Delicious Torment

by Linsey Lanier

  “Where did you get all this stuff?”

  His lip turned up in a wry half-grin. “My usual connections with the police department.”

  “Cool.”

  Parker watched her intently, sensing her excitement as she turned the pages. Her reaction satisfied him deeply. He had wanted nothing to do with Desirée Langford’s case, but if it made Miranda feel alive again, he’d let her have it. Under his supervision, of course. And if it got her into that much-needed therapy, he would even risk coming into contact with Delta Langford.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t care about Desirée’s death. He cared more than Miranda could imagine. But it was a matter the police could handle. He believed the woman was suicidal, but her death was probably a bizarre accident that Ferraro Usher had had a hand in. In vengeance, Delta was lashing out at the artist in that hysterical way of hers. But Miranda wouldn’t believe Usher was guilty of murder if the evidence didn’t warrant it. Delta didn’t know who she was dealing with.

  Miranda narrowed her eyes at Parker. From the police department, huh? He had some strong ties with the cops. She couldn’t help wondering who’d passed him this file. As the servant came in again to clear the plates away and serve coffee, she silently went over the list of possible informants.

  Detective Tan’s husband was a cop. There was Lieutenant Erskine, but he and Parker weren’t always on speaking terms. Somebody Mr. P had rubbed elbows with? That could be anybody. The mayor. The governor. Parker was the most well-connected person she’d ever known.

  But it didn’t matter how he got the information. It was here.

  Excitement danced in her stomach as she picked up one of the reports and studied it. “Bystanders at the Steeplechase said they saw Ferraro Usher and Desirée drinking together at a table near the barns. That wasn’t the set of tables where we followed Simmons and Witherspoon.”

  “No. It was a similar arrangement on the opposite side of the field.”

  “And not so far from the barns, according to this chart.” An officer at the scene had sketched out a diagram. “Delta was there, too. So were Dr. Kennicot and some other friends. Another witness heard the party arguing. She wasn’t sure what it was about.”

  “There was definite tension among the group.”

  She picked up the autopsy. “COD: cardiac arrest caused by overdose of phencyclidine. One hundred milligrams of PCP was found in her bloodstream.”

  “Along with alcohol and cocaine.”

  She turned back a page. “A different witness thought he saw Desirée and Usher snorting coke.” Good Lord, there were children there. “So Delta was right about the drugs.”

  “But the witness doesn’t say which one of them was giving the illegal substance to the other.”

  True, but didn’t that have to be Usher? She turned another page. “The toxicology report says an empty vial was found on the ground near that table. It had traces of PCP in it. The ‘murder weapon’?”

  “So to speak. That’s where the lethal dose came from. Desirée had to imbibe it in liquid form to get that much. Though the coroner’s report states that PCP was the cause of death, it was more likely CDI.”

  “CDI?”

  “Combined Drug Intoxication. The interaction of substances in her system turned poisonous.”

  “But a hundred milligrams couldn’t have been recreational. So it wasn’t an accident. It was intentional.”

  “I would agree. The question is whether Desirée poisoned herself with the PCP.”

  “Someone could have slipped it into her drink.”

  “But wouldn’t that person have been more careful than to leave the vial on the ground?”

  “Maybe that person was intoxicated or distraught and dropped it accidentally.” Though that seemed awfully careless for a killer. She turned another page and read some more. “There were no fingerprints at all on the vial. So the killer was careful enough.” She thought a moment. “Desirée was wearing gloves that day.”

  He nodded, slowly sipped his drink, staring down at the golden liquid. “That detail supports the theory that Desirée killed herself.”

  She turned another page and sucked in her breath. “The suicide note.”

  “Yes.”

  An icy finger slithered down Miranda’s spine as she read the words.

  There’s been so much pain in my life. So much torment. I’m so tired of it. I can’t go on any longer. I want to die beside my beloved horses. This is good-bye. My final good-bye.

