given up the search for her daughter for now.
Suddenly a jolt went through her. Amy. Was that what Parker was doing in Washington? It would be just like him. That would explain his secrecy. Was he close to finding her? Oh, she couldn’t even let herself think about it. She couldn’t get her hopes up.
Inky finished the milk and began licking her whiskers.
Wendy picked her up. “I’d better get home. I need to pack.”
“Right.” Miranda’s voice had gone hoarse.
“Thanks for catching her.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Wendy turned and started back across the yard, the black tail curling around her legs.
“Have a good time in Paris,” Miranda called, but the girl was already out of earshot.
* * *
After washing the dishes, flipping channels on Parker’s big-screen TV in the living room, and watching a few hours of overenthusiastic women peddling turquoise jewelry and rose-shaped cake pans on the Home Shopping Network, Miranda couldn’t take it anymore.
She got up and rummaged through drawers in the end tables, then the entertainment center, until she found a phone book. She opened it and began to hunt for a handwriting expert.
She was going to find out if Usher had forged Desirée Langford’s suicide note, even if Parker would kill her for it. Well, he wouldn’t kill her. He might take her off the case. But not if she found something good.
She’d learned at the Agency that the person she really needed was a forensic document examiner, but none of them would be open on a Sunday afternoon. So she settled for a graphologist named Madame Napier.
Pulling out her cell, she made a call and found the lady was open until six. Hot dog. Cautiously, she peeked through the front room curtains. No sign of Judd. She ran upstairs, got her purse, and headed out the front door.
As she pulled onto the street in her Lumina, she noticed a beige Audi several yards behind. “Well, Agent Judd,” she chuckled to the rearview mirror, “you’ll just have to go shopping with me.”
She drove around for a while, feigning interest in a few clothing stores, then made a beeline for the colorful little shop off of East Paces Ferry. The building was a frame house with pink awnings and gaudy signs out front advertising a variety of goods. She hoped Judd would assume she was looking for a freaky necklace or a new energy drink. She found a parking spot along the street and went inside.
Definitely not mainstream, she thought, stepping into the cozy space. Red curtains on the windows, Zodiac symbols on the walls, and something that smelt like licorice in the air. Miranda browsed the glass shelves filled with supplements for hair growth and weight loss. She was examining a piece of blue crystal when she heard a Southern drawl behind her.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am. I didn’t hear the bell.”
A stocky, middle-aged woman with flaming red hair, penciled brows, and piercing dark eyes, swept in from the back, dressed in a flowing, multicolored chiffon cape over a peach pantsuit. She could have been someone’s eccentric grandma.
“Are you Madame Napier?”
The woman smiled broadly with a lipstick-painted mouth. “I am.”
“You have a lot of unusual things in here.”
“There’s always a good market for alternative approaches.” Her accent was a rich Southern that spoke of old Atlanta money. Miranda wondered if Parker knew her. “Are you interested in something particular?”
Miranda put down the rock and shook her head. She’d stick to her own brand of vitamins. “I need a handwriting analysis.”
The woman’s penciled brows arched into her forehead. “I charge a hundred dollars for that.”
Ouch. It took all Miranda had not to wince, but it was either pay up or wait for Parker to get back from Washington. She nodded.
“Very well, Ms—”
“Steele.”
“Ms. Steele,” she repeated. “Let’s sit over here.” Madame Napier guided her to a back corner and behind a beaded curtain where there was a small round table and two wire chairs that might have come from an old-fashioned ice cream shop. “Would you like some tea? I have chamomile, mint, catnip—”
“No, thanks.” Wondering if the proprietress was going to whip out a crystal ball, Miranda drew in an uneasy breath and eased herself onto the seat.
“You look uncomfortable, Ms. Steele.”
Miranda gave her a thin smile. “It’s just that I was expecting something more—”
“Clinical?”
“Maybe.” Graphology was considered pseudo-science, but she’d at least hoped for something that didn’t make her feel like she was about to have her palm read.
Madame Napier gave her a look that told Miranda this wasn’t the first time her methods had been questioned. “I’ve been doing this for eighteen years, my dear. I like working in this atmosphere. Would you like to change your mind about this?”
Miranda unlatched her purse, slid the five twenties she’d withdrawn from the ATM earlier across the table. This had better be good. “Let’s do it.”
Madame Napier pocketed the cash. “Very good. Now, please. Show me what you have.” She opened her hand.
Miranda reached into her bag again, drew out the brochure from Usher’s art show and laid it on the table.
Madame Napier’s eyes grew round. “One of our local artists?”
Without answering, Miranda took out the copy of Desirée’s letter from the case file and placed it beside the brochure.
The woman skimmed the paper and frowned. “Oh, my. Is this a suicide note?”
“Something like that.”
She clasped her hands to her chest. “Oh, my, my. Is this that heiress who killed herself at the steeplechase last week? Desirée Langford?”
