by Joanna Wayne
Memories from the last few days flashed through her mind. The way he joked to hide his emotions. The romantic side of him on a sleigh ride. Sitting across from Josh at the breakfast table. The look on his face when he’d pulled her into his arms yesterday after finding her and Mandy stranded in the snow. Making love with him.
She turned and studied his profile. She’d been attracted to him from the moment she’d first watched him stride onto the stage at the pageant rehearsal. Then it had been his rugged good looks and powerful charisma that had claimed her attention.
But there was so much more to the man. There was strength and determination and the way he did what was right no matter the cost. Like turning in drug dealers in New Orleans at the risk of his life. Like taking on all her problems when he could have just made a phone call and turned her in to the police.
She reached over and rested her hand on his thigh. “Thanks.”
“What was that for?”
“For being here, for being you.”
He put his hand over hers and squeezed it. “Baby, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
VANESSA TEMPLAR LIVED in a frame-and-brick house in an older neighborhood on the northwest side of Houston, thankfully the same house she’d lived in when she’d worked for Jonathan Harwell. It made tracking her down so much easier.
There were weeds in the flower bed, and dead blossoms were interspersed liberally with bright yellow ones on the blooming mums. But there were still signs of the season. A faded plastic drummer boy guarded the wreath of fake poinsettias on the front door.
It was a quarter to six when Josh knocked on the door. An attractive woman, probably in her mid to late thirties, opened it just far enough to peer out. He could hear the TV blaring out a Friends rerun in the background.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I hope so,” Josh said, keeping his tone professional but friendly. “I’m looking for Vanessa Templar.”
“I’m Vanessa.”
He pulled his ID card with the embossed badge from his back pocket and opened the leather holder, flashing his ID for a mere fraction of a second before slamming the holder shut again.
She clung to the knob but didn’t open the door any wider. “What’s this about?”
“You’re not in any trouble,” he assured her. “I just want to ask you a few questions.”
She looked puzzled.
“I understand you used to work for Jonathan Harwell.”
She opened the door a bit wider. “I was his secretary before he was murdered, but I told the police everything I knew three years ago.”
“That’s all on file,” Josh said, “but I just need to clarify a few things. It won’t take but a few minutes.”
“You can come in, but I didn’t know anything then and I still don’t.” She led him through the foyer and into a large family room that looked out over the backyard. He took a seat on one end of the sofa while she tossed a couple of pillows around and looked under a stack of magazines, finally coming up with the remote for the TV.
“Kids leave it on all the time,” she said, “even when they’re not watching it.” She turned it off and tossed the remote to the coffee table.
“How many children do you have?”
“I only have one daughter, but my boyfriend’s two boys are staying with us this week.”
“Do you still work at the same law office? Let’s see…that was Pellot and Harwell, wasn’t it?”
“That was the name of the firm. It’s just Luisa Pellot, Attorney at Law, now. But to answer your question, I’m not with the firm anymore. Luisa let me go about three months after Mr. Harwell was killed.”
Vanessa straightened the magazines while she talked, then set them on the edge of the coffee table. “Can you excuse me just a second? I left some potatoes boiling and I need to check them.”
“Sure. No problem.” Josh watched her walk away. He couldn’t see a man cheating on Chrysie for any other woman, but he could see a guy being attracted to Vanessa. Nice figure, and the jeans and sweater showed it off. Nice hair, too. Wavy, dark brown, shiny and long enough to fall halfway to her waist.
When she rejoined him, she perched on the armrest of the opposite end of the sofa, almost as if she were ready to make a quick getaway. “Are there any new leads on who might have killed Mr. Harwell?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Josh said.
“I know that his wife was a suspect for a while, but I’m certain Dr. Harwell didn’t do it.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“She wasn’t the type. She was quiet, but really smart. She gave me advice on raising Abby several times. Abby’s my daughter. Actually, I could use some of Dr. Harwell’s advice now. Abby turns thirteen next summer, and all she wants to do is hang out in those computer chat rooms. It worries me.”
“It should. They can be very dangerous places.”
Vanessa shook her head. “If you’re here to ask about that affair I supposedly had with Mr. Harwell, the answer hasn’t changed. I never had any inappropriate relations with him.”
So that was her side of this. Josh had to assume she hadn’t seen the picture of her and Jonathan in that hot and heavy embrace.
“I wonder how that rumor got started,” he said, hoping Vanessa would say more on the subject.
“I have no idea, but I don’t think it was by anyone in our office. Mr. Harwell was the perfect gentleman. He never flirted with the office staff.”
Very interesting. And either Vanessa was a good—no, make that a great—liar or she and Jonathan had never been a thing. Which meant someone had gone to a lot of trouble to doctor that photograph and mail it to Chrysie.
“How did Mr. Harwell and Mrs. Pellot get along?” He knew Chrysie’s opinion of that, but it would be nice to hear Vanessa’s, as well.
“It’s hard to say. Sometimes they laughed and talked like friends. Other times things seemed strained between them. I guess it was the partnership thing—you know, a little business rivalry.”
