Snakebit

by Linsey Lanier

  It was mid-afternoon when she pulled up to the curb outside the storefront with the blue-and-white awning.

  Eyeing the sign with the name of the place written in a French script, Wesson let out an enthusiastic squeak. “Now this is my wheelhouse.”

  For a moment Miranda sat, tapping the wheel.

  Wesson had been doing well and she certainly seemed to have a better attitude than Holloway. “Why don’t you take this one, then?” she offered.

  Wesson looked surprised. “You mean lead the questioning?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  She broke into a big grin. “Thanks, Steele.”

  When Wesson got out of the car she was beaming. It reminded Miranda of the way she felt the first time Parker let her ask the questions. They walked up the steps and opened the door to the chime of Fur Elise, making Miranda recall the first time she stepped through that door with Parker.

  She’d wanted to turn and run.

  They strolled in, passed the mannequins in the window and inhaled the scent of pricey flowery perfumes. The counter was unmanned. It was probably slow this time of day. Miranda made her way around a table laden with colorful sweater tops. She bypassed the racks of designer jeans and business suits and evening wear, and headed for the three carpeted steps that led to the fitting area. As she neared the spot, she heard voices.

  She crooked a finger at Wesson, and her co-worker followed her up the stairs to a circular section bordered with elegant gold-framed settees and Queen Anne chairs.

  In a corner, a young woman arranged a billowing bridal gown on a mannequin. The nearby rack of sequined bridesmaids gowns made Miranda think of the day her wedding party picked out their dresses here. How had she survived it?

  Across the room stood a skinny, long-haired man in a silver spandex outfit with dozens of pockets. He was talking to a tall blond woman dressed in a demur dark suit.

  “I don’t know, Isaiah,” she said.

  He held up one of the garments he’d draped over the arm of a nearby settee. “I’m telling you, Donna. Stripes and polka dots are making a comeback.”

  She put a finger to her chin and considered the selection, a bold piece with flouncy sleeves and multicolor dots of various shapes over a blue-and-white striped fabric. “Our clientele tends to be more conservative. They prefer a polished flair.”

  He picked up another garment. “Oh, but boxy shapes and drawstring will be hot this spring.”

  “We need more dress blouses and slacks. And straight skirts.”

  “Yes, but with color.”

  She reached for the boxy outfit, studied it a moment, and handed it back. “All right. We’ll try one order. If it doesn’t sell, we’ll put it on half-price like we did last year.”

  The man in silver seemed crestfallen. “Only one? Are you sure?”

  “Very sure. And if you send me more like you did last season, I promise I’m sending it all back.” As she turned away, she caught sight of the two women in her showroom. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you come in. How can I help you?”

  When Wesson stood there frozen, Miranda gave her a nudge.

  “Right,” she murmured, coming to life. She cleared her throat and addressed the woman. “Are you Donna Jacobs?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  She strode toward the store owner, hand extended. “Ms. Jacobs, I’m Janelle Wesson and this is Miranda Steele. We work for the Parker Investigative Agency.”

  Casting a look of curiosity toward the ladies, the dude in silver gathered his wares and hurried out of the room through a side door.

  Shaking Wesson’s hand, Ms. Jacobs straightened her back. “Wade Parker is a regular customer of ours. I believe we did the dresses for his wedding. I was in New York at the time.” She eyed Miranda. “You’re Miranda Steele, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am. It’s good to meet you.” She shook hands with the woman, as well.

  “I believe we met at a fundraiser last spring.”

  “We might have.” She needed to get in the habit of remembering all of Parker’s social contacts. “Unfortunately, we’re here about the death of your sister.”

  Her face seemed to lose its color. “That happened a long time ago.”

  “Ten years ago,” Wesson said in a sympathetic tone. “But we have a few lingering questions. Could we have a few minutes of your time?”

  Good intro, Miranda thought.

