by Becki Willis
Genny’s blond head bobbed as she explained, “They said she used to be quite a looker. Glossy dark hair that hung to her waist. Then her husband was killed in an offshore drilling accident and her hair went from brown to solid white, almost overnight. Stress, they said. She almost had a nervous breakdown.”
Still unconvinced, Madison frowned. “She even dressed like an old lady.”
“So do you.”
Madison refused to look down at her outfit. Okay, so polyester wasn’t the best choice on a day like today. Despite the stylish new clothes recently hanging in her closet, she often reverted to a favorite old standby. A simple pair of dark slacks and a solid color button-down shirt took less effort than color coordinating an entire ensemble.
“I prefer to call my look classic,” she sniffed coolly.
Genny’s dimples deepened. “And I prefer to call myself skinny, but it don’t make it so, girlfriend.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She ignored the ribbing and concentrated on their mission. She nibbled her lip in worry. “Did he say what he wanted to hire me for? I hope he doesn’t bring up Miss Gloria’s death. I’m not sure I can keep a straight face if he does.”
Both women tried to fight it, but the urge to smile, even just a little, was too strong. Amusement tugged at the corners of their lips.
“Okay, I’ll say it,” Genny finally blurted out. “Never in my life have I heard of anyone dying that way! Bless her heart, I know it’s tragic, but it’s also just a little bit hilarious.”
Madison bit her lip, trying hard not to smile. “I know. It is rather … unique.”
The details of Gloria’s death were still sketchy, but she had died soon after self-administering a large-capacity enema. According to talk around town, preliminary autopsy reports pointed to extreme levels of alcohol in her bloodstream, even though she was not known as a heavy drinker.
“Unique?” Genny cackled. “I’ve heard of getting shit-faced drunk, but that’s a new low!”
In spite of the seriousness of the situation, both friends burst out in snickers.
“We—We—We’re terrible,” Madison acknowledged.
“I know. We should be a—ashamed of ourselves.” She could barely say the words for laughing so hard.
“If he as much as mentions her name, it could get m—messy!”
After several more wisecracks and a hearty round of laughter, they tampered their humor down to residual giggles. Soon they turned into the long white-rocked road leading up the hill.
Carson Elliot resided in a huge old house atop a high hill several miles from Juliet. Having long since been divided into smaller tracks of land, there was little left of the old cotton plantation, other than the dwelling. The aging structure seemed out of place among the neighboring houses. Most were low-slung brick ranch styles, while others were mobile homes. A few were newer and larger, but none had the style and grace of the old Georgian mansion on the hill.
While smaller and less imposing than the house Madison would soon call home, the house was impressive in its own right. A vibrant federal blue and white color scheme gave the old home an upbeat energy. The grounds were impressive, with a rich riot of colors in all the window boxes and the numerous flowerbeds that edged the walkway and front steps. Despite the oppressive summer heat, the lawn was magnificent.
Before they reached the top step, the door swung open and a handsome gentleman stepped out to greet them. One glance at Carson Elliot, and Madison understood her friend’s enthusiasm for coming.
Tall and lanky, the man had the lithe, toned body of a dancer. His every movement was fluid and grace. Dark hair, frosted eloquently with fine strands of silver, pulled back from his face into a long ponytail. He wore flowing white pants and a loose-fitting, black and white shirt that glowed against his dark skin.
Simply put, the man was beautiful.
A delighted smile split his dark face. “Ah, Genesis. You came. And you must be Madison Reynolds. I have heard wonderful things about you.”
“Why, thank you. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine.” He shook Madison’s hand with casual formality. Then he turned to Genny, taking her hand in an intimate gesture and lifting it to his lips. “I had the pleasure of meeting your friend this morning.” His smile deepened. “I’m so happy you could make it. Please, do come in.”
