Veil of Night: A Novel

by Linda Howard

  They stepped inside. Eric eyed the woman with more than a little wariness. Nora Franks, his ass; he’d bet her last name was Danvers, and Rebecca’s ghost was flitting around somewhere, except he couldn’t remember if Rebecca had been a ghost or not. He’d read the damn book under protest, to pass his high school literature class, and he’d hated every minute of it. Maybe he had the details confused with Macbeth, or something.

  “This way.” She led them across a marble-tiled floor, the heels of her sensible pumps clipping on the stone. A double-barreled grand staircase curved up on both the left and the right, meeting in a landing and merging to make the final five steps up to the second floor. A crystal chandelier at least as tall as he was hung like a giant faceted tear in the middle of the foyer, under which an inlaid table was precisely centered. The table held an enormous bouquet of fresh-cut flowers. He recognized the hydrangeas, because his mother had some, but he had no idea what the other flowers were. They smelled good, though.

  Mrs. Danvers—shit, Mrs. Franks, and he’d better remember that or he’d slip up and call her the wrong name—paused beside a closed door on the left, and gave a light tap on the wooden panel. She had her head tilted close to the door; Eric didn’t hear the answer but she must have, because she opened the door.

  “Ma’am, Senator … Sergeant Garvey and Detective Wilder.” Then she stepped back, gave both of them a brief nod as they moved into the room, and closed the door behind him. They hadn’t introduced themselves, Eric thought, so she must have been the woman who they’d talked to over the intercom.

  The room they were in was a library, the walls dominated by floor-to-ceiling built-in shelves that were crammed with books of all sizes. Unlike some libraries, this one looked as if the contents were actually read. For one thing, the books weren’t arranged by size or color. Paperbacks were shoved in among hardbacks. Some were stacked on top of each other, some of them were spine out. Knickknacks dotted the shelves, too: candid photographs, pieces that looked like expensive sculpture mixed with what had to be cheap memorabilia from vacations, like the starfish that was propped against a stack of books.

  He liked the room, Eric thought, and that surprised him, because he hadn’t expected to like anything about the Dennisons. He could keep an open mind about whether or not either of them struck him as being a good bet for their killer, but that had nothing to do with whether or not he personally liked anything.

  But the woman who put aside her book and rose from a deep, rich brown leather chair where she’d been sitting with her feet curled under her … he liked her immediately.

  “I’m Fayre Dennison,” she said in a straightforward manner, coming to them and holding out her hand. They each shook it briefly; Eric even liked that about her, the way she gripped firmly instead of extending a cold limp fish of a hand. She wasn’t a big woman, no more than average height, and slim in a lithe, athletic way that said she burned off calories in activity, not by restricting herself to a lettuce leaf every day.

  She was striking. If Douglas Dennison had set out to get himself a wife who would be an asset in politics, he couldn’t have done any better if he’d had her designed. Fayre Dennison had shoulder-length platinum hair pulled straight back and caught in a black clasp at the nape of her neck. The style wasn’t softened by bangs or stray wisps, but her face didn’t need any softening; it was what it was, strong-boned but very feminine, with a faint cleft in her chin, straight dark brows, and eyes so dark they looked black against the whiteness of her hair. Her voice was brisk, her gaze both friendly and shrewd. She was casually dressed in white pants, a black top, and black flats, but on her the outfit looked like a million bucks. At a guess, Eric put her age at close to sixty, but that was more because of the authority that sat so easily on her slim shoulders than any wrinkles in her skin, which were few.

  Behind her, Senator Dennison was also on his feet. Unlike some people who didn’t resemble their photos very much at all, Senator Dennison photographed well and looked the same in person. He was about half a foot taller than his wife, with a trim, athletic build, his shoulders still wide with muscle. His skin was tanned, and it looked like a real tan and not something that had been sprayed on. He had dark hair that had gone mostly gray, an easy smile, and friendly blue eyes. He was less casually dressed than his wife, still in his dress pants and shirt, but he’d removed his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves.

