When Uncle Louis accepted his coffee, his hands trembled sloshing the black liquid from the cup onto the saucer. Wythe quickly took the cup and saucer from him and handed them back to Hiram.
"Please give Daddy another cup, one not quite so full," Wythe said his tone critical.
Without saying a word Hiram did as he was told.
"You have contacted everyone, haven't you?" Louis looked directly at Annabelle. "The governor, Senator Johnson, Senator—"
"Now, don't fret. I have everything under control," Annabelle said as she accepted the cup of coffee the maid offered her. "Everyone will be there Friday for the funeral and most folks will show up tomorrow evening for visitation."
"I want her here, not at the funeral home." Louis cleared his throat in a wheezing cough.
"I've already arranged for Mr. Turberville to set everything up right here in the front parlor. Lulu will be brought home, here to Vanderley Hall, for visitation tomorrow evening."
"You'll take her things over to the funeral home in the morning." Louis glanced up at the portrait hanging over the mantel. "I want her to wear that dress. The one she wore for her debutante ball."
"Yes, I know." Annabelle set her untouched coffee aside, got up and walked over to her uncle. After sitting beside him, she reached over and took his trembling, age-spotted hands into her gentle grasp. "Naturally, you'll want her to wear Grandmother's pearls, the necklace and matching earrings. And I've already arranged with Marty to do Lulu's hair and makeup. And Jayne, at Austinville Flowers, has made certain that a hundred orchids will be available to form the blanket for the casket."
Uncle Louis gave her hand a frail squeeze. "I should have known you would handle everything to perfection."
"Yes, I've done my best to think of everything that you'd want, everything that will make tomorrow and Friday wonderful tributes to Lulu. I've arranged for a string quartet for tomorrow evening. A bagpiper will play before and after Friday's service and the quartet will accompany Marcella Casale when she sings at the funeral."
Louis sighed. "You have thought of everything, my dear Annabelle."
"Doesn't she always?" Wythe said his voice pleasant, but the look he gave Annabelle chilled her.
Ignoring Wythe completely, she smiled at her uncle. "You look tired. Don't you think you should let Hiram see you upstairs to bed?"
Louis nodded. "I am weary, but all I've done for days is stay in bed and rest."
"That's exactly what you should be doing," Perdita told him. "The only way you'll make it through these next couple of days is if you take care of yourself."
"I'm not ready to die yet," Louis said adamantly. "I'll get through tomorrow and the day after by concentrating on living to see Lulu's murderer caught and brought to justice."
Pivoting slightly to his right, Louis glanced up at his son. "Wythe told me that the Memphis police have a suspect, someone they believe killed my Lulu. A man named Quinn Cortez, some Texas lawyer who was romancing my little girl. They're on the verge of arresting the man, aren't they? When they do, I want to go to Memphis and see this animal face-to-face."
Annabelle tensed her grasp inadvertently tightening on her uncle's hand. "I'm afraid Wythe misinformed you, Uncle Louis. Mr. Cortez is only one of several people the police have questioned. He had a date with Lulu the night she was murdered. He. . . he was the person who found her body. But he didn't kill her."
Louis glared at Wythe. "Is that true? Did you lie to me about this man?"
Wythe's cheeks flushed just enough to be noticeable. "No, I didn't lie. I just gave you my opinion and the opinion of Sergeant George, one of the detectives investigating Lulu's murder. Annabelle has chosen to believe Mr. Quinn is innocent."
"A man is innocent until proven guilty," Louis said. "No one wants Lulu's killer caught more than I do, but we must make certain the police arrest the right man."
"And they will," Annabelle squeezed her uncle's hand again. "Now, enough talk for this evening. 1 insist Hiram see you upstairs, after which your nurse can take over."
"She'll just give me another one of those damn sleeping pills," Louis grumbled, but didn't protest when Hiram came forward and assisted Annabelle in getting him up on his feet. Standing there, a bit shaky, he turned to Perdita and said "I don't want to go to sleep yet. It's not even nine o'clock. Why don't you come up with me and regale me with tales of your recent trips. You've always been an entertaining storyteller."
