Miranda reached into the bag for a chip. Instead of eating it, she broke it into little pieces on the paper towel. This was getting complicated. She’d better come clean. Fanuzzi would figure it out sooner or later, anyway. She wiped her hands and let it out. “Parker won’t be there. He’s out of town.”
Fanuzzi looked like a kid whose puppy just ran away. “So you’re having a housewarming in his house without the host?”
“Right.”
Her air turned stiff, exquisitely professional. “Do you have a guest list?”
“Sort of.” Miranda walked over to the counter and picked up the pad where she’d scribbled down a few names.
“Let me see it.” Fanuzzi held out her hand like a grade school teacher.
Miranda handed her the pad.
She looked it over and scowled. “These are the principals from the Langford funeral. They don’t live in this neighborhood.”
Miranda folded her arms. Why did Fanuzzi have to be so nosey? All she wanted was some party planning. But if she didn’t let her old coworker in on the real plan, her curiosity just might ruin the evening.
Miranda took a swallow of beer to bolster her courage. “Look, Fanuzzi.” She sidled up to her at the island. “Whatever else Wade Parker is, he’s also my boss. I’m working a case for him.” It wasn’t much of a stretch.
Fanuzzi’s thick dark brows shot up to the high ceiling. “Is that what this party’s about?”
She nodded. No need to tell her Parker didn’t know about it. “I’m investigating Desirée Langford’s death and I sort of need to see some of these people, well, in action.”
Her mouth dropped open even wider than when she’d stepped inside the mansion. She ogled Miranda awhile, then slowly shook her head. “You sure are something else, Murray.”
Miranda forced a grin. “That’s me. Full of surprises.”
“How are you going to do that and play hostess at the same time?” Feeling more at home, she reached for her beer.
“I’m going to bug the rooms and tape conversations.”
Fanuzzi almost spat out her mouthful of Stone Imperial Russian Stout. “Holy shit. This is real detective stuff.”
Miranda nodded. “Mum’s the word.” Best not to tell her one of the guests might be bringing drugs. Or even packing a handgun. Maybe she should have Judd frisk everyone at the door. Oh, shit. She’d forgotten about Judd. It didn’t matter. By the time he told Parker, the party would be over.
And the case would be solved.
Suddenly, Fanuzzi grabbed her hand like her long lost best friend. “Oh, you can trust me. I swear on my grandmother’s grave, God rest her soul, I won’t breath a word. I’ll take care of everything. It’ll be perfect. Absolutely perfect. And don’t worry about the cost. I’ll do it gratis.”
“You don’t have to—”
She held up a hand. “It’s not every day I get to be in on a real murder investigation.” She snickered gleefully and looked over the list. “Who else are you inviting?”
“Uh, I’ll have to work on that.” Miranda watched Fanuzzi’s eyes dart over the skimpy list, as eager as a bloodhound on a trail. Relief washed over her. The woman was a real friend, after all. She should have let her in on the plan right away. This was exactly the kind of help she needed.
She could focus on the guest list and the surveillance while Fanuzzi handled the party details. She’d borrow some equipment from the Agency, but it would be a pain to install and impossible to check by herself. She thought a moment.
She’d get Holloway and Becker to help. She’d have to tell them something about the case and swear them to secrecy. Could she trust them? She’d have to chance it. She couldn’t risk the equipment not working. At least Becker would be excited about something for a change.
Wait a minute.
She studied her new friend’s short frame, her dark eyes and hair. Not bad looking. Bright, hard-working. “You seeing anybody these days, Fanuzzi?”
“Me?” she said in her Brooklyn accent. “Who has time? Why? Parker got a brother?”
“Just wondered.” Fanuzzi even hailed from the same part of the country as Becker. This party would be the perfect opportunity to introduce them. Yep, Joan Fanuzzi might be just the person to get Becker to forget his old flame.
She peered at the container on the counter. “What’s in the basket?”