  Without appearing to, Eric paid sharp attention to the senator. On the surface, he was one of those immediately likable men—affable, intelligent, but with drive to him. He hadn’t been content to live off his wife’s money, but had started his own business and made a success of it before going into politics and being successful there, too.

  They both looked relaxed, but he could see the tension in them. Their son’s fiancée had been murdered. At the moment they were on the sidelines, but all too soon they would be called front and center; they’d have to be in the public eye, answer questions from the press, comfort their son, do what they could to support the bereaved couple who in another month would have been Sean’s in-laws. They were in the eye of the hurricane now and they were taking advantage of the relative quiet, because it wouldn’t last long.

  “Please sit down,” Fayre said, indicating an oversized leather sofa that was made to accommodate men. “Would you like anything to drink? I know alcohol’s out, but there’s coffee, iced tea, or soft drinks.” Both of the Dennisons had a glass of white wine beside them.

  “No, thank you, ma’am,” said Eric as they sat. The plush leather enveloped his ass with just the right amount of support, inviting him to sink back. He didn’t, sitting forward with his notebook on his knee.

  She looked at him and a slow grin lit her face. “That’s right. I caught the noon news. You’re giving up coffee forever.”

  Garvey made a stifled snorting sound, and Eric felt his face getting hot. “Ma’am, I apologize,” he said.

  “Don’t you dare apologize. That brought some humor into the day, the only little bit we’ve had since we got the news last night about Carrie. That little boy was a charmer, but I thank my lucky stars he’s some other woman’s problem and not mine because he looks like a handful. You did a remarkably brave thing, so I think you’re entitled to use a few cuss words if you want.”

  “Not so brave.” He tugged at his collar, feeling the heat run down his neck. “The guy was armed with a squirt gun.”

  “But you didn’t know that. You thought it was a real gun.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I missed the news,” said the senator, looking at each of them in turn. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ll tell you later. It’ll probably be on tonight, too, and you can see it.”

  “Must be X-rated, then,” the senator observed, smiling a little. “Okay, I can wait.”

  “Now,” she said briskly, looking from Eric to Garvey. “I suppose you’re here to ask us if either of us killed Carrie.”

  “Fayre!” the senator said, shocked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Eric said, going on instinct. Bullshit wouldn’t work with her, and he’d bet she had an inborn lie detector. “It’s standard.”

  “I know; look at the family first. For my part, I didn’t like her, but I got along with her, for Sean’s sake.”

  “I thought you liked her!” the senator said, going from shock to puzzlement so fast he was in danger of getting whiplash.

  “Liked her, no. But as long as Sean was happy, I was okay with him marrying her. Carrie and I had a silent understanding. As long as she didn’t try running any power plays on me, and made Sean happy, we were good. She signed the prenup agreement without any fuss, so maybe she really loved Sean and wasn’t just using him.”

  “What made you think she might be using him?” Garvey asked. Normally he stayed in the background and let Eric do the questioning, but Fayre Dennison had a way about her that drew people out. Eric couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was, but he could almost forget
why he was here, his job overshadowed by the simple act of conversing with her.

  Charisma. That was it. Fayre Dennison had charisma, the kind that pulled people to her and then pried them out of their shells. Talking to her felt like being a kid again and opening Christmas presents.

  Shit. He was crushing on her like a teenager, and she was the same age as his mom. Today must be his day for meeting attractive older women: first Madelyn Wilde, and now Fayre Dennison. One was very different from the other, but both were people he instinctively liked and wanted to spend more time around—and Jaclyn’s mom hadn’t been trying to charm him at all, she’d been too pissed.

  “Gut feeling,” Fayre replied after a brief consideration. “Carrie was a user. She didn’t try to pull anything with me, and she was always sweet with Sean, but I saw how she acted with other people. There wasn’t anything definite, but I always got the feeling she was reminding herself to be nice. If we were at a restaurant, for example. If the least little thing wasn’t exactly how she wanted it, for a second she’d get this incredibly cold, mean expression, then she’d kind of catch herself and she’d put on this smile so sweet it made my teeth hurt.”

