“You got it, sugar. Rather be dealing with a criminal I can understand anyway. Drug dealers, pimps, the regular Nashville nasties. I hate this serial killer shit.”
Taylor was gathering up her things, trying to tidy up, when her phone rang.
“Lieutenant Jackson.”
“Taylor, it’s Mitchell. I need you to do me a favor.”
“Since you’re my boss, anything you ask me to do is actually considered a direct order.”
Her smart-ass remarks usually made him laugh, and this was no exception. “While I appreciate that you’re my subordinate, I have a feeling you’re running the whole show regardless. I understand you were at the accident scene this morning where Whitney Connolly lost her life?”
“I was. Sam and I were having coffee around the corner, so I tagged along. Why, is something wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong exactly. But I need you to head over to Quinn Buckley’s home. She’s Whitney Connolly’s sister.”
“I know who she is, boss. I went to school with them for a couple of years. They transferred in after their ‘incident.’ Besides, I don’t think there’s a person in Nashville who doesn’t know who Quinn and Whitney are.”
“Yeah, well, it’s been a long time, and those girls went through a terrible ordeal. And now Whitney’s been killed, and it’s been a big shock from what I hear. Not just a sister, but an identical twin. Apparently Quinn Buckley is taking the news very hard, which is to be expected. I’ve heard twins have some bizarre connection to each other that normal siblings don’t have. Anyway, I’m getting off track. She told the officers that went to inform her of the accident that Whitney had been trying to reach her. ‘Frantically’ was the word she used. I thought you could head over there and see what ‘frantic’ means in Belle Meade.”
“I’m happy to. I haven’t been slumming in a while now. What’s the status of their case, anyway? Did the guy ever get paroled?”
“Nope. He’s still in and will be for quite a while. So I don’t think this has anything to do with their past, just their present. But if you would go over and find out for me, I’d appreciate it.”
“Will do.”
“Where are you with the rapes?”
“Lincoln and Marcus interviewed the victim who thought she knew him. She’s wobbly, I’m not sure if she’s going to be the best source of information. But the boys told me something interesting. She’s saying it was a cop.”
There was silence from the other side of the receiver. “Do you think that’s the case? Could that be where the leak came from? If it’s one of our own, he could have leaked it himself.”
“That’s damn fine speculating, Cap, but I think it’s a little too soon to make those kinds of assumptions. I’m still convinced the leak came from outside this building. Lincoln and Marcus are chasing it down, I just sent them to talk to Betsy. We’ll figure it out, I promise.”
They hung up and Taylor finished gathering her things. She went out the back door, pausing at the top of the stairs where cigarette butts stuck like porcupine quills from an orange bucket of sand. She took a deep breath and kept walking, but stopped twenty paces away and dug in her pocket for her Camel Lights. Flicking a cheap, store-bought lighter, she took a drag. She rationalized for the millionth time. As soon as this case is over, I’ll quit for good.
She went to the car, rolled the window down and put the stick in gear. Blowing smoke out the window, she took off down to Broadway, then turned right and headed toward West End.
She hadn’t thought about the Connolly case in a long time. It had happened when she was only thirteen, and at the time, her parents had sheltered her a bit from it, not wanting to scare her. But she’d worked the rumor mill like every other kid in town, and while they may have had the story straight, no one knew all the details.
The Connolly girls disappeared one afternoon on their way home from school. They were attending Harpeth Hall, the exclusive all girls’ prep school in Belle Meade. The school was close to their home, and they usually walked or rode their bikes back and forth to school in their little uniforms. So safe was the neighborhood, no one gave it a second thought. Their parents finally called the police that evening when the twins didn’t come home. In the age before Amber Alerts and twenty-four-hour-a-day news coverage, the news hadn’t gotten too far. Taylor never really remembered seeing it on television or in the paper, just hearing about it from friends. The girls disappeared, but were found a few days later. They’d escaped from their kidnapper, a strange man named Nathan Chase. According to the official accounts, they were just fine when they got home. The rumor mill, on the other hand, was moving in high gear.