“I almost forgot. Samples.” Fanuzzi opened the woven lid and took out a small jar and a roll of crackers. She opened the jar and spread a bit of the contents on a cracker with a plastic knife. “Try this and see what you think.”
Miranda took a bite. A salty tang snapped in her mouth. “That’s okay. What is it?”
“Beluga caviar. But that’s probably not going to be in your budget. I mean, my budget. I’ll have to come up with some ideas.”
“Cool. I really appreciate this.”
She looked at her watch. “This is enough for me to get started. I’d better get home. It’s a school night.”
“Right.”
Miranda helped her gather her things and walked her down the hall and through the majestic foyer.
“You know, this entrance hall would be a good spot to centralize the festivities.”
Miranda looked around. Nice, open space for her victims to face each other. “Sounds good to me.” She opened the front door. “Thanks for everything, Fanuzzi. You’ve been a big help.”
“Don’t mention it. What are friends for? I can’t believe I’m going to be involved in a real live sting operation.”
“You can’t tell anybody, you know.”
“Of course not. I’m not stupid, Murray. Besides, who would I tell?”
“Okay. Oh, and be sure to wear something nice.”
“I always dress nice when I cater.”
“Make it extra nice.”
She narrowed an eye at her. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Giving up, Fanuzzi shook her head and went through the door with a spring in her step. “A real live murder investigation under the guise of a housewarming party. Well, Murray I always said you had balls.”
* * *
Was it balls she had, or was she just crazy? She didn’t know why she wanted to close this case so badly, unless it was the vision of Desirée Langford’s face that had begun to haunt her nightmares, along with the faceless man that always chased her.
Parker didn’t call that night. Or the next night. Or any night that week. Except the time he’d called during the day, when he knew she’d be at work, and left a message on the answering machine confirming he wouldn’t be home until Monday.
She should have been glad she didn’t have to listen to him boss her around, but instead she felt an uneasy void in the pit of her stomach. Didn’t he want to speak to her? Had Judd figured out what she was up to and tattled to him? Was this his way of punishing her? So what? He couldn’t stop her. Parker certainly wouldn’t hop on a plane and fly across the country just to chew her out. Why should she let it make her so angry? It didn’t matter.
Parker would beam with pride when he saw she had put Ferraro Usher behind bars. Even if she did it without him.
She decided not to worry about Judd or Parker. She was too busy with party plans.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Scented candles in accent colors flickered on golden stands, artfully placed about the imposing entrance hall. Fresh-cut wildflowers graced crystal vases, their aroma blending with the smell of good food being set out on a long table near the majestic staircase. Against a wall leading to the hallway, stood a makeshift wet bar. From hidden speakers, Barry Manilow crooned softly.
Tonight Miranda would nail Ferraro Usher.
She descended the carved mahogany staircase in a deep red, open-shouldered gown with a fitted skirt and jeweled cuffs. For once, she was glad that Parker had insisted on buying her more than one dress the day they went clothes shopping. She hadn’t had a spare minute to get a new outfit.
She’d been wrong about being able to let Fanuzzi handle the details of the party. The woman had insisted on her input on everything.
To get tonight’s little shindig together, Miranda had spent every evening this week with the caterer-slash-road-crew-worker, either at the mansion or, when she couldn’t get a babysitter, at Fanuzzi’s little bungalow in Avondale Estates with her three kids. They’d gone over the decorations, the invitations, what to serve, protocol. Until Miranda had gone blue in the face.
They ate junk food with the kids, laughed, told stories about the road crew. It was the most time Miranda had ever spent with another female. Fanuzzi was becoming—a friend.
The time spent had been well worth it, she thought, gazing over the banister at the beautiful hall and beaming with pride. Fanuzzi was something else. Exactly the right choice to manage this soiree. She watched her black-clad staff scurry about, then caught sight of her talented caterer putting the finishing touches on the canapés.
She’d worn her hair in a French twist, caught by a shimmering silver comb. Her dress was midnight blue sequins and taffeta. Strapless, with a fitted top and a slit up the side.
Sexy, Miranda thought, as she stepped across the floor. Becker was going to go ape when he saw her. “Everything looks great.”
