Rick hurried through the house and went outside on the back porch. The late afternoon thunderstorm had moved through, leaving behind a slow, steady drizzle. Although it was not quite five-thirty, with the sunlight obscured by gray clouds, twilight was approaching early today.
He removed his cell phone from his pocket and dialed Ryan’s number. “Mr. Price, this is Rick Carson. I need to speak to you. I have some information I believe you will find interesting. I’d like to drop by your house after dinner this evening.”
“Yes, of course,” Ryan replied. “Would seven-thirty be okay with you?”
“Seven-thirty’s fine.”
One call down and another to go. He dialed again and when he heard the woman’s no-nonsense voice say “Lieutenant McLain here” he smiled.
“Lt. McLain, this is Rick Carson.”
“Hello there.” Her voice softened.
“Have you had dinner yet?”
“It’s a little early for dinner, isn’t it?”
“I’d like to talk to you and I thought we might have an early dinner, maybe in downtown Priceville. I’m buying.”
“There’s a nice Italian restaurant on Main Street,” Haley told him. “I could meet you there in about twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes it is.”
“Rick?”
“Yeah?”
“Want to give me a hint about what we’re going to be discussing over dinner?”
“Sure. Powell’s has unearthed some information that has me halfway convinced I know who killed Dan Price. I need somebody smart, savvy and unbiased to tell me that either I’m right or that I’m reading this all wrong.”
They finished their salad before Haley put down her fork and looked directly at Rick. “Okay, let’s hear it.”
“You don’t want to wait until after the lasagna?”
“Nope. I’ve waited long enough. My curiosity is driving me nuts.”
Rick grinned. He liked Haley. He liked her up-front, in-your-face personality, her air of self-confidence, her sexy voice, and her big boobs. She wasn’t classically beautiful, but she had an earthy quality that appealed to him. Haley McLain was as different from Jordan Price as day is from night. Haley was like good everyday earthenware, sturdy and reliable, that could withstand the rigors of daily use and was dishwasher friendly. Jordan was like fine china, easily broken, meant to be taken out and used only on special occasions, and that required hand washing.
“Dan Price isn’t the first man in Jordan’s life who died under mysterious circumstances,” Rick said.
Haley’s brows lifted. “I know she was a widow with two stepchildren when she married the senator.”
“Her first husband died in a hunting accident, but the authorities never discovered who the other hunter was, the one who shot Boyd Brannon.”
“And you find that suspicious?”
“Not if that’s all there was to it, but it is when added to the other information.”
“Which is?”
“Boyd Brannon had a half-million-dollar life insurance policy. His beneficiary was his wife, Jordan Harris Brannon.”
“There’s nothing unusual about a husband naming his wife as his beneficiary,” Haley said.
“Six years earlier, Jordan’s fiancé died in a one-car wreck. Robby Joe Wright had inherited several hundred thousand dollars worth of stock from his grandfather. He left that stock to Jordan.
“Two years before her fiancé’s death, Jordan lost her father. Supposedly, he died from a heart attack. Even though he was married at the time to his second wife and he did leave her the house and their joint bank account, his insurance went to Jordan. A hundred thousand.”
“Very interesting.”
Haley lifted her glass to her lips and took a sip of iced tea. Their waitress brought two plates piled high with delicious-smelling, steaming-hot lasagna and set their meals in front of them.
“Will there be anything else?” the waitress asked. “More tea or more bread sticks?”
“I’m good,” Rick said.
“Me, too,” Haley said. “Thank you.”
As soon as the waitress left, Rick asked, “Don’t you see a pattern?”
“Are you saying that you think Jordan Price killed her father, her fiancé, and her first and second husbands?”
“And a former boss.”
“What?”
“When she worked for a PR firm in Atlanta, her boss accidentally fell down a flight of stairs and broke his neck. Who do you think stepped into his shoes and got a major promotion and pay raise?”
“Jordan.”
