Killing Her Softly

by Beverly Barton

  "They're going to paint Lulu as a fun-loving party girl who handed out her sexual favors as if they were candy," Griffin told them. "And my bet is they won't print anything that can't be substantiated. They will maintain that every word is the truth and not slander."

  "But why would they—?" Annabelle asked.

  "To sell papers," Griffin said, then looked right at Quinn. "And exposing the fact that Lulu had a legion of lovers will make it appear that Quinn, despite the fact he found her body, was only one man of many who might have had a mo­tive to kill her."

  "Are you accusing me of something?" Quinn asked. "Like leaking this story to the newspaper?"

  "The investigative reporter who's doing the expose on Lulu somehow found out that she was pregnant." Griffin stayed focused on Quinn. "The police department or the ME's office could have a loose-lipped employee, but according to my sources, someone in the law offices of Hamilton, Jeffreys, Lloyd and Wells made a phone call to the Commercial Appeal today."

  "Kendall?" Quinn didn't want to believe that his friend and lawyer—and his lover—would have done something that unethical, although it was something that under different cir­cumstances, he might have done himself. In order to win, he'd always been willing to do whatever it took, no matter how underhanded or borderline illegal. "You think my lawyer leaked the news about Lulu's pregnancy?"

  "There's no way to prove it, of course," Griffin said. "But, yes, I think Kendall Wells is planning ahead just in case you are charged with Lulu's murder. She's smearing Lulu's repu­tation now and keeping her own hands clean, thereby keep­ing yours clean, too."

  "If Kendall did this—and I'm saying if—I didn't know anything about it." Quinn turned to Annabelle. "I swear to you that I had nothing—"

  "I can't do this right now." Annabelle held up a protective hand warning him to stay away from her. "I'm going back to my suite. I need to contact some of our people and see if we can stop this expose from coming out. It's possible we have enough pull to influence the publisher. If not, we'll have to come up with some damage control."

  "Your cousin's going to be exploited in the Commercial Appeal and your main concern is damage control for Vanderley, Inc.?" Quinn shook his head. "If that's the case, then I think I've misjudged you. You're not the woman I thought you were."

  She pinned him with a stern, rueful look. "I don't give a damn what people think of Lulu because she apparently didn't care. If she had she would have lived her life differently. But I do care that if Uncle Louis finds out the truth about his pre­cious little girl, it will break his heart. The damage control I mentioned isn't to apply a Band-Aid to Lulu's public image, but to somehow keep the news from reaching my uncle, and if that fails, to convince him that everything being said about Lulu is a pack of lies."

  Annabelle turned and practically ran to the door.

  Calling out her name, Quinn headed after her; but Griffin grabbed his arm, halting him.

  "Let her go," Griffin said. "You can apologize to her later."

  Quinn took the time during his drive to his newly leased Memphis house to collect his thoughts and allow his temper to cool. He could blame everyone else, but when it came right down to it, he had no one to blame but himself. He'd been the one who had insulted Annabelle, the one who'd mouthed off without giving her the benefit of the doubt. In his own defense, he could say that he had simply judged her by the other women he'd known, but he knew that defense wouldn't hold water with her. She had taken a giant leap of faith and admitted to him that she believed he hadn't mur­dered Lulu. And how had he repaid her? The very first time his faith in her was tested he'd failed. Failed miserably. He had all but accused her of being a cold heartless, business-first bitch. God how could he have been so stupid?

  Was there any way he could repair the damage? Maybe if he crawled on his hands and knees over hot coals or broken glass, she might give him a second chance.

  Ask yourself why the hell you care? Annabelle Vanderley is just a woman. Attractive. Rich. Cultured. With a pedigree reaching back to Adam and Eve. He'd known her type before and had had his pick. So what if he'd seen her as a challenge. He'd conquered other women who'd been just as great a challenge, hadn't he?

  Stop thinking about her. Concentrate on more important issues. He had to regain control of his life, even while being forced to remain in Memphis. Kendall had made an impor­tant decision—to leak information to the local newspaper about Lulu's personal life—without discussing it with him first. They needed to talk. He'd make her understand that al­though she was his lawyer, he would have the final word in everything that affected him. But first, he needed to have a powwow with a couple of his loyal employees—one who'd ratted on another and one who'd bedded Quinn's lover in Quinn's own bed. After he confronted Marcy and Aaron, he would telephone Kendall at her office and leave a message with her secretary for her to call him.