The appearance of the Connolly sisters at Father Ryan, Taylor and Sam’s high-school alma mater, had caused only a minor stir; the genteel students and their well-mannered parents had seen to it that the girls were welcomed with open arms and never bothered by the stories from their past. At least that was the surface impression. In reality, the whispers and stares were done discreetly, the stories told quietly behind closed Junior League doors, the privileged teens murmuring during cheerleader practice and football games. The walls of Belle Meade Country Club oozed the story, wiping themselves quickly if any member of the Connolly family appeared.
But the Connolly girls were readily accepted, invited to all the right parties, dating the best and brightest boys, making excellent marks and never failing to fit in. Or so it appeared. Their scandal, instead of hurting them, made them.
The summer skies were darkening with a typical afternoon storm. Taylor opened the sunroof, catching a breath of cool air that preceded the storm. Crossing Interstate 40, traffic was slow and aimless. Passing through the quiet streets of West End, she finally came to the intersection of Harding Road and White Bridge Road. The Starbucks date she’d shared with Sam seemed like days ago, not just this morning. She’d managed to put aside all the emotions from her two-day roller-coaster ride during the afternoon, but seeing the Starbucks brought the news, or non-news, back in a flash. Talk about dodging a bullet.
She supposed she’d have to tell Baldwin about the false alarm, share the near miss with him in as lighthearted a manner as she could. God knows she didn’t want anything to screw with their relationship. Things were good. She was content. She loved him, he loved her. End of story. She didn’t want the same things many women craved. A great man, a wonderful bedmate, relative companionship. That was enough for her. Certainly, her plan didn’t have room for two point five kids and a dog. She’d never been married, hadn’t ever come close. Before Baldwin, she’d always taken her physical pleasure where she could, avoiding all emotional entanglements. Discreet, short-lived affairs on her terms. Sex, not love. Funny, she’d never realized how lonely she had been.
She slowed as she came up on the entrance to Belle Meade. The accident had been cleaned up and the road was back open, but there was still glass scattered carelessly in the roadway and the grass of the median. Cars whizzed through the intersection without a care in the world, their drivers oblivious to the four lives that were lost in this very spot. A shiver of apprehension rippled through her, and she put the window up, blaming the feeling on the breeze billowing forth from the gray skies. She turned left and began making her way along the sedate and gracious boulevard.
She ignored the side street that led to the home she grew up in.
The drive for Quinn Buckley’s mansion appeared. She turned into the entranceway and came to a black wrought-iron gate with a small box standing at window level to her left. She opened the window and stuck her head out.
“Taylor Jackson to see Mrs. Buckley, please.”
There was no verbal acknowledgment, but after a few moments the massive gate creaked open. As Taylor maneuvered her car through the gates onto a narrow path, a deciduous forest swallowed her, beckoning and forbidding. The drive meandered through the woods for a few hundred feet. As she rounded a curve, the estate sprang into view. Even by Belle Meade standards, the property was massi
ve. The plantation-style house was a white two-story washed-brick colonial with substantial columns forming a protected area that had been made into an elegant front porch. Four stone chimneys danced toward the sky. East and west wings abutted the main residence, and Taylor could see a separate five-car garage with a transom covered in ivy that led into the east wing. The west meandered into the woods, the architect finding natural beauty within his design. Black shutters blinked mournfully and the air seemed heavier as Taylor drove closer, as if the house itself was grieving.
She parked in front of a fountain reminiscent of the Italian Renaissance, taking in the care and nurturing that had gone into the landscaping around the front of the house. The place reeked of money. Taylor rang the bell and waited. Walked up and down the steps. Just as she started to get impatient, the ornate double doors to the main house swung open and Quinn Buckley appeared.