“What do you mean by strained? Did they argue? Talk about the other person behind their back.”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. It was just, you know, we’d be having coffee in the office lounge and one might snap at the other.” Vanessa smiled. “Usually it was Luisa who did the snapping. We women have those hormonal swings, you know.”
Josh was not about to be drawn into the topic of women’s hormones. Besides, it was time to get to the real point of his visit. “Do you recall what was done with Mr. Harwell’s personal records that were filed in his office?”
“The police took some of the records, but mostly they took client files, in case one of them had a motive for murdering Mr. Harwell. At least that’s why Luisa said they took them. She probably knows since her younger sister is a homicide detective with the Houston PD.”
Boy, the treats just kept coming. He’d love to know more about the sister in homicide, but he didn’t dare ask. “What happened to the rest of Mr. Harwell’s records?”
Vanessa pursed her lips, then grimaced. “I don’t know if I should tell you this.”
“Can’t go wrong talking to the police.”
“Well, Mrs. Pellot said I should shred all his files that weren’t pertinent to the business, but I felt bad about doing that, so I took his private records to his house, just in case his wife came back. As far as I know, she never did.”
“Then you must have had a key to the Harwells’ house.”
“No, but I have the code to open their garage door. I used to drop paperwork off for Mr. Harwell from time to time, and he’d just have me leave it in the garage, so that’s what I did with the records.”
Which is what Josh had come to hear, though he’d gotten a lot more information than he’d bargained for. He wrapped up the questioning and left, eager to drive back to Grecco’s and fill Chrysie in on everything.
The woman got to him. Well, that was the under-statement of the year. He was absolutely bewitched by her.
He didn’t know where the relationship was going, but he had no intention of going back to Montana until she was cleared of all charges and the dirty dogs who’d shot Cougar and come after her were in jail.
He hoped it didn’t take long. God, he hated this traffic.
JUAN HERNANDEZ started back to his office with a cup of stale but very hot coffee. It was never hot enough for him out of the pot, not even when it was freshly perked. He always nuked it for thirty seconds.
He took a sip. Perfect. The temperature of the coffee was the only thing right in his life today. Angela’s door was open a few inches, which either meant the cleaning crew was already pushing the dirt around or Angela was still here.
He stopped. No vacuum noises. He rapped his knuckles on the door.
“Come in, unless you have a problem. I’m off duty.”
He stuck his head inside the door. “So why are you still here?”
“Just finishing up this report. What’s up? Did your prisoner finally show?”
“Assuming you’re talking about Cassandra Harwell, the answer is no. And she wasn’t on any plane that left Missoula, Montana, today, either, unless it was under an assumed name.”
“Did you contact the clueless Montana sheriff who called you the other day?”
“I tried to reach him. It seems he’s on vacation, and no one knows when he’ll be back. I also called the Montana state police to alert them that Cassandra might be in the area. They said no one had reported seeing her, but there had been an attempted murder in Aohkii yesterday. And—get this—the man was shot on Sheriff Josh McCain’s ranch.”
“Lots of excitement for a town that’s not even on the map. Do you think Cassandra had something to do with the shooting?”
“I would not put anything past that murdering bitch.”
“Don’t make this about your daughter, Juan. If you do, it will just get you all messed up again.”
Angela met his gaze and he looked away. He didn’t need pity. “It’s not about my daughter.
“Good. Keep me posted.”
“Sure.” He turned and went back to his office. It wasn’t about his daughter. It was about Dr. Harwell’s not getting away with murder—again.
ANGELA WAITED UNTIL Juan was in his office, then closed her door and punched in her sister’s cell phone number.
“Luisa Pellot speaking.”
“Have you got a minute?”
“Angela. Nice surprise. I didn’t notice the call was from you—that’s how busy I am. But I can spare a minute. What’s up?”
“More news on Cassandra Harwell, and you are not going to believe this.”
CHRYSIE GROANED WITH every bump—which she’d estimate at one a minute—a painful workout for her muscles which were still bruised and throbbing from the snowmobile excursion. Thankfully she didn’t have to ride but a few blocks in the car’s trunk. That was the concession she’d agreed to in exchange for going with him to examine Jonathan’s records.
The car stopped, and her left knee slammed into the spare tire. The engine noise went silent. A second later she heard the slam of the car door, and her already ragged nerves strained to near breaking as the trunk flew open.
It had been three years since she’d left, but she was finally home. Hopefully her welcome would not be a warrant for her arrest.
Chapter Twelve
Chrysie took Josh’s hand for support as she unwound herself from the fetal position and climbed out of the trunk. They were in the garage, overhead door down, and out of sight of anyone who might be watching the house.
“I don’t see any boxes,” Josh said. “Vanessa may have been a better liar than I took her for.”
Chrysie stretched and scanned rows of shelves. Everything was just as it had been when she’d left. Her Navigator looked as if it hadn’t been driven. The only thing that was missing was Jonathan’s Acura, but that had been leased by the law firm.
