by Cassie Miles
"Yes, ma'am."
"And spent the night bartending?"
Liz nodded. The repetition of ma'am was wearing on her nerves.
"And you seem to have done the impossible. You got Ben interested in you."
"Not really." Well, this was uncomfortable. What was the correct response to the estranged wife? Liz had never played the role of the "other woman" before.
"Don't bother to deny it." Victoria led them into a charming, antique-furnished living room. "I've moved on. My only interest in Ben is the size of his...wallet."
"Speaking of wallets," Harry said as he settled his bulk in a brocade chair. "How would you like for us to proceed with our investigation?"
"I want Liz to go back to the house and resume her undercover role as a maid."
Victoria's request was the last thing she had expected. "Why?"
"You're a detective, aren't you? And now there's a murder to investigate." She lifted her chin and looked down her nose. "I'm quite sure Ben is responsible for Charlene's death. He despised her. And he was seen carrying Charlene's body to his workshop. He's building a wooden boat, isn't he?"
"Yes."
"God, how I hate those woodworking projects of his! Always tinkering around, redesigning the hull, sanding the frame. He can afford a massive yacht with all the amenities. Why waste countless hours on something no bigger than a dinghy?"
Liz knew the answer. Ben enjoyed working with his hands, dreaming of the endless sea while he created his own craft. His woodworking project endeared him to her, made him less like a CEO and more like a regular guy.
Victoria turned toward Harry. "I will pay the balance of our contract after Ben is arrested for murder."
"Wait." Liz couldn't agree to those terms. "What if he didn't do it?"
"Liz brings up a good point," Harry said. "It might turn out that someone else is the killer."
"In that very unlikely case, I will honor our contract."
"So we get paid," Harry said. "Either way."
"Exactly so." Victoria rose to her feet and checked her wristwatch. "I hate to rush you off, but Dr. Mancini will be here at any moment. Natalie has the sniffles, and he agreed to stop by for a visit."
"Mancini?" Harry frowned. "Isn't that the same doc who was treating Jerod Crawford?"
"Family doctor. Natalie likes him." She glanced between them. "Are we agreed?"
Liz hated this plan. "Why should I pretend to be a maid? Since you want me to be a detective, I should go there as a private investigator."
"In an undercover position, you'll find out a lot more. Ben won't trust you for a moment if he knows you're working for me."
"At least, it would be the truth."
Anger glittered in Victoria's eyes. "I'm not paying for the truth. I want Ben charged with murder so I get sole custody of our daughter."
And complete control of the inheritance?
A bitter taste prickled on Liz's tongue. She didn't want to work against Ben. She liked him, and she didn't believe he was a killer. The only way this could turn out right was for her to prove her conviction.
Chapter Ten
Later that evening, alone in her one-bedroom apartment, Liz stared out her third-floor window at the Dumpsters in the alley and street lamps shining on the asphalt parking lot. When she'd stood on the cedar deck beside Ben, she'd seen snow-covered peaks, forests and a shimmering lake—a million-dollar panorama. The view from her apartment was worth about a buck twenty-five.
She contemplated the three withered houseplants lined up in a row across her windowsill while she pondered the ethical problem of returning to the Crawford estate. Harry wanted her to do it, wanted the big payoff from Victoria and didn't see anything wrong with her going there.
According to him, all she had to do was play her role as a maid—set the table and flick a feather duster until the CBI did their job and arrested someone for Charlene's murder.
Though she hated the idea of merely hanging around and watching, Harry probably had it right. All she needed was patience. The real issue—the problem that tied her gut in a knot—was that she'd be lying to Ben. Again.
She turned her glare on the deceased plants in their plastic containers. This feeble attempt at beautifying her home had come during the dead of winter when the days had been short and everything had felt gloomy. During finals, she'd forgotten to water them.
