by Adrianne Lee
“Yeah, well, maybe so, but the police don’t know what we know. Nor, it seems, did they look further than their noses.”
A horn blared behind them. Mark saw the light had turned green and eased off the brake. “The spouse is always the prime suspect when a wife or husband is murdered, and since the murder weapon belonged to me and had my fingerprints on it—as far as the cops and prosecutors were concerned it was open and shut.”
She sighed. “Well, I guess I can’t fault the police for employing a method that proves correct about ninety-five percent of the time.”
He felt no such generosity. “Find yourself in that other five percentile group and see how magnanimous you feel then.” He pressed the gas pedal hard, then hit the brakes. It wasn’t raining today, but traffic was heavy and sluggish, his emotions as erratic as his reflexes.
Livia touched his arm, a reminder that he wasn’t alone any longer, and his distress receded with an unexpected speed. In fact, the anger that seemed his constant companion these days had all but disappeared.
She said, “I’ve been wondering if you can recall which of our suspects had access to your restaurant kitchen?”
He’d thought about that more nights than he could count—always with the same damned results. “Probably all of them, I guess. Wendy thrived on showing off the place. She was especially proud of the kitchen. It was pretty high-tech.”
“Yes, but who’d been there right before you noticed the knife was missing?”
“I didn’t know it was missing.” He plowed his hand through his hair. “It was there…in a set…but I hadn’t used the knives. They’d been put through the dishwasher, then set out. If I hadn’t checked those knives for sharpness, my fingerprints wouldn’t even have been on them. And during that week, all the Rayburns were there at one time or other.”
Her face clouded, disappointment pulling her kissable lips into a thin line. “Then what about opportunity?”
He shrugged. “Since Wendy was killed at home, in the Rayburn mansion, our suspects all had opportunity.”
“Damn. I was hoping we’d be able to eliminate someone, or at least narrow the field.” She grew quiet a moment, then said, “That leaves motive. It’s what I’ve said all along. If we knew why she was killed…”
“The police thought they knew why.”
“The hell with their theories.” She gave a dismissive snort. “We’re after the truth.”
Mark braked for another traffic light. Having Candee and Nanette believe in him enough to help get him out of jail had been wonderful, but having Livia believe wholeheartedly in his innocence, be as one hundred percent certain as he that he hadn’t killed his wife, felt good in a whole new way. So did having the germ of hope that they might prove his innocence.
But that black cloud of possibly dying in the attempt to prove it hovered in a corner of his peripheral awareness. Out there. Dangerous. Imminent.
He glanced at Livia, his heart tripping. As much as he would fight for his life, for Josh’s sake as well as his own, he would never allow this woman to take another bullet for him.
Her face was somber. “If it’s going to bother you to discuss how Wendy died, I’ll understand.”
“No. It’s okay. It was unbearable at first. Having to look at my son’s mother in those gruesome police photographs in court, having to listen to her murder described in the most horrendous terms. But I’ve had three years to come to terms with the brutal facts. Some way or other, nature has insulated me from the pain of it and I can finally view it with the objectivity we’ll need if we’re to outwit her killer.”
She nodded. “In those three years, you’ve had time to think about motive, Mark. Surely you’ve come up with one or two possibilities?”
“Not only have I thought about it, I’ve read up on the subject. Most murders are committed for jealousy or greed.”
“Love or money.”
“I could never understand the prosecutor’s insistence that she was killed in a jealous rage,” he said. “Never mind that I had no reason to be jealous, the crime itself negates it. She was stabbed once in the back. That was cold-blooded. Calculated.”
“I agree,” Livia said. “The crime lacked passion. If jealousy and rage were behind it, she’d have been attacked with a viciousness that’s missing. Probably from the front. And would have been stabbed more than once. Likely many times.”
“So, if not jealousy, that leaves greed.”
“Follow the money… Didn’t you say Wendy had money of her own?”