  “You said there was a prenup?”

  “Yes. We worked hard to make certain Sean didn’t grow up a spoiled brat like so many other kids in his position did. He wasn’t given a job, he had to go out and get one on his own, and he’s responsible for his own bills. We’re lucky in that he’s a genuinely nice person. His one fault, if you want to call it a fault, is that he tends to see the good in people.” She gave a small smile that was full of pride. “But he’s smart, and we’re smart, and we took the family money out of the equation. Carrie signed a prenup giving up all rights to any money he inherited. That’s all. Anything he made on his own, we thought that was his decision to make if he included provisions regarding that. He didn’t. And, as I said, Carrie didn’t question any of it, just signed the agreement.”

  “Maybe she loved him.”

  “Maybe,” said Fayre. “Anything’s possible.” Her tone of voice said she didn’t truly think so, but Carrie was dead so she was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  “Do you know of anyone Carrie wasn’t getting along with, someone she may have argued with and it got out of hand?”

  “Carrie argued with everyone—except us, and Sean,” said the senator. He breathed out a sigh. “I admit I was worried about Sean marrying her, but she was always—It was as if he brought out the best in her, if you know what I mean. She was never that way when she was with him.”

  “Any particular argument that stands out?”

  “Only the one with Taite Boyne,” Fayre said. “They were best friends. Taite was supposed to be the maid of honor in the wedding, but the way I understand it, she and Carrie got into a huge argument and Taite quit the wedding party.” The tone of her voice told them that the maid of honor quitting the wedding party was a disaster on the same level with the church burning down.

  That was twice the erstwhile maid of honor had been mentioned. The problem with that was, she obviously wasn’t a gray-haired man, and no one had placed her at the reception hall.

  “I think they made up,” the senator put in, then shrugged. “I’m not sure. I heard Sean and Carrie talking about it, and that’s the impression I got.”

  “Maybe.” Fayre shrugged, too. “There was so much endless drama attached to the wedding preparations that after a while I stopped listening.” She wouldn’t have had any problems with anything she planned; she’d make the decisions, stick to them, let professionals handle the details, and if there were any problems she’d improvise, all without breaking a sweat.

  “I have to ask,” said Eric. “Where were you yesterday, between the hours of three and six p.m.?”

  She wasn’t insulted by the question at all. In fact, she gave him an understanding look. “I was here, with the four other members of the Crystalle Ball planning committee, doing what we do best: planning. I believe Sydney Phillips was the last person to leave, at … oh, I think around five-thirty. And of course Nora—Mrs. Franks—was here.”

  “I was at work,” added the senator. “I had to stay a little later than usual. I left the office about five-fifteen, arrived home about … what? Six o’clock? A little before that, I think.”

  As alibis went, they were solid, providing they checked out. Eric got the names of Mrs. Dennison’s fellow committee members, and the pertinent information from the senator, but they would be so easily verified that lying would have been a waste of time, which left him with nowhere to go on the gray-haired man Jaclyn had seen.

  He and Garvey got up, and the senator stood also. “I’ll see you to the door,” he said. As they walked across the marble foyer he asked, “Do you have any idea when Carrie’s body will be released to her parents?”

  “Probably tomorrow,” Garvey answered.

  The senator nodded, looked thoughtful. “Then the arrangements would be made tomorrow afternoon; Fayre and I will clear time to be with Sean and Carrie’s parents, maybe help them make some of the decisions. Sean is devastated. He’s here, in fact, asleep upstairs. He couldn’t sleep at all last night, but finally he was so tired he couldn’t stay on his feet.” He opened the door, walked outside with them.

  That was where he halted, put his hands in his pockets, and looked down.

  Something about the way the senator was standing, a look of guilt shadowing his face, brought Eric to a halt, too. Garvey looked around, stopped. The three men stood in a loose circle.

