by Nora Roberts
earth freshly watered.
She’d always loved flowers. In the years she’d lived in Manhattan, she’d put geraniums on the windowsill every spring. Perhaps she’d inherited that love, that need for flowers from Eve. But she didn’t want to think about that now.
As the minutes passed, she grew calmer. While her mind drifted, she began to toy with the broach she’d pinned to her jacket that morning. The broach her mother—the only mother she’d ever known—had left her. Justice. Both of her parents had devoted their lives to it. And to her.
She remembered so much—being driven to school on that first terrifying day, being held and rocked. The stories she’d been told at bedtime. The Christmas she’d been given the shiny two-wheeler with the white plastic basket on the front. And the pain, the confusion when divorce had separated the people she loved and depended on most of all. The way they had united in support of her during her pregnancy. How proud they’d been of Brandon; how they’d helped her finish her education. How painful it had been, and still was, to know she had lost both of them.
But nothing could dim her memories, or her emotions. Maybe that’s what she’d been most afraid of. Afraid that if she’d known the circumstances of her birth, it would have diminished somehow that connection with the people who had raised her.
That wasn’t going to happen. Steadier, she rose again. No matter what was said, no matter what transpired between her and Eve, nothing could change that bond.
She would always be Julia Summers.
Now it was time to face the rest of her heritage.
She started back to the guest house. Eve could come to her there, where they could have complete privacy. She stopped at the door to search through her bag for her keys. When was she going to learn not to drop them so carelessly into the black hole of her purse? When her fingers closed over them, she gave a little sigh of satisfaction. Her mind sketched out a vague plan as she unlocked the door.
She would treat herself to a glass of white wine, marinate some chicken for dinner, then call Eve. She wouldn’t plan the conversation at all, but let it happen naturally. After it was over, she would call Paul. She could tell him everything, knowing he would help her sort it out.
Maybe they could take Brandon away for the weekend, just to relax, just to be together. It might be healthy to put a little distance between herself and Eve. After dropping her briefcase and purse on a chair, she started to turn toward the kitchen.
It was then Julia saw her.
She could only stare. Not even scream. It wasn’t possible to scream when she’d stopped breathing. It passed hazily through her mind that it must be a play. Surely the curtain would come down any second, then Eve would smile that dazzling smile and take her bows.
But she wasn’t smiling, or standing. She was sprawled on the floor, her magnificent body turned awkwardly on its side. Her pale face was propped on one outstretched arm, as if she’d settled herself down for a lazy nap. But her eyes were open. Wide and unblinking, their zest and passion drained.
Seeping darkly into the pretty rug in front of the low hearth was the blood that dripped from the gaping wound at the base of her skull.
“Eve.” Julia took one stumbling step forward, then dropped to her knees to take Eve’s cold hand in hers. “Eve, no.” Frantic, she tried to lift her, to force the limp body to its feet. Blood soaked her shirt, smeared her jacket.
Then she screamed.
On her wild rush to the phone, she tripped. Still reeling with shock, she bent down to pick up the brass poker that lay on the floor. Blood glistened wetly on it. With a sound of revulsion, she tossed it aside. Her fingers trembled so badly she was sobbing by the time she managed to dial 911.
“I need help.” Saying the words had her stomach heaving into her throat. She fought it back. “Please, I think she’s dead. You have to help.” Breath hitching, she listened to the dispatcher’s soothing voice and instructions. “Just come,” Julia demanded. “Come quickly.” She forced out the address, then jangled the phone back onto the hook. Before she had time to think, she was dialing again. “Paul. I need you.”
She couldn’t say any more. As his voice buzzed through the receiver, she dropped the phone to crawl back to Eve. To take her hand.
There were uniformed police at the gate when Paul got there. But he already knew. Unable to contact Julia again on the car phone while he’d raced from Malibu, he’d finally reached a hysterical maid at the main house.
Eve was dead.
He’d told himself it was a mistake, some kind of horrible joke. But his gut had known differently. All through the long, frustrating drive he’d fought to ignore that empty, clutching feeling in the pit of his stomach, that dry burning in his throat. The minute he pulled up at the gate, he’d known it was hopeless.
“I’m sorry, sir.” The cop moved over to speak through the window of Paul’s car. “No one’s allowed through.”
“I’m Paul Winthrop,” he said flatly. “Eve Benedict’s stepson.”
With a nod, the cop turned away and pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt. After a brief conversation, he signaled the gate.
“Please drive directly to the guest house.” He slid into the passenger’s seat. “I’ll have to go with you.”
Paul said nothing, only started up the drive he’d cruised along countless times. He spotted more uniformed police walking over the estate slowly, fanned out like a search team. Searching for what? he wondered. For whom?