  With an uneasy expression, Donna Jacobs stared at Wesson for a moment, then gestured toward the settee. “Of course. Why don’t we sit down? Holly,” she called to the clerk fussing with the bridal mannequin. “Why don’t you check the inventory in the back? You can finish that up later.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The young woman got to her feet and scampered out through a rear door.

  Donna Jacobs smoothed her blond hair, which was pulled back in a chic updo. “It’s a lot of work running this store. We always have to keep on our toes and think months ahead.”

  Wesson turned toward her on the settee. “I know. It’s so hard to guess what customers will want three or four months from now. And if you guess wrong, you wind up with overstock.”

  She smiled with genuine pleasure. “You’ve had retail experience?”

  “I ran a boutique in LA a few years back.”

  “Oh, how interesting. I thought of opening something back there. An expansion of what we have here, perhaps.”

  “Maybe I can put you in touch with some folks.”

  Not too chummy, Wesson.

  Miranda cleared her throat. “Ms. Jacobs, we’re wondering how close you were to your sister.”

  The woman’s lips thinned. It was clear she didn’t want to discuss the subject, but she obliged. “Very close. We talked almost every week. Charmaine was always busy with her research work, and I was always traveling. But we managed to get a half hour or so in here and there. I still talk to her.”

  Miranda watched Wesson frown.

  “I don’t really talk to her. She’s buried at St. Simon’s. I meant I visit her grave on a regular basis.”

  “I see,” said Wesson, picking up the questioning. “Were you close growing up, too?”

  “Yes, though we were nothing alike. I used to tease her about being the brainiac of the family. She used to say I got the artistic genes.” Ms. Jacobs rubbed the fabric of her skirt. “She was so smart. Did you know she started college at sixteen?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “By the time she was twenty, she was doing graduate work. By the time she was twenty-five, she was teaching at Emory and doing her research.” She put a palm to her face as her voice broke. “I miss her so much.”

  “We’re so sorry for your loss.” Wesson waited a beat, then cleared her throat. “We hate to bring up the past, but how well did you know Charmaine’s husband?”

  Donna’s eyes narrowed and her posture grew stiff. “None of us in the family knew him very well when she married him right out of grad school. It was a whirlwind courtship. Charmaine and Clarence kept to themselves.”

  “So you didn’t see your sister and her husband much?”

  “Not regularly. Holidays, special occasions. We went to our parents’ cabin one summer for a long weekend. Charmaine stayed on the computer the whole time, while Clarence went hunting for snakes in the woods.” She shivered. “Really, I never understood what she saw in the man.”

  “Doesn’t sound like they were very close.”

  Good point, Miranda thought.

  “I suppose they were for a while, until that last year.” Her eyes took on a distant look.

  “What happened then?” Wesson said softly.

  “That was when they began to argue.”

  Miranda sat up. Sounded like what Spring Fairchild had told them yesterday.

  “What did they argue about?” Wesson said.

  Miranda expected a none-of-your-business answer.

  Instead Ms. Jacobs looked Wesson straight in the eye and said, “Children.”

  Wesson gave Mi
randa a look of surprise. They hadn’t heard this before.

  Her co-worker turned back to Ms. Jacobs. “They were arguing about children?”

  She nodded. “Apparently. By the time Charmaine told me about it, they’d been fighting for some time. Clarence had wanted children right away. She wanted to wait. She was too involved in her career to take care of a baby. He thought they could hire a nanny or something. Charmaine didn’t like that idea at all.”

  “She didn’t want kids?”

  “She did someday. Just not as soon as Clarence wanted them. But he pressured her into trying, and so they did. It didn’t work. Ironically it turned out he had a low sperm count.”

  Exactly what Fry had discovered from the DNA.

  Miranda watched Wesson shift her weight on the settee. “Do you know if the arguments got heated?”

  Donna’s lips thinned again. “She called me in tears a few times, but she never said he struck her or anything like that. He just made her feel inadequate. As a woman, do you know what I mean?”

  Now they were in Miranda’s wheelhouse. “Yes, I do,” she said from her armchair.

