Someone tapped on the door then opened it. Ann appeared carrying a tray with two coffee mugs.
“On the desk,” Howard instructed.
With a sideways glance at me, she did as he asked.
When she was gone, he pushed the mug with cream toward me. “What are your questions?”
“Tell me about Alice and Bobby Lowell.”
Howard’s mug froze halfway to his lips. His eyes narrowed. “Your questions are about my daughter?”
“She loved Bobby.” Not a question.
He nodded. “She did.”
“Bobby loved someone else.” Also not a question.
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“I think you do.”
Howard put his mug down in the center of a leather-edged blotter. “Why would you think that?”
“Because I think Alice talked of nothing but Bobby and if she believed that Bobby was involved with another girl I think she’d tell you and Kizzi.”
“Maybe she just told her mother. Not me.”
I didn’t believe him. He might not be scratching his nose but the bridge between his brows wrinkled and his fingers twitched.
“Bobby’s dying words were, ‘Tell her I love her.’ I’m trying to find the girl. Do you have any idea who she is?”
“Maybe he loved Alice.”
I didn’t dignify that with a response. The idea sank below the surface of possibility faster than a lounge chair tossed into a swimming pool. I waited.
Howard squared himself in his chair. The knuckles of the hand that held his coffee mug whitened. His lips thinned. “I can’t help you.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
Howard glared at me then his gaze dropped and he took a sip of his coffee.
All things being equal, I preferred not to bring up the blue brocade dress or Howard’s heavy hand with eyeshadow, but I wanted answers. “Did you hear about what happened at the school? At the stands? Someone wove the word ‘slut’ into the fence with red ribbon. Who do you think would do such a thing?”
We both knew the answer to that.
Howard’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know who she is. Alice never referred to her by name.”
I leaned forward. “Will Alice tell you who she is?”
“No.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and attempted menace. “I’d really like to tell that girl that Bobby’s last thoughts were of her.”
Howard shook his head. “I’m not even sure Alice knows the girl’s name.”
I raised a brow. We lived in a world where everyone knew everyone. Alice had to know—unless Bobby had gone beyond the confines of the country club or Suncrest to find a girlfriend. If that was the case, I might never find her. Pish. If the girl didn’t go to Suncrest, why bother writing ‘slut’ in the fence? “Alice needs to give you the name.”
He ran a finger around the inside of his collar. “Alice is troubled.”
Howard was a master of understatement—at least when it came to describing his daughter. Last night he’d applied makeup with a trowel. There was nothing understated about a man with sky blue shadow on his lids. “Do you think she had anything to do with Bobby’s death?”
Howard half-rose from his chair. “Of course not!”
Liar, liar, pants on fire. “Did you have anything to do with the murder?”
He sat—more of a collapse, really. “How can you suggest such a thing?”
I tilted my head. I narrowed my eyes. I might even have pursed my lips. Did I need to say out loud that Alice might have told Bobby about her dad’s dresses? “People will kill to keep secrets.” I knew firsthand.
“Not me.” He rubbed his face with his hands, mussing his thinning hair.
A man who wore satin probably didn’t have the…gumption to commit murder. Howard probably hadn’t killed Bobby. Alice might have. It seemed as if he thought so too—he’d responded with anger when I suggested she might be involved, while aspersions on his own innocence were met with bewilderment.
“Is there something I should know about Alice? Where was she on Friday night?”
Howard’s lips thinned and he turned his head and directed his gaze out the window.
“Alice is troubled.” My voice was soft, barely louder than a whisper. “You said so yourself.”
He looked at me then. “She didn’t kill that boy.”
“Are you sure?”
He rose completely from his chair. “Of course I’m sure. How dare you come into my office and suggest my daughter’s a killer?”
I dared because he’d given me the power to ruin him by going out in a dress. I dared because I was positive Alice had embellished the fence at Suncrest. I dared because Bobby was dead.
I stood too. “I made Bobby a promise, Howard. Get me the name.” I put my coffee on his desk, turned on my heel and walked out his door. Hopefully he didn’t notice I couldn’t meet his gaze.
I straightened my shoulders. A boy was dead and it was up to me to carry out his dying wish. I couldn’t afford to feel guilty about how I went about fulfilling that wish.
Once, I won a round with a PGA golfer at a charity auction. He accompanied me to the ladies tee and watched my backswing. I whiffed. Heat rose to my face and—embarrassed—I swung again too quickly. I sliced the ball into a stand of pines. He laughed at me. Hard. All things being equal, I would have preferred to relive that moment over and over again rather than go out with Hunter Tafft.
I don’t pick my moments. They pick me.
At precisely five minutes to seven I descended the front stairs. My hair was up in a smooth chignon. My dress was a Missoni purchased in Italy. My necklace, a hammered gold choker, I’d bought at a jewelry store across from the Ritz in Place Vendôme. I needed every bit of confidence I could borrow from wearing the right clothes and jewelry.
I wandered into the kitchen where Donna and Grace sat at the counter finishing a pizza.
“You look nice, Mrs. Russell.”