Everybody in Atlanta had heard the story. Miranda tapped her finger on the note. “Just tell me what you see.”
Madame Napier picked up the brochure. “And this is the artist she was married to, isn’t it? I heard that on the radio. Are you saying it wasn’t suicide?” Tanya Terrance had done a fine job of spewing Desirée Langford’s personal life all over the airwaves.
“Let’s just say I’m doing a little investigation of my own into that story.”
Madame Napier’s eyes narrowed. “My family was once part of Atlanta’s upper crust. Until my father lost his fortune in a real estate deal with Eli Langford.” She inhaled slowly staring down at the colorful sheet in her hand. “But we’ve done all right for ourselves since then. And I certainly don’t hold that against his daughter. Especially after what happened to her.” She put the brochure down.
“I’m glad you feel that way.” Miranda felt a sudden admiration for the woman whose inheritance had been lost and who’d had to live by her own wits.
“Very well, very well.” Madame Napier lifted her hands, flittering them in the air like butterflies as she leaned forward to examine the scripts. Her fingernails were long and painted with an orange-and-pink-and-blue design that sort of went with
her chiffon cape.
Gingerly, she eased the two documents until they lay side by side on the table. She shifted her weight, squinted at them, coughed, frowned. Then she reached behind her and into a pink wicker box and produced a magnifying glass. She picked up the brochure again, this time studying it like Sherlock Holmes.
She picked up the note, held it close, put it down again. She lifted the brochure again. “Hmmm. Interesting.”
Miranda resisted the urge to tap her foot. “What do you see?”
She ran a gaudy fingernail under the lines Usher had written. “The flourish of the capital T in this brochure shows an artistic bent.”
That would be obvious.
“But the downstroke of the d’s show a great deal of agitation. Much anxiety.”
“In both documents?”
Frowning, she nodded. “Yes. And the looping of the l’s shows a particular, well, arrogance. Also in both copies.”
Now they were getting somewhere. Leaning in, Miranda recalled Dr. Chaffee’s comment. “Narcissism?”
“You could call it that.”
“So would you say the handwriting is similar?”
“In some ways. But in this one,” she tapped on the suicide note, “the vowels are rounded. While in this one,” she pointed to the brochure, “they are sharp and pointed. This person was distraught.”
Of course. Usher was upset last night when Miranda showed up at the exhibition.
“Madame Napier. What I need to know is whether these documents were written by the same person. Can you tell?”
The woman frowned. “It’s very difficult to make such a determination. Some people can disguise their handwriting easily, though their moods can affect how they write. And then there are the people who do forgeries for a living.”
“Of course. But don’t you make your living seeing through that?”
Madame Napier’s mouth became a grim line. “I generally confine my analysis to personality traits.”
“Uh huh.” A bust. She’d waste a hundred bucks. Miranda got to her feet, reached for the papers. “Well, thanks anyway.”
The woman raised a hand. “Ms. Steele, one moment.”
“Yeah?” She waited as Madame Napier twisted her lips back and forth, as if trying to decide between chocolate or vanilla ice cream.
“I would say…”
“What?”
She picked up the documents, rose, and continued to study them as she led Miranda to the door. “This is just an opinion. But from the many handwriting samples I’ve seen over the years…”
“Yes?” Miranda said, taking back the papers as the woman handed them to her.
“My experience, my intuition tells me—”
Miranda hesitated at the door, turned back to Madame Napier. “That…?”
“I would say that these two documents were not written by the same person.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The suicide note and the signature on the brochure weren’t written by the same person? What the hell did that mean? Miranda paced across the hardwood floor of Parker’s den, her hands on her hips.
Was she supposed to believe that Usher was innocent? Impossible. They had his fingerprints on that riding crop.
With a grunt, she plopped down onto the cushy leather sofa and turned the two pieces of paper on the coffee table this way and that. She squinted at the downstroke of the d’s, peered at the loop of the l’s.
Nothing.
Was Madame Napier right? Or had she blown a hundred bucks on a carnival act without the cotton candy. How could she know? A second sample of Desirée’s handwriting, that was how.
She pulled out her cell and dialed Delta’s number. It rang and rang, finally the answering machine picked up.
“The Langfords are unavailable at the moment,” said the clipped voice of a man with a British accent.
All she could do was leave a message. “This is Miranda Steele. Please tell Ms. Langford I’m making progress on our…arrangement.”
Disgusted, she hung up and went to the kitchen to pop Parker’s frozen dinner in the microwave.
* * *
It was after nine when she finished another round with the octopus shower and climbed into bed. She had just laid her head on the satin pillow when her cell rang. She picked it up off the nightstand where she was charging it—a habit she’d learned to acquire after her last case.
“Yeah?”
“What a delightfully warm greeting.” Parker’s smooth Southern tone caressed her ear.
“Oh, hi.” She sat back, a little stunned, a little speechless.