  “Eventually Clarence talked her into getting treated.”

  “Treated?” Wesson said. “You mean at a fertility clinic?”

  “Yes. The Xavier Fertility Institute in Alpharetta. They tried a lot of procedures, but nothing worked, so they gave up.” Ms. Jacobs rose and began to distract herself by going through the dresses on a nearby rack.

  Wesson stared at her.

  Miranda could hardly believe her ears. Her mind started to race. Forgetting Wesson was supposed to be in charge, she asked, “Anything involving—frozen sperm?”

  Nodding sadly, Ms. Jacobs straightened the chiffon skirt of a deep blue gown. “Yes. They tried artificial insemination and in vitro. After that, Char couldn’t take any more. She told Clarence she’d had enough.”

  Wesson held up a hand. “Wait. This was over ten years ago. How is it that you remember the name of the clinic your sister went to?”

  Ms. Jacobs perched on the arm of the settee opposite them and rubbed her forehead. “Because of the man who ran it.”

  Wesson raised her phone to make a note. “And who was that?”

  “Dr. Lawrence Xavier, Char’s first boyfriend.”

  Miranda nearly swallowed her tongue. “Did you say boyfriend?”

  “They dated all through high school. They were both accepted into Emory and kept seeing each other exclusively in college. We all thought they would get married. But then Clarence came along.”

  Wesson put down her phone. “Why did your sister choose her former boyfriend’s clinic for…something so personal?”

  “When Clarence came up with the idea of getting that sort of help, she contacted Larry. I think she was hoping he’d talk Clarence out of it. I know they saw each other privately a few times.”

  “Charmaine and this Dr. Xavier?” Wesson said.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you mean by privately?” Miranda wanted to know.

  “I think they went for coffee or lunch. Something like that.”

  Miranda watched Donna’s face. She seemed perfectly candid. “Anything else?”

  “I don’t think Char was cheating on Clarence. She wouldn’t do something like that. But I remember in one of our last phone calls, she asked me if I thought you could be in love with two men at the same time.”

  Miranda had to catch her breath after that one. “What did you tell her?”

  “I laughed it off and told her she was being silly. I wish I’d taken her more seriously now.”

  Miranda’s head was spinning with this news. She wanted to rush out of the shop and call Parker.

  But Wesson had one more question. “Ms. Jacobs, are there any other family members who were close to Charmaine we could speak to?”

  Good thinking. Others might know more.

  She shook her head. “Our father is dead. He passed a few years after Charmaine. I think it was what happened to my sister that caused his heart to stop. Our mother is in an Alzheimer’s facility. At least she can’t remember what happened.”

  Miranda leaned forward. “Ms. Jacobs. You didn’t say any of this at the trial. Why not?”

  “My attorney advised me not to. It wasn’t relevant.”

  Not relevant? It was the most relevant information they’d found in ten years of investigation. And now it was time to act on it.

  Miranda got to her feet. “Thank you for your time.”

  Donna rose, her expression growing cold. “Ms. Steele.”

  “Yes?”

  “I know Clarence hired your husband to prove him innocent. I assume you’re still trying to do that before he’s executed.”

  “Yes, we are.” No need to lie. She’d see through it.

  “That man may seem harmless, but that’s the face he wears in public. In private, he had a mean streak. I know Clarence killed my sister. So you’re wasting your time.”

  In her very biased opinion. “Thank you, again.”

  Without responding to the statement, Miranda turned and hurried out of the shop with Wesson at her heels. She got into the car and drove off, her mind racing. All she knew was she had to get hold of her husband.

  “Call Parker,” she said to Wesson.

  “Dialing.”

  Parker’s low, authoritative voice came over the speaker. “Yes, Detective?”

  “Parker,” Miranda said over the noise of traffic. “We’ve got news. How soon can you and Estavez get me in to see Dr. Boudreaux?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  An hour and a half later Miranda was perched on the hard metal stool in the suffocating interview room in the Georgia Diagnostic and Classification State Prison, staring through the glass into Dr. Clarence Boudreaux’s bewildered wide set eyes.