The entry was as dramatic as the man. Expensive artwork and exotic vases set upon marble pedestals filled the sweeping space. Large archways on either side of the entry led to his dance studios. The one to the left had mirrors and rails, the one to the right had richly appointed walls and crystal chandeliers. It took no imagination to know which was for ballet, which for waltzes.
“Come, we will visit in my personal residence.”
He led the way up a curved staircase. Twenty-five years their senior, he took the steps twice as quickly, and twice as gracefully, as either woman.
Double doors led into his private domain. Here the style was less formal and more eclectic. The man obviously appreciated the arts. One-of-a-kind sculptures, signed oil paintings, and intricate porcelain pieces occupied every surface.
Madison felt a bit claustrophobic from the array of color, alone.
She was relieved when they passed through that room into a smaller and more intimate library turned office. Here the decor did a complete one-eighty. The colors and the mood of the room were dark, rich, and somber. Except for the excess of stuffed and mounted heads on the walls, she felt much more at home in this space.
“Can I offer you ladies a drink?” he asked, pausing beside a well-stocked liquor cabinet.
“Nothing for me, thanks.”
“I’m good.”
“Very well. But before we get down to business, I must ask your opinion on something.” He tapped a long tapering finger against his lips. “I am considering donating a dance class to be auctioned off during the fire department’s fundraising event this fall. Do you think that is something people in The Sisters would be interested in?”
“Of course!” Genny was the one to answer, her eyes twinkling with pleasure. “I, for one, would definitely bid on lessons.”
Carson studied her with intent eyes. Pursing his delicate lips, he made a thorough appraisal before nodding his approval. “You would make a worthy student. Your friend moves with natural grace. But you, my lovely Genesis, have passion.” He blew the word from his fingers with a kiss. “I will make this donation, but you, my dear, are welcome here anytime.”
Genny squirmed in her seat, obviously embarrassed by the eloquent words. For a man who recently buried his girlfriend, Carson Elliot was openly flirting. Madison tried to keep an open mind. She knew from first-hand experience that life went on, even when one’s mate, or marriage, died.
“So what can I do for you, Mr. Elliot?” she asked. “Genny tells me you are interested in retaining our services.”
When he was slow to pull his eyes from her friend, Madison somehow knew his answer would not be direct. “I had a most delightful surprise this morning,” he proclaimed. “After hearing such good things about the new bakery and café in town, I wanted to try it for myself. Imagine my delight when I discovered not only the lovely proprietor, but the best croissants I’ve had since leaving Paris.” He used the French pronunciation of the pastry, his tongue caressing each letter.
Madison smiled at her friend. “You’ll get no argument from me. Genny is a very talented baker.”
The man’s brow puckered in disapproval. “Why do you insist on calling her Genny? I much prefer the name Genesis. It has such a beautiful ring to it, befitting of its owner.” On his theatrical tongue, it did indeed sound special.
His eyes twinkled as he took in Genny’s flushed cheeks, but he continued, “During our delightful conversation, Miss Baker mentioned that you are somewhat of an amateur sleuth. I understand you work part time for a private investigator?”
“I’m not sure ‘sleuth’ is the right word,” Madison hedge
d. “You might say I am curious by nature, and that I like to solve puzzles. And as far as working with a private investigator, I mainly do routine surveillance,” she clarified. Code word for boring.
“But you have an impressive record in solving cases.”
“I’d like to think I helped clear up a few inconsistencies.”
Carson Elliot’s broad smile was bright against his dark skin. “And that is why I am hiring you, Mrs. Reynolds. You seem perfect for the job.”
“What job?” she squeaked.
He continued as if she had not spoken. “Money is not a concern,” he assured her. “If Genesis says you are worth it, that is good enough for me.”
Was this man for real? Madison had heard about these artistic types—brilliantly talented, but often not in full control of their mental facilities. Carson Elliot wanted to hire her, no questions asked, on the recommendation of someone he met just this morning. Madison wondered about his stability as he opened a desk drawer, took out a ledger, and began writing a check.
