by Tara Lain
He nodded.
“Okay, see you then. Sleep, okay? Say hi to the felines for me. I’m so sorry this whole mess is happening.”
“M-me too.” He slid out of the car and started walking between the houses toward his place. As he cut through a neighbor’s yard, he saw two strangers hanging out behind his Craftsman. He stopped and stepped closer to the nearby building. One of the men talked on his cell phone. The man nodded, looked at his companion, then seemed to click off. A moment later, they both walked around his house. Llewellyn took off like a rabbit, cut through the bushes, and made it into his back door before he was spotted. Fortunately he’d left the drapes closed. When he opened the door, the cats came running. He might be projecting, but they seemed to look surprised he was coming in the back door.
He knelt down and gave them all a pat, then stood, and they trailed him into the bedroom, meowing. “S-sorry, guys. I n-need to change before I f-feed you.” With fur swirling around his feet, he walked into the bedroom and straight into the closet. Whoa. The simplicity of the closet contents struck him, and for an instant he felt robbed. Take a breath.
With a jerk, he peeled off his jacket and then his shirt and carefully hung them in a neat row, then stripped off the khakis and held them out in front of him. “When did I d-decide to sentence myself to k-khaki?” He tweaked a hanging knit. “And sw-sweater vests?” He looked down into the upturned furry faces. “Do y-you think I could do better?”
Marie sat and cocked her head at him. “Meow.”
Clearly an affirmative vote.
He pulled on his sweats, slid on some flip-flops, and led the fuzz parade back to the kitchen. After he gave each critter his or her favorite food, he stared in the refrigerator. Not hungry, but one slice of pizza didn’t qualify as nutrition. He pulled a can of vegetable soup from the pantry, heated it in the microwave, and set it on the small kitchen table. After grabbing a spoon as he walked by the drawer, he sat and stared at the happy cats. At least he had company.
Company. Had he gotten used to having Blaise around so quickly? Yes, Blaise was an easy addiction. He stared at the floating vegetables in the broth. A toxic addiction.
Damn. He dipped his spoon, pulled up some soup, and stuck it in his mouth. “Mmmft!” He spit it back in the bowl. “Hot.” He stirred and stared at the ripples. Hot like Blaise, and heat hurts.
His spoon clanged against the side of the bowl, and Marie and Emily both looked up. Nothing distracted Julius when he was eating.
Llewellyn looked at the girls. “It’s all your f-fault. Y-you told me it was okay t-to like him.” A soft sound came out of his mouth, and he slapped a hand over it, but the words escaped. “And d-damn, I liked him s-so much.”
He took a breath. Okay, so I always knew there was no reason for him to like me. No real reason. The fact that he had a whole other agenda pretty much fits with what I suspected, so being disappointed is stupid.
He carefully sipped the rapidly cooling soup. Once burned, twice shy. On a lot of levels. But that doesn’t mean I want him convicted of murder. Blaise didn’t do it. Llewellyn was so sure of that. I need to prove it. Then we can be done.
Marie raised her head a second before a knock came on his door.
All three of the felines started toward the entry.
“Don’t b-bother. It’s j-just the press.”
The knock came again, louder and more insistently.
“D-damn.” Were they allowed to do that?
Another knock and Llewellyn jumped up. Time to tell them to leave him alone. He stalked into the living room and pulled open the front door, driving the cats backward.
Oh.
The yard was full of reporters yelling, but on the porch were a man in a wheelchair and a woman. He recognized them as Roscoe and Jane de Vere. “C-come in.”
He stepped away from the entrance, and Jane tipped back Roscoe’s chair to get it over the flashing on the door sill, then pushed her brother inside. Quickly Llewellyn closed it behind her, shutting out a storm of questions.
Llewellyn turned, remembered that they didn’t know he’d recognize them, and said, “Hello. I’m Llewellyn L-Lewis.” He cocked his head as if asking who they were.
“I’m Jane de Vere, and this is my brother, Roscoe.”
Llewellyn nodded. “I guessed. I’m s-so sorry f-for your loss.”
“Thank you. Can we talk to you?”
