Delicious Torment

by Linsey Lanier

  She’d been concentrating more than Miranda had thought. “Maybe.”

  She licked the spoon. “So where did Ms. Langford get her drugs from?”

  “Good question.” The kid was sharp. She had a point. If Usher was into drugs, as Delta Langford said, no telling where he got them. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” Leon had drugged her with Ketamin. Maybe she knew where he got his stuff.

  “Just from what I’ve seen on TV and in the movies.”

  She could probe, but she didn’t want to dredge up those bad memories. Wendy was trying to recover from the same trauma she was. She decided to change the subject. “Hey, guess what? I’m your new neighbor.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Huh?”

  “I’m staying at the Parker estate. It’s right around the corner from your place.”

  “Oh. That’s nice.” She finished the last bit of whipped cream.

  Her indifference stung, but Miranda was glad she didn’t ask any probing questions like ‘are you staying there with Mr. Parker?’ “So maybe we’ll run into each other again.”

  “Maybe. Thanks for the banana split.” She pushed the half-eaten dish away. Guess she was done.

  “Do you need a ride home?”

  She shook her head. “My mom’s picking me up as soon as she’s finished at the hairdresser’s.” She glanced out the window. “There she is now.” She got up. “Better go.”

  Miranda paid the bill and they went outside. From the sidewalk, she watched Iris Van Aarle’s dark blue BMW pull up to the corner. The woman didn’t get out.

  She turned to Wendy. “Guess I’ll see you around sometime.”

  “Guess so.” She turned to go, then stopped and turned back. “You know, I never did get a chance to thank you.” Not in person, anyway.

  Miranda stared at her. “Thank me?”

  “You saved my life.”

  “Yeah, I did, didn’t I?”

  Wendy had written her a note, which Miranda kept in her wallet, like a parent does photos of her kids. Apparently Wendy thought that wasn’t enough. She ran up to her and threw her arms around her tight. “Thanks.” Her voice broke. It was more affection than she’d ever seen the kid express toward anyone. Then she pulled away and ran toward the car.

  “Don’t mention it.” Her heart overflowing with emotion, Miranda stared at the car as Wendy opened the passenger door and climbed inside.

  Iris adjusted her rearview mirror. Miranda wondered if she could see her and what she thought of her taking her daughter to get ice cream. But if the woman didn’t like it, she didn’t show it. She just leaned over and gave her daughter a peck on the cheek.

  As the car pulled away, Miranda felt a pang of emptiness. But then, she was used to it. That hollow feeling was something she’d lived with for thirteen years.

  Chapter Thirteen

  By the time Miranda got back to the office, she’d decided to put Wendy Van Aarle out of her mind. Seeing the girl again had only broken her heart. And made her think of Leon. And how futile her search for her Amy was.

  So much for the therapy session.

  But Miranda had kept her word and gone to a shrink. Parker had better keep up his end of the deal.

  When the silver elevator doors pinged open on the fifteenth floor, she marched right past the smug receptionist, through the double doors, took a left and headed straight for Parker’s corner office.

  His tall maple door was open, and she rapped on the trim when she reached it. “Pay up, Parker,” she said, stepping into the large, elegant space.

  The afternoon sun streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows and glistened on the glass credenza along the wall. The light reflected on the computers and the ethereal blue-and-silver of the walls and chairs. The color of paradise. Miranda always felt like she was stepping onto a cloud when she entered this place.

  Impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit and red silk tie that set off his sexy salt-and-pepper hair, Parker sat at his glass desk, calmly going over some papers in a manila folder. He didn’t look up, though he knew she was there.

  “Pay up? Now that sounds interesting.”

  Miranda’s gaze shot to the corner. Mr. P was sprawled in one of the blue chairs, his feet up on the glass coffee table, grinning like a Cheshire cat. He was wearing a navy classic pinstripe suit that looked like it had just been shipped from Italy. Didn’t the Parker men ever break down and put on a pair of jeans?