“A small fortune, actually. She inherited it from her mother when she was just a baby, but the money was in a trust fund she couldn’t touch until she turned twenty-six.”
“Which was the day before she died.” Livia’s eyes rounded. “What happened to that money in the event she died before collecting it?”
“It was to go into another trust fund…for Josh.”
“Who’s in control of that trust fund?”
“I was supposed to have been. It was in Wendy’s will. She knew I’d never cheat Josh. But, of course, the law prohibits murderers from that kind of responsibility.”
“Then who is the new executor?”
“Reese, I assume. He wouldn’t tell me.”
“And I didn’t know to ask.” She glanced up as he drove into the Rayburn Grocers lot and parked beside a red Jaguar. “But I intend to find out. Today.”
Chapter Eleven
JELLIED ASPIC
Assorted Vegetables
A Couple of Tomatoes
Stir and See What Gels
“Well,” Mark said, nodding toward Sookie’s red sports car. “We wanted to confront as many as possible of our suspects at one time. Looks like something or someone is lending us an invisible hand.”
“We have friends in very high places,” Livia reminded him, glancing around the parking lot for the dark sedan that had sped away from Cupid’s Catering shortly after the bullet had pierced the kitchen window, missing them by millimeters. But the vehicles were all on the lighter side of the spectrum.
She gripped the rolled page tighter in her hand, then realized she’d all but pulverized the food list Mark and she had drawn up. She uncurled it and began smoothing it over her thigh. The sensation recalled Mark’s hands on this same thigh and the impulse to turn around and head back to his bed swept through her with the same urgency that prevented them from doing just that.
This morning when she’d awakened in her bed at her mother’s, she’d discovered her worst fear come true—instead of being at the seventeenth mark, the stardust in the hourglass had slipped to fourteen.
By changing events, she’d altered something vital. Lost precious days, precious time. Time they could be together. Time to solve Wendy’s murder. Livia’s nerves were strung tighter than the tension bands of a rowing machine. We have to unveil Wendy’s killer and do it quickly. Or it’s all over.
“Ready?” Mark opened his door. He was looking at her questioningly, his golden eyes full of affection.
A shiver of desire darted through her. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” The gleam in his gaze darkened.
Her breath knotted in her lungs. “Like you want to tumble right back into bed with me.”
“Doesn’t have to be a bed…” He started to reach for her, but she backed away, eyeing the front of the office.
He shrugged, but his look was still devilish, irresistible. “I can’t help myself.”
“You’d better manage,” she said, struggling to take her own advice, to quell the sensuous, intimate tingles between her thighs. “The last thing we can afford is to be caught moony-eyeing each other.”
“Do I make you feel moony-eyed?” He looked delighted at the prospect.
“You know you do.” She grinned back at him. No man had ever made her feel as wonderful, as positively sinful, as Mark did. Even her mother had commented that she was glowing this morning. She prayed no one would guess the cause—because this glow s
eemed to come from deep inside and she could no more hide it than pretend she didn’t frost her hair. “So, don’t be offended if I ignore you in there.”
She twisted the ring on her finger and wished she could take it off. She hated dishonesty, deceit, but she had no choice. Lives were at stake.
“Let’s hope our attempt to rattle the guilty party works.” He stepped out of the van.
Their plan was to show up as though they hadn’t been shot at yesterday, as though no one in this building knew that Mark Everett was actually Ethan Marshall. They wanted to see who reacted. As plans went, it wasn’t much of one, but since neither had a background in solving crimes, it was the best they could come up with. It wouldn’t work, however, if she couldn’t get her nerves settled, couldn’t pull off the “happy, if somewhat harried, bride-to-be” act.
Mark asked, “You’ve got the list?”
“Here.” She handed it to him as they walked up the steps and into the foyer. Mark had told her he intended to try to find a way they could get into the warehouse and offices tonight—after everyone else had left for the day.