Perdita looked to Annabelle for approval and when she offered her aunt a yes-please-go-with-him nod, Perdita got up, walked over and slipped her arm through Louis's. "Let me tell you about the English earl I met at Joyce and Whit Morris's daughter's wedding recently. The man was simply mad for me. And to be honest, if he'd been single, I might have accepted his offer to fly away to Barbados with him."
Louis chuckled lightly as Hiram and Perdita led him from the parlor. Annabelle sighed, grateful to her aunt for putting even a faint smile on Uncle Louis's face.
"You should be grateful to me for not telling Daddy just how involved you are with the man who killed Lulu," Wythe said smiling wickedly. "And if you'd like for me to keep your secret, I can think of numerous ways you can persuade me."
Annabelle spun around and pinned her cousin with a sharp glare. "Don't you dare threaten me, you spineless weasel. I'm not the one who needs to be concerned about Uncle Louis discovering my secrets—you are."
Wythe's smile vanished. "Whatever you think you know, you have no proof."
"You think not?"
Studying her as if trying to probe her mind, Wythe focused on Annabelle's face. A sheen of perspiration dampened his upper lip. "You'd never tell Daddy, never give him any proof of my sins, now would you? You care too much about the old man to hurt him that way."
"You're right. Up to a point. I love Uncle Louis and I'd never want to hurt him, especially not now that he's lost Lulu. But be warned, cousin dear, the day will come when no one will be able to protect you."
The tension drained away from Wythe, his sudden relaxation quite visible as his mouth curved in a hint of a smile. "Has any man ever told you how extremely sexy you are when you're being strong and assertive?"
"You're beneath contempt."
When Wythe walked toward her, his movements slow and threatening, Annabelle forced herself to stand her ground. When he came right up to her, she titled her chin and locked gazes with him.
"What kind of lover is Cortez?" Wythe asked, standing so close that she could smell the wine he'd drunk with supper on his breath. "Does he like it rough? His type usually does. Has he done really bad things to you? And did you enjoy it? I'll bet you did. didn't you?"
Annabelle slapped Wythe. No thought went into the action, only reflex.
Gasping, he put his hand to his red cheek and stared at her, obviously stupefied by what she'd done. Wide-eyed, his body taut, he caressed the spot where she'd hit him. "Vicious little bitch, aren't you? Now that I know you like to play rough—"
"You will keep your distance from me or you'll be sorry. Do you hear me?"
"And if 1 don't, what will you do, sic Cortez on me?" He made the comment sarcastically, with a wavering smile on his lips.
She smiled back at Wythe and, hoping to unnerve him, said, "Perhaps I will tell Quinn that you've been sexually harassing me. Wonder what he'd do to you?"
While Wythe stood there with his mouth agape and his eyes big as saucers, Annabelle turned around and walked out of the front parlor. Once in the foyer, she hurried to the staircase and flew upstairs to the guest bedroom that had been prepared for her. Not until she was inside her room, with the door locked, did she feel safe. Pressing her back against the door, her breathing erratic, she sucked in huge gulps of air.
Wythe was a pervert, a sexual predator who should have been sent to prison years ago, but the Vanderley power, money and prestige had protected him. Even she had protected his vile secrets. For Uncle Louis's sake. For the sake of the Vanderley name. And
because Lulu had begged her to never tell anyone. But how much longer could she hide the ugly truth?
The visitation reception held at Vanderley Hall for Lulu had been a grand affair, with everyone who was anyone within their social circle in attendance. Uncle Louis had told Annabelle several times how pleased he was with the turnout and with how beautifully she had planned the event, which had been executed to perfection. As the evening wound down and the huge crowd dissipated Annabelle sought her aunt and found her in the dining room, a small plate of boiled shrimp in her hand.
"I think Uncle Louis held up quite well, don't you?"
"His nurse had him so doped up he barely knew where he was," Perdita replied as she dipped a shrimp into the cocktail sauce. "But that's good. God knows how he'd get through this otherwise. I thought my heart would break when he leaned over and kissed Lulu good-bye." She dropped the sauce-coated shrimp into her mouth.