  “Hello, Mr. P,” Miranda nodded. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Southern gentleman that he was, Mr. P rose and crossed the room to shake her hand. “A delight to see you, Ms. Steele, as always.”

  This was the second time she’d seen him in two days. She wondered whether he always hung around the office before he’d checked into the nursing home. “Were you, uh, in the neighborhood?”

  He smiled as if he understood the intent of her question perfectly. “I often drop by unannounced. I’m a member of the board, you know.”

  She didn’t know that, but she nodded.

  “But I try not to interfere in Russell’s business. Just now I stopped in to tell my son about my wedding plans.”

  Parker didn’t move. Miranda felt that familiar tension in the room.

  “How are you enjoying your new home?” Mr. P asked.

  “It’s great. I really like that octopus shower.”

  He lifted a brow.

  “The one with all the showerheads?”

  He nodded with a chuckle. “Yes. Most of the ladies do.”

  She shifted her weight and glanced at Parker. He didn’t react. Lucky for her, he didn’t want to even hint to his father that they’d had a steamy rendezvous in the other bathroom last night any more than she did.

  The air was getting stuffy. “Maybe I should come back later.”

  “Nonsense,” Parker said without taking his eyes off his papers. “To what were you referring earlier, Miranda?” he asked blandly.

  She put her hands on her hips. “You know perfectly well to what I was referring. I, uh, did what you asked me to. So now it’s your turn.”

  Slowly his brow rose as he lifted his chin and eyed her with that piercing look of his. “Was it successful?”

  She glanced over at Mr. P, feeling self-conscious. “It was okay.”

  “Will you be going back?” At least he was using vague terms. She appreciated that. And the fact that Mr. P seemed to be respecting her privacy and not asking questions.

  But going back wasn’t part of the original deal. He’d tagged that on this morning. “Not until you pay up. Have you started looking into you-know-what?”

  “Pay up?” Mr. P asked again. Guess he was going to pick and choose which personal matters to be nosey about. He rubbed his hands together. “Is this a business deal? My mouth is watering already.”

  Miranda decided to play her hand. “It’s about what happened to Desirée Langford at the Steeplechase last weekend, Mr. P.”

  “Oh?” His white brows rose in surprise. It wasn’t the answer he’d expected.

  “Delta Langford thinks Desirée’s death wasn’t a suicide. She thinks someone killed her sister.”

  “Really?” His voice echoed genuine shock. “Who would want to kill such a beautiful young woman?”

  “That’s what I want to find out. Delta wants me to look into it.”

  Inhaling slowly in that way that told Miranda she was trying his patience, Parker closed the file he’d been staring at and came around his desk. With that elegant air of his, he leaned against it and folded his arms. “There is still the matter of the client.”

  “Client?” Mr. P asked. “I thought Delta was the client.”

  Parker shook his head. “She hasn’t hired the Agency, Father. And we know she won’t.”

  There was a silent communication between them that Miranda couldn’t decipher, but she knew it had to do with that secret Parker was harboring. That “unpleasant history” between him and Delta Langford. Of course
, Mr. P would know about it.

  After a moment, the elderly gentleman turned, slowly strolled to the window. He gazed out into space and scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Why can’t I be the client?”

  Parker stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

  Must be classy Southern for “WTF?”

  Mr. P’s voice suddenly lost its mirth and grew dark. “Eli Langford is my bitterest enemy. In business and in his personal life, he’s a brute of a man. But if one of his daughters were killed, he’d want to know who did it. And so would I.” He turned and gave Miranda a somber look. “I’ll hire you to find out the truth.”

  Parker’s jaw tensed as he stood. “Father, you can’t be serious.”

  “Why can’t I?”

  “You have no idea what you’re asking.”

  “Of course I do, Russell. Didn’t Ms. Steele here save your life recently?”