A man, with his back to them, had his hip perched on the receptionist’s desk, leaning down, talking to the buxom brunette. Ali threw back her head and laughed at something the man said, then she spotted them. Her laugh died. She looked guilty, as though she’d been caught flirting with someone’s husband. Or fiancé.
Reese spun around. He looked as guilty as Ali, and Livia wondered whether the two were lovers, past or present. She didn’t care—just found it interesting that she hadn’t noticed before now, just as she hadn’t realized why she was putting off planning her wedding. Reese’s engagement ring no longer felt like a concrete block on her finger. No matter what happened in the end, she was lucky to have escaped marrying the wrong man.
“Babe,” Reese said, glancing at Mark without curiosity as though he knew exactly who he was and what he was doing here. Had he seen the Cupid’s Catering van? No, he hadn’t realized they were there until Ali had. “Livia, I wasn’t expecting to see you.”
Obviously. She swallowed a grin. “You’ll be relieved to know that I’ve finally decided on the menu for the reception.”
“What I’m more relieved about is that you’re over that nasty flu bug. I was afraid I might be stood up at the altar.” Reese came to her and pecked her cheek like a chicken picking up corn in its beak, disregarding Mark. Dismissing him as someone not worth his consideration? As he would a servant? Or was Reese ignoring Mark on purpose?
Livia found a smile and motioned to Mark. “Our caterer is going to need to check out the food on our list. If someone can show him the warehouse.”
“Of course.” Reese extended a hand toward Mark. “Reese Rayburn.”
“Mark Everett.”
Livia could see the tension wafting off Mark, but Reese seemed oblivious to it. More concerned about himself than anything. Why hadn’t she noticed that about him before? Had she not wanted to see it? Could a man that self-absorbed commit cold-blooded murder? His ego would probably give him to think he could get away with it. But what motive? Wendy’s money? Was he now handling Josh’s trust fund?
Ali was sucking her pinkie nail, her gaze crawling every inch of Mark, taking his measure. Livia couldn’t discern, however, whether or not it was the healthy curiosity of a sensuous woman responding to a sexy male, or something else.
It hadn’t occurred to her until now, but could Ali somehow be involved in this?
The more she considered the possibility, the more bizarre the idea that the receptionist had been the one who plotted the murder seemed. There could have been no love connection to Wendy—Ali definitely preferred men, though she wouldn’t have given the old plump Ethan a second glance—and certainly no connection to Wendy’s money.
“Ali,” Reese said. “Would you please take our caterer to the warehouse manager? Hank Peterson will show you around, Mr. Everett. He knows where every pat of butter is kept.”
Ali looked pleased to be of service. She rose with an erotic sway of hips and breasts—sure to lure any male animal with eyes in his head—and crooked a finger at Mark. Livia bit down a flash of jealousy and smiled at Reese.
He caught her by the elbow and pecked her cheek again. “Babe, come into my office and let’s catch up.”
She let him lead her into his lavish workspace. “I’d like to talk to you about Josh.”
“Sure. He’s been missing you.”
“I miss him, too.”
“We’ll do dinner with him tonight, how about that?” Instead of using the sofa under the window where they could have been together, he went to his desk and sat down, gesturing her into the chair across from him as though she were a customer.
Livia’s mind wandered to Mark—to Ali with Mark—and she had to force herself to concentrate on Reese. “Since we’re going to be Josh’s parents after our honeymoon, I think there are a few things we should discuss.”
“No need to frown like that, babe.” His smile reached into his stormy blue-gray eyes, but she felt the practiced charm beneath the grin. He’d gotten a haircut since she’d seen him last, his dark red hair cropped close to his head. A man in control of his life and his woman. “There’s nothing we can’t talk about.”
Livia sat forward, her hands folded on her thighs. “I have some concerns.”
“You shouldn’t.” Reese sounded as though he were selling her something. “You’re great with the boy.”
She knew exactly how good she was with “the boy.” She loved the little guy. “Yes, but sometimes he seems so sad. As though he’s still missing his mommy. I can’t say I blame him.”