“Whether or not she killed all those men, a relationship with the lady seems to be deadly for the guys in her life.”
“Do you have any proof that she killed even just one of them?”
“No proof,” Rick admitted. “But what are the odds of a woman having that many men in her life die suddenly, one right after the other?”
“Stranger things have happened. But I have to admit that that many accidental deaths are unlikely and would be a really odd coincidence. And since Jordan profited from each of their deaths, that does make her look guilty. I hear that Senator Price was worth in the neighborhood of sixty million. Even if she doesn’t get the whole bundle, I’d say that this time, the lady hit the jackpot.”
“So you agree with me?” Rick asked. “You think it’s possible that Jordan Harris Brannon Price is a killer.”
“Sure, it’s possible, but how can you prove it? All these deaths were years ago, except the senator’s. And I assume each of the accident victims underwent an autopsy and nothing suspicious showed up.”
“No one was looking for evidence of a murder in any of the cases,” Rick said. “Give me some advice, lieutenant. The Powell agent who gave me the info on Jordan suggested that I tread very carefully because, technically, the Powell Agency is working for Mrs. Price. I have an appointment with Ryan Price at seven-thirty this evening. Do I tell him that I suspect his sister-in-law, Saint Jordan, may have killed not only his brother, but her first husband, her fiancé, and possibly her father and a former boss? Would he or anyone else believe that someone who appears to be so genteel, so kind and so very vulnerable could be a murderer?”
Haley studied him quietly for a couple of minutes, long enough to make him uncomfortable.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Despite the evidence staring you in the face, you don’t want her to be guilty. You want me to talk you out of it, don’t you? You want me to convince you that you’re wrong, that Jordan is all those things—genteel, kind and vulnerable. You want to be convinced that she isn’t a murderer.”
He opened his mouth to deny her accusation, but his denial died on his lips. “Okay, let’s say you’re right and I don’t want her to be guilty, that my gut is telling me I’m wrong, that there’s no way in hell she could kill anybody.”
“Is it your gut talking to you or is it your dick?”
Rick clenched his teeth, totally pissed by her question and by the fact that Haley was right. If he didn’t have the hots for Jordan, he wouldn’t question the hard, cold facts. He wouldn’t second guess his usually sound judgment.
Rene watched Rick Carson and Lt. Haley McLain as they left Gino’s Restaurant in downtown Priceville. She had followed the Powell agent when he left Price Manor this evening because she had accidentally overheard his cell phone conversations with Ryan and with the lieutenant. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but she’d been outside for a smoke break, and a hedge barrier between the back porch and the patio had prevented Rick from seeing her. She heard him tell the sheriff’s deputy that Powell’s had unearthed some information that halfway convinced Rick he knew who killed Dan. Rene realized then and there that she had to find out what he knew.
Wearing a hat and sunglasses, she had arrived at Gino’s before Rick and Haley McLain and as luck would have it, they’d been seated in a booth in front of her. Wanting to get closer to them, she had quietly asked her waitress i
f she could move to the booth right behind Rick and the lieutenant. She hadn’t been able to hear their entire conversation, but she’d heard enough to know that Rick suspected Jordan of not only murdering Dan, but Boyd, Robby Joe, Mr. Farris, her old boss, and even her own father. And now, Rick would go to Ryan and tell him about his suspicions. The question was, would Ryan believe him? And if he did, what would he do about it?
Chapter 9
Ryan Price hadn’t laughed in his face. Rick supposed that was something. Jordan’s brother-in-law had listened patiently while Rick explained the information that Powell’s had dug up about his brother’s wife. Then he had calmly defended her.
“Jordan is no more capable of murder than I am,” Ryan had said. “She is one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. Believe me, she did not kill Dan. And if any of the other men in Jordan’s life were murdered, you’ll have to look elsewhere because someone else killed them.”