  Parker’s mouth opened, but it took a moment for words to come out. “Father, Miranda is—”

  Mr. P raised a hand, shaking his head with a smile. “Don’t worry, son. I can see Ms. Steele is far too headstrong to go off and get herself killed. I know how your business operates.”

  Parker’s face tightened. His hands fisted at his sides. “There are many differences between your business and mine. A civilian can’t comprehend all of them.”

  “I may be a ‘civilian,’ as you put it, but Ms. Steele isn’t. She’s your employee. She’ll do an excellent job.” He reached inside his jacket. “Now how much shall I make the check out for?”

  Miranda beamed. She was really starting to like this old guy. “Guess we have a case after all, huh?” she said to Parker.

  Ferocious anger burned in his handsome Magnum-gray eyes. She wanted to kick him.

  Gently he took her arm, turned her away from his father, muttered gruffly into her ear. “We’ll discuss it further this evening.”

  She ground her teeth like a prizefighter adjusting his mouthpiece. “Sure. Be glad to.”

  * * *

  Miranda spent the rest of the afternoon agitatedly catching up on class notes, even did some more research on her computer about PCP. At five o’clock she tromped down to the gym, did five laps around the perimeter, then gave one of the punching bags a blistering. It felt good to get in some solid licks on something.

  Dr. Theophilus was right. She did have a lot of pent up aggression. She hadn’t realized how much until she started to pummel the bag. Now this was therapy, she thought, smacking the leather hard.

  But she didn’t need to probe her psyche. Parker’s reaction this afternoon was why she had so much adrenaline coursing through her veins. He didn’t like his father’s hiring her to solve the Langford murder. He wanted to “discuss” it, did he? She’d discuss it all right. If he wasn’t going to let her work a case like this, she might just tell him where he could put his job.

  And while she was at it, she just might tell him the only reason she’d gone along with Mr. P’s idea about the mansion was to make him take it. If he really didn’t want the freaking pile of rocks, she didn’t either.

  The idea that she might be out of a job and homeless tonight made her jab at the punching bag even harder.

  She let go and gave it all she had.

  Chapter Fourteen

  By the time she showered, drove to Mockingbird Hills, and was walking up the stone steps to the majestic front porch of the Parker mansion, with its iron filigree railing and tall, white Grecian columns, Miranda was ready for a showdown.

  The door of the three-car garage was closed. She wondered if Parker’s silver Mazda was parked inside. Probably.

  She pulled out her new key and unlocked the huge front door. As soon as it opened, a delicious aroma greeted her.

  She followed it into the mansion’s large, elaborate entrance hall, past the mahogany staircase, and through an arched doorway. There, a richly carved table of heavy wood sat on a Persian rug in the middle of a large room painted in dark, muted blue.

  A matching china cabinet stood along one wall, with silver knick-knacks, finely etched plates, and embroidered boxes on display inside that made you curious about what was in them. On the opposite wall was a credenza next to a bronze statue of exotic lovebirds perched in a cherry tree.

  Overhead a demure chandelier sparkled, while along the crown molding, stenciled Cupids smiled down at the room’s occupants. Another memento of Mr. P’s libido.

  The table was set with a candelabra and flowers. There were two table settings of fine china and crystal.

  After a moment, Parker appeared through a small door at the other end of the room, holding a bottle of wine. He’d showered and changed into a dark suit and tie with a matching dark blue striped button-down shirt. Rather formal for home, but then that was Parker.

  As he studied her with that penetrating look of his, his gaze seemed wary. He was still pissed about his father and the Langford case.

  “Honey, I’m home,” she said flatly, meeting his intent look.

  “So I see.” He crossed the room and used the excuse to kiss her cheek.

  She gestured toward the table. “I didn’t know chef services came with the bodyguard.”

  She couldn’t read his half-grin. “You have a cook.”

  “I do?”

  “It was part of your agreement with my father.”

  Oh, right. “The part-time staff?”

  He nodded. “The staff is here from midday until after dinnertime during the week. I merely made arrangements with the cook in anticipation of your arrival.”