There were more cars, still more police surrounding the guest house. The air buzzed with the squawking from the radios. It rang with weeping. Travers was slumped onto the grass, sobbing into the apron she held to her face. And Nina, her arms around the housekeeper, her own face damp with tears, blank with shock.
Paul got out of the car and took one step toward the house before the cop stopped him.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Winthrop, you can’t go in.” “I want to see her.”
“Only official personnel allowed on the crime scene.”
He knew the drill, goddammit, knew it every bit as well as this snot-nosed cop who’d barely begun to shave. Turning, he frosted the young officer with a single glance.
“I want to see her.”
“Look, I’ll, ah, check, but you’re going to have to wait until the coroner gives the okay.”
Paul yanked out a cigar. He needed something to take the taste of grief and waste out of his mouth. “Who’s in charge here?”
“Lieutenant Needlemeyer.” “Where is he?”
“Around in back. Hey,” he said as Paul started around. “He’s conducting an investigation.” “He’ll see me.”
They were on the terrace, seated at the cheerful table, surrounded by flowers. Paul’s gaze passed over Needlemeyer briefly, locked on Julia. Ice. Her face was so clear, so pale, so cold. She was gripping a glass in both hands, her fingers so tightly molded to it, they might have been glued.
And there was blood. On her skirt, on her jacket. Terror ripped through his grief.
“Julia.”
Her nerves were stretched so tight, the sound of her name had her leaping up. The glass flew out of her hands to shatter on the tiles. For an instant she swayed as the air went thick and gray. Then she was racing toward him.
“Paul. Oh, God, Paul.” The trembling started again the moment his arms came around her. “Eve” was all she could say. And again. “Eve.”
“Are you hurt?” He wanted to yank her back, to see for himself, but couldn’t force his arms to loosen their grip. “Tell me if you’re hurt.”
She shook her head, gulping in air. Control. She had to take back some control now or she’d never find it again. “She was in the house when I got home. In the house, on the floor. I found her on the floor. Paul, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Paul looked over her shoulder. Needlemeyer hadn’t moved, but sat quietly, watching. “Do you have to do this now?” Paul demanded.
“Always the best time.”
They knew each
other, had known each other for more than eight years, and had become friends through Paul’s research.
Frank T. Needlemeyer had never wanted to be anything but a cop. He’d never looked like anything but a graduate student—one who majored in party. Paul knew he was nearly forty, but his baby face showed no sign of age. Professionally, he had seen just about all the ugliness humanity had to offer. Personally, he’d weathered two miserable marriages. He’d come through it without a line, without a gray hair, and with the stubborn confidence that things could be made right if you kept hacking away at wrong.
And because they knew each other, Frank understood how much Eve Benedict had meant to Paul. “She was a hell of a woman, Paul. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.” He wasn’t ready for sympathy, not yet. “I need to see her.”
Frank nodded. “I’ll arrange it.” Then let out a quiet breath. Obviously the woman Paul had told him about the last time they’d tossed back a few was Julia Summers. How had he described her? Frank flipped through his memory of Paul, tipping back a long-neck beer, grinning.
“She’s stubborn, likes to be in control. Probably comes from having to raise a kid on her own. Got a great laugh—but she doesn’t laugh enough. Irritates the hell out of me. I think I’m crazy about her.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Bleary with drink, Frank had grinned back. “But I want to hear about her body. Start with her legs.”
“Amazing. Absolutely amazing.”
Frank had already noted Paul had been right about those legs. But right now it looked as if Julia Summers’s legs weren’t going to hold her up for long. “Would you sit down, Miss Summers? If you don’t have any objection, Paul can stay while we talk.”
“No, I … please.” She gripped Paul’s hand.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He took the seat beside her.
“Okay, now we’re going to start right at the beginning. Do you want some more water?”
She shook her head. More than anything, she wanted to get this over with.
“What time did you get home?”
“I don’t know.” She took a long, steadying breath. “Joe. Joe at the gate might remember. I’d had an appointment this morning with Gloria DuBarry. After, I drove around …”
“You called me about noon,” Paul prompted her. “From the BHH.”
“Yes, I called you, then I drove around some more.” “Do you drive around like that often?” Frank asked. “I had things on my mind.”
Frank watched the look pass between her and Paul, and waited.
“I got here just when Gloria was leaving, and—”
“Miss DuBarry was here?” Frank interrupted.
“Yes, I guess she was here to … to see Eve. She was pulling out of the gate as I drove up. I talked to Joe for a few minutes, then I parked my car in front of the house. I didn’t want to go in yet. I …” She dropped her hands into her lap, gripped them together. Saying nothing, Paul covered them with his own. “I walked to the gardens and sat on a bench. I don’t know how long. Then I went to the house.”