  By the time he reached his home away from home, he had cooled off considerably and was thinking clearly. There was no need to rip into either Marcy or Aaron, but they both needed to be aware that in the future, he wouldn't tolerate such behavior.

  When he unlocked the front door, he halfway expected Marcy to meet him as she often did. Instead the living room was empty and no one was there to greet him. Wondering if all three of them had gone out, he walked across the tile-floored foyer and toward the hallway. That's when he heard voices coming from the kitchen, so he veered left and swung open the kitchen door.

  Jace was emptying the dishwasher and putting away dishes. Perched on a bar stool, Aaron hunched over the counter work­ing on a crossword puzzle. Marcy was busy stirring what smelled like spaghetti sauce in a pan on the stove.

  Jace was the first one who noticed Quinn, who stood in the doorway studying the threesome. "Hey, Quinn, I thought you wouldn't be back this soon. Did you finish up with that private detective?"

  "Yeah, we're through for now," Quinn said.

  Marcy turned the temperature down on the stove eye, laid the wooden spoon on a folded paper towel and studied Quinn for a moment. "What's wrong? You're glaring at me."

  "Was I?" Quinn pulled out the second bar stool and sat down beside Aaron. "Maybe it's your imagination. Or per­haps your guilty conscience."

  Marcy flushed. Aaron looked up from the crossword puz­zle. "What's going on? Why should Marcy have a guilty con­science?"

  "I had a very interesting conversation with Griffin Powell. Would you believe that he knows more about my employees than I do?"

  "I know I should have told you myself," Marcy said a plea for understanding in her voice and in her eyes. "But I didn't want to cause trouble between you and Aaron. We're like a family and I was afraid that if you knew what he'd done, you would be hurt and angry and . . ."

  Aaron slid off the bar stool and inched away from Quinn, then grabbed Marcy's arm and shook her. "What are you talking about? Who did you tell what about me?"

  Marcy jerked free of Aaron's hold and looked back and forth from Quinn to Aaron. "I never would have said any­thing, but when Mr. Powell told me that it was important for the police to be aware of all the men Lulu Vanderley had been with for the past two months—"

  "Hellfire, Marcy, you didn't!" Aaron stomped across the floor, shaking his head as he clenched and unclenched his hands. "You swore to me you'd never tell." He paused looked at Quinn and said "Hey, she came after me. I swear. You know I'd never betray you. I tried to get away from her, but she just wouldn't take no for an answer. God man, I'm sorry. I—"

  "Aaron, what did you do?" Jace asked a worried frown marring his handsome young features.

  Quinn slid off the bar stool, reached out and clamped his hand down on Aaron's shoulder. "I don't care that you fucked Lulu. Or knowing Lulu the way I did I should prob­ably say I don't care that she fucked you. But the police are going to care that you had sex with her because Lulu was pregnant. Six weeks pregnant."

  "Oh, God!" Jace's face went white as a sheet. He ner­vously fiddled with his glasses, readjusting t
hem farther up his nose.

  "You're shitting me," Aaron said. "Lulu was pregnant?"

  "The baby she was carrying could have been fathered by any man she had sex with five or six weeks ago," Quinn told him. "Me, Randall Miller and you and God knows who else. The police think that maybe whoever fathered her child killed her. And right now they're laying odds I'm the daddy."

  "Don't you see, that's why I told Mr. Powell about Aaron being with her six weeks ago," Marcy said. "So the police would know somebody else might have fathered her child. When Mr. Powell said she'd been pregnant—"

  A barfing sound came from the sink area. Quinn, Marcy and Aaron turned to see Jace throwing up.

  "Are you okay?" Marcy asked as she rushed to Jace and rubbed his back.

  Jace lifted his head tore off a paper towel from the spin­dle rack and wiped his mouth. "Yeah, I'm okay. It must have been that burger I ate for lunch." He turned on the faucets and washed out the sink, then tossed the paper towel into the garbage.