Fanuzzi turned and gave her a satisfied smile. “I told you I’m a fantastic caterer.”
She touched her arm. “You sure are. I’ll give you a great reference after tonight. And you look great, too.”
“Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”
Miranda had worn her own hair down, chiefly to hide the wireless bud in her ear. She’d dressed quickly, having spent the whole afternoon with Holloway and Becker, placing and testing cameras and listening devices everywhere on the first floor, before sending them off to get dressed.
They’d acted like two starving dogs who’d just spotted a steak when she told them about this case. She’d revealed only the barest of details and sworn them to secrecy several times. That would have to do.
The trap was set.
“So what’s the big surprise?”
“Surprise?”
“The reason you asked me to dress up.”
“Oh, that.” Maybe she should give her some warning. “Well, there’s this g—”
The doorbell rang.
Uh oh. Miranda inhaled a mouthful of nerves. “Our first guest.” She hoped she could pull off this ruse.
Fanuzzi gave her hand a motherly squeeze. “You’ll do fine.”
She straightened her shoulders. “Of course, I will.” She turned and strode to the front door. When she opened it, the breath went out of her like a balloon. It was Mr. P.
Dressed in a black tuxedo, not a hair out of place, he stepped into the foyer with his new fiancée on his arm. “Ms. Steele,” he cried, as if she were a movie star. “How wonderful to see you.”
As usual, the charismatic gentleman oozed the same good looks and sensual magnetism he’d passed on to his son. With a flourish, he took her hand and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Laying on the charm, like his son, too.
Beside him, Tatiana smiled a warm, thick-lipped grin. “Good evening, Ms. Steele,” she said in her heavy Ukrainian accent.
“Good evening.” Miranda shook her hand. “I’m glad you could come, Tatiana.”
“How kind of you to invite us both to this festive celebration.” Mr. P’s eyes twinkled with expectation.
Miranda leaned over and whispered. “You can drop the social act, Mr. P. You two are the first ones here.”
He nodded and winked at her.
“Come on in.” She led them into the entrance hall.
Mr. P strode over the marble floor, taking in Fanuzzi’s handiwork. His pure white mane of hair gave him the look of an elderly lion surveying territory that had once belonged to his pride. “This place looks even better than when I lived here.” The note of nostalgia in his voice made Miranda wonder whether he might be changing his mind about the house.
He turned to Tatiana with a hungry look. “My darling, do you remember the room I told you about?”
Her eyes widened and she nodded.
Mr. P pointed toward the staircase. “It’s up the stairs and down the hall on the left. Fourth room.” He was talking about the Taj Mahal bedroom. “Why don’t you go take a look at it?”
She turned to Miranda, excitement in her eyes. “Do you mind?”
Miranda nodded in the same direction. “Knock yourself out.”
With a giggle, she shot up the stairs.
Miranda shook her head at Mr. P. No doubt he’d join her up there in a bit, but right now, he’d sent his fiancée away so that they could have a moment alone.
This past Tuesday night, Miranda had been sharing a bowl of popcorn on the couch with Fanuzzi and her kids, Charlie, Tommy, and Callie, while the woman nagged about finishing the guest list, when Mr. P had popped into her head. She’d let out a yelp that woke the family’s golden retriever.
It hadn’t been her fault that she wasn’t able to come up with a list of people to invite to her housewarming. It was Parker who knew the high and mighty of Buckhead, not her. Except for the Van Aarles, who were in Paris, the Todds, who were in Rome, and the Oglethorpes, whom she hadn’t met, she didn’t even know who her neighbors were.
But Mr. P had turned out to be a regular social registry. After bawling her out for not keeping him informed about the Langford case, he gave her a list as long as her arm, including several art connoisseurs who admired Usher’s work.
Rocking back on his heels, he chuckled to himself. “Very impressive, Ms. Steele. If only Russell could see your handiwork tonight.”
She swallowed. “But you promised not to tell him.”
