by Sarah Andre
“This was no accident.”
“We don’t know anything yet. Let it be the truth for now.”
“I think he had a crush on her.” Her eyes watered again.
“She was a beautiful woman.” He shut down the avalanche of other, completely inappropriate adjectives to describe the newly deceased.
“What do you think Father will do now? With his will, I mean?”
Devon shook his head, disguising a frown as puzzlement. Talk about wrong timing, sis. “I don’t have a clue. I don’t recommend you ask anyone else, either.” He stopped outside Todd’s closed door and gently lowered her to her feet. “You gonna be okay?”
She nodded and wiped her face with the sweatshirt sleeve. “Thanks again for last night, Dev. I know it was inconvenient to come all the way back here.” He swallowed his reply. “Did you tell anyone?” Her fingers scrunched the long sleeves. “About Todd?”
“No.” He stopped himself before adding how insulted he was that she’d even ask.
“And you won’t, right? Not anyone. Not even Father.”
“Frannie. It’s me.”
“I just”—and here came the tears—“don’t know who to trust anymore. Getting custody is all I have left. If anyone finds out he got on that plane…”
“I promise never to tell a soul.” He shifted his weight impatiently. Efficient problem-solving skills were never her strong suit, so he nodded toward the west side. “Just tell Brady you finally found him asleep in the billiards room.”
She gulped and sniffed and wiped and nodded. “Okay.” He turned to go. “Wait, Dev.” She looked so tiny and helpless in that enormous sweatshirt. He’d forgotten how defenselessly feminine she always appeared, bringing out an overwhelming surge of protectiveness in any man, when really, she was all lean muscle in that thin frame. “I’m sorry you’re stuck in this mess with the rest of us.”
He nodded. “That makes two of us. Which reminds me, where the hell’s Rick?” For sure, he had to get to the bottom of whether his half-brother was behind the second hang-up.
“Check his bedroom,” Frannie said. “If it’s still morning, he’s still in an alcohol-induced coma.”
Devon barged into his half-brother’s room, lit by the morning sun because the shades were still up. Rick lay on his back, his open-mouthed snores all but rattling the windowpane. “Hey.”
Not even a muscle twitched. Rick was out cold. Kind of an odd reaction if you’d murdered someone only hours previously. But then again, Devon’s bet was still on his father.
He glanced around his brother’s room. Bears, Bulls, and Cubs paraphernalia littered most of the shelves and dresser surfaces. Clothes were flung in wrinkled heaps, and it smelled distinctly like dirty socks. He leaned down and shook Rick’s shoulder. “Get up.”
“Shove it.” An arm swatted air.
“Rick, Honey’s been murdered.” Why pretend it was an accident? Too many people had means, motive, and opportunity. Startled eyes blinked up at him. A moment passed, and Devon watched closely for any expression of guilt.
“Good,” his brother said.
Couldn’t get colder than that. “Did you do it?”
“I sure thought about it.” He yawned and scratched his head. “All the fucking time. What’re you still doing here?”
“It’s complicated. Where were you last night?”
Rick quirked a brow. “You pretending to be a cop?”
“Just answer me.”
He sat up slowly with another yawn. “Down at Joe’s. Watching the Bulls play the Mavericks.” He wore the same T-shirt as yesterday, which had a dried mustard stain now, but nothing that looked like blood. “How’d she die?”
Devon told him, adding quickly, “When did you get home?”
“One twenty, and no, I didn’t see Honey or hear anything suspicious, all right?”
“Did you see anyone?”
“Frannie. Crying her eyes out.”
“I mean anyone else.”
Rick shook his head and rubbed his eyes hard with the heels of his hands. There was a deep scratch on his inner left wrist, scabbed but still fresh-looking. After a beat, he lowered his hands. “Wait a minute. You think Frannie did it?”
Devon let out a mirthless laugh. “She was too busy. How’d you get that?” He pointed to the gouge.