  "Why don't you go lie down for a while," Quinn said. "Everything is okay here. Nobody's mad at anybody."

  "I—I think I'll go out, maybe ride around and get some fresh air." He looked at Marcy. "Mind if I take the rental car?"

  "Go ahead" she told him. "I've been thinking about rent­ing a second vehicle, maybe even one for each of us. Is that all right with you, Quinn?"

  "Sure, whatever you think y'all will need while we're here," Quinn said.

  "I'll probably call the rental place and make arrange­ments for an SUV of some kind. It'll be good for picking up supplies and all."

  After removing his glasses and wiping them off with the edge of his sweater, Jace grabbed the car keys from the counter, then glanced at Aaron and said "You shouldn't have done it. Lulu Vanderley might have been a whore, but you had no right to—She belonged to Quinn." Jace ran out of the room, his glasses clutched in one hand.

  "Poor Jace, he's so high-strung and emotional," Marcy said.

  "He'll be okay." Aaron didn't make eye contact with any­one else in the room. "And he was right about my screwing around with Lulu. Quinn, I'm sorry. I tried to steer clear of her but a part of me wondered what it would be like to get it on with one of your women."

  "You men are all alike," Marcy shouted. "All you ever think about—no, scratch that. Y'all don't think. At least not with your brain."

  "Okay, now that everybody has had their say, let's put this whole thing into the proper perspective and move on." Quinn patted Aaron on the back and held out his hand to Marcy. When she came to him, he put his arm around both her and Aaron. "No more fighting among ourselves. We're a team. Let's act like one. Okay?"

  They both replied in unison, "Okay."

  "Marcy, go rent yourself an SUV and, Aaron, if you need a vehicle—"

  "I don't." He shook his head. "Jace and I can share the car."

  "If you change your mind, rent whatever you want." "Yeah, sure."

  "I've got a phone call to make and then I'm going out again," Quinn told them. ""Don't wait on me for supper to­night."

  Thinking it might be safe now to leave Marcy and Aaron alone, Quinn walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. After removing his cell phone from his pocket, he sat down and dialed Kendall's office number again.

  Marcy came out of the kitchen, a frosty mug in her hand. She set it on a granite coaster atop the coffee table, offered Quinn a halfhearted smile and disappeared down the hall to­ward the bedrooms. Quinn eyed the iced tea. Wherever they were, Marcy always made certain she kept a pitcher of un­sweetened tea made for him. Neither she nor the guys would touch the stuff, preferring traditional sweet tea. And Marcy knew he liked his tea, milk and most beverages served in a frosted glass, so she always kept glasses in the freezer. Despite their occasional squabbles, Quinn's personal entourage worked well together as a general rule and made day-to-day living much easier for him.

  "Yes, this is Quinn Cortez," he said to the receptionist at Hamilton, Jeffreys, Lloyd and Wells. "May I speak to Kendall Wells, please."

  "Just a moment."

  Quinn lifted the tea and took several sips. He frowned. The tea tasted a little bitter. Maybe Marcy had changed brands.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Cortez, Ms. Wells isn't here," her secre­tary told him. "She left early to have drinks with a client and then she was going home. You can probably reach her there in about half an hour or so."

  "Okay, thanks." Quinn returned his cell phone to his pocket, downed two-thirds of the glass of tea, then got up and called to Marcy and Aaron. "I'm leaving now. You two behave yourselves, especially around Jace."

  After getting into his Porsche, Quinn didn't immediately start the engine. He sat there for a few minutes trying to de­cide whether or not he should try to talk to Annabelle before he drove over to Kendall's. Probably not. But he could stop by a florist shop and order her some flowers. A dozen red roses. No, not red roses for Annabelle. He wanted to send her something else, not the standard red roses he'd sent to so many other women.

  Yellow roses as golden as her hair? Or perhaps pink roses as soft and feminine as she was? Or even cream roses as al­abaster as her complexion?

  Why not a dozen of all three colors? Yeah, why not? Three dozen might be a little extravagant, but if his goal was to impress her with how sorry he was, maybe he should send six dozen.