At the well-run Crawford estate, the petunias in the flower box on Jerod's deck would never be allowed to shrivel. After experiencing firsthand how the upper one percent lived, her hand-to-mouth lifestyle seemed shabby—and yet, blissfully simple. She didn't need a chef, chauffeur, housekeeper and maids to keep her household running. No attorneys. No family doctors.
She was on her own and liked it that way.
Grabbing a black plastic garbage bag, she dumped the dead foliage. Simple. Problem solved.
She flung herself into the big, comfy reading chair— the only real piece of furniture in her front room, which was set up as an office with a huge desk for her computer and research papers, lots of bookshelves and a beat-up entertainment center. Maybe if she made a list of pluses and minuses, she could decide.
Resting a legal pad on the knees of her black yoga pants, she scribbled reasons why she shouldn't go back.
Number one: incompetence. She was a lousy maid.
Number two: pride. She'd stormed out the door earlier. How could she return without looking like a jerk?
Number three: danger. No matter how lovely the estate, there was a murderer on the loose.
Number four: Ben. She wrote his name twice, underlined and put a row of exclamation points at the end.
When he wasn't acting like a pushy CEO, he intrigued her with his stories about flying solo and crewing for the America's Cup. His selfless concern for his grandfather was admirable. In capital letters, she wrote the word sexy.
She groaned. It was crazy to think that there could ever be anything between them. Men like Ben hooked up with statuesque supermodels like his estranged wife.
She scratched through his twice-written name, then cross-hatched and scribbled over the letters again.
A knock at the door startled her. Leaping from her chair, she peeked through the fisheye and saw him. Ben.
He hadn't buzzed from downstairs, but that wasn't unusual. People were always walking in and out of this three-story building, and nobody bothered to ask for I.D.
He knocked again. She could pretend not to be home, avoid the problem for as long as possible. But she wasn't a coward.
Flipping the door lock, she opened wide.
'Thanks for seeing me," he said.
"'Do I have a choice?"
"May I come in?"
She glanced over her shoulder at her drab little apartment and squashed the impulse to apologize. She didn't need his approval. "You've got five minutes."
When he walked through the door, he filled up her apartment with his masculine energy. During the two years she'd lived there, she'd probably had only three male guests. None of them compared to Ben. Surprisingly, he didn't look out of place. Though his suit probably cost more than her semester's tuition at law school, he'd been under stress and looked as rumpled as the Dumpster divers who patrolled her alley.
She perched on the swivel chair beside her computer and pointed to the big, comfy armchair. Ben filled the space nicely. Too nicely.
Abruptly, she said, "What do you want?"
"You always jump right in. Ask the hard questions." When he grinned, the whole apartment lit up. Her seventy-five-watt bulbs blazed like spotlights. "When we met, you asked, Who loves you?"
Me, she wanted to shout. Wrong. She was too smart to fall for a guy she could never have. "Got an answer?"
'To which question?"
"Why are you here?"
"I want you to come back to work for me," he said. "I have two reasons. The first is Jerod. I want you to play the role of Charlene."
"He still doesn't know that she's dead? The murder
has been all over the news. Patrice almost looks like she's really in mourning with that black dress."
'The pearls are a nice touch," he agreed.
"Why hasn't Jerod seen it?"
"Since he's been in the hospital, they've kept him busy with tests. Mostly, he's been sleeping." He leaned forward, and his hair fell across his forehead. Absently, he pushed it back. "It's likely the doctors will operate tomorrow. I don't want Jerod to be jolted by this tragedy when he's going into surgery. He needs a reason to live."
Though she didn't approve, she understood. "And the second reason you want me back?"
"The murder investigation. It's possible that you're the only person who believes I'm innocent." His blue eyes shone with a sincerity she really wanted to believe. "The only way I'm going to get out of this in one piece is to solve the crime myself. And I want you to help me."
Solving a real crime? A tickle of excitement raised goose bumps on her forearms. In all the time she'd been working for Schooner Private Investigations, the closest she'd gotten to sleuthing was tracking down an unfaithful husband who wore a fake mustache when he met his mistress. Being involved in a real investigation? She liked the idea, liked it a lot.