“Picked up some chick last night who had a cat.” He glanced at the wound in disgust. “’Bout the only action I got.”
“Do you know anyone in this house who’d have a motive to kill Honey?” Besides their father.
Rick’s mouth turned down in thought, but he shook his head. “Honey didn’t win over any fans with the staff, but it’s hard to see one of them offing her.”
“You may want to bone up on appropriate phrases for the dead, kid.”
Rick rested his back against the mahogany headboard. “And be a hypocrite like you?”
Devon’s muscles braced. “Really? How so?”
“Who leaves this”—Rick gestured around his messy room—“because they hate the Wickham name and all it stands for, just to go imitate it all in New York as an Ashby?”
Devon filtered through obscenities, sarcasm, and protest. He shouldn’t care what his half-brother thought of him. Hell, Rick was probably right in his own distorted way, because Devon hadn’t made any effort to maintain the sibling ties to give him any other point of view. But after hearing versions of this from Frannie and Hannah last night, the accusation was wearing thin. “Now that you’re back in the will, you still gonna get a job?”
His brother shrugged. “Don’t see a need to.”
Devon wandered to the window, taking stock of the busy activity by the cliff. “So your life plan is mooch off Harrison, sleep until noon, and watch sports at Joe’s Bar?”
Rick sighed. “Mind leaving? I’m tired of holding this fart in.”
Devon turned to face him, folding his arms. “Quit being a smartass. This is serious.”
“So’s the gas buildup.” Rick rubbed his stomach, grinning. “Great having this brotherly chat, though. Thanks for stopping by.”
Devon headed toward the door. “Did you eavesdrop on my phone conversation with Dad last night?”
“Hell no. I’ve got better things to do than listen to you two bicker like old women.” Rick threw off the covers. “This is your last warning.”
Devon turned the doorknob. “The cops are downstairs interviewing the household. I suggest you clean up quick.” He shut the door on the explosive noise and shook his head, trudging to the stairs. Would he have been this crass and spoiled if he’d stayed here? They’d both had privileged upbringings by a cold and distant father, but Devon had fallen far from grace. Nothing like barely living above the poverty line to be motivated to never end up in that vulnerable state again.
“Ken Tucker cares. He made you, and he’s the one who can break you.” Eric’s words yesterday brought him up short. Jesus, he’d hung up on Nicole an hour ago, and hadn’t called to explain why yet.
He got as far as yanking out his cell phone when Joseph intercepted him. “Sir, the sergeant is requesting your immediate presence in your father’s office. Unfortunately, two housekeepers overheard you threatening Honey in the dining room yesterday morning.”
He exhaled wearily and stuffed the phone back. “That didn’t take long. Will you check on Frannie? She’s not taking this…situation well.”
“I was just on my way to do so.” The butler gave a half bow. Given Frannie’s mood swings and Harrison’s tendency to chase the almighty buck, Joseph had often stepped in as the adult who’d consoled Frannie.
Devon spun around. “Joseph, did you know she’s on medication?”
A guarded look came over Joseph’s face. “Yes, sir.”
Of course he’d know. There wasn’t much that escaped the gentle butler’s notice. “And you know who set the fire.” When Joseph remained stoically expressionless, Devon held up a hand. “It’s all right. Todd confessed last night.”
&nb
sp; Without seeming to move a muscle, Joseph physically relaxed. “Yes, sir. I’d overheard him tell a friend he was going to try smoking, and kept a careful eye on his whereabouts Tuesday evening. I was on my way to his wing one last time before retiring when I passed the theater. The fire had started, and by the time I got him out and ran for an extinguisher, it had grown out of control.”
“Does my father know any of this?”
“I don’t keep secrets from him.”
No wonder Harrison had spoken of the event so calmly on Thursday. He’d known all along it wasn’t arson.
“Todd doesn’t know that Harrison knows,” Devon said quietly. “I think it would build character for him to get up the courage and confess. He’s agreed to it.”