He waved a hand toward the living room, and they moved in that direction, the cats following and sniffing at the wheels.
Llewellyn followed them. “C-can I get you s-something t-to drink?”
Jane nodded.
“Iced t-tea?”
“Thank you.”
During his trip to the kitchen, he took a few deep breaths. They both looked very serious. Of course, they had a dead sister, but he suspected their dour expressions went beyond grief—maybe all the way to greed.
He pulled down a tray, loaded three glasses, spoons, the sugar and cream containers, and napkins on it, and carried it back to the living room.
Killing time by preparing their tea as they requested—sugar and a little milk—he tried to watch them, especially Roscoe, who scowled ferociously. When he was done, Llewellyn sat on the couch opposite Jane, who had taken the chair closest to her brother’s spot. “How c-can I help y-you?”
“By telling us you’ve given up on this asinine obsession of Anne’s!” Roscoe pushed himself several inches out of the chair with his powerful forearms.
Llewellyn raised an eyebrow.
Jane said, “Roscoe, please. Mr. Lewis—”
“Dr. Lewis.” Llewellyn stared at her steadily.
“Of course, Dr. Lewis, we know that Anne offered you and the university a great deal of money to prove our father’s silly thesis.”
“It’s n-not his thesis, Ms. de Vere. Y-your ancestor’s possible identity as Shakespeare h-has been a popular c-concept for over a hundred y-years.”
“I understand. Regardless, now that Anne is gone, everyone remaining in the family opposes the idea of continuing with the investigation. This is the last of the family fortune, and we desperately need it for Roscoe’s care.”
“I h-have no knowledge of the d-dispensation of the m-money. I h-have been t-told, however, that your f-father provided funds specific to his p-passion.”
“That’s all well and good while he was alive, but he had no way of knowing how our circumstances would change.”
“I see. I have no specific d-designs on the m-money. It was offered in return for proving Edward de Vere was Shakespeare.”
Roscoe growled, “Well, that’s all over now.”
“I did get the impression, however, from M-Miranda that she didn’t c-care about the m-money.”
Roscoe’s eyebrows practically disappeared in his hair. “What?”
Jane put a hand on his arm. “You must be mistaken, Dr. Lewis. Miranda’s the most vehement of all of us. She hates the idea that the money’s being thrown away on a frivolous pursuit.”
Interesting. “Perhaps I m-misunderstood or she d-didn’t want me to know her f-feelings.”
“It’s possible, I suppose, but she’s really very obvious.” She sipped her tea. “So you won’t be pursuing the research.” It wasn’t a question.
“I d-didn’t say that. I w-won’t be pursuing the m-money.”
Roscoe snapped his head toward Llewellyn. “You can’t do that.”
“What?”
“Continue this fool’s errand. It’s ridiculous!”
“S-sir, I c-can research anything I d-desire.” He stood. “Again, I’m very s-sorry for your terrible loss.”
Jane rose, frowning. “Let’s go, Roscoe.”
They exited to the shouts and screams of the reporters, and Llewellyn closed the door quickly behind them. He leaned against it. Odd. Nothing about the de Veres quite added up.
His cell phone started ringing on the coffee table. Well, damn, so much for rest. He grabbed it and looked at the screen. Maria. Wond
er what she’s found. He clicked the phone.
Chapter Twenty
“H-HI. WHAT’S up?” Llewellyn sat on the couch and cradled the phone against his ear.
“Hey, boss, I have someone who wants to talk to you.”
“W-what?”
He heard a click. “Hi, Llewellyn.”
His breath caught and his heart wanted to escape his chest and leap to wherever Blaise was. His heart had no brain. “W-where are you?”
“In my apartment. I’m out on bail. One of the stipulations was that I wouldn’t call you—so I didn’t.”
Llewellyn couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t involve yelling.
“I’m sorry, Llewellyn. I’m so very sorry. Honestly, I came here under false pretenses, but then I met you and got to know you and I really didn’t want to spy on you anymore. And then the murder happened and….” He took a big, noisy breath. “I was working up the nerve to tell you who I was—am. Shit, whatever.”
“S-so you w-work for your mother.”
