by Rachel Brady
“Then try the jewelry.”
“No,” I said. “This is my job, not a field trip. Put Vince back on.”
The phone shuffled and I heard murmurs.
“Thank you,” I said when he was back on the line. “For trying to help us, and for getting Jeannie out of there.”
“Give this a few hours,” he said. “We flood fast, but after the rain stops, water recedes sooner than you’d think.”
“Guess I’ll go mope now.”
“Sit tight,” he said. “And Emily?”
“What?” I was deep in self-pity now.
“See you soon.”
Stupid job. If I had a normal job like everybody else, I’d be in Vince’s arms right now. Or at least I’d be in his truck.
We hung up and I loitered in Claire’s upstairs hallway, unsure how to pass the time now that I’d searched every nook and cranny and violated her privacy abominably. It had served a valuable purpose, though. A better understanding of our complex, conflicted client had nearly convinced me of her innocence. This freed my mind to address other matters.
For example, revenge was a great motive for Diana to ruin Claire, but so far nothing suggested why she’d kill her husband’s business partner to do it.
Then a random, disconcerting thought. Would Logan really send someone out in this storm to feed his snake? He’d been here himself only hours ago.
Chapter Eleven
Vince never came. He couldn’t. Downtown Houston was hit hard, the Southwest Freeway under water. Jeannie had urged me to make myself at home, and I knew Claire wouldn’t have minded under the circumstances, but I still couldn’t bring myself to eat her food, slip into her nightie, or sleep in her bed. So around eleven-thirty, hungry and fully dressed except for my shoes, I collapsed on top of the covers on the bed in her guest room and hoped for a break in the weather.
At some point, I fell asleep and dreamed in a strange way I often did—where real-life noises, like a car engine and a door closing, got incorporated into my dream. Eventually, quiet returned and Vince spooned into me, pulling me tight. His warm, strong hand travelled from my hip to my waist, then over my ribs, and finally inched forward, where it cupped my breast. I felt his hot breath and tongue on my neck and, eyes still closed, I rolled over, gathered him in my arms and pulled him close with a leg. But then he spoke, and the voice was all wrong.
My eyes popped open. A stranger had joined me in bed and he reeked of alcohol.
I thrust a knee into his crotch. He curled into himself and I fisted a wad of his hair and used it jam his head even further toward his chest. He reached up to free his hair and I grabbed his hand and wrenched it behind his back, moving myself over him so that I could drive his shoulder as far out of alignment as possible. He groaned but didn’t put up the fight I’d expected.
“I thought you were Claire.” There was a subtle slur.
“Who are you?” I pushed his unnaturally bent arm further up his back. He grunted but didn’t struggle. My purse, with pepper spray inside, was a few feet away on the dresser. I let go of his arm and lunged for it. A bedside lamp switched on.
In the new light, I watched a middle-aged man with still-toned pecs and abs but a pasty complexion and swollen left jaw rub and stretch his shoulder. He regarded me with what I interpreted as drunken amusement. Naked except for boxers, he propped himself on an elbow.
His eyes twinkled, not in the kindly Santa Claus way. “A saucy one, you are.”
“How’d you get in here? Who are you?”
He sat up. “I used my key.”
Hell, I thought, is there anyone in town who doesn’t have a key to this house? And the security code?
I felt around for the pepper spray inside my bag while I bumbled into my shoes.
“Don’t tell me you got a piece in there, honey.”
“I’m leaving,” I said, heading for the door. “If you know what’s good for you, stay in that bed.”
“I’ll stay in this bed because I’m plain-ass tired, not because my wife’s latest romp tells me what to do.”
In the doorway, I stopped and flipped on the overhead lights. “Daniel?” It made sense he’d sleep in the guest room.
“I didn’t know she was into girls now.”
“Where have you been since Thursday?”
“None of your damn business.”
“The police want to talk to you.”
He leered at me, dropping his gaze to my legs and then letting it crawl back up. “They probably wanna talk to you too, sugar.”