  Her throat suddenly dry, she reached for her water glass. “It sounds pretty final.”

  Parker paused a moment to gauge her reaction, then spoke. “Less than a third of people who commit suicide leave a note.”

  She put the page down. “So this could be a fake?”

  “Possibly.”

  Miranda sat back and folded her arms. How could the murderer fake a suicide note? Was it a letter Desirée had written in a different context? Did it have a different meaning? It sounded pretty definite. Did someone force her to write it? As usual, there were a lot more questions than answers.

  Parker rose. “Come here and let’s look at something.”

  Curious, Miranda closed the folder and tucked it under her arm. She picked up the wineglass she was still nursing and followed Parker down the hall and into a dark-paneled room that held a large, overstuffed black leather couch facing a huge flat panel television.

  “Have a seat.” Parker reached for the controls.

  She eased down into the squishy-soft high-end leather, sighed at the thick padding. Then she set her drink down on a coaster on a side table alongside the folder, and put her feet up on one of the inviting ottomans. This was the life.

  The floor was polished parquet, in an intricate, herringbone pattern. A zebra skin rug lay near a fireplace in the far corner. It looked like some kind of entertainment room.

  Parker sat down next to her and slyly slipped his arm around her shoulders, like a teenager on a date to the movies. She thought she knew what kind of entertainment he had in mind. She gave in and let her head rest against him. His chest was so strong, so muscular.

  He pressed a button on the remote.

  The TV flickered on, but it wasn’t The Late Show or a romantic movie. Images from the Northwinds Steeplechase appeared on the screen. In particular, Farrah Simmons bumping and grinding with Lover-Number-Two.

  Miranda sat up. “My recording.”

  “Yes,” Parker murmured.

  The big screen TV had much more detail than she’d seen on her little LCD laptop. The large image of Farrah Simmons and the moaning fluttering through the surround sound system didn’t make Miranda’s stomach feel very comfortable after that big meal.

  Then the shotgun-like kicking came through the speakers. The commotion of the crowd. Miranda’s footage of Calypso bucking and snorting outside the cell as the stable hands tried to control him.

  The ground jerked as the camera covered her movement toward the stall.

  Miranda pursed her lips. She’d better confess. “Uh, I’ve already seen this.”

  “Of course, you have. You played it on your home computer that afternoon.”

  She rolled her eyes. “God, Parker. Who are you, Nostradamus?”

  He grinned and eyed her with a hooded gaze. “It’s my business.”

  Giving up, she sat back and watched the scene unfold. She took in the details, but all she saw was the same blue-flowered sundress, the smashed straw hat with the note under it, the white gloves, and that poor crushed, bloody face.

  Ferraro Usher seemed bizarre, but she couldn’t see any evidence that was incriminating. There was a little tic in his hand.

  “What was Usher doing so close to the stall?” she asked, deep in thought.

  “Not sure.” Parker stopped the film and sat back. His eyes roamed over her.

  She could guess what they’d be doing tonight. She wondered if it would be bubble bath this time or just twisted silk sheets?

  “How does the film lo
ok after what you’ve read in the report?”

  She reached for the folder and thumbed through it again. “There’s a lot of suspicious activity in here. Why was Desirée doing drugs with Usher when she’d divorced him? What were they fighting about?” She closed the folder and put it down on the ottoman. “Too many open questions,” she said flatly.

  “So your determination is that the case warrants more investigation.”

  “Yeah.” She grinned at him. “Aren’t you glad your father hired us?”

  His smile disappeared. “I haven’t signed off on that yet.”

  She stiffened. “What do you mean?” After all this tantalizing evidence, he wasn’t going to take the case away from her now, was he? She just might belt him if he did.

  His gun barrel gray eyes bore into her. “I’ll let you take this case under three stipulations.”

  She drew in a breath. “Which are?”

  “One, you have to continue therapy.”

  She cringed. “And the other?”

  “You’re not to work on this case unless I’m with you.”