He gave her a wink and put a finger to his lips. “I won’t say a word.”
Of course, he wouldn’t. He was enjoying their little secret too much. She was glad now that he’d charmed the real purpose of tonight’s soirée out of her.
His face warmed with sincerity. “How are you feeling?”
“A little nervous,” she admitted.
He took her hand and patted it, in a fatherly manner. “You’ll do just fine. You were trained by my son.” He glanced around the room again. “And the entrance hall is absolutely perfect.”
“That’s my caterer’s doing.”
To some, it might be considered trés gauche to introduce the hired help, but Miranda didn’t care. “Fanuzzi,” she called out. “Come meet Mr. P.”
Fanuzzi stopped what she was doing and scurried across the floor, her hand out. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Parker, Senior. I’ve read so much about you—I mean, about your real estate dealings—in the paper.”
He chuckled with delight, took her hand, and breathed a light kiss over it. “I’m always glad to meet a fan. Especially such a lovely and talented one.”
Fanuzzi sucked in her breath. For a minute Miranda thought she might faint.
“Don’t let him turn your head, Fanuzzi. He flirts with all the women.”
“Ms. Steele. I’m astonished.” He put a hand to his chest. “I’m simply well-bred.”
And his genes included the Parker family’s abundance of charm and testosterone.
He narrowed his eyes. “Is she—”
“Yes,” Miranda whispered. “She’s in on it.”
“Very well.” He glanced around once more. “Is all the equipment ready?”
“Checked and double-checked.”
“I hope you get the information you need.”
“I will.” If Delta Langford played her part right, by the end of the evening, Miranda would have Ferraro Usher’s confession to her sister’s murder on state-of-the-art DVR.
The doorbell rang again.
Miranda took a deep breath. “Show time.” She fairly glided to the front door.
* * *
By nine o’clock, the foyer of the Parker mansion was shimmering with the sheen of satin lapels, silvery jewels, leopard prints and bare
shoulders. And echoing with the flirtatious laughter of strangers whose names Miranda couldn’t remember. And smelling of eau de money.
But the principals still hadn’t shown up.
Dr. Kennicot, the horse vet, Desirée’s first love. Usher, the famous artist, Desirée’s first husband—and her killer. Delta Langford, Desirée’s only sister, who was the key to tonight’s scheme. What if they’d all decided to stand Miranda up?
After sending out the invitations, Miranda had called each of them personally. Good thing she had. Getting them to agree to come tonight had taken more persuasion than a late-night infomercial.
Delta had flatly refused until Miranda told her the real reason for the event and that she couldn’t bring Usher down without her. When she added that Parker would be out of town, Delta had agreed.
Getting Kennicot to say he’d be there was a little easier. She’d only had to hint that she might be able to put the squeeze on Usher.
The artist himself was the hardest sell. She’d had to grovel. With a sick feeling lining her stomach, she’d told Usher she was ashamed of how she’d treated him at his art gallery. That she’d only been trying to impress Parker, and that he’d reamed her out for her sorry behavior. Usher had relished her fawning, as well as the opportunity to tell her no.
So she’d pulled out all the stops. She’d made pouting sounds and told him if she couldn’t have the famous artist at her party, it would be a complete flop. The ego ploy got him. With the condescension of a medieval monarch, he agreed to show.
When she put down the phone, she’d needed a barf bag.
Hell, maybe all three of them were liars, Miranda thought, eyeing the silk-and-satin-clad strangers wolfing down Fanuzzi’s appetizers and guzzling the faux champagne. If she’d gone to all this trouble for nothing, she’d really be pissed.
Once more, the doorbell rang.
Fanuzzi, who’d scolded her earlier for answering her own door, crossed the room and opened it.
Miranda let out a breath of relief as the tall, rugged-looking veterinarian entered the room with a slow gait.
He ran a hand over his wavy gray hair and gazed about the foyer, his lined face looking more worn than the day Miranda had questioned him at Aquitaine Farms. He nodded to a few people he recognized, then made his way to Miranda.
Delicious Torment Page 22