“Very good, sir.” Joseph hesitated. “The sergeant…”
“Yeah, I’m going. Thanks, Joseph. For everything you do around here.” Without waiting for a reply, Devon trudged down the staircase. How was Eric doing with Westcott? How furious was Nicole? Should he try to call Tucker again? What he wouldn’t do to go back in time and spend the night at O’Hare. Or go farther back and never have come to Chicago in the first place. Goddamn good intentions and olive branches—he was a modern-day Don Quixote.
He reached the foyer, nodded to the cop who’d initially told him to remain in the hall, and headed toward his father’s office. Yeah, he hadn’t pushed Honey, but given his total lack of control over his life, and two witnesses establishing his motive, his stomach roiled ominously.
Chapter 18
Once Hannah and Sean gave their information to the officer, he released them from the foyer crowd with a warning to remain on the premises until further notice. Which was fine—they could still build crates outside. But unless there was a mass exodus of people, bringing the pieces down would be unprofessional and unsafe.
“Let’s go find some tools,” she murmured to Sean, studying the dismissed servants still loitering. It suddenly struck her that Devon hadn’t come back down from carrying his sister. She bit her lip. As heroic and gentle as he’d been with Frannie, Hannah couldn’t chance running into him again. She needed time to sort through the mudslide of feelings.
She pointed to a man in overalls—maybe a gardener or mechanic. “Go ask him. I’m going out to the patio to call Walter.” She discreetly threaded her way to the back of the house and slipped out onto the flagstones. The air was chilly in the long morning shadows, but it was the grisly reality of the scene a hundred yards away that evoked a full-body shiver.
Swarms of uniforms: cops and EMS worked in clusters… Two men in sport coats with badges around their necks rounded the side of the house, walking toward the cliff. She’d seen enough TV to know they were homicide. If she looked close enough, the mayor and commissioner would probably be traipsing around near the fluttering crime scene tape too. No doubt the Wickham name brought in the big guns.
Everyone was so focused on their work that no one spotted her. Hannah stayed in the shadows and sat on a concrete Roman bench adjacent to the house, partially hidden by the thick limbs of a scarlet maple.
Ignoring the phone clutched in her fingers, Hannah watched the activity in morbid fascination. They were all too far away to hear any discussions, but their expressions were somber, the atmosphere energized. Enough cops ambled to the ledge and peered over that Honey’s body must still be down there. Large sections of the lawn had been lined with yellow tape, and uniforms combed each segment of grass, almost blade by blade. One official, carrying a long-lensed camera, stumbled over a tangle of branches from the weeping willow and swiped at them in agitation.
Hannah hugged herself in the chilly breeze, her imagination of the horror below running roughshod over her. The detectives negotiated the stairs slowly and disappeared from view. Naturally the scene was being treated as a homicide. Who killed herself just before marrying the richest man in Chicago?
She drew in a long breath of crisp air and her jumbled thoughts calmed. There was no way Devon murdered Honey, even though Hannah had witnessed the clear hostility between them at the boathouse yesterday. Besides disliking her, what was his motive? And yet, why skulk through hallways looking for a back way out? And why hadn’t he left last night? She exhaled slowly and tapped her cell phone screen. The monumental list she needed to accomplish today didn’t include obsessing over Devon or spying on the crime scene. She scrolled down to Walter’s number.
“How dare you, you son of a bitch!”
Hannah shot to her feet at Harrison’s shout. She glanced around wildly. Oh crap! Behind the maple, a hand-cranked windowpane stood ajar. Harrison’s office. Goose bumps skittered along her arms. His tone held the same animosity as yesterday. She sidled to the thick trunk and studied her surroundings again. The warning hadn’t carried far enough to capture the attention of the police across the lawn. Blushing at the needless risk but unable to ignore the compulsion, she tiptoed forward, avoiding the few crisp leaves scattered on the ground, until she stood within inches of the window.
“…will have to ask you to leave if there’s one more outburst, sir,” said an official voice.
“This is my house, Sergeant, so stop with the threats and get back to questioning him.”