  She resisted the urge to spit. She’d made good progress on her own during the last case. In fact, she’d solved it by acting on her own. “And the third?”

  “If at any time during the investigation I feel the case is too much for you, I reserve the right to pull you off. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal.” She stood up. “This is bullshit.”

  “I’m not asking, Miranda. As your employer, I’m demanding it.”

  She crossed the room to a panel bookcase. Her arms tight around her waist, she paced in front of it. “So I’m under your thumb all the way.”

  “No,” he said calmly. “You’ll be the lead on the case.”

  She stopped pacing. “The lead? You mean I call the shots?”

  “Exactly.”

  The idea made her head spin. The lead? She didn’t know what to make of his mixed signals, except that he was being his overprotective self.

  He reached into his coat pocket. “I’ll expect you to find your own therapist. One a little more reputable than Dr. Theodore Theophilus.”

  There he went again. Wade Parker, ace detective, clairvoyant, and busybody.

  “But in the meantime, I took the liberty of making you an appointment with this one tomorrow afternoon.”

  He took out a card and handed it to her.

  Irritated, she reached for it. “Dr. Arnold Chaffee.” His office was on Piedmont. “What’s so special about this one?”

  “Something you’ll like. He was Desirée Langford’s therapist.”

  She blew out an exasperated breath. He knew how to tempt her.

  He stepped toward her, took her chin in his hand and studied her. “So are we agreed?”

  She didn’t know why she wanted this case so much. Maybe because of the way Delta Langford had pleaded with her. Or because the weird way Usher had acted got her goat. Maybe just because she wanted answers. But she couldn’t let it alone. And Parker was assigning her as the lead. It was too much to turn down, even with all his “stipulations.” Deep down, she knew he’d insisted on them only because he cared about her.

  Slowly she nodded. “Agreed.”

  “So where do you want to start?”

  She looked down at the folder and thought about Usher at Desirée’s funeral. “I’d like to talk to Dr. Kennicot.”

  “Very well. We’ll go there tomorrow morning.”

  “No classes?”

  “You can make them up.”

  She danced from foot to foot. “Hot dog.”

  Parker watched the eagerness in those deep blue eyes, his heart glowing with love. It was clear fieldwork made Miranda happy. He wanted her to be happy, but he would keep her in check for her own good. Fieldwork could also be dangerous. Leon Groth had hurt her so much. He refused to let anyone else hurt her again.

  Still, it would be healthy for her to take charge of this case. He would enjoy watching her grow, helping her hone that keen intuition, that abundant talent of hers. Her zeal for investigative work made him think of his younger days. He found the thought intensely arousing.

  He bent his head.

  “Sealing the deal with a kiss?” Miranda sighed, as his lips reached hers.

  “How else would we do it?” His low, sexy Southern murmur sent a thrill to her groin.

  More than a kiss would follow. What kind of magic spell did he have over her to arouse her so much, so suddenly? It was Parker’s raw, sensual magnetism. It exuded from him like the subtle smell of his expensive cologne. She couldn’t resist it.

  His hands slid over her back, down toward her bottom, then reversed course and went for her shoulders. He began to massage her between the shoulder blades. Just where she was sorest from her session with the punching bag earlier. His delicious movements made the spell complete.

  “You’re tense. You need to relax.”

  “You sound like Dr. Theophilus.”

  He chuckled. “We should go to bed.”

  “Too far,” she murmured. He was a powerful man, a virile lover. He made her want him far too much.

  “Oh?”

  Suddenly emboldened, she grabbed him by the silk tie and pulled him across the room to the zebra skin rug. She began to loosen the tie as he slipped out of his jacket and tossed it aside.

  His shirt and her blouse came off next. Then the only sound in the room was the zippers of their slacks going down and their ragged breathing.

  It seemed like only another minute before he had her sprawled across the rug.

  She groaned, more intoxicated than ever.

  Why did she let him get to her like this? Did she really have a choice? His touch was as potent as strong whiskey. Intoxicating, enticing, irresistible.

