But what about that riding crop?
She was missing something, but what? Her thoughts ran to Parker and his smooth style when he was working a case. Ignoring the pull at her heart, so like what she’d felt last night when he called, she focused on strategy.
Debonair, man-about-town that he was, Parker often attended fundraisers and fancy events. That habit could play into his hands when he knew a suspect was there. He’d told her people often reveal information in a social setting that they wouldn’t face to face. With your peers around, the pressure to keep straight all the lies you’ve told can break a person.
If only she could corner Usher at some fancy event like that. She’d announce to the whole crowd that she’d found his riding crop outside the stable where Desirée Langford had died. That Usher had written her suicide note. That he kept a gun in his loft. She’d turn up the heat until that bastard sang.
But she couldn’t get into a fancy-schmancy party without Parker. She didn’t even know where to look for one. She didn’t know the social calendar in Atlanta from the baseball schedule.
Tan’s whistle pierced through her thoughts. “That’s it, class. Hit the showers.”
Miranda ended her assault on the bag and strolled over to Becker. He was clobbering the hell out of a speed bag, his face twisted in an angry knot. She was surprised his hands were so quick. And glad she wasn’t on the receiving end of those smacks.
Everyone stopped punching, but Becker kept going, like he wanted to kill that poor defenseless speed bag. And they said she had pent up aggression.
“Knock it off, Becker,” Tan barked.
Becker came out of his trance, stopped punching, glanced around, embarrassed. “Sorry. I got carried away.” His head down, he walked off by himself.
The class headed toward the stalls and Miranda caught up to Holloway. “Hey, what’s up with Becker?”
Holloway shook his head. “He’s still pining away for that girl I told you about.”
“The one he knew in high school?”
“Yep. Still tied up in knots over a lousy dame. Pardon the expression.”
Miranda smirked at his apology. “Love can be a bitch, can’t it?” She was glad she’d been immunized against falling in love that hard.
“She left him flat. Broke his heart in two like a pretzel stick and he still wants her back.”
“He needs to get over her and move on.”
“That’s what I keep telling him, but he won’t listen. I tell him he should get out and meet people. Don’t you know anybody? I mean anybody he could go out with?”
Holloway had asked her that before. The answer was the same. Maybe she should recommend a therapist, since she was getting so familiar with the shrinks in the area. Instead, she shook her head. “Sorry.”
“I wish somebody did. Becker’s fallen behind in his work. If he doesn’t shape up, the Agency might let him go.”
She stopped in her tracks. “Are you serious?”
“He says he can’t study. He can’t think straight. He’s having trouble sleeping, too.”
“That’s terrible.” She knew how bad dreams could mess with your mind. She didn’t want to see Becker flunk out. “Being a part of the Parker Agency means so much to him.”
“That’s why I’m so worried.”
She scratched her head. Becker and Holloway were her buddies. The first on this job to befriend her. But that didn’t mean she could conjure up a girlfriend out of thin air. “I don’t know what I can do, Holloway.”
“Just about anything might help.”
She nodded. “Give me some time. Maybe I can think of something.”
She gave him a punch on the arm and headed for the women’s shower.
* * *
Under the hammering spray, Miranda wondered what in the world she could do for Becker. Who was she to dabble in romance? Her own love life, if that’s what you could call it, was such a tangled snarl, even shrinks couldn’t unravel it. Besides, she didn’t hang with girlie girls. She worked mostly with men.
But she’d hate to see Becker lose this job. He loved working for the Parker Agency. How could he let himself get so hung up over someone who’d dumped him back in Brooklyn? Maybe she’d just take him out for a beer and tell him to snap out of it, or else. Besides, she had a case to solve and she only had until next weekend to do it.
She stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel, and vigorously rubbed the coarse fabric over her skin. Finishing, she tossed the towel in a hamper, pulled on her underwear, then stepped into the pair of black dress slacks with tapered legs that she’d worn today.