“I trust two thousand dollars will be enough to retain your services. If you will submit receipts for reimbursement, I will gladly pay for any research or expenses that you may incur.” He spoke as he wrote. With a flourishing movement of his hand, he ripped the check from its bindings and presented it to Madison.
By natural reflex, she reached for the check, even as she protested, “Mr. Elliot, I have no idea what it is you are hiring me to do!”
“Please, do call me Carson.”
“Very well, Carson. Please tell me why you wish to hire us.” Us consisted of her and one part-time employee, Derron Mullins.
Carson’s expressive mouth turned downward. His eyes no longer twinkled. His elegant frame seemed to shrink as he settled into his chair and spoke in a sad voice. “A friend of mine recently passed away. Her name was Gloria Jeffers.”
Madison had been wrong. She did not have the urge to smile when hearing the name. Now face to face with the man who obviously cared for the woman, Madison no longer found the circumstances of her unfortunate death amusing. “I am so sorry for your loss,” she said with sincerity. “I did not know Miss Gloria very well, but the few times I was around her, she seemed very nice. Her death was quite a shock.”
“What makes it all the more shocking is the fact that Gloria was not a drinker.”
Noting how his guests struggled for a suitable reply, the man insisted, “It is true. Gloria did not drink alcohol. It is impossible that she died of alcohol poisoning.”
Madison shot a wary look toward her friend. Genesis looked as confused as her.
“I am well aware of what people are saying,” Carson continued. “I know what the coroner’s preliminary report says. But I also know Gloria. She did not drink. It would be impossible for her to die in such a manner. Not of her own accord.”
“Are you… are you suggesting her death may not have been an accident?” Madison ventured to ask.
“That is exactly what I am saying.”
“Did you speak with Chief deCordova and tell him of your suspicions?”
“I did. He promised to keep my suggestions in mind, but frankly, I think he dismissed me as a grieving lover who was blind to his lady friend’s faults.”
Despite the dark scowl on his face, Genny spoke softly and asked, “Are you certain that’s not the case?”
“I was well aware of Gloria’s faults and weaknesses.” He met Genny’s concerned eyes and elaborated. “She hated summer heat and winter cold. She had no green thumb and could kill a cactus, although she recently became enchanted with plants as an herbal remedy. She was obsessed with reading, particularly those whodunits. When she wasn’t reading, she imagined a mystery in everything around her. She loved her theories, as she called them.” He paused with an affectionate chuckle. “She wanted to believe that I had a storied past, myself. Something much more exciting than a routine stint in the Army. I was nothing more than a field mechanic, but she wanted to believe I carried out undercover missions. She thought the government kept me from my first love, when in reality, it was the girl’s father who would not let her come with me to the States.”
The dance instructor kept his soulful eyes intent upon Genny’s sympathetic baby blues. “Gloria had her faults, but drinking alcohol was not one of them. As a wine enthusiast myself, I tried to share my hobby with her. She refused to take as much as a sip. So the idea that she drank herself to death is simply ludicrous.”
“Surely there is something you could do to contest the autopsy results…” Genny offered.
“There was no autopsy, just a postmortem blood test.”
“Can’t you request one?”
“I can’t,” he reported sadly. “It has to be done by a member of the family.”
Genny tried to recall what little she knew about Gloria Jeffers. “I think she had a son, isn’t that correct? Have you spoken to him?”
“Yes, but he has returned to Chicago and has not answered my calls.” He turned toward Madison. “And that is where you come in. I want you to find out what really happened to my friend. Examine her lifestyle. Talk to her friends. You will find there is absolutely no evidence Gloria was a drinker.”
Earlier, she and Genny had made snide remarks about the poor woman’s death. Guilt wracked her conscience. “I—I’m hardly qualified, Mr. Elliot,” she protested.
“You are exactly what I need. A smart, curious, meticulous professional who will uncover the truth.”