“Thank you, Donna.”
Grace looked me up and down and frowned. “I thought you weren’t ready to date.”
I wasn’t. But I couldn’t exactly explain that I was going out with Hunter as payment for having one of his investigators follow her.
The doorbell rang.
My stomach completed a triple flip.
No more favors. They cost too much. “Don’t stay up too late. It’s a school night.”
Donna offered me a polite smile. Grace crossed her arms and tilted her chin. She might have mumbled something about staying out of the papers. I pretended not to hear.
The sight of Hunter Tafft on their front steps might make some women’s hearts flutter. He is, after all, tall and tan and more polished than my grandmother’s silver tea service. He’s also charming and ruthless. The perfect lawyer? Definitely. The perfect date? I wasn’t so sure.
Hunter smiled at me and my heart fluttered—just a little bit. Such is the power of his thousand-watt smile.
He leaned forward and gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you.” My damned heart needed to settle back down to a steady beat.
“Shall we?” He held out his arm.
My fingers closed on the fine wool of his sports coat. He led me down the steps to his Mercedes, opened the door, and made sure I was safely tucked inside before he closed it. Then he climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“The American.”
The best restaurant in the city. Where else?
“I don’t often dine with a celebrity.” He was mocking me.
“Everyone but Mother will have forgotten all about that picture by the end of the week.” She’d never forget. Mother was a firm believer that one’s name should appear in the new
spaper only once. In the obits. I’d made the front page. Worse, I’d made the front page in the arms of a mere policeman. She’d pulled out words like shameful and disgraceful to describe my behavior. She’d called my inching hemline indecent. She’d called Anarchy, who was blameless, an intemperate gigolo.
“How did you get there?” Hunter asked.
“Libba.” Five letters spelled a four-letter word.
“I figured as much.”
Mother hadn’t. She’d let me know in no uncertain terms that as a woman approaching forty I was accountable for my own actions. True. Also true—I wasn’t accountable to her. When I told her so, she got very quiet. Quiet before a storm quiet. Not being a fan of storms, I quietly hung up the phone. She probably wouldn’t speak to me until Thanksgiving. I shifted in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable in glove leather luxury.
“Tell me about Europe.” One thing about Hunter, he reads people, can tell when a subject is bothering them. He’d changed the subject. He wanted me at ease. That in itself was enough to make me nervous.
“It’s old and full of art.”
“So you loved it.”
I nodded. “Every minute.”
“I was worried you might not come back.”
He was worried? I swallowed, stared through the windshield at the world whishing past. “The thought crossed my mind.”
“I’m glad you came home.”
Grace and I had only been home for two weeks and already I’d found a dying boy, hosted an impromptu slumber party, dealt with a crazy girl and a daughter with an attitude problem, been injured at a bar for crossdressers, made an appearance on the front page of the morning paper and threatened a family friend. Hell, I’d done all that in a matter of days. “It’s been more fun than a barrel of monkeys.”
Hunter chuckled and slowed the car for a red light. “How’s the wrist?”
I glanced at my bandage. “It hurts.”
“Tearing stitches will do that.”
How did he know about my torn stitches? Aggie. “My housekeeper needs to remember who signs her checks.”
“She has your best interests at heart.”
I knew she did, but that didn’t mean I liked her sharing details of my life with Hunter.
“Before I forget…” Hunter reached into the inside breast pocket of his sports coat, withdrew an envelope and handed it to me. The only marking on it was Grace’s name, typed neatly and centered.
I closed my eyes, swallowed, battled the competing urges to rip it open and rip it in half.
“Nothing exciting,” said Hunter. “Grace and Jack sat in the parking lot by the football stands at Suncrest for thirty minutes or so, then they went to Loose Park and walked. Jack smoked a joint.”
“Grace smoked pot?” I squeaked.
“No. Jack did. Grace sat with him while he smoked. Then they picked up another girl and went to dinner at Winstead’s. Grace was home by nine.”
For all my worry about my daughter, I was the one who’d gotten into trouble. I waited for Hunter to point that out.
He didn’t.
I slipped the envelope into my purse. “Thank you.”
He glanced at me, gave me a half-smile that made me think I’d amused him in some way. “You’re welcome.”
We pulled up to the valet, got out of the car and Hunter whisked me into the restaurant.
Slender gold columns opened into elaborate fans where they met the vaulted ceiling. Fuchsia velvet banquettes waited for bottoms. Walls of windows allowed evening light inside. The best wall—the wall where we were seated—offered a view of downtown. From this distance, the skyline looked almost pretty.
The sommelier presented a wine list to Hunter. A waiter presented us with menus then unfolded my napkin and let it float into my lap.
“Red or white?” Hunter asked.
“Red.”
We ordered. A steak for Hunter. Grilled salmon for me.
We sipped wine. We watched the sky fade to lavender and the lights begin to turn on in the buildings downtown. We chit-chatted.
We did not talk about blackmail or my dead husband or the things that Hunter said to me before I left for Europe. Instead, we lifted forkfuls of four-diamond food to our lips and talked about other meals, other bottles of wine, travel.
