The message was a warning and for the first time Tyler had to consider that Samantha might be right, that Dominic might be innocent. And if Dominic was innocent, that meant the real killer might have Samantha in his sights.
No, there was no way he could move out, leaving Samantha here alone with only a housekeeper who went home every night after dinner.
A heavy knock pounded on the door, followed by a deep voice announcing it was the police. As Tyler went to answer, he rubbed his stomach absently, knowing somehow that the inner peace he’d worked so hard to attain was about to be shattered. The orderly, upright life he’d made for himself was about to explode. All because of a murder case...and a leggy blonde named Samantha.
Chapter 7
“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Morgan,” Samantha said to the gray-haired woman she’d seen briefly at Abigail Monroe’s funeral.
“Oh, please, call me Georgia.” She opened her front door wider to allow Samantha entry into the fashionable apartment. “Although I have to tell you, I’m confused as to why you want to talk to me.” Her blue eyes radiated her bewilderment. “If you don’t mind, we can talk in the kitchen. I’m in the middle of my bread making.”
Samantha followed her through the tastefully decorated living room into a cheerful kitchen where the scent of warm dough and yeast greeted them. Georgia motioned Samantha into a chair at the table as she moved in front of the island, where a flour-covered cloth and a mountain of dough rested on the surface.
“I really appreciate you working me into your busy schedule,” Samantha said as Georgia dusted her hands with flour, then began to knead the dough.
Georgia Monroe was an attractive older woman. Although her hair was a steel gray, her features were youthful, her face curiously devoid of any deep wrinkles. Cosmetic surgery, Samantha suspected.
“Oh, dear, my schedule isn’t like what it once was. When I was married to Morgan, my life was a nightmare of business dinners and hostess duties.” Her hands worked the bread dough with dexterity. “Now, my life is much less complicated, and more fulfilling.”
“How long were you married to Morgan?”
“Forty-two years. I married him when I was just nineteen.”
“And how long have you been divorced?” Samantha asked as she pulled a small notepad from her pocket.
“It will be two years next month.”
“And was the divorce at your request or your husband’s?”
Georgia quit working the dough and smiled ruefully. “I was sixty-one years old at the time of our divorce. Hardly eager to join the ranks of the single set.” She sighed. “At that time, Morgan seemed to be going through some sort of midlife crisis. He started working out at the club, bought a flashy sports car and came home less and less. You might say he became a cliché, a man suddenly seeking his youth and thinking he’d found it in the arms of a young, beautiful blonde.”
“That must have hurt you deeply,” Samantha said sympathetically. She paused for a moment, then added, “You must have hated Abigail.”
Georgia smiled. “Did you know Abigail?” Samantha shook her head. “It was impossible to hate her. She was so full of life and so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her. Initially I wanted to hate her, but I realized if it hadn’t been Abigail, it would have been somebody else. Morgan wasn’t happy with me, and I saw how happy Abigail made him. How could I hate her when she brought him such happiness?”
Although her words rang true, and Samantha saw no signs of tension or stress that would indicate lying, it seemed odd to Samantha that the first Mrs. Morgan would so embrace the younger, new Mrs. Morgan. But Samantha knew human emotions were nothing if not complex and strange.
Georgia seemed to sense Samantha’s doubts. “Look, Ms. Dark, I’m not going to pretend that I wasn’t devastated when Morgan wanted a divorce. I love Morgan.” She shook her head ruefully. “I’ll probably always love Morgan. But I’ve adjusted to my new life-style. I have my baking and my bridge club. My son lives here with me, and for the most part my life is rich and satisfying.”
She looked Samantha directly in the eye. “If you think perhaps I had something to do with that poor girl’s death, you’re sadly mistaken.”
“I’m just gathering as much information as I can,” Samantha told her. “I believe Dominic Marcola is innocent and the best way to defend him against the charges is to make sure I have all the facts of the case before me.”