“I’m fine. How are you?”
She rolled her eyes. So she wasn’t much for protocol. Especially when she was pissed at the protocolee. “I’m doing okay.” She pulled the black satin sheets up to her chin.
“That’s good to hear. Did you find the food I left you?”
“Yeah. It was scrumptious. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Did you manage to find something to do with yourself?”
She narrowed an eye at the phone. Had that sneaky Judd squealed on her? She forced a yawn. “Mostly just lounged around the house.”
He paused and she braced herself for a tongue-lashing. And not the kind he’d been giving her in this big bed lately. Instead, his tone grew somber. “I’m afraid you’ll have to rely on the staff for a few more days.”
She sat up. “What do you mean?”
“This case in Washington is taking longer than I expected.”
“Oh?” She was surprised by the disappointment that rippled through her.
“I don’t think I’ll be home this week.” He inhaled. “Possibly not until Monday.” He sounded sad about that.
A whole week without Parker looking over her shoulder? Surely she could solve the Langford case by then. She should be overjoyed. But instead, she felt a kind of hollow emptiness.
“Will you be all right until then?”
She narrowed an eye at the phone. “I think I can remember the way to McDonald’s.”
“I’m sure you can.” For a long moment he was quiet. Had he sensed she’d guessed the real purpose of his trip had something to do with Amy? Talking to Parker could be a telepathic-like experience, the likes of which she’d never had with another human being. Perhaps because they both were a little shifty by nature.
“I know you must be disappointed, but we’ll pick up the Langford case when I get back.”
“Sure.” She opened her mouth, about to spill the details about Madame Napier. Then closed it again. She couldn’t risk kindling his ire. And there wasn’t any need to. She’d have a break in this case before he got back. She’d show him what she could do on her own.
“Well, I better let you get some sleep.” There was another long pause, until he murmured in her ear so low she barely heard him. “I miss you, Miranda.”
Of its own accord, her heart somersaulted in her chest. I miss you, too, she wanted to say. But nothing came out of her mouth.
“Goodnight, then. I’ll be home in a few days.” Her heart ached with guilt at the pain in his voice.
“Can’t wait,” she managed to answer just as he hung up. She hoped he knew she meant it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“What do you think this is, a geriatric unit? Get moving.” The shrill Asian voice shot through Miranda’s brain with the power of a machine gun.
Decked out in running shoes, sweats, and headbands of assorted colors, the class of IITs thundered around the perimeter of the Parker Agency gym.
“I said hustle.”
Alongside Miranda, Holloway puffed and grunted. “This lady’s a sadist.”
On her other side, Becker’s fists beat the air, like he was keeping time to We Will Rock You, as he tried to keep up. He spat out words between huffs. “I’d like to…tell her…where she can…shove it.”
“Yeah, me too.” But Miranda felt the sting of guilt. It was because of her that the maniacal Detective Tan had shown up in Judd’s
place this morning and decided to get everyone’s attention with a hard run. Judd, of course, had been up all night watching over the caged bird in the gilded Parker mansion.
“What the hell is wrong with you lard asses? Move it!”
Tan must be the reincarnation of a gym teacher Miranda had back in high school, who made every girl want to claim she had her period every other class to avoid the torture. But that was before she married Leon and had learned how much of a disadvantage lack of physical strength could be.
Beside her, Holloway growled and Becker groaned.
She hated being the cause of their misery. She hated the insult of being babysat by Judd. Most of all, she hated being called a lard ass.
She broke into a hard run, sprinted away from her buddies, reached the guy out in front. When, at last, Tan blew the whistle to stop, she was twenty feet ahead of the pack.
Tan eyed her narrowly as she stood with the others, bent over, her hands on her knees, gasping for breath. “Pretty good, Steele. Let’s see how you do with the bags.”
She straightened as if she weren’t worn out at all. “Sure, Detective Tan.” With a sassy gait, she grabbed a pair of gloves off the hooks and moved over to the heavy bag hanging in the corner. She gave the bag a couple of hard kicks and landed a right jab against the red leather with a smack.
“Not so vicious, Steele,” Tan warned. “You’ll wear yourself out.”
Wasn’t that the point? Tan reminded her of a boss she’d had when she was a nail spotter in Syracuse. The type who thought insulting the employees would make them work harder.
But she nodded and slowed her pace, working on her side moves, alternating kicks and punches. The rest of the class was already at the other bags and Tan moved on to give them her loving attention.
As she pounded and kicked, Miranda thought about Desirée Langford’s suicide note.
Not written by the same person who signed that brochure, Madame Napier had said. Had she been barking up the wrong tree the whole time? Maybe the heiress’s death had been a suicide, after all, as the police concluded. Maybe Delta had been overemotional, distraught after her sister’s horrible demise, angry at Usher for what he’d done to her during their marriage. So she blamed him for Desirée’s death.
Delicious Torment Page 20