Two of the other IITs—the only other females in the class—were standing at the sinks, primping. The tall, thin blonde with the short, curly hair was Smith. The tall, thin redhead with the long, sleek hair was Wesson. Their names had been a standing joke among the IITs since day one, but these two relished the attention. Especially when they took the spotlight away from Miranda.
Why hadn’t Becker asked one of them out? They’d probably think he was too short.
“Hurry up, Steele.” Smith shot her a sneer as she pulled a teal blazer over a pair of gray metro pants, then fluffed her hair in the mirror. “We’ll be late getting back.”
“I’m not waiting around for Steele.” Wesson smoothed her short skirt and fastened her toffee-colored blouse, leaving the top two buttons open for the pleasure of the male IITs. “If we get back to class before she does, maybe we can beat her at something.” She headed for the door.
Smith followed her with mincing steps on her four-inch heels. “I just hope we get to leave early. I’ve got a party to plan.”
Jealous bitches. “Suit yourselves,” Miranda called, as they left without her. She tugged on a black, short-sleeved sweater with silver studs that had only earned an eye roll from Gen when she walked in. One arm through the sleeve, she froze.
Party? Why couldn’t she throw her own fancy party? After all, she owned a fancy mansion—just the place for it. Hadn’t she just moved into the neighborhood? She could throw a house-warming. Why not? Invite some of the neighbors. A few other choice people. She’d tell them she’d come into an inheritance and had just bought the Parker mansion. Come celebrate with me.
And the party’s guest of honor?
None other than the celebrated artist, Ferraro Usher. Though he wouldn’t know it.
She’d invite Delta. And Kennicot. Peer group pressure. Psychological pressure. Seeing them in a social setting would make the sensitive artist break out in a cold sweat. She’d get him to break.
Excited, she slipped into her shoes and headed out and down the hall to her cube.
She wouldn’t leave anything to chance. She’d plant some of those surveillance devices Judd had lectured about to record Usher’s confession. She wouldn’t tell Delta exactly what she was up to, just hint around. She was sure the woman would go along with the idea.
But could she get him to confess? She’d put all she had into questioning him at his art gallery and he hadn’t broken.
She needed a statement. Something clearly incriminating. No innuendos. No double entendres. Something the police could use to put the guy away.
The truth.
Wait a minute. Wouldn’t Delta be the ultimate pressure? If Miranda couldn’t squeeze a solid confession out of Usher, Delta Langford sure could. With those catlike eyes that were so like Desirée’s accusing him of murder, he’d crack like a walnut. All Miranda would have to do was record it. And set the scene.
Grinning, she reached her desk, sat down, and glanced at the calendar. Parker wouldn’t be back for another week. Saturday would be the best day. That gave her five days to get everything ready. Ready?
Her stomach did a sick, queasy churn.
Miranda Steele throwing a high-brow party? Her idea of entertaining was a six pack and a couple of large pizzas. She had a cook at home, but she didn’t have the foggiest idea what to tell her to fix. She could fake it, but what if somebody saw through it
? The devil is in the details, they say. Crap.
She needed help, but who? Who did she know that wasn’t connected to Parker and knew about fancy shindigs?
She put her head in her hand and closed her eyes. Think, dammit, think.
The memory of delicious-smelling Italian food materialized in her head. Desirée Langford’s funeral. Her old buddy from the road crew who was a caterer on the side.
She clapped her hands and reached for the phone. No, she’d be at work. Miranda would have to give her a ring tonight. Good enough. Humming a little tune, she got to work on the stack of files on her desk.
She couldn’t wait to get home tonight and call Fanuzzi.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Well, if it ain’t my best girlfriend. It must be my lucky night.” Fanuzzi’s sarcasm dripped through the receiver.
Rummaging through Parker’s stainless steel fridge for leftovers, Miranda winced. She’d forgotten to tell the cook what she wanted, and the woman had left without preparing anything. She couldn’t believe Parker hadn’t called and planned a whole week of meals for her. Must really be an interesting case he was working on.
“Hey, I called, didn’t I?” In the cupboard, she found a bag of chips and a jar of salsa. Old standby. The salsa was extra fiery. Parker must have had the cook buy it for her. She put them on the counter, tore the bag open.