“Of course.” Georgia nodded her head and began to knead the dough once again. “But Dominic was found with her body and from what I’ve heard, had been drinking quite heavily. I’m just not sure what sort of information I can give you that will help you or his case.”
Samantha smiled. “I think in that regard we’re both working in the dark.” She flipped several pages in her notebook. “Your son’s name is...?”
“Kyle.” Georgia’s eyes widened in horror. “Surely you don’t think he had anything to do with the murder?”
“I’m just making sure I have my facts,” Samantha replied. “And how old is Kyle?”
“He just turned twenty-one.” Her strong features seemed to soften at thoughts of her son.
Samantha did a swift mental calculation. “You were forty-two when you had him?”
“A gift from heaven, that’s what he was. My special angel from heaven.”
At the moment, with her face shining with maternal love, it was impossible for Samantha to imagine this woman with her hands wrapped around Abigail Monroe’s neck...impossible to imagine she was in any way involved in the murder. A wave of despair swept through Samantha.
“Can you think of any reason why anyone would want to murder Abigail?” she asked.
Georgia shook her head. “Oh, Abigail could be incredibly self-absorbed, at times downright selfish. But I can’t imagine her making somebody so angry they’d want to...to kill her.” Tears sparkled in Georgia’s blue eyes. “Poor Abigail. And poor Morgan. He’s utterly destroyed.”
The sound of the front door opening halted Samantha’s next question. “Mom, I’m home.” Kyle Monroe’s voice came from the living room.
“In the kitchen, dear.”
Kyle entered the kitchen, the expectant smile on his face falling as he eyed Samantha. “What in the hell are you doing here?”
“Kyle, honey, Ms. Dark is just asking some questions.” She flashed a quick smile at Samantha. “He’s very protective of me.” She wiped her hands on a towel and motioned Kyle into the chair opposite Samantha. “Sit down, Kyle. I’ll make us all a nice cup of hot cocoa.”
A handsome young man, Kyle Monroe had attitude to counter his attractiveness. “So, what do you want?” he asked Samantha, his dark eyebrows pulled together in a frown.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Samantha said, refusing to be daunted by Kyle’s grim demeanor.
“No, I didn’t like Abigail and no, I didn’t kill her.” Kyle’s dark eyes radiated animosity.
“So you weren’t happy when your father married her?”
“That’s an understatement. My father was obviously thinking with other parts of his anatomy than his brain.”
“Kyle!” Georgia sounded shocked.
The young man flushed. “It’s true, Mom, and you know it. Abigail was nothing but a gold digger, and Dad was too stupid to see it.”
Georgia’s eyes flashed fire at her “gift from heaven.” “That’s enough, Kyle. I won’t have you talking about your father that way.” A steely strength underscored Georgia’s words.
Kyle shoved away from the table, his face a thundercloud of emotion. Before his mother could stop him, he stormed out of the kitchen. A second later the front door slammed shut, signaling he’d left the house.
Georgia turned to Samantha, her features sagging. Suddenly she looked every one of her sixty-three years. “Please, don’t think badly of Kyle. This whole ordeal has upset him tremendously. Morgan and I tried to keep him sheltered, perhaps too much so. With the divorce, then the murder, he’s rea
lizing the world isn’t always a very nice place.”
Samantha nodded and stood. “One more thing, and I’ll get out of your hair. When was the last time you saw Abigail?”
Georgia frowned. “I guess it was about three, four days before she was killed. We ran into each other downtown and shared lunch at the club.” Once again, sparkling tears appeared in Georgia’s faded blue eyes. “She was so excited. She thought she might be pregnant, but I guess she wasn’t because I never heard anything more about that...you know...after.”
Samantha tried to hide her surprise. She’d given the autopsy report a cursory read, but hadn’t studied it in any depth. Now she couldn’t wait to get back to her office and look at it once again. “Thank you for your time. I appreciate you speaking so freely to me.”