“I’m not a hooker.”
He shrugged.
“They thought you might be dead. And that Claire did it.”
He managed something between a laugh and a snort. “She’s crazy enough.” He flipped off the bedside light, sprawled across the bed, and closed his eyes. “Turn out the lights.”
“Don’t you care where she is?”
“No.”
“You don’t wonder why a stranger’s in your house?”
“No.”
“At least tell me where you’ve been.”
“If I do, will you leave?”
“Sure.”
“Vegas.”
I turned out the light. “Your wife’s in jail.”
“About time.”
I left through the kitchen, forgetting until the door closed behind me that I had no car. Rain had let up but the driveway was partly submerged and I accidentally sloshed into a puddle and waterlogged my shoes. Claire’s security lights got me to the end of the drive and then the neighborhood street lights took over from there. The block was stone silent, porch lights the only sign of life.
My cell phone said it was quarter past four, but what startled me more was seeing the date, July thirteenth. In my haste to get away from Daniel, I’d forgotten it was my birthday.
Joy.
Still fighting my stupid new nails, I successfully dialed my apartment on the second try but Jeannie didn’t answer. I figured she was sleeping hard and tried again, but there was still no answer.
Next I tried her cell with the same result. Then I tried my apartment one more time.
Maybe they’d stayed at Vince’s.
“Emily?” he said, heavy sleep in his voice. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I said, “But my Goldilocks gig is up. Papa Bear’s back.”
“The husband?”
“Yeah. A real charmer.”
Vince exhaled, and I imagined him pushing back covers, sitting up. No shirt. An image so sexy it was cruel. “Where are you?”
“Walking south on Larchmont.”
“In this?”
“In what?”
“I swear, woman, you’re a handful. Try not to get blown away before I get there.”
I didn’t know what that meant but was glad he was coming. A few blocks later I rounded the corner, continuing on the route I knew he’d use. Under street lamps, I saw that low-lying areas were submerged, and below me, the rapid whoosh of water pulsing through the neighborhood’s drainage system reminded me how much water had already receded.
The temperature had dropped to probably the mid-eighties and the air was so thick and damp I thought I felt the smallest of rain drops on my face and bare arms. The unmistakable scent of steaming blacktop hung in the air as I passed sleeping houses and dormant cars. I didn’t hear a single motor anywhere. Nobody wanted to be out on a morning like this.
Thoughts and counter-thoughts came at machine-gun pace, and I knew that only a long, hard run would organize them. But it would have to wait until I got home and could change. Nothing good ever came from running in mules.
Instead I planned my day. Top priority was a visit to Platt’s neighbors. With any luck, someone would know what had bothered him enough to prompt his question to the police. Then there was the nine o’clock facial at Tone Zone that seemed not only frivolous but pointless, since breaking into Diana’s inner circle was obviously impossible. I made a mental note to cancel the appointment. When the ho
ur was decent, I’d call Richard. His police buddies would want to know that Daniel still had a pulse.
Then I reconsidered. If I’m awake, Richard can be awake too.
But Linda answered, gracious even in slumber, and I wanted to kick myself for rousing her. A big, fat drop landed on my head. If it hadn’t been cool to the touch, I’d have sworn it was bird poop.
“Hold on, honey,” she said. “I’ll put him on.”
Another huge drop hit me, then another.
“What’s up, kiddo?” Richard said. I pictured him sitting up in bed too, checking his watch and rubbing a stubbly cheek. My shirtless Vince image had been way better.
“Claire didn’t off her husband,” I said.
“How do you know?”
“I just got out of bed with him.” The wind picked up and I ducked my head. “Tell your police buddies he’s at his house if they want to question him.”
“You didn’t say you were going to their house.”
“I don’t say a lot of things. See what you can find on a guy named Kevin Burke. This is one messed up marriage.”
“We sort of got that from the neighbors.”