Taylor hadn’t seen Quinn in a very long time. If she had spent any time paying attention to the upscale magazines of Nashville, she would have recognized Quinn Buckley for herself in an instant. But all she could see was Quinn’s sister’s face. Whitney Connolly floated at Taylor and she had to shake her head slightly to realize that it wasn’t her. As she climbed the stairs to the front door and Quinn came into clear focus, she could see some of the minute differences between the two women. Quinn wasn’t as curvy as Whitney, her mouth, though generous, wasn’t as full and pouty. Taylor caught herself wondering just how much plastic surgery Whitney Connolly had undergone over the years.
Quinn Buckley had the look of her sister, that was for sure. But where Whitney Connolly had come across the television screen as well put together, Quinn Buckley oozed class and money. In her low-slung jeans and cowboy boots, Taylor felt slightly frumpy, an L.L. Bean figure next to a Lladró figurine. Noting Quinn’s perfectly highlighted coif, she instinctively reached to smooth her own ponytailed blond hair, then caught herself, straightened to her full five foot eleven and strode purposefully the rest of the way up the stairs to the door.
Quinn extended a small, well-manicured hand to Taylor as she reached the top of the steps. “Lieutenant Jackson?”
Even her voice was different from Whitney’s. It was softer, slightly higher pitched and definitely had more of a southern flavor to it. How two women could be so much alike and yet so different was amazing.
Taylor took Quinn’s hand and nodded. “I am. How have you been, Mrs. Buckley? I don’t think we’ve seen each other in several years. I’m so sorry we have to meet again under these circumstances. I was a fan of your sister.”
Quinn’s face closed for an instant, then she smiled graciously. “Of course. Please, won’t you come in?” She turned and led the way into an oversize foyer with dual staircases creeping up either wall. Taylor felt a quick pang. Her parents’ home had been set up just the same, and she remembered sliding down the curved balustrades. Quinn caught her staring and gave her a questioning look.
“Reminds me of…well, never mind.” Taylor had gotten that look before, and it caused a moment of heat to flare up in her chest. Like she’d never been inside a fancy home. Please. She almost burst out laughing at the slightly imperious look Quinn was giving her. Among her former peers and their parents, Taylor always got the same reaction. Her parents had money, and yet she’d chosen police work instead of the privileged life that Quinn Buckley had obviously built for herself. Some of them just couldn’t understand that money didn’t mean anything to her.
“Yes, I see. Would you mind following me? I thought we could talk in the study.” Quinn turned to her left and entered a huge, beautifully appointed room. The rich scent of leather tickled Taylor’s nose, and she caught the fleeting tang of lemon oil. As she got farther in the room, she nearly gasped aloud. A study, my foot. This was one of the most beautiful libraries she had ever seen. Wall-to-wall bookshelves, warm furniture, oh, she could get lost in here for years. It didn’t have the coldness and sterility Taylor had sensed from the rest of the first floor. This was a comfort room, a getaway room. Someplace to literally let down your hair and get cozy. She looked at Quinn and noted her lips twitching in amusement.
“I assume you’re a reader?” Quinn walked over to one of the walnut shelves and plucked a book at random. “I am, too. Whitney was once, but she stopped enjoying it when she was in her teens. Me, I can’t think of a better way to spend an afternoon than curled up in a chair losing myself in a good book.”
“I’m the same way, but I don’t have such a wonderful place to do it. This room is amazing.”
Quinn gave her the first genuine smile Taylor had seen. “It’s mine. I encourage the rest of the family to allow me my privacy when I’m in here. It’s my own little escape from the rest of the world.”
She sounded so weary that Taylor felt sorry for her. She’d just lost her sister, and here was Taylor, scoping out the room like a kid in a candy store. She got herself back under rein and turned to Quinn, her features carefully aligned to project the appropriate amount of grief and professional concern. She wondered briefly why Quinn would bring the police into her sanctuary—it seemed out of character. Quinn didn’t strike her as the chummy type.
“I truly am sorry about Whitney. My captain told me you mentioned she’d been trying to get a hold of you?”
Quinn sank into a chair, pulling up her feet and curling them under her, like a cat. “Trying is understating it a bit. She must have called twenty, twenty-five times in the past day. My cell phone, my home phone, she left messages at the country club.”
Ah, Taylor thought. Belle Meade Country Club. The social denizen’s favorite Nashville campground.