"I'd pay you," he said.
"'Not necessary." She was already getting paid by Victoria who, ironically, wanted exactly the same thing as her estranged husband: to find Charlene's murderer.
He reached down and picked up the legal pad she'd discarded on the floor. "Interesting list," he said. "Incompetence. Pride. Danger. And sexy? Sounds like the plot for a soap opera."
She yanked the pad from his hands. 'That's mine."
"What's the word you scratched out?"
"None of your business." She felt herself blushing again. Whenever she was around him, she got flushed and her cheeks turned scarlet. Way too sexy. Flipping the page on her legal pad, she picked up her pen. "We need a list. First issue. Who turned off the surveillance at the gate? And why?"
"I assume this marks the start of the investigation," he said. "Our investigation."
"Guess so."
He came toward her. Resting his hands on the arms of her swivel chair, he leaned down and lightly kissed her forehead.
Now she was blushing all over, which wasn't something she wanted to share with him. She shoved at his chest. "Don't get all mushy. I could still change my mind."
His smile communicated a warmth and appreciation that could never be expressed in words. "You're right, Liz. We should get down to business. Bring your legal pad, and let's go."
She lurched into her bedroom to throw some clothes and a couple of changes of underwear into a gym bag. Ethically, everything had fallen into place. Except for the tiny problem that she was being paid by his estranged wife.
When Liz had done her impersonation of Charlene in Jerod's private room at the hospital, Ben had almost been jealous of the way she'd lavished attention on his grandpa. With whispers and giggles, she'd teased Jerod. Willingly, she'd given him a good-night kiss.
That sure as hell wasn't the way she treated Ben. With him, her shields were up.
As he drove west toward the mountains, she still wore the low-cut red silk shirt that she'd used for her Charlene persona, but she'd covered up with a denim jacket. Scowling, she complained, "I still think I should have taken my own car."
"We'll be in and out of Denver every day to see Jerod. Tomorrow, you can get your car. I want to use this drive time to create a strategy for our investigation."
"Multitasking. I'll bet you're a good CEO."
"It's what I do."
"Okay, let's not waste any more time." She wriggled around in the passenger seat, turned on the roof light and dug around in the back of his Mustang. When she returned to her seat, she had the legal pad in hand. "We need a list of suspects."
An obvious first step. Finally, he was with someone who was ready for action. After all the suspicion, innuendo and hand-wringing, he welcomed a task he could sink his teeth into. "Since the surveillance at the front gate was turned off, we can assume that Charlene's murder was premeditated."
"'Which rules out a crime of passion," she said.
'Therefore, Ramon's story must be true. He wanted to get Charlene into bed, but she dumped him. And he left."
"With his tail tucked between his legs." She gave a sardonic chuckle. "I'm writing Ramon's name down, anyway. He's suspicious. And what about the third member of that love triangle?"
'Tony Lansing." Ben's intuitive distrust of the lawyer had grown deeper when Tony had threatened him about exposing the skeletons in the Crawford family closet.
"Is he an alcoholic?" she asked as she scribbled Tony's name onto her list.
"Not as far as I know."
'Two days ago, during dinner, he tossed back three straight vodkas and a bottle of wine. That's the kind of thing you notice when you're tending bar."
"Being drunk might explain why he was dumb enough to grope Charlene in a house full of people."
"Or he might have been drinking for liquid courage. Knowing that he'd come back later, turn off the surveillance camera and commit murder."
Accelerating with a satisfying roar from the Mustang engine, Ben exited the highway onto the access road. Though only a little after nine o'clock, it felt like midnight. Today had been hell.
"Tony had no motive," he said. "With Jerod's will leaving the bulk of his estate to Charlene, Tony had reason to romance her in the hope that she'd soon be a wealthy widow. He wouldn't want her dead."