A pause and a sigh, then: “Mr. Ashby, where were you around nine o’clock last night?”
Hannah tensed in anticipation.
“On a Gulfstream heading to New York.”
So he did get on board. She frowned.
“Why nine?” Harrison barked.
“So far that appears to be the last time anyone saw Miss Hartlett.”
Silence. Hannah envisioned the officer waiting for permission to go ahead with the questioning from the man truly in charge. His next question was hard to hear, as if he’d moved farther away. “Why are you still in Chicago, then?”
She strained forward.
“I was forced to return.”
“Why?”
“A reason beyond my control. But it had nothing to do with Honey.”
A longer pause. Her nails bit into her palms, and she flexed her fingers.
“What did you do upon returning to Chicago?” the sergeant asked.
“I…came back here.”
“Why?”
“To bring something back.”
Hannah frowned again. None of this made sense.
“So now you’re stealing from me? What did you take?” The sound of movement and the sergeant murmuring. “Fine,” Harrison shouted. “Just get on with it.”
The sergeant cleared his throat. “What item did you return to this residence?”
“I’m not at liberty to elaborate.” Devon sounded strained. And very aware of the inadequacies of his answer.
Silence.
“What time did you enter the residence with the item?”
“Just after two.”
“Did you see Miss Hartlett or anyone else when you returned?”
Hannah stilled, waiting for the answer. A prolonged pause.
“No.”
“Liar!”
“Mr. Wickham, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“I want him arrested.”
“On what charge, Father? There’s no ruling of a homicide. For all we know, she committed suicide.”
“Get this son of a bitch out of my house!”
Hannah clapped a hand over her mouth. How could Devon have grown up with this constant animosity?
“Or maybe you killed her after I called you,” Devon replied softly, his tone baiting.
Her eyes widened. What conversation could lead to murder?
“I won’t even dignify that with an answer.”
“Mr. Ashby,” the sergeant said, “would you mind—”
“What were you doing hiding behind my garage, then? Still figuring out a way to return my stolen item?”
“Mr. Wick—”
“My Honey is dead!” A tremor encased the last word, followed by an audible inhale and exhale. “You haven’t even asked him if he push
ed her.”
“Seriously?” Devon’s voice sounded cool and collected compared to Harrison’s shouts. “What was my motive?”
“To pay me back for taking your company.”
“Oh, I plan on that, old man, but it’ll be a lot more creative than this. Her death saved this family, and you know it, so cut the fake grieving.”
“Mr. Ashby, this arguing isn’t conducive to our investigation. I’ll need you to come downtown and answer the remaining questions.”
“What other questions?” Panic threaded his words. “I returned…the item, I fell asleep in my mother’s room, I woke up an hour ago. That’s all.”
A fist banged a desk. “You were sneaking off. I saw it with my own eye—”
“Why were you over by the garages?” the sergeant interrupted.
“Because I overheard the staff spreading the news, and didn’t want to get caught up in all of this. I’m desperate to get to New York, sir.”
Movement appeared in the little window, and Hannah froze. Devon’s pale face registered a split second before his gaze landed on her. An expression flashed; if she didn’t know better, she’d have labeled it tenderness, or a sense of calm in seeing her again. The impact almost knocked her off her feet. She spun away and hurried across the flagstones, chased by confusion and searing embarrassment at being caught. Lord, if it’d been either of the other men, Moore and Morrow would’ve spent their last minutes on this project. What had she been thinking?
She slipped through the patio door and wound her way to the foyer. A few staff loitered around, still looking shell-shocked and talking in low tones. The front door opened. One of the homicide detectives walked in. Down the hall, the three men came out of Mr. Wickham’s office. Devon argued urgently, palms up, expression fierce as the sergeant nodded and kept his gaze on the tiles before him. On the sergeant’s other side, Harrison stalked stiffly, his face an unhealthy crimson. She wrapped her quivering arms around her waist, heartbeat thundering in her ears.