“Yes. Kind of. I mean, I was a grad student, am one. But, well, I own part of the Daily Phoenix and so—” Llewellyn could hear the shrug.
Oh hell. Of course. Blaise was not only radiantly gorgeous, impossibly sexy, and wildly smart. He was rich. Just one more nail in the coffin of their future. “I understand.” He sighed very quietly.
“You do?” His voice dripped with suspicion.
“L-look, Blaise, I d-don’t think you killed Anne, and I’ll k-keep working to prove that.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
“W-what are you asking?” He desperately wanted to hear this—and desperately wanted not to.
“I-I want to know if you understand that I came here on a job, but—but I didn’t have sex with you as part of that job and I really, uh, like you and never wanted to lie to you. Please, please believe me.”
Do I believe that? “Y-yes. I guess I believe t-that.”
“Guess?” He sounded discouraged.
“You h-had a lot of chances to t-tell the truth.”
“I—”
“You spied on me.”
“I know. Honestly, I’m so ashamed.” Llewellyn heard him swallow. “I’m so, so sorry. It’s just—my mother. She’s what I had, and I always tried to please her. It was like a reflex. Jesus, I even snooped in your closet.” He made a little sound that might have been a sob.
Llewellyn sighed. “I suspected that.”
“Then I tried to take it all back, but it was too late.” He dragged in a breath. “Listen, Llewellyn, I don’t know if you’re Rondell. I don’t want to know, and I won’t let my mother investigate even one more second. I told her I wasn’t doing a story about you even if she put me back in jail.”
“But sh-she’ll do the story.”
“I said if she did, I’d never speak to her again.”
“Y-you can’t do that. Sh-she’s your mother.”
“I love her, Llewellyn, but I’m a grown-up. I can’t let her run my life. I haven’t got her killer instincts, and I don’t want them. Please. It’s you I want, not a story. There’s nothing else I want.”
How did he feel about this? Easy. His hands shook so hard he could barely hold the phone. His butterflies had their own butterflies. He wanted to spill his guts full of all the adoration he felt—but he still didn’t really believe it. It was one thing to want to change your life from inside a prison cell. “L-let’s get you out of j-jail for good first. Then w-we can talk.”
“I don’t want to wait! Tell me how you’re feeling. Is there any chance you can forgive me?”
Llewellyn said nothing.
Blaise breathed. “I know I blew it. I’m such a rotten bastard, I should make my mother proud. But I don’t want to be, and I won’t give up. I’ll work my ass off to prove I’m the one you should be with.” Dear God, everything in Llewellyn wanted to believe him. But when he was no longer a murder suspect and had his mother promising him the moon, what would he want with a dull dud like Llewellyn?
“Solve the c-crime now. T-talk later.”
“Okay.” He sighed. “So tell me what you’ve learned.”
A tidal wave of suspicion crashed over Llewellyn’s head. How fast would anything he said go to Octavia Otto? Was she sitting beside him?
“W-we better stop t-talking. If Holiday f-finds out, it will g-get Maria in trouble.”
“Oh, I didn’t think.”
The stuff he didn’t think of would fill a book—and sadly not a romance novel. “It’s okay. D-don’t worry too m-much. We’ll f-find who did it.”
“Thanks, Llewellyn. That honestly makes me feel a lot better. But I have to tell you something important. I was in your office the night Anne was killed.”
“W-what?”
“I was there to snoop. I got into the building with my own security card and went to your office. The door was open, and I didn’t know that was unusual. A lot of professors leave their outer offices open so students can drop off assignments. Anyway, I went in and again, your inner office was unlocked. I thought that was unusual, but by the time I registered that thought, I actually saw her body. I thought she was asleep or sick for a minute. She didn’t look dead. I ran over and felt for the pulse in her neck. That’s when I saw the ligature marks. I freaked, Llewellyn. Not just because she was dead, but because I didn’t want to tell you why I was in your office in the middle of the night. I wiped her neck with a tissue and ran. I didn’t even realize I’d touched the desk beside her body while I was trying to find her pulse.”