"Good point." She made a note on her legal pad. "Still, it might be good to talk to him. Find out where he was on the night of the murder."
"No problem."
Tony had been adamant about his role as the Crawford family lawyer; now it was time for him to live up to that responsibility. Ben flipped open his cell phone, called Tony Lansing on speed dial and left a message on the answering machine about wanting to see him as soon as possible.
He disconnected the call. "I hope that ruins his evening."
"Ben, there's something I didn't tell you about the night of the murder. After I left the bar and went to bed, I was hammered. Dizzy and wobbling all over the place even though I hadn't had a drop of alcohol. I'm pretty sure I was drugged."
What the hell? He turned his head and looked at her.
Immediately, he was distracted from crime solving. Even in the shadowy light from the dashboard, she was cute. No matter how high she piled the chips on her shoulder, she still had a sweetness about her. Maybe it was the way her mouth turned up at the corners. Or her hair, that wild hair.
"Ben? Are you with me?"
"Right." He needed to stay focused. "Why would somebody drug you?"
"Don't know why." Her shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "But I do know how. During the catfight between Charlene and Patrice, somebody could have slipped a powder into the ginger ale I was drinking."
"If you were drugged, it could mean—"
"If?" Her voice rose. "I was drugged. It's a fact. I know what it feels like."
"Do you take drugs?"
"Do you?"
"That's the second time you've asked that question. And it's absurd. Are my eyes dilated? My speech slurred? Do I strike you as being out of control?"
"I wouldn't blame you," she said. "You might need a little something to take the edge off. Every now and then."
"My edge is an asset."
He needed to stay sharp to make business decisions. Running a multi-million-dollar company required acuity and the innate sense of responsibility he'd been born with. Even before his parents had died, he'd liked being in charge—learning from the ground up, analyzing, then taking control.
In that sense, he was much like his grandpa. More than wealth and privilege, Jerod's legacy to Ben was an ability to see what was needed, plan a course of action and succeed. "Let's get back to the suspects. When you were drugged, who was nearby?"
"Charlene. Ramon. Patrice and Monte."
"My sister and her husband n
eed to go on the suspect list." He hated that undeniable fact. "Their motive is the changed will."
She made a note on her legal pad. "The timing of the new will can't be a coincidence. Within hours of its being signed and witnessed, Charlene was dead."
"Following that logic, the person who most benefits from Charlene's death is me. My daughter inherits the bulk of the estate."
As he turned onto the winding two-lane road that led to the house, the night closed more tightly around them. The facts weighed against him.
"Someone else benefits," she pointed out. "Your estranged wife."
"Victoria? She wasn't anywhere near the estate last night."
"'We don't know that. The surveillance camera was off." She gestured with her pen. "But Victoria couldn't have been the person Annette saw carrying Charlene's body."
He wasn't so sure. Victoria was tall and in excellent physical condition. "Put her name on the list."
"I'll talk to Annette tonight and find out if her 'monster' could have been a woman," Liz said. "Her room is right next to mine."
Again, his concentration slid away from their list of suspects and refocused on the woman sitting beside him. Since her supposed job at the house was as a maid, she would, of course, stay in the upstairs quarters.
In the back of his mind, he'd hoped for a different sleeping arrangement. He wanted her closer to him, preferably in his bed.
As he came around a sharp turn at the foot of a forested slope, his headlights shone on an obstacle in the road. No way around it. He slammed on the brakes.
Chapter Eleven
Unable to come to a complete stop in time, the bumper of Ben's Mustang nudged the object in the road. He threw the car in Reverse, backed up.
His headlights shone on the carcass of a bull elk with a full rack of antlers.
"Did you kill him?" she demanded in the accusing tone of an outraged city girl who thought anything with fur and hooves was Bambi.
"Not enough impact." In a fatal collision between a seven-hundred-pound animal and his Mustang, the car would have been totaled. "He was dead before we got here."