“Maybe Marv found the records and carried them inside,” she said. “Since you said he’s taking care of everything, he must also check the house occasionally to be sure it’s in good repair. He’d have to keep the lawn and flower beds up, as well. Otherwise the neighbors would have him in court and paying hefty fines for neglect of property. This is a very exclusive neighborhood.”
“I noticed that driving in, but the good thing is the lush landscaping hides the house from the street. Someone would have to come halfway down the drive before they could tell that lights are on in the house.”
She knew there was a good possibility that the police might do just that, but she and Josh had considered and planned for that possibility. She just had to trust that their plan would work.
Josh tried the door to the house, but it was locked tight. Chrysie handed him the key that she’d taken with her the night she’d run. “The locks may have been changed.”
“Not likely since the garage code you gave me worked.”
She took a deep breath as Josh fit the key into the lock. “Ready or not, here I come.”
A second later she was standing inside the mudroom. The neon lights flickered at the touch of the switch, then steadied, bathing the high-ceilinged rectangular space and making the white floor tiles gleam. She paused in front of the mahogany bench. Jonathan’s boots were sitting beneath it, neatly waiting as if he would return momentarily.
This had been her world, yet it seemed almost foreign to her now. Three years of the nomadic life had changed her.
The room grew suddenly brighter, and the surprise paralyzed her with fear. Someone had turned on the kitchen light.
Josh pulled his gun. “Stay back,” he whispered as he walked ahead. “Police,” he called. “Who’s there?”
There was no answer. She stepped into the kitchen and scanned the area. Josh was nowhere in sight. She took one of the carving knives from the drawer nearest the range and held it front of her.
“You can drop the knife,” Josh said as he joined her in the kitchen. “No one’s here but us. Evidently some of the lights in the house are programmed to go on and off automatically. Looks as if the attorney who’s managing your estate is on the ball.”
“When I see Marv, I’ll be sure to thank him for nearly giving me a heart attack.”
“Good timing, though,” Josh said. “I’m sure the cops who patrol the neighborhood know the schedule, so they won’t think anything about the lights being on while we work.”
She returned the knife to the drawer. “Then let’s work fast before they go off again.”
“You got it.” Josh scanned the kitchen and gave a low whistle. “This is a fancy spot for cooking grits.”
Interesting comment considering it hadn’t been designed for cooking anything. It was a pretentious show kitchen, the same as the rest of the house had been. “The house was Jonathan’s statement that we’d arrived.”
It occurred to her how foreign that concept would sound to Josh. He’d been born with the silver spoon in his mouth and had spit it out to become his own man. He was comfortable with chartered jets and money to pay for bodyguards, but if they hadn’t been readily available, she was certain he’d have still found a way to get the job done.
She relaxed a little, thankful that that her nerves hadn’t become totally unglued by walking into the house. And then she stepped into the wide hallway and looked up at the winding staircase and the spot where Jonathan’s killer had been standing when he’d dangled Mandy over the banister. Her composure dissolved, and she stood there, frozen to the spot as her knees buckled and the walls closed in on her.
Josh caught her before she fell. “It’s okay, baby. I’m right here.”
She held on to him until she regained her equilibrium. She’d get through this. She had to. But she wasn’t ready to handle the staircase or the master bedroom just yet. “The room Jonathan used for his home office is just down the hall,” she said. “Maybe the boxes of records are there.”
She led the way, not looking to the left or right, determined to thi
nk positively and not to let the house and the terrifying memories get to her like that again.
The French doors to Jonathan’s office were open. His desk and bookshelves were as neat as ever, but the floor was cluttered with packing boxes.
“Those must be the records,” she said.
Josh high-fived her, clearly excited at the daunting task that lay ahead. “Looks as if Vanessa was telling the truth.”
“At least about the boxes,” Chrysie said. “So where do we start?”
“I’ll rip into a few,” Josh said, “and see which have the most potential.”
Seconds later they were both in the middle of the floor surrounded by redundant records that as far as Chrysie could tell had absolutely no bearing on Jonathan’s murder.
Her heart fell. This was probably their final dead end. Two hours later, she was more convinced of that than ever.
“WHO WAS THAT on the phone?”
Vanessa replaced the receiver, then dropped onto the sofa next to her boyfriend. “It was one of my ex-employers.”
“Which one?” Chad rested his glass of iced tea on a Texas-star coaster that decorated the coffee table.
“Luisa Pellot. I told you about her.”
“Oh, yeah. Her partner got murdered by his wife. What was his name? Jonathan Hostel?”
“Harwell. And it was only speculation that his wife killed him. I never believed it. She wasn’t that kind of person. Anyway that was three years ago, yet that’s the second person today who’s contacted me about the Harwells.”
“Who else called you?”
“A cop, only he didn’t call. He stopped by the house this afternoon to ask questions about Mr. Harwell. And Mrs. Pellot was calling to say that if I happened to hear from Mrs. Harwell, I should call her at once, said she had information she thought Cassandra Harwell would want.”
“I thought Mrs. Harwell was on the lam.”
“She was, but for some reason Mrs. Pellot thinks she may be returning to Houston.”
“That’s trouble you don’t need, sweetheart. Don’t even answer the phone if that Harwell woman calls you.”