“I seem to remember you mentioning going out together last weekend? That you’d call?”
Miranda popped the salsa jar open, dipped in a chip, and shoved it in her mouth. It was extra fiery all right. She loved it. “Hell, Fanuzzi,” she crunched into the receiver, “you act like I’m a hot guy who stood you up for a date.”
The woman was silent a moment, then sighed deeply. “You weren’t on the road crew very long, Murray, but we used to talk. You were the only other female. I thought we were friends.”
Miranda stopped crunching. They had been, in a way. “What about Fat Mama?” she offered, hoping to get a laugh. Fat Mama had been one of the worse bosses she had ever worked for. She’d terrorized the entire crew until Miranda had given her a taste of her own medicine.
Fanuzzi exhaled. “Everybody has doubts about whether Fat Mama was really female.”
“She wasn’t male either. Space alien would be my guess.”
Now Fanuzzi did laugh. She was softening.
Miranda strolled back to the fridge for a drink. “So how about I make it up to you for not calling?”
“The only way you could do that is to arrange a night with Wade Parker.”
She stiffened with a sudden snap of jealousy. What was wrong with her? The woman had three kids. “I can’t manage that.” She picked up one of Parker’s beers. “How about a bottle of Stone Imperial Russian Stout?”
“Say what? You’re trying to bribe me with fancy beer?”
She knew the brand. Fanuzzi was definitely the one for this job. “I need your help.”
Miranda could almost feel her grimace through the phone. “Let me get this straight. You want to make up for snubbing me with beer I don’t like and asking for my help?”
She studied the bottle. “It’s Parker’s brand.”
There was a pause. “How do you know what brand of beer Wade Parker drinks?”
Miranda shifted her weight.
A loud whine rang out in the background. “Mama, Charlie’s hitting me again.”
Fanuzzi muffled the receiver. “Knock it off, you two. I’m on the phone.” Then she was back. “Okay, Murray. I give. What do you want?”
She put the beer away and did a little victory dance on the polished floor. “How about helping me throw a party? I need a caterer.”
“How big of a party? I don’t do small jobs.”
“Oh, big enough to fill Parker’s mansion.”
She heard Fanuzzi cough. “Did you say Parker’s mansion?”
“Yeah. The one in Mockingbird Hills.”
As she reached for another chip, Miranda heard Fanuzzi gulp. Evidently she knew the ritzy area. “Wait a minute. Why are you throwing a party in Wade Parker’s mansion in Mockingbird Hills?”
Miranda sighed. Her former coworker wasn’t going to make this easy, was she? “I’m sort of, uh, staying here.”
“With Parker?” Her Brooklyn accent took on a breathy quality. “You’re sleeping with Wade Parker?”
This was getting way too personal. Maybe she should have found a caterer in the phone book. Miranda shoved the chip back in the bag. “Are you interested in the business or not?”
There was a pause while Fanuzzi weighed her options. “Sure. When’s the party?”
“This Saturday night.” She’d need the whole day to get things set up.
“That’s pretty short notice. How many people?”
“Maybe a dozen or so. Can you come over tonight so we can start planning?”
“Tonight? To the mansion?”
“Where else?” Miranda smiled slyly.
It didn’t take long for Fanuzzi to make up her mind. “Let me see if I can get a babysitter.”
* * *
Feeling triumphant, an hour later Miranda opened Parker’s ornate front door and grinned at the short, dark-haired woman in a red shirt and tan slacks standing on her porch with a notebook, a briefcase and a basket in tow.
Miranda faked a British accent and stretched her arm in a grand gesture. “I’m so pleased you came.”
“Good to see ya, Murray.” With the same swagger she used to have on the job site when she bossed around big men on heavy machinery, she stepped into the foyer. “Mother of God.”
Miranda strolled across the intricate marble tiles, came to a halt in front of a Grecian urn atop the rosewood credenza with gold inlay. “Didn’t know you were Catholic.”