  His hand slid delectably up her thigh. When he reached his target, his fingers teased at her for a long moment.

  She gasped.

  He bent his head to her lips, chuckling, enjoying her moans. He knew he had her hooked.

  Deftly, he rolled over on top of her, slipped inside and gently began to rouse her even more. She felt herself falling. Down, down, then up again. A sensual roller coaster ride of passion. As she rose toward the crest again, she suddenly remembered she’d intended to have it out with Parker about the house. If he didn’t agree, she was going to leave. Mmmm.

  Her mind clouded as his tongue plunged into her mouth, flaming her into a wild stupor, while their bodies worked together.

  She guessed she’d let the topic of the house slide for tonight.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next morning, Miranda was up bright and early. Brimming with excitement, she dressed in khaki slacks, a pert white cotton blouse, and a pair of black boots she thought might make her blend in with the horsey set.

  Downstairs on the big redwood deck overlooking the richly landscaped backyard, Parker had the usual coffee and breakfast fare waiting for her. Along with the number for Dr. Gabriel Kennicot’s veterinary office.

  She gave him a grateful kiss on the cheek, pulled out her cell phone and dialed the number.

  “I’m sorry,” a staff member told her. “Dr. Kennicot is in the field this morning.”

  “Really? Where do you think he’ll be? I mean, I really need to talk to him about my dog, Scruffy.” Parker smiled at her knowingly. He was familiar with her penchant for making up stories about dogs she didn’t own.

  “I really don’t know his exact schedule, ma’am, but I think he’s at Aquitaine Farms all morning. Would you like to make an appointment for next week?”

  “Uh, I’m not sure. I’ll have to call back later. Thanks.” She disconnected. “The vet’s at Aquitaine Farms,” she told Parker. “The Langfords’ horse farm.”

  “And?”

  “And?” She blinked at him.

  Casually, he picked up his coffee cup. “And what should we do now?” he asked innocently.

  He really was letting her call the shots, wasn’t he? She wondered whether he just want
ed her to get the need for this case out of her system, if he was testing her, or if he really had faith in her. If he didn’t, she decided, by the time she was done, she’d make him believe in her. “Any reason we can’t go out there now?”

  “None at all.” He took a final sip of coffee and rose.

  A thrill spiked in her belly. “Then let’s get going.”

  * * *

  They went out a side door that led to the large, three-car garage, where Parker helped her into his silver Mazda.

  “I knew you’d hidden your car in here last night,” she said as he slid deftly into the driver’s seat.

  “There’s room for two cars in here,” he said as blandly as if he were commenting about the weather. “It is your house, after all.”

  She inhaled. That again. Did he think the sight of her beat-up blue Chevy would run down the neighborhood? “I never had a garage before. Don’t see the need for one.”

  “It’s up to you. However if you change your mind,” he reached into a tray and handed her a small electronic device. “Here’s an extra automatic opener.”

  She took it, stared down at it. “Home sweet home.”

  He started the car. “Would you care to try it out?”

  She gave him a sharp look, then pressed one of the buttons. The door opened behind them. He put the car in reverse and glided down the drive. As they moved past her old blue jalopy, she pressed another button and the door went down.

  She slipped the contraption into her purse, but she didn’t intend to use it. She refused to get too comfortable with the accommodations. She’d made up her mind they were only temporary.

  * * *

  They shot down 400 to I-85, past the city office buildings and hotels and restaurants. They’d just missed rush hour, so the traffic was light for Atlanta, which made Miranda’s nerves happy. South of Five Points, they took the ramp onto I-20 and headed east. Here the buildings became sparser, flatter, and the omnipresent trees took their place. It was a pretty monotonous view of concrete and green as they motored through Lithonia, Conyers, and Covington. Here the buildings disappeared and the highway became lined with rows of tall, Georgia pines.

  They’d been driving over an hour, when Parker took an exit north.