Slowly—very slowly—I let myself relax.
“Did you go to Harry’s Bar when you were in Venice?” he asked.
“I thought going was a requirement.”
“And you drank bellinis?”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“I love Venice.” He leaned toward me as if he meant to tell me something meaningful. He smelled of soap and leather and fresh linen. His eyes sparkled. His lips parted. My heart fluttered again and for a half-second, I half-hoped he’d ask me to run off to Venice with him. “Did you have coffee at Caffe Florian?”
So much for our Venetian tryst. “Every day we were there.”
A waiter appeared at the table and waited for Hunter to acknowledge him.
Hunter stared at me, smiling as if he was rethinking that Caffe Florian question.
The waiter shifted his weight from one foot to the other and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Tafft, but there’s a call for you.”
Hunter’s brows rose. “For me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excuse me, Ellison.” Hunter stood, dropped his napkin into his chair, and strode toward the maitre d’ stand. I couldn’t help but notice that most of the women in the restaurant watched him pass.
Hunter. Venice. It might be nice to go to a romantic city with a man instead of a teenager. I conjured up images of us holding hands in a gondola on the Grand Canal, strolling across the Rialto bridge, enjoying an opera at La Fenice. It would be lovely, maybe even magical, and definitely romantic, until I remembered my terrible taste in men. Then I’d start wondering if Hunter was an accomplished liar or indulged in kinky sex.
I shook my head. No trips to Venice for me. Well, not with Hunter Tafft.
At the maitre d’ stand Hunter raked his fingers through his silver hair and hung up the phone. If he’d strode away from the table, he practically ran coming back. He didn’t sit. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled a hundred from his money clip and threw the bill on the table.
“Ellison, we have to go. That was my secretary. Aggie had her track us down. There’s a problem at your house.”
My heart stopped its foolish fluttering. My heart stopped entirely.
Eleven
Hunter drove fast—white-knuckle fast—and I was grateful.
A traffic light turned yellow. I pushed my right foot against an imagined gas pedal and muttered, “Run it.”
He did. Good man.
“They didn’t say what was wrong?” I asked for the umpteenth time.
“No. But if Aggie called, it’s serious.” A red light stopped our progress. He looked both ways, saw no cars and drove through the intersection.
Very good man.
He pulled into the driveway and I flung open the car door.
“Ellison, let me stop the car.”
He applied the brakes, the car stopped and I ran to the front door.
SLUT.
The sconces that flanked the front door had been turned off, but the light from the street lamps and my neighbors’ houses illuminated ugly crimson letters across the formerly pristine white of my door and the mellow red of my bricks.
I stumbled to a halt and stared, slack-jawed.
This was what I’d sped home for? Please let this be all.
The front door opened and Grace rushed outside. Alive. In one piece. Apparently unharmed.
I drew my first deep breath since Hunter and I left the restaurant. I opened my arms and my little girl ran into them. She shook. Holding her to me, I smoothed
her fruit-scented hair and inhaled. She’d been a tad heavy-handed with the Tame crème rinse and she smelled like a child. I squeezed her tight against me as if she was still six and not sixteen.
Hunter tapped me on the shoulder. “If you’ll let me use your phone I’ll get a painter over here. He can power wash the bricks and paint the front door before the sun rises.”
“I…um. Just a minute, Hunter.” I smoothed Grace’s hair again. “Are you okay, honey? What happened?”
She pulled away—just a little—then said, “Someone rang the bell. When I opened the door no one was there.” She shuddered and tears formed in the corners of her eyes. “But I saw the paint. I didn’t know where you were so I called Aggie.”
On cue, Aggie pulled her ailing VW Beetle into the driveway and parked behind Hunter’s Mercedes. Her car emitted its usual death knocks and she climbed out.
She looked at the painted door, at Grace, and at Donna, who stood wringing her hands on the front stoop. “Inside, girls, cookies and hot chocolate.” Then she took Grace by the hand and led her inside. Donna followed.
“Should I call the painter?” Hunter asked.
“Give me a minute.” My legs felt like a Jell-O mold, one without even fruit or marshmallows to give it form. I shuffled back to Hunter’s car and leaned against the hood.
Grace was unharmed. As was Donna. Meanwhile, I’d been frightened near to death by a prank. The bones in my legs firmed. The ones in my spine solidified. Anger will do that for you.
That little bitch. “I’m thinking I should call the police.”
“Why?”
“Because someone defaced my house. That same someone wove the word ‘slut’ into the fence where Bobby was killed.”
“Who?”
“I’d bet money on Alice Standish.” I’d challenged Howard Standish to get information from Alice and twelve hours later my house had been vandalized. I’d bet big money on Alice.
“Think about that, Ellison. If we call the police, this…” He nodded his chin toward the ugly word. “This will still be here in the morning.”
Hunter made an excellent point. I knew from experience exactly how long the police took to process a crime scene. They’d be here all night.
Guaranteed to Bleed Page 10