Her mouth open, Fanuzzi turned in a full circle, staring at the twinkling chandelier, the huge paintings on the high walls, the grand mahogany staircase with its carved banister. “I feel like genuflecting. This is as fancy as Notre Dame.”
Miranda spread her hands. “Home sweet home.”
Fanuzzi’s dark eyes sparkled with envy. “You lucky dog, you.”
Miranda nodded toward a door. “C’mon. We’ve got work to do.”
“Are you kidding? You gotta give me the grand tour first.”
With a grunt, Miranda grabbed Fanuzzi by the arm and ran her through the airy living room with its big-screen TV, the Cupid-decked dining room, the dark-paneled entertainment room with the zebra skin rug, which she eyed suspiciously as if she could just imagine what Miranda and Parker had done there, and a few other rooms Miranda had never been inside before.
Fanuzzi oohed and aahed the whole way.
Her mouth was still open when they finally reached the kitchen. This was the last stop. No way Miranda was showing her the bedrooms upstairs. Especially not the Taj Mahal room.
Gawking at the gleaming stainless steel appliances and black granite counters, Fanuzzi set her basket and book down on the stonework island in the middle of the huge room. “My gawd, Murray, is this where you cook?”
Miranda opened the bag of chips she’d abandoned earlier and offered Fanuzzi one. “Hell, I don’t cook.” Since she left Leon, except for the microwave and the fridge, she’d never used any kitchen appliance.
Fanuzzi ignored the bag, her eyes growing even wider. “You’ve got servants, don’t you? Holy shit.”
“Parker has servants,” Miranda corrected.
Fanuzzi scooted onto one of the island’s iron-edged stools and reached into the bag, greedily. But her greed wasn’t for the chips. “Tell me about you and Parker.”
Miranda gauged her options. Fanuzzi wanted to be friends. She was trustworthy. She was even like Miranda in some ways. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to confide a little to her. Might even be therapeutic.
She got the salsa, a roll of paper towels, placed them on the island and leaned a foot on the rung of a chair. “Parker and I have…I guess you’d call it a relationship.”
Sucki
ng in her breath, Fanuzzi looked at her like her skin was turning green. “What kind of a relationship?”
Miranda felt her skin turn not green, but several shades of purple. “A working relationship.”
Fanuzzi scowled at the dodge.
Miranda went to the fridge and pulled out a couple of bottles. “Sure you don’t want one of these Stone Imperial Russian Stouts?”
The woman licked her lips. “Actually, I’ve never tasted one.”
She popped them open and handed her one. “Try it.”
“Thanks.” She took a sip. “Wow. That’s some brewski. Tastes as rich as Parker.”
Miranda glanced up at the clock. “We don’t have a lot of time. Can we get to the party?”
“Sure, sure.” Fanuzzi scowled and opened her book. “What kind of party is it?”
“A housewarming.”
Her brow rose. “Housewarming?” she asked, in a suggestive tone.
“Sure. I just moved in.”
“Uh huh. You just moved in with Wade Parker, the richest, the most eligible, the most desirable bachelor in Atlanta. Okay. Do you want the party in the late afternoon or evening?”
Miranda tapped her fingers against her lips. Later would be better. “Evening. Maybe seven or eight.”
Fanuzzi made a note in her book. “And you said about a dozen people?”
“There about.”
Another note. “I’m thinking fancy appetizers and drinks.”
“Sounds good.”
“Budget? Guess the sky’s the limit.”
Miranda gave an awkward little laugh. “Uh, not exactly.”
Fanuzzi stopped writing and looked up, her eyes demanding an explanation.
“Parker’s not paying for it. I am.”
She put down her pen. “So what have you got to work with?”
Miranda ran her hand up and down her beer bottle. “Not a lot. Can you do that? And still make it look, you know…ritzy?”
Fanuzzi’s inhaled was like a low growl. “Yeah, I’ve worked a few miracles in my time. How come Parker’s letting you pay for it? Is he really a cheap bastard under all that charm?”
Delicious Torment Page 21