  Thoughtful of him. Was this to soften her up for the bad news that they weren’t taking the Langford case, after all? Steering away from the subject, she gestured toward the table, then at his suit. “My, aren’t we formal?”

  His lips curved dryly. “Forgive me. It’s my heritage.”

  “Right.”

  “Shall we?” He gestured toward a chair.

  She’d been planning on a bag of chips and salsa for dinner, but her mouth had been watering since she came through the front door. After all, she’d skipped lunch to go to Dr. Theophilus’s ‘Happy Time’ session.

  “Why not?” she shrugged.

  He took her arm and seated her at the table, then opened the bottle of wine and poured some into her glass. “We’re having salmon for dinner. I thought a nice Goisot Sauvignon would go well with it.”

  She wasn’t much for wine. Budweiser served as her usual aperitif. It was Samuel Adams Black Lager when she really wanted to splurge, which wasn’t too often, but she took a sip. It was good. Very dry. Very rich-tasting. “Seems like a lot of amenities come along with the bodyguard service.”

  “We aim to please.” He took a seat across from her, reached for a small silver bell, gave it a light ring. After a moment, a maid appeared dressed all in black, carrying two large plates filled with glistening salad. She set the plates before them.

  Miranda blinked as she left the room. So now, she not only had a mansion, she had servants, too. No. Parker had a mansion. Parker had servants. She was just a temporary tenant.

  “So tell me about your day.” Parker picked up his fork and politely waited for her to start.

  Miranda took a bite of the salad. Exquisite. The romaine was as fresh as if it had just come out of the backyard garden. And the dressing was downright exotic. Wine, vinegar, and spices snapped in her mouth. She couldn’t imagine how it was made. For all she knew, Parker might have had the ingredients flown in from Istanbul that afternoon.

  “My day at the office?” She stabbed a lettuce leaf with her fork, swirled it in the savory dressing.

  “At the therapist.” His tone was as dry as the Sauvignon.

  She stopped chewing. Hanging around Parker was a little like being with a psychic. He could read her thoughts and knew her session had been a bust, just as sure as if he had been there. Or maybe he’d followed her again.

  She swallowed her food and shot him a hollow grin. “It was peachy.”

  Now he sto
pped chewing. “Exactly what about it was ‘peachy’?” he asked in that low, intimidating voice of his.

  She picked at the Romaine and found a black olive, which she rolled around her plate with her fork. “It was a group session. Very relaxing. We tossed a ball around. The shrink called it our ‘Happy Time.’” Something like that.

  “I see.” His timbre was a dark thunder roll.

  They finished their salads in silence, then Parker rang the bell again and the servant came, took the empty dishes and replaced them with the main course.

  Wild King Salmon drenched in a spicy cream sauce that smacked of garlic, thyme, and extra cayenne. The plate was edged with a colorful arrangement of avocado halves stuffed with a tangy mango salsa and onion roasted potatoes dotted with cilantro sprigs. It was almost too pretty to eat, but she was too hungry not to.

  Deciding to concentrate on the food, she dug in. The argument that was bound to come could wait until after dinner. She didn’t want to lose her appetite before she ate this meal. It was like something from a five-star restaurant.

  When she was almost finished, she took another sip of wine and braced herself. “So, Parker,” she said with a sigh. “Are you going to call off our deal because my therapy session didn’t take?”

  He wiped his mouth, laid the napkin on the table. “On the contrary. As promised, I’ve already started gathering information.” He rose and retrieved a folder from a drawer in the credenza. “Have a look.” He laid it next to her.

  Shocked by his gesture, she put her napkin down as well. “What is it?”

  “See for yourself.” He returned to his seat.

  Gingerly, she opened the folder, leafed through its contents. Her breath caught. Reports. Interviews. Photos. A toxicology report. The autopsy. This was a copy of the police file on Desirée Langford’s accident.

  She looked up at him in amazement. “You kept your word.”

  “I always keep my word.”