  “I have to admit to something I don’t like saying,” the senator said heavily.

  Eric waited, studying every flicker of expression the senator gave.

  “I wasn’t at work,” he admitted, keeping his voice low.

  Without wasting more than a second’s thought, Eric could tell where this was heading. “Do you want to tell us where you really were?”

  “With my—Look, I have a girlfriend. I was with her.”

  Bingo! He’d been right. What kind of fucking fool would cheat on a woman like Fayre Dennison? Eric wondered. Oh, right—a fucking fool, that’s what kind. He didn’t say what he was thinking, just said, “We’ll need her name and address, her phone number.”

  The senator nodded. “I left work early so I could be with her. She was able to get some free time from her own job, so we took the opportunity to be together.”

  “Her name?” Eric prodded.

  The senator looked miserable. “I—Never mind, I’m not going to make excuses. It’s Taite Boyne.”

  The erstwhile maid of honor, Eric thought. Well, well. Things were getting interesting.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “YOU UP FOR ANOTHER INTERVIEW?” GARVEY ASKED AS soon as they were in the car. He was already dialing Taite Boyne’s number.

  “Sure.” It was after five o’clock, the hot afternoon sun scorching everything it touched, but police work wasn’t a nine-to-five job. Hell, it wasn’t even eight-to-five. If he was lucky, on any given day it was more like seven-to-six. He cranked the air-conditioning on high.

  After a minute Garvey disconnected, unnecessarily said “No answer,” and dialed the other number Senator Dennison had given them. Another minute and he said, “Ms. Boyne, this is Detective Eric Wilder with the Hopewell Police Department.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Eric muttered, but, yeah, this was his case and the sarge would let him handle it.

  “I’d like to get some information from you regarding Carrie Edwards,” Garvey smoothly continued. “Please call me at …” He paused, thinking, then rattled off Eric’s cell phone number.

  The exclusive boutique where Taite Boyne worked as a buyer would already be closed, though he wasn’t sure how much time a buyer would actually spend in the store she bought for. She wasn’t answering her cell phone, and if she was at home she wasn’t answering that phone, either, so it looked as if they were done for the day, unless Ms. Boyne returned the call pretty soon. He didn’t expect that to
happen.

  Neither did Garvey, because he yawned and said, “My blushing bride will be glad if I make it home at a decent hour tonight.”

  “You mean you’ll be glad if you make it home at a decent hour, so your blushing bride won’t cut your nuts off and feed them to you.”

  “There’s that,” Garvey agreed, smiling a little as he always did when he mentioned his wife. “Nut stew is a little chewy.” Eric might not envy the sergeant his wife—God, no!—but he envied the relationship. He hoped some day he found a woman he was still smiling about when they were years into the marriage, which made him think about Jaclyn, because that relationship had taken a shot to the heart before it could even get off the ground—not that he was thinking marriage or anything like that, God forbid. It was just that he’d really thought they clicked.

  “I don’t understand jerk wads like the senator,” he said, because that thought led naturally to the couple they’d just left behind. “How can any man be stupid enough to cheat on a woman like that?”

  “I was thinking the same thing. Smart, good-looking, nice, rich—what more could a man want?”

  There was no way they could know what went on between two people in private, but on the surface of the thing, Eric thought the senator was a piece of shit. Maybe it had something to do with him being in politics in general, because it seemed as if so many politicians cheated on their spouses, but he’d instantly liked Mrs. Dennison so much that cheating on her threw the senator straight into the realm of cosmically stupid.

  When they got back to the Hopewell P.D., they trudged in to check messages and see what reports were in. The bullpen wasn’t exactly humming like a beehive, but it was still busy, and at least half the people in there had something to say about the morning’s coffee incident. Ha ha. Thinking of coffee reminded him of Jaclyn. Eric remembered that he’d promised her he’d have the contents of her briefcase copied for her, and mentally smacked himself on the forehead.