"I wish he would let Mr. Turberville take her back to the funeral home tonight. But he gave me strict instructions to keep her here until time to move the coffin to the church tomorrow afternoon."
"Maybe you should disregard his instructions just this once. After all, if Lulu's still here in the morning, you know he'll want to see her again . . . to say good-bye again."
Hugging herself, Annabelle huffed softly. "Oh, God. I wish this was all over."
Perdita set her plate down on the nearby table, then put her arm around Annabelle's shoulders. "I haven't been much help, have I? It's just not right that you bear all the burden. That worthless Wythe should be helping you."
"I don't want Wythe anywhere near me," Annabelle said without thinking.
Perdita eyed her curiously. "Has that creature done something—"
"Shh. . ." Annabelle cautioned her aunt when several members of the catering staff entered the dining room.
"Is it all right for us to begin clearing away now, Ms. Vanderley?" Joanna Mclntyre asked. Joanna was the caterer from Jackson that the Vanderley and Austin families always used.
"Yes, certainly. I believe just about everyone has left now."
"Why don't you and I say good night to the few stragglers, send them on their way and then go upstairs?" Perdita urged Annabelle toward the foyer. "After we get ready for bed, I think we should talk, don't you?"
Annabelle sighed. Her aunt was the only person she could trust with her secrets, the only person who knew that Wythe had once tried to rape her.
"Yes, we need to talk." Annabelle grunted. "I need to talk. I need someone trustworthy who'll listen and tell me what to do."
Perdita slipped her arm around Annabelle's waist and herded her out of the dining room. Pausing in the doorway, she looked at Joanna Mclntyre. "Prepare two plates with a variety of food and send them upstairs to Miss Annabelle's room in about twenty minutes, along with a bottle of wine."
"Yes, ma'am," Joanna replied.
"I don't think I can eat a bite," Annabelle said. "I seem to have lost my appetite."
"Nonsense. A decent meal is just what you need, along with a trustworthy confidante."
When Perdita winked at her, Annabelle couldn't help smiling. Pausing in the foyer, she put her arms around her aunt and hugged her. "You just don't know how glad I am that you're here."
I must be very careful. Locking my door and turning off the lights should be enough to deter anyone from bothering me. If they knew, they wouldn't understand. No one understood. Sometimes, even I don't understand why I do the things I do.
But I'm not crazy. And I'm not bad. She was wrong about my being a bad boy. I tried to tell her, but she wouldn't listen. It was her fault. All her fault.
"I'm sorry, Mama. I'm so sorry."
Why should I be sorry? I don't have to justify myself to her. Not any longer. I will never again have to plead for mercy. I have all the power now. The power of life and death.
You'd be so proud of me, Mama. I put them out of their misery, just as I did you. I kill them softly. Gently. No pain. It's so much better for them to die than to suffer the way you did for so many years. Didn't you tell me that over and over again? Didn't you say that you'd rather be dead than to live in such agony?
I can see moonlight coming in through the windows now that my eyes have adjusted to the dark. But if I get out my case and look at my souvenirs, I'll need to use a flashlight. And I'll have to be very quiet. I don't want anyone to pass by my room and think I'm still awake.
Maybe I shouldn't take the case from where I've hidden it. After all, it's been only three days since 1 looked at it, when I placed the latest addition with the others in my collection.
But you want to look at them again. You know you do, that haunting inner voice said. After all, that's the reason you carry the case with you, isn't it? So you '11 have them with you, so you can look at them whenever you'd like.
Yes. Yes, of course. I can do whatever I want to do. No one can tell me that I can't take the case from its hiding place, open it and look at the contents.
That's it. Go over there and get the carryall, then lift up the bottom flap.
It's so simple. I can see the carryall lying on the floor beside the TV, just where I left it.
Pick it up.
Yes, I will.
Lay it on the bed.
I am.
Lift up the bottom flap. I need a flashlight.
You left the flashlight on the TV stand. Just reach out and get it.
Yes, of course.
The light shone brightly, focusing on the hidden compartment in the carryall.