Llewellyn let out a long breath. He could vomit. “So t-that’s what they have. Your p-prints at the scene.”
“Y-yes.”
“Y-you told them w-what you t-told me?”
“Yes.”
“That’s g-good. No m-motive and a reason to b-be there. Together they’re persuasive.”
“I’m so sorry.” He paused, then said, “I hope you can forgive me. Please.”
“We’ll t-talk. Bye.” Llewellyn hung up, set the phone on the coffee table carefully, and burst into tears.
Fifteen minutes later, after massive purr therapy, he sucked it up, picked up the phone, and dialed.
“Holiday.”
“Detective, this is Llewellyn Lewis.”
“Yes, Dr. Lewis.” He sounded harried.
“You told me to call if—”
“Yes, of course. Did you remember something new?”
“No, but I w-wondered if you knew that J-Jane and Roscoe de Vere came to see me this afternoon?” He petted Marie.
“Uh, no, I didn’t.” That clearly piqued his interest.
“I assumed they w-were on their way t-to see you.”
“I saw them today, yes.”
“They w-were still very upset about the m-money. I t-told them I d-didn’t care about the m-money.”
“That should have made them damned happy.”
“N-no. They d-didn’t even w-want me to investigate the Sh-Shakespeare connection.” Marie flipped over and presented her belly. Always a trap. It usually earned a bite or a scratch, but today she seemed willing to let him pet her.
“What the hell do they have to say about the subjects you investigate?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, that’s interesting.”
Should I say it? “I’ve also s-seen Roscoe de Vere out of his w-wheelchair, standing.”
“Yes, they told me that. He’s required to try standing a few times a day to keep his circulation moving.”
Damn. Blaise had probably told Holiday the same thing. Roscoe sure didn’t look like he was teetering when they saw him in the doorway. Julius tried to hog his hand and got a swipe of Marie’s paw in return. “They certainly have the m-most m-motive for wanting Anne g-gone.”
“True, but they have excellent alibis, and there’s evidence against Arthur.”
“H-he told you why he was th-there, uh, I imagine. And he has n-no key to my office.”
Holiday let out
a long breath. “Sorry to say, that’s not true. The professor that Arthur assists used to have your office. He still has keys to it in his desk. We checked them, and they all work.”
“I see.” He wanted to toss all the food he hadn’t eaten that day. “Still n-no motive.”
“I’ll admit, the motives we’ve come up with are thin.”
George Stanley’s voice floated through his mind. What if she found out something about him he didn’t want people to know?
Holiday cleared his throat. “But he could have wanted to keep her from telling you his real motives for being here.”
“When all y-you have is a h-hammer, everything l-looks like a nail.” He gritted his teeth and tried to sound calm.
The frown came through the phone. “Meaning?”
“If y-you’re set on the idea t-that B-Blaise did it, you’re not l-looking for other suspects. Ones with clear m-motives.”
“I assure you, we’re not leaving other suspects uninvestigated. Now, unless there’s something else, I have to go.”
“Of c-course.”
“Thanks for letting me know about the de Veres.” He hung up.
Llewellyn tossed the phone on the couch and leaned back, allowing furry creatures to occupy the available space. So many questions. Were the de Veres’ alibis really airtight? How could he find out where they’d been the night of the murder and how they were proving it? Was George Stanley as clueless as he seemed? Did the Echevarrias have bigger, more murder-inspiring motives than social climbing?
No matter how he spun it, the wheel of homicide probability landed most firmly on Roscoe and Jane de Vere. Anne had been strangled, but if Roscoe was as strong as he looked and Jane helped him, they could have done it. Especially since she never would have expected it.
They had the best reason to want Anne dead. That had to be important. How could he find out their stories?
Of course, Miranda. He’d ask her.
A shadow against the windows made him look toward the curtains. Odd—it was dark outside, so the only way he’d see a shadow was if a light passed close to the side of the house. Probably the damned reporters again.
Carefully displacing the cats, he walked to the windows and pulled the curtains aside. Sure enough, a dark figure scooted rapidly to the edge of the bushes and moved to disappear behind them. As he did, the flashlight in his hand swiped a beam across his face.