“Right, but there’s more. The financial accounts are Daniel’s. She gets a million dollars in life insurance if he dies and probably also inherits all the stocks.”
“Again, no surprise.”
“But if she dies, the insurance pays out to her kids.”
“Okay.”
“They’re in the middle of a divorce. What happens when they split?”
“It’s is a community-property state. Unless there’s a prenup, she’ll get half of those portfolios and everything else.”
“Say he wants to keep his share and hers too. There’s not much incentive to kill her. It’s a lot of risk and effort and he wouldn’t get any insurance.”
“No, but he’d keep his investments.”
“Sure. But maybe he keeps them anyway. Say he squirrels the money away while she’s all tied up in jail and can’t do anything to stop him. He could hide it off-shore or something.”
“You think Daniel framed Claire to give himself time to hide their money?”
“The murder weapon came out of their toolbox. Easy for Daniel to get. Harder for Diana.”
“There’s a problem, of course.”
“A huge one.” Bigger than my immediate problem—saturated clouds now freely dumping rain that pelted me like marbles.
“Why would Daniel want Platt dead?” Richard asked. Our connection was breaking.
I shook my head, frustrated. “Why would Diana?”
“We have to assume—” he dropped out, then came back “—ties into what Platt tried to—” then dropped out “—someone was getting swindled.”
I thought the spotty connection had more to do with a wet phone than with signal strength.
“Call you later.” I hung up, unsure if he’d heard.
***
It was a half-hour before oncoming headlights bounced in the distance. The rain had settled into a steady, persistent tempo and having no place to take shelter, I ignored my soaked clothes and ruined shoes and continued walking the route I knew Vince would take. I squinted toward the approaching vehicle, hoping to make out Vince’s pick-up, but water only streamed down my forehead and pooled in my eyes. The truck passed me before I recognized it, spraying water as it went, and I pulled my phone out of my water-logged bag but the damn thing was on the fritz.
I watched Vince disappear down the boulevard behind me. At one point his brake lights flared and I held out hope for a U-turn, but no luck. The lights dimmed, grew even smaller. The only motorist out at four-thirty in the morning continued his diligent search for a stupid woman stomping and cursing blocks behind him.
Chapter Twelve
“Thank goodness you’re here,” Jeannie shouted from my bedroom. “I can’t move!”
Vince had rescued me on his second pass down the boulevard and wrapped me in a blanket he kept in his truck for his dog to lay on. With it still draped over my shoulders like a cape, I flipped on my living room lights and we wound around the sofa, through my short hallway, and found Jeannie lying flat on her back in the shape of an X on top of my rumpled comforter. She’d left my nightstand lamp on and had Cosmo draped over her chest. For once, she’d selected modest sleepwear—thank God.
“Your fan blades are dusty,” she said, staring overhead.
The comment, made in front of Vince, ratcheted up my already-high irritation.
“What do you mean you can’t move?” he said.
Jeannie pulled her eyes off the fan and turned her head as if it were the only mobile part of her. “Hi, Cowboy.” She sighed in a familiar, self-pitying way. Without energy she added, “This is all your fault, Em. It was that trainer from hell.”
I dropped my blanket-cape and yanked the pillow from under her head. Her big blond curls rebounded off my Serta. “Why didn’t you answer the phone? I thought somebody broke in here and slashed your throat.”
“I told you. I can’t move.”
“Bullshit.” I clutched her ankle and pulled it over the edge of the bed. She winced.
“Uh, Emily—” Vince edged in, but I ignored him and tugged again.
“Get up,” I said. “It can’t be that bad.”
Jeannie shrieked. “My back!”
Vince pulled me off her and whispered. “I think she really is hurt, darlin’.”
“She’s faking.” I said it loud enough for her to hear. “She didn’t want to interrupt her beauty sleep to get up and answer the phone.”
Jeannie glared at me. “You’ll be sorry for that if I end up paralyzed.” She closed her eyes, her side of the conversation over.