So, here Rick was, coming back to Price Manor and back to square one in the investigation. Could someone like Ryan Price who had known Jordan for several years be totally wrong about her? Wouldn’t he be a better judge of the woman’s character than Rick, who had met her only a few days ago?
But evidence was evidence.
Yeah, but exactly what evidence did he have against Jordan? Totally circumstantial, just as Haley had said.
Was it possible that the deaths of the four other men weren’t murder? Could it simply be a strange coincidence and Jordan was one of the unluckiest women in the world as far as the men in her life?
So, what did he do now? He couldn’t dismiss this information as if it were useless. On the other hand, he couldn’t assume Jordan was guilty and not look elsewhere for Dan Price’s killer.
If Jordan killed her husband, why had she insisted he stay on as the investigator for Powell’s when she had to know that he would eventually find out everything about her past?
But that was just it—he didn’t know everything about her past. All he had were some basic facts. Four men, five counting Dan Price, in Jordan’s life had died and she had benefited financially from each death. Those facts did not make her guilty of murder. It was possible her father’s death really had been nothing more than a heart attack. And the other three deaths could have been accidents.
He probably needed to call Nic and fill her in on what had happened, assuming Claire Price hadn’t already gotten in touch with Nic. If she had, then he’d have some major explaining to do. After all, it wasn’t an agent’s job to dig up evidence that implicated the client in five murders.
Rick headed for Dan Price’s study, which he had converted into his temporary office. He’d pour himself a drink from the senator’s stocked bar, then telephone Nic. Maybe she’d take him off this case. All things considered, that might be best for everyone involved.
Halfway to the study, he heard footsteps tapping hurriedly along the hall that led from the back of the house. Someone in high heels was running. Curiosity and a desire to postpone calling his boss prompted Rick to search for the source of the footsteps. Just as he rounded the corner that led away from the den, he saw Jordan hurrying into the powder room located at the rear of the house. From the stricken look on her face, he assumed she was sick.
Should he get someone to help her? Should he check on her himself?
The lady was pregnant. Morning sickness was par for the course, right?
While he considered what to do, he continued walking toward the powder room. The door stood ajar giving him a full view of Jordan on her knees, her head bent over the toilet bowl, her hands clutching her stomach.
She moaned a couple of times, then retched violently and threw up. After wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she groaned and quickly threw up again.
Rick stepped into the bathroom, intent on helping her, but instead he unintentionally frightened her. She gasped, jerked around and glared at him.
“What are you doing in here?” she asked.
God, she looked like death warmed over. Pale and weak and so very sick.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” Rick said. “I heard you running down the hall and I came to see what was wrong.”
“I’m nauseated,” she told him. “Morning sickness at night. I’ve had a few mild episodes the past few days, but nothing like this.”
“How can I help?”
She shook her head. “You can’t—”
Before she managed to finish her sentence, another wave of nausea hit her and she vomited again.
Damn, was this what it was like for all pregnant women? If so, he couldn’t imagine anyone having more than one child.
Vaguely recalling a couple of times when he’d had stomach viruses as a kid, he remembered how tenderly his mother had taken care of him. Rick went over to the sink, yanked the fancy hand towel off the rack, turned on the faucet and dampened the towel. When Jordan eased her head up and away from the toilet bowl, Rick knelt down beside her and gently wiped her face with the cool cloth. Instinctively, he lifted his other hand and caressed her back.
“Feeling any better?” he asked.
“Some. Thanks.”
When she looked at him, her blue-gray eyes filled with gratitude, he wanted to wrap his arms around her. She was pregnant and alone and needed someone to look after her.
“Are you finished or do you think you need to stay here a little longer?”
“Give me a few minutes,” she said. “I think the nausea has passed, but I’m not sure.”
He wiped her face again, then tossed the towel into the sink as he stood. “Want to get up?” He held out his hand.
She took his hand and allowed him to help her to her feet. Unsteady on her wobbly legs, she swayed toward Rick. He slipped his arm around her waist as she leaned against him, her breasts brushing against his chest. Their gazes met and held for a split second, then she moved back, putting a couple of inches of safe space between them.