“If you don’t mind me asking, where were you?”
Quinn gave her an unreadable look, then stood and walked around the room, touching things as if to reassure herself that they were still among her possessions. “I was just…out and about, getting ready for dinner, running errands. Nothing special. I have a great many responsibilities, and I have a tendency to run around quite a bit. Sometimes I forget to charge my cell phone, sometimes I forget to check my answering machine. And Jake was in town, so I certainly wasn’t going to answer the phone. My husband is out of town quite a bit and I try to make time for him when he’s here. So we had a nice dinner, and went to bed early. This morning I went out for a walk and didn’t bring my phone with me. By the time I got back and noticed that all the calls I’d received were from Whitney, it was too late. She’d already been in the accident.”
Quinn’s voice caught and she turned to the French doors. Taylor gave her a moment to compose herself, then asked a question.
“Mrs. Buckley, were you and your sister close? Did you talk every day, once a week?”
Quinn had recovered her composure. “No, Lieutenant, we weren’t terribly close. Strange for identical twins, but we just grew apart as we got older.” There was a gleam in her eye, either tears or a memory, and Taylor made a mental note to find out why they’d grown apart. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I’m being horribly rude. Can I get you a drink? Coffee? Tea? I think I’ll have a Diet Coke, if that’s okay with you.”
“Soda would be wonderful, thank you.”
Quinn turned to the desk and picked up a small crystal bell. Taylor almost laughed aloud, it just seemed so incredibly pretentious. Quinn rang the bell and a moment later a young woman with flowing black hair and liquid brown eyes came into the room.
“Sì, Sigñora Quinn?”
Quinn gave her a warm smile that belied the master/servant nature of their relationship. “Gabrielle, possiamo avere due Coca Lights, per favore? Grazie.”
Gabrielle disappeared and Quinn turned back to Taylor. “She’s wonderful. Italian girl, family’s from Florence. She wanted to come and work in the States to improve her English and take a few classes, we needed someone to look after the twins and handle a few things around the house. She’s acting as their au pair officially. They just love her. They can speak Italian better than I can now. Not that I’m fluent.”
/> This explanation came out fast and furious. Taylor got the feeling that Quinn was hiding something. Interesting.
And twins? Taylor knew Quinn had children, but she hadn’t thought to ask how many, boys or girls. Sometimes such pleasantries borne of politeness slipped her by. Quinn gracefully answered the unspoken question.
“The twins, Jillian and Jake Junior, are at school right now. They’re nearly four and are so wonderfully bright. I’ve been blessed.”
“School? That young?”
“Well, it’s never too early to get them started. They attend a prekindergarten three days a week. Do you have any children, Lieutenant?”
The sudden shift threw Taylor for a loop. How was she supposed to answer that? Let’s see, two days ago I was told I was pregnant, yesterday I found out I wasn’t. I didn’t tell my lover, so I have to have a long conversation with him after he finishes chasing a serial killer through the Southeast. She nearly laughed aloud before recovering and answering as truthfully as she could. “I don’t yet, but my best friend is having twins. They just found out. Do you remember Sam Owens? It’s Sam Loughley now, she was in my class.” Good job, Taylor, she congratulated herself. Deflection is the name of the game.
“I do remember Samantha. She’s the medical examiner now. That must be interesting. Well, that’s wonderful. Children are such a joy. Jake and I were so thrilled when we found out…Oh, Lieutenant, I shouldn’t be taking up your time with this. It won’t help get my sister back.”
Gabrielle interrupted, bearing their drinks on a silver tray with tall crystal glasses filled with ice. “Grazie con tanto, Gabrielle. Lascili prego sulla tabella.” The girl set the drinks on a marble-topped table and left the room.
Quinn went to the tray, grabbed the soda can and ignored the glasses. Taylor raised an eyebrow and followed suit. The move seemed a bit informal from a very formal woman. Maybe Quinn Buckley wasn’t quite as high-strung as she first appeared.
All the Pretty Girls Page 16