Georgia took Samantha’s hand in hers. “If that young man you’re representing isn’t responsible for Abigail’s murder, then I hope you find whoever is.” She smiled, once again looking younger than her years. “You like homemade cinnamon raisin bread?” she asked suddenly as she dropped Samantha’s hand.
“Sure,” Samantha replied, disconcerted by the swift change of topic.
Georgia walked over to the cabinet by the oven, where several aluminum-foil-wrapped loaves sat in a row. Different colored ribbons belted each one. “Cinnamon-raisin bread is my specialty. I bake it three times a week and give it to friends and family.” She grabbed one with a red ribbon and handed it to Samantha. “Red is for Tuesday. That means I baked this yesterday. Had you come a little later today you would have gotten one with a blue ribbon. Blue for Wednesday.”
Samantha walked to the front door, clutching the loaf of bread and fighting off a wave of sympathy for a woman who had so little in her life she color-coded her baked goods.
As she drove back to the office, her head whirled with suppositions. Had Abigail been pregnant? Had Samantha somehow missed that in the autopsy report? If there had been a pregnancy, was it possible that might have been a motive for her murder? But why?
At the office she was greeted by an empty receptionist’s desk. She looked at her watch, surprised to discover it was after five. Where had the day gone? Where had the past week gone?
She went directly into her office and pawed through the piles of papers on her desk until she uncovered the autopsy report. Kicking off her shoes, she sank down on the overstuffed love seat across the room from the desk and began to read.
Tyler parked his car in the office parking lot, unsurprised to see Samantha’s car still there despite the lateness of the hour.
He’d scarcely seen her in the past few days—since the night they’d nearly made love. He turned off his engine, allowing himself the memory of how she’d felt in his arms, how her body had looked with the kiss of firelight upon it.
Thank God. Thank God that brick had flown through the window, shattering whatever madness had gripped them both. And it had been a kind of madness. There was no other way to explain the firestorm of passion that had swept sanity away.
He got out of the car and used his key to enter the building. He needed to get some files from his office before heading home for the night. He noticed the light shining from beneath Jamison’s office door. Samantha’s office, he mentally amended.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he tried not to think of the woman in the other office, and instead focused on the one with whom he’d just shared dinner.
Thirty years old, Sarah Baylor was just the kind of woman Tyler had envisioned himself eventually marrying. Quietly pretty, with an eagerness to please, she’d made it clear she was definitely interested in more than just the occasional dinner date. A fourth-grade teacher with conservative views, Tyler knew Sarah would never do anything to embarrass him, or compromise his personal or professional integrity.
A month ago Tyler had seriously been entertaining thoughts of proposing to her. Tonight the idea seemed less than appealing.
He gathered up the files he’d wanted, then went back down the stairs. Starting out the door, he hesitated and looked back at Samantha’s office door. She’d been keeping killer hours for the past week. Up and out before he awoke, and returning to the house long after he’d gone to bed. If she kept it up, she wouldn’t be defending anyone. She would be in the hospital with a severe case of exhaustion.
He remembered the rush that had accompanied his first big case, knew Samantha was probably functioning on adrenaline alone. He also knew it wasn’t healthy.
She had nobody else to tell her these things. Had Jamison been alive, he would have wanted Tyler to impress on her the importance of not burning herself out in the initial stages of a case.
Decision made, Tyler knocked softly on Samantha’s office door. No reply. He knocked once again. When there was still no answer, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The lamp on her desk created a small pool of illumination, the glow carrying just far enough for him to see her curled up on the love seat.
Most of her hair had long ago escaped from the barrette at the nape of her neck and now cascaded around her head like a curtain of pale silk. One hand still clutched an array of papers while the other curled beneath her chin. She looked comfortable, at peace despite the contortion of her long legs in the small space.
He hesitated, wondering if he should waken her or just allow her to sleep through the night. He decided if he left her alone, she would probably not be able to use her legs in the morning.