“Too much estrogen in here,” Vince said. “I’ll make breakfast.”
He disappeared around the corner and I stomped to the bathroom and peeled myself out of soaking wet clothes I didn’t care if I ever saw again. Then I wrapped myself in a towel and scuttled back for the last word.
I leaned close to Jeannie’s ear.
“Faker,” I whispered.
Then I bolted for the bathroom before she could answer.
***
“Amazing what a shower and dry clothes does for you,” Vince said when I joined him at the breakfast table. “Hope you never come after me like that.”
I bit into a piece of jelly-smeared toast. “You wouldn’t ignore my calls.”
He smiled.
Because Jeannie’s a good actress and Vince is a softie, he’d delivered breakfast to her in bed before I could stop him. It was just as well. I was too annoyed for more theatrics. Jeannie could make a paper cut seem like a skin graft. I didn’t understand how a crybaby like her had endured so many nips, tucks, lipos, and lifts.
Under the table, my bare foot was in Vince’s lap and he massaged it with his free hand.
“I’m going to talk to Platt’s neighbors today,” I said. “And Jeannie made spa appointments for us that I’d rather skip.”
“Keep the appointment. It’s a chance to relax and you might learn something at the club.”
“Maybe.” I nodded toward my bedroom. “Doesn’t look like Queen Diva will be stepping out anytime soon.”
He stood, put his dishes in the sink, and kissed the top of my head. “I’ve got a long day.”
I followed him to the living room, where he gathered up the now-folded dog blanket I’d borrowed. “Thanks for rescuing me.”
He slipped his arms around my waist and buried his face in my neck. “Don’t make a habit of it.”
I turned and kissed him. “I probably will.”
He palmed his black Stetson off my cluttered end table and winked. “I know.”
***
The sun came up as I left I-10 to turn onto Heights Boulevard at 6:25. It was a majestic road with a lush, wide median full of huge shade trees and a twisty gravel walking trail. The temperature was down and so were my car windows. I barreled through puddles and listened to the violent sp
ray hit my fenders.
It was too early to knock on doors but I at least wanted to get a feel for Platt’s neighborhood. The best way to do that was on foot, so I’d come dressed to run.
I found and passed his address, not wanting to park in front. A block west, on the corner of Heights and 7th, I pulled into a small grass lot that adjoined the most extravagant playground I’d ever seen. On the spot, I resolved to bring Annette as soon as she returned.
At a slow jog, I backtracked to Platt’s street and noticed the homes. Each was as likely to be a grand, restored Victorian as it was to be a well-maintained cottage.
Platt’s wooden siding was the color of weak chocolate milk. His front door and windows were accented with cream and burgundy, and the skillful blend of colors impressed and bugged me the same way it had at Claire’s.
A wrought-iron fence at the sidewalk, coupled with wooden privacy fences in the side yards, gave the home a false air of impenetrability. Under different circumstances, I might have adored that little cottage, but an irrational distaste for it washed over me. I didn’t like when things weren’t what they seemed.
“Starting or finishing?” It was an approaching runner. A ninja, judging by her eerily silent stride.
I fell in step beside her. “Starting.”
Her breathing was hard. She’d been at it a while. “You live on this street?”
“My sister lives a few blocks down,” I lied.
“I saw you checking out that house.”
“She told me what happened.”
“My daughter…” She took a breath. “…and I were coming home from soccer. Five police cars.”
“Never good.”
“I slowed down to ask a cop about it,” she said. “I’m nosey that way.”
“Wasn’t your little girl scared?”
“She was playing her Nintendo. Anyway, the guy said there’d be a ‘death investigation.’ But we didn’t find out until the next day that it was a murder.”
We passed the first imperfect house I’d seen in the neighborhood—a bungalow with garbage bags on the porch and a random, upside-down clawfoot bathtub in the side yard.
“Did you know the guy?” I asked. Somewhere, bacon was frying.
“My housekeeper did.”