“Mr. Elliot—”
“Carson.”
“Carson, there is a huge gap between proving she did not drink and proving that she was murdered. For one thing, you need a suspect. Can you think of any reason that someone might want your friend dead?”
He stood from the desk and paced the room, his loose clothes flowing around his lithe body. Madison had trouble picturing this vibrant man with her vague recollection of the deceased woman.
“As I said, Gloria had quite the imagination. She often got carried away with herself.”
“Such as?”
“She had what she called her ‘theories.’ One such theory was that Moe’s Market injected flavor-enhancing and addictive drugs into their meat. She did her own informal investigation, buying the same cuts from different stores. None were as good as the ones she bought at Moe’s, so she was convinced it was something he added. Naturally, Moe was less than thrilled with her assessment. And she insisted that my gardener used some secret, highly scientific elixir to keep my lawn this green in the summer.”
“She might have had a point there,” Madison murmured, remembering the thriving bright colors outside.
He winced and admitted, “When she said it, it sounded much more like an accusation.”
“How did that set with your gardener?”
“The way you would imagine. My gardener has quite the ego.”
“None of your examples are reason enough for murder,” Madison pointed out.
“I’m not asking you to find out who killed her. The police can do that. I merely want you to prove that she could not have drunk herself to death.” He pointed to the check in her hand. “I will write you another check for twice that amount if you can convince the police to re-evaluate her death and investigate the matter more thoroughly.”
Four thousand dollars? Had she heard him correctly? One glance at Genny’s shocked expression, and she knew she heard right.
Before she could convince herself it was a foolish idea, Madison thrust her hand forward. “Agreed. I’ll bring a contract for you to sign, first thing in the morning.”
CHAPTER THREE
Before Madison could leave for the weekend in Dallas, she had the contract to deliver, errands to run, and a last minute meeting with her carpenter at the Big House.
She backed out of Granny Bert’s drive, mentally reviewing her list of errands. Anything to keep her mind off the dreaded weekend to come.
A large black car zoomed up behind her, stopping catty-corner to block her exit.
Half of the car was in the drive, half in the road. Madison slammed on the brakes in time to avoid a collision. The driver’s door opened and a man jumped out, striding her way angrily.
Great. Barry Redmond.
For a moment, she was tempted to ignore him. Their sole meeting in the past twenty-one years had not gone well. Barry, however, had no intentions of going ignored. Open palmed, he pounded on the glass until she reluctantly rolled it down.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” he demanded.
Something about the man irritated Madison to no end. It was more than the fact that he was a Redmond, she a Cessna. They had never gotten along in high school. By silent accord, they had agreed to disagree, no matter the topic. Back then, Madison had learned to ignore the spoiled little rich boy who had to buy his friends. She knew she should continue to ignore him, but she could no longer resist goading him. His face turned such an interesting shade of fuchsia when he was angry.
“Why, Barry, is your mind going, along with your hair? I’m Madison, remember? And I live here. You are the one who is trespassing on private property.”
“Don’t get smart with me, Madison Cessna. You told Lisa to divorce me and file for custody of my daughter. You can’t do that!” he bellowed.
Her voice remained calm. “And I didn’t. Lisa was planning on divorcing you before I ever talked to her.”
“You’re not a licensed PI! You had no right spying on me like that.”
“You’re right, I’m not. And I wasn’t spying. I merely observed, which is perfectly legal and requires no license.”
“You took pictures!”
“Again, perfectly legal.”
His face a dark mottled red, Barry leaned down to make certain Madison heard him when he made a low threat. “Stay out of my way, Madison Cessna, or you’ll be sorry. If Lisa tries to take Miley from me, I’ll hold you personally responsible. She belongs to me!”
“You do realize this is your daughter you’re talking about, not a fancy piece of furniture to be haggled over.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about. I’ll not pay that scrawny little woman one dime, even if she does take the kid!”