  She pressed the phone to her ear. “Why didn’t you tell us you and your wife had been to a fertility clinic?”

  “I—I don’t know.” As if searching for help the doctor gazed up at Parker, who was standing close beside her.

  “Just tell us the truth, Clarence.” Parker had been stunned over the things the prisoner’s sister-in-law had told Miranda and Wesson that afternoon.

  After leaving Elegant Ensembles, she’d dropped Wesson off at the Agency to hunt up info on the ex-boyfriend, hopped in the car with Parker and raced down here, filling him in on the details as they went.

  “Donna Jacobs told us you and Charmaine were trying artificial insemination. Is that true?”

  Dr. Boudreaux turned to Estavez, who stood on Miranda’s other side.

  The lawyer leaned toward the phone. “All we need is for you to verify what your-sister-in-law said.”

  As if in great pain Dr. Boudreaux closed his eyes. “Yes, it’s true, but—”

  Miranda slapped the table. Why was he making this like pulling teeth? “You and Charmaine went to the Xavier Fertility Institute in Alpharetta.”

  “Yes. Yes, we did. She and I had been trying to have a child for years and couldn’t. As a last resort, we went to the Fertility Institute.”

  “Didn’t you think you should have mentioned that before now?” She felt Parker’s hand tighten on her shoulder. He wanted her to be gentle.

  Dr. Boudreaux raised his hands. “Why?”

  Miranda slid her hand into her lap to hide the fist, tight with frustration. “Because, Doctor, it means the Xavier Fertility Institute has a sample of your sperm. Why didn’t you tell your lawyer about that?”

  The doctor let out a low moan and shook his head. “Because it was immaterial. Charmaine and I agreed if nothing happened, if she didn’t conceive, the sample would be destroyed. We signed papers to that effect. The sample wasn’t in existence at the time of—when Charmaine passed.”

  Maybe, maybe not. Miranda sat back, tapped her fingers on the stained counter. “Did you know Dr. Lawrence Xavier and your wife knew each other?”

  “Yes, I knew that.”

  “Did you know they dated in h
igh school and college?”

  “Of course, I did. Charmaine was dating him when we met. She broke up with him to be with me.”

  And wasn’t that an interesting fact. She wanted more from him. “Donna Jacobs said you and Charmaine disagreed about having children. You fought over it. She said you had a mean streak.”

  Looking wounded, he closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’ll admit I said some things to her I shouldn’t have. Things I’ve regretted for the past decade. But Charmaine could be the mean one.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “For example, when the results of my sperm test came back she told me I wasn’t a real man.”

  Not the thing a guy likes to hear. “That must have made you angry.”

  “Yes, it did. But that didn’t mean I didn’t love her. We fought at times, but we always made up. Charmaine always called Donna when she was upset. Donna took what she said the wrong way.”

  Like Parker had reminded her, all couples argue. But how far had it escalated? “Dr. Boudreaux, was your wife having an affair with Lawrence Xavier?”

  He looked as if she had reached through the glass and slapped him. “You mean after we were married?” He shook his head, his face twisting with denial. “No, she wouldn’t do that. I don’t think she was.” He put his hand over his mouth and stared at the wall.

  Interesting answer. There was more to this love triangle. Maybe a lot more.

  “Is there anything else you’ve been keeping from us?”

  “No,” he repeated, this time with conviction. “And I don’t see what Lawrence Xavier has to do with my case.”

  Scientists sure didn’t think like lawyers. “I’ll tell you what it has to do with it. One word. Motive.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Miranda paced back and forth between the sofas in Parker’s penthouse feeling as antsy as if she’d just downed a bucket of strong coffee.

  “I can’t wait until tomorrow to rake Xavier over the coals.”

  By the time they got back from the prison, Wesson had found a private cell number for Dr. Lawrence Xavier and tried to call it, but he wasn’t answering, so they’d decided to visit the institute in the morning.