Just look at those five small glass bottles glistening in the yellow-white glow. Lined up, side-by-side, they are a beautiful sight.
My souvenirs.
After what I did for Mama and those other women, killing them in the kindest way possible and ending their torment, I deserved to take some small token, didn't I? Something to remember them by.
I wait until they 're dead, until they can't feel any pain, before I do it. I'd never want to hurt someone because I know how it feels to hurt. To hurt really bad.
Inside the case were his prizes. Five identical clear glass bottles, filled with formaldehyde. Each one containing an index finger.
Aren't they beautiful?
Touch them gently. Remember to show the proper reverence. Trace your finger up and down each bottle, the last one first.
Kendall.
Her fingernails had been painted a bright red.
Now the next to last.
Lulu.
Her finger was long and slender, just as she was. What's that sound? Is there someone outside my door? I have to put my prizes away. I can't let anyone else see them. No one would understand. Hide them. Do it quickly. Now!
Wearing a bright turquoise kaftan trimmed in heavy beige lace, Perdita Austin sprawled out on the chaise lounge in Annabelle's bedroom. With her stylishly short, salt-and-pepper hair swept away from her face and all her makeup removed, Perdita still didn't look her age. Anyone would guess her to be at least ten years younger than the age on her birth certificate, which Annabelle knew was fifty-seven.
Perdita balanced a plate, piled high with edible delights, in her lap and held the crystal wineglass with her right hand. "If you don't eat at least half the things on your plate, I shall be very cross with you, Annie Belly."
Sitting at the antique desk by the windows, Annabelle chuckled softly as she glanced at her aunt. "It's been years since you called me Annie Belly."
"Oh, my sweet girl, you're like my own daughter and I'm afraid I've neglected you lately, ever since Christopher died." Perdita shook her head sadly. "I suppose I thought that once he was gone, you'd be too busy living and loving to need me. But I was wrong, wasn't I? There hasn't been anyone since. . . well, since Christopher died, has there?"
"No, no one."
"Why ever not?" Perdita popped a chocolate-dipped strawberry into her mouth.
Annabelle shrugged. "I haven't met anyone."
Perdita eyed her contemplatively
. "That's nonsense. The world is full of gorgeous, eligible men." Squinting, Perdita scrutinized Annabelle pensively. "You haven't let that nasty incident with Wythe turn you off men, have you?"
Annabelle gasped. "Good God, no."
"You should have called the police that night and had the scoundrel arrested. It makes my blood run cold to think what might have happened if he hadn't been drunk and you were able to coldcock him with that marble statue." Perdita tsk-tsked. "Damn shame about that lovely statue. I brought it back to you from Venice."
"Exposing Wythe for what he is would kill Uncle Louis."
"If he ever tries anything like that with you again, I'll cut off his pecker with a dull knife."
Annabelle smiled. "And you would, wouldn't you?"
"Most definitely."
"I don't think that will be necessary. I'm perfectly capable of dealing with Wythe. He's made numerous overtures since that night, but he never puts his words into action. I actually think that after I knocked him out and he had to get stitches in his head at the ER, he's just a little bit afraid of me."
Perdita giggled. "I love the thought of Wythe being afraid of you." She sliced into a piece of prime rib, speared it with her fork and lifted it to her mouth.
Annabelle's cell phone, tucked away in her purse, jingled the distinctive Mozart tune she had programed into it.
"Is that your phone?" Perdita asked, her mouth half full.
"It's my cell phone." Annabelle shoved back the chair, hurried across the room to the nightstand where she'd laid her purse earlier in the day. After unzipping the side compartment, she retrieved the phone, flipped it open and placed it to her ear. Surely this wasn't a business call. Not at ten in the evening, the day before Lulu's funeral.
"Hello."
"Annabelle?"
Her heart skipped a beat when she recognized the voice of her caller. "Yes."
"You probably don't want to talk to me, but I had to call," Quinn Cortez said. "If you want me to hang up, I will."
"No, don't. It's all right. Really." Annabelle glanced across the room at her aunt Perdita who was watching her like a hawk.
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