“Which way did you go in?”
“The front. I unlocked the front door.” When her voice broke, she pressed her hand to her mouth. “I was going to get some wine, going to marinate some chicken for dinner. And then I saw her.”
“Go on.”
“She was lying on the rug. And the blood was … I think I went to her, tried to wake her up. But she …”
“Your call to 911 came in at one twenty-two.”
Julia shuddered once, then settled. “I called 911, then I called Paul.”
“What did you do then?”
She looked away, away from him, away from the house. There were butterflies floating above the columbine. “I sat with her until they came.”
“Miss Summers, do you know why Miss Benedict would have been in the guest house?”
“Waiting for me. I—we were working on the book.”
“Her biography,” Frank said with a nod. “During the course of time you’ve been working with her, did Miss Benedict indicate to you that someone might wish her harm?”
“There were a lot of people who were unhappy about the book. Eve knew things.” She stared down at her hands, then into his eyes. “I have tapes, Lieutenant, tapes of my interviews with Eve.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d let me have them.”
“They’re inside.” In a quick, convulsive movement her fingers tightened on Paul’s. “There’s more.”
She told him about the notes, about the break-in, the theft, the plane. As she talked, Frank took short, scattered notes and kept his eyes on her face. This was a lady, he thought, about to snap and determined not to.
“Why wasn’t the break-in reported?”
“Eve wanted to handle it herself. Later, she told me that it had been Drake—her nephew Drake Morrison—and that she’d dealt with him.”
Frank jotted down the initials D.M., circled them. “I’ll need the notes.”
“I have them—with the tapes—in the safe.”
His brow lifted slightly, his own sign of interest. “I know this is tough on you, Miss Summers, and there isn’t a hell of a lot I can do to make it easier.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the uniforms come to the kitchen door and signal. “After you’ve had a chance to settle a bit, I’ll need you to come down, give a formal statement. I’d also like to take your prints.”
“Christ, Frank.”
He shot Paul a look. “It’s standard. We need to match any of the prints we come up with on the scene. Pretty obvious yours’ll be there, Miss Summers. Eliminating them will help.”
“It’s all right. Whatever it takes, I’ll do. You need to know …” She fought grimly to keep her breath from hitching. “She was more than a subject to me. Much more than that, Lieutenant. Eve Benedict was my mother.”
What a fucking mess.
Frank wasn’t thinking about the crime scene. He’d been on too many to allow himself to be overly affected by the aftermath of violent death. He hated murder, despised it as the darkest of sins. But he was a cop, first and last, and it wasn’t his job to philosophize. It was his job to find a firm grip on the slippery rope of justice.
It was his friend he was thinking about as he watched Paul stand over the draped body. As he watched him reach down to touch the dead face.
Frank had cleared the room, and the forensic boys weren’t too happy. They still had their dusting and vacuuming to do. But there were times you bent the rules. Paul was entitled to a couple of minutes alone with a woman he’d loved for twenty-five years.
He could hear movement upstairs, where he’d sent Julia with a policewoman. She needed to change, to gather up whatever personal items she and her kid would need. No one without a badge would be coming inside this house for some time.
Eve still looked beautiful, Paul reflected. Seeing that helped somehow. Whoever had done this hadn’t been able to take her beauty from her.
She was too pale, of course. Too still. Shutting his eyes, he struggled over another raw wave of grief. She wouldn’t want that. He could almost hear her laugh, feel her pat his cheek.
“Darling,” she would say. “I packed more than enough into one life, so don’t shed any tears for me. Now, I expect— hell, I demand that my fans weep copiously and gnash their teeth. The studios should shut down for a goddamn day of mourning. But I want the people I love to get stinking drunk and have one hell of a party.”
Gently, he slipped her hand into his, raised it to his lips for the last time. “Bye, gorgeous.”
Frank laid a hand on his shoulder. “Come on out back.”
With a nod, Paul turned away from her. God knew he needed the air. The moment he stepped onto the terrace, he took a big gulp of it.
“How?” was all he said.
“Blow to the base of the skull. Looks like the fireplace poker. I know it doesn’t help much, but the coroner thinks death was instantaneous.”
“No, it doesn’t help.” He s
tuffed impotent fists into his pockets. “I’m going to need to make arrangements. How soon will you … when will you release her to me?”
“I’ll let you know. I can’t do any better than that. You’re going to have to talk to me, officially.” He pulled out a cigarette. “I can come to you, or you can come downtown.”
“I need to take Julia away from here.” He accepted the cigarette Frank offered, leaned into the flame of the match. “She and Brandon will stay with me. She’s going to need some time.”
“I’ll give her what I can, Paul, but you’ve got to understand.