“Would you mind walking with me to my bedroom?” Jordan asked. “I feel a little woozy and—”
“I can carry you if you think you can’t walk.”
She smiled. “That’s very kind of you, but I believe I can walk. I just don’t want to be alone in case I faint. I’m one of those silly women prone to fainting when I get sick.”
“Would you like for me to get someone else to help you? Your stepmother or Mrs. Wright or—”
“No, please.” She grabbed his arm. “Don’t disturb them. I don’t want to upset either of them. Roselynne and Darlene are already worried about me and all the stress isn’t good for either of them. Both of them have health issues. Roselynne has high blood pressure and Darlene has dealt with colitis for years. I’m afraid they’ll overreact to what is nothing more than normal morning sickness.”
“Are you sure that’s all it is?” Rick asked. “Not that I know anything about being pregnant, but you were pretty sick.”
“I’m sure. If you will just help me upstairs, I’ll be fine.”
Rick kept his arm around her waist, which he could easily span with his two hands. As they made their way up the stairs, he felt her leaning into him, depending on his strength to keep her steady. For her sake, he took the steps slowly and carefully, mindful of the fact that she might either faint or throw up at any moment.
At the top of the stairs, he sensed that she needed to pause, so he stopped and waited for her to signal to him when she was ready to go on.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.
She nodded, but didn’t speak.
She looked white as a sheet, all color drained from her face. Her hand on his trembled. Without asking permission, Rick scooped her up in his arms and carried her down the hall. She didn’t complain, didn’t protest his actions in any way. When they reached her bedroom door, he maneuvered her in his arms in order to turn the doorknob. Once inside her semi-dark room, he carried her straight through the sitting area and directly to her antique sleigh bed. He set her on the edge, atop the thick comforter, th
en reached out and turned on a bedside lamp.
“I’m going to get Mrs. Wright. You need—”
She grasped his arm. “No, please. I’ll be fine. Just stay with me a few minutes. Please.”
She needed him. Wanted him.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
“Is there something I can do?” he asked.
“I have a mini-refrigerator in my dressing room—” she indicated the direction “—and there are colas in it. Would you mind getting one for me?”
“Sure thing. Do you want ice?”
“No. Just open the bottle for me, if you would, please.”
He found the mini-fridge tucked neatly under the wall-to-wall vanity in the large dressing room. The refrigerator was stocked with a variety of items, including several small bottles of cola. He retrieved one of the bottles, closed the fridge and twisted off the easy-open cap. As he walked across the room, he caught a hint of Jordan’s delicate perfume where it lingered on the upholstered vanity stool and on her robe hanging on the back of the door. Subtle, flowery, and no doubt outrageously expensive perfume that probably cost more per ounce than a week’s pay for the average Joe.
When he returned to the bedroom, he found Jordan lying on the bed, her head resting on several pillows that she had propped against the headboard. He handed her the cola. She smiled at him as she accepted the bottle.
That’s a Helen of Troy smile. A smile that could launch a thousand ships. A smile that could send an army of men to their doom.
Her fingers touched his in the exchange, a momentary brushing that ended before it had begun. She lifted the cola to her lips and took a couple of quick sips, then sighed.
“Thank you.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”
“This being pregnant is quite an experience,” she said. “I’ve heard other women talk about what it’s like, but…” Her smile wavered. “I’ve wanted a child for a long time and I’d almost given up hope. I never thought I’d be going through this without Dan.”
She seemed genuinely sincere, but if this child was Devon Markham’s…If? Did he have any doubts? Yeah, he did. Far too many doubts where Jordan was concerned. His opinion of this woman vacillated practically minute by minute. Right now, he tended to think she just might be the saint that so many people thought she was. Half an hour ago, he’d been convinced she was a cold-hearted murderer.
Coldhearted Page 10