“He was such a baby when she died, I’d have thought he’d be over it by now.”
She felt as though he’d slapped her. She unsnapped her jacket with deliberate care, struggling to keep the indignation from her voice. “I’m not sure one ever gets over losing their mother. Certainly not to violence.”
His expression tightened. “You think he needs counseling?”
“I think he needs parents who are involved with him.”
Reese’s face relaxed. “We’ll be that.”
She studied him as she said, “Tell me about Wendy.”
The change of topic seemed to confuse him only for the blink of an eye, then he shrugged. “Don’t know what there is to tell.”
“Last week, before I got sick, someone, I forget who, said she was your stepsister. I said half sister, but they said Phillip wasn’t your biological father.”
“I thought you knew.” Shrugging, he made a face. “You shouldn’t let it worry you. I’m a great endorsement for adoption. In fact, it proves we’ll be great parents to Josh, even though he’s not our biological son.”
She tugged off her jacket. The room felt overly warm, but perhaps it was just nerves. “Did Wendy and you get along? Were you close?”
He seemed wound tighter than usual, like a beaker of kinetic energy. “You mean, close the way you and Bridget are?”
“Yes.”
“Not really.” He leaned back in his chair, and though she couldn’t see it, she knew he was tapping one foot. “Wendy was a brain, a bookworm growing up. I spent my time as most boys do. Self-involved. Sports. The usual. But she knew so much about everything, I’ll never understand why she hooked up with a fat slob like Ethan Marshall. The guy was a pig. Didn’t take care of himself at all. Stupid, too. A buffoon. A real loser.”
She winced at his callous attitude toward the overweight. Reese completely disregarded genetics and other factors. He thought all one had to do to stay thin was eat less and exercise. If only that were true. She’d lost weight that way, but if she didn’t watch every morsel even now, even leading two or three aerobic classes a day, she would start gaining.
She asked, “Then you knew Ethan would kill her?”
“God, no.” He stiffened, paling beneath his artificial tan. “Who could have guessed that? I mean, he kept the violent side hidden from us all.”
The slap-slap of feminine soles against backless pumps announced Sookie’s approach. She was a vision in red, as usual, like a brand-new, wide-open tube of cherry lipstick.
“Livia, dear, hello. Ali said you were here. With that…divine caterer.” She glanced at her son. “Jay is looking for you. He’s in his office.”
Reese’s neck colored as if he hated being summoned like some flunky by his partner. “I’ll be right back. Mother, why don’t you tell Livia how the flowers are coming?”
Sookie slap-slapped over to the other customer chair and settled down. “You aren’t worried about the flowers, are you, dear?”
“Not in the least. No one does flowers better than you.”
“Why, thank you.” Sookie pursed her carmine lips, as pleased as if she’d been handed a blue ribbon for a prize-winning rose. “So, tell me. Are his pastries as…sinfully wicked and delicious as Bitsy claims?”
Not nearly as sinfully wicked and delicious as the man. “I’m not much for pastries, but I have sampled his cinnamon rolls and they are to die for.”
“Ah.” Sookie sighed and closed her eyes as though savoring a taste she recalled, but that—given she was as dedicated to staying thin as Livia—she had probably, purposely not experienced since childhood.
Livia glanced toward the office door. Reese could return any moment. “Sookie, I’ve been wondering lately about Wendy.”
Sookie straightened as if Livia had poked her bony chest. “What a morbid turn of thought. Were you feverish with that flu, dear?”
“No.” She fiddled with her engagement ring. “But since Reese and I are going to be raising her son, I think I should know something about his mother and who better to ask than Wendy’s mother.”
“Wendy’s mother.” Sookie laughed as though the word were a curse. “Wendy hardly considered me that. Wicked stepmother more likely. Nothing I said or did could penetrate that wall she’d built around herself. She was an unhappy child who grew into an even unhappier woman.”