  Kendall entered the great room through the garage en­trance, tossed her briefcase, purse and car keys on the counter and headed straight for her bedroom. She wanted to strip out of her suit, heels and pantyhose, take a quick shower and then prepare an easy microwave dinner. She should probably call Quinn later tonight and tell him what she'd done—having her secretary telephone Bob Reagan at the Commercial Appeal to reveal the true story about Lulu Vanderley. Quinn might be pissed, but on the other hand, he might agree that she'd made a wise decision. Either way, he had to know that she'd done what she thought was best for him.

  After stripping, putting her suit in a bag to take to the cleaners and her underwear and pantyhose in the handwash laundry bag, Kendall turned on the faucets in the shower to allow the water to heat up. Just as she turned to the vanity and removed the lid from her jar of face cream, she thought she heard a noise. Had the sound come from inside or out­side? She stood perfectly still, barely breathing, and lis­tened. Quiet. Absolute quiet. Then she heard the clink of ice dropping from the machine in her refrigerator freezer into the plastic holding container. Breathing a sigh of relief be­cause she'd figured out what the noise was so quickly, Kendall smeared her face with cold cream. Using a washcloth, she removed her makeup and rinsed out the cloth. Staring at her­self in the mirror, she groaned. Although she was still a fairly good-looking woman, age was beginning to catch up with her. Tiny lines around her eyes and nose and mouth. Laugh lines. And there were several small age spots on her cheeks that could easily be mistaken for freckles, only Kendall's dark skin never freckled.

  After taking a fresh washcloth from the stack on the van­ity, she opened the shower door and stepped inside, sighing as the warm water peppered her naked body.

  There was that noise again. Louder. And it wasn't the ice machine.

  Stop being paranoid, she told herself. It's barely dark. Whatever you 're hearing is probably outside, one of your neighbors doing something noisy.

  She should have turned on her alarm system again, but she never rearmed it until bedtime. She'd always felt per­fectly save here in her own home.

  Kendall lathered her hair and massaged her scalp.

  There it was again. That noise. Her fingers, forked through her wet, soapy hair, then paused as she listened.

  Were those footsteps she heard?

  It's your imagination, she told herself.

  But she hurriedly rinsed her hair and bathed herself, then opened the shower door and listened, but heard nothing. She had a gun in her nightstand drawer. But she didn't keep it loaded. If someone was inside the house, could she get to the gun and load it before the intruder caught her?r />
  There was no intruder. Houses creaked and groaned. Ice machines made noise. The sound of a neighbor walking on his deck next door might easily be mistaken for footsteps in­side her house.

  Kendall wrapped a towel around her head dried off and grabbed her silk robe from the hanger on the back of the bathroom door. She stood there behind the closed door and listened. Quiet. No noise at all. She breathed a sigh of relief, then opened the bathroom door and hurried into her bed­room. There in the doorway leading into the hall, she caught a glimpse of a shadow. A man's shadow.

  Adrenaline flooded her body. Fear clutched her throat.

  Who was inside her house? How had he gotten in?

  Oh, God. Oh, God!

  The nightstand was on the other side of the bed. If she tried to get to it, whoever was hovering in her doorway would see her. Not only was her gun in the nightstand but also the telephone was sitting on top of it. And her cell phone was in her purse, out there in the kitchen.

  What was she going to do?

  The shadow moved.

  He was coming into her bedroom.

  Light from the bathroom cast a soft glow over the man, partially revealing his features. Kendall sucked in a deep breath. Then she thought she recognized her uninvited visi­tor.

  Releasing a relieved sigh, she called, "Quinn, is that you? My God, you scared me half to death."

  She had recognized him, had called him by name and had felt relief that she knew and trusted the intruder. Poor dar­ling.

  As he drew closer, the fading light from outside peeking through the closed blinds in Kendall's bedroom, her wel­coming smile wavered. Was she wondering what it was about him that had changed? Did she realize she was dealing with someone she really didn't know? He wasn't the Quinn who had been her friend and lover.

  When he stood directly in front of her, she reached out as if to touch his face. Her hand froze in midair, lie saw real­ization dawn in her dark eyes. Now she knew the truth, and just as the others had done, she looked at him in horror.