“Samantha?” he called softly. She didn’t move and he took a step closer. He could smell her now, the exotic fragrance of wildflowers and spice. He clenched his hands into fists at his sides, fighting the impulse to touch her, caress the soft skin of her cheek, run his fingers through the richness of her hair.
What would happen if he leaned down and touched his lips to hers? He frowned, irritated by his fanciful thoughts. Who the hell did he think he was? Prince Charming? No kiss from him was going to turn Samantha into a sweet, innocent princess.
“Samantha, wake up.” He touched her shoulder, then jumped back. She gained consciousness with flailing fists and thrashing legs, and the papers she’d been holding fell to the floor.
As sleep dissipated, her eyes cleared and she sat up with a small moan. “What time is it?” she asked.
“A few minutes after nine.”
“Dammit, that means I’ve been out for a couple of hours.” She leaned over and gathered up the papers from the floor at her feet.
“Samantha.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t you give it a rest for the night?”
“I don’t have time to give it a rest.” She finished straightening the papers, then stood and walked over to her desk. “The trial is only a week away. There’s still so much to be done.”
Tyler heard the edge of panic in her voice, wondered if she was aware it was there. She sank down behind the desk and hunched her shoulders up and down, as if in an attempt to dispel tension.
Tyler sat on the edge of he desk, studying her features beneath the full glow of the desk lamp. “Why don’t you ask for a continuance? You know Judge Halloran would probably give you more time to prepare for trial.”
She shook her head. “Dominic refuses. He has the right to a speedy trial and that’s what he’s insisting on—although I’ve told him that with more time, perhaps more evidence could be uncovered—things that would point to his innocence.”
She frowned and rubbed the center of her forehead with an index finger. “Unfortunately, Dominic seems to believe that I’m going to be able to pull a rabbit out of the hat. He has complete confidence in my ability to get him off and doesn’t want to spend a day more than necessary in jail.”
Tyler placed his fingers beneath her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “You won’t be any good to him if you work yourself to death before this thing gets to trial. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. You have dark circles under your eyes, and you’ve lost weight. You look like hell. When was the last time you had a decent meal?”
>
She jerked her chin away from his grasp. “If you came in here to make me feel better, you’re not doing a very good job. And I had breakfast this morning.”
“What? A doughnut at your desk?” The look on her face confirmed that he was right. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up out of the desk chair.
“Hey...what are you doing?” she sputtered in surprise as he propelled her across the floor toward the door. She struggled to get away from his firm grip.
He stopped at the door and turned to face her. “Samantha, the brain needs fuel, and fuel comes in the form of food.” He didn’t release his hold on her arm despite the mutinous expression on her face. “I’m taking you down to the Royale Restaurant where the dinner special tonight is a thick prime rib.”
All signs of mutiny faded. “Prime rib with horseradish?”
He nodded. “Hot enough to blow smoke from your ears.” He smiled softly, again noting how tired, how utterly dispirited she looked. “Come on, let your partner buy you some dinner. You can tell me what you’ve got on the Marcola case. Maybe a little brainstorming is in order.”
“Really? You mean it?” She searched his face, as if suspecting a trick. “You wouldn’t mind talking about the case?”
Tyler hesitated. The last thing he wanted to do was get involved in the Marcola case. From the little he’d heard about the case, there were too many similarities that reminded Tyler of the tragedy in his own life. He didn’t want to relive memories he’d buried long ago.
Still, Samantha’s face shone with hope as she looked up at him. He remembered those nights when he and Jamison had discussed aspects of their cases, sharing ideas, brainstorming strategy. Those times together had created mutual respect, an unbreakable bond between the two that future discord or arguments couldn’t break. Suddenly Tyler wanted that with Samantha.
“Come on, we’ll talk while you eat.”
She smiled—a full, gorgeous smile that created a warming heat deep inside Tyler. Ignoring it, pretending it didn’t even exist, he escorted her out of the building and to his car.
Reluctant Wife Page 9