Hot Property

by Sherryl Woods

  Calm? She was quaking inside, but years of practice had taught her to hide her fears. Since he seemed to find her self-control damaging, she admitted, “It’s all a facade, Detective.”

  His intent, curious gaze locked with hers. “Really? It might be interesting to see what happens when that facade is stripped away.”

  Molly wasn’t one bit sure, as he sauntered away, if he was interested as a man or as a cop. Then she wondered if it was even possible for a man like Michael O’Hara to separate the two.

  • • •

  Brian had a thousand questions about why Molly had been delayed. She forestalled them by stopping at Vernon’s and buying him French toast with powdered sugar sprinkled on it. It was his favorite and a rare treat. She sipped a cup of coffee while he ate. The place was still busy, but the islanders had gone, leaving the drugstore’s three U-shaped counters to tourists. None of them had heard yet about the murder or Molly’s connection to it, which left her with ten peaceful minutes to think about everything that had happened.

  “Mom,” Brian said, powdered sugar on his cheeks and milk on his upper lip, “who do you think killed Mr. Winecroft?”

  She whirled around so fast, she almost spun off the stool. “Why do you think someone killed him? You didn’t go back there, did you?”

  Brian wiped the powdered sugar away with the back of his hand, ignoring the napkins in front of him. “Come on, Mom. With all the cops and everything, it doesn’t exactly take a genius to figure it out. Why else would they come? Do you think we’ll get fingerprinted?”

  She’d wondered about that herself. Not Brian, of course. But there was every reason to anticipate that she would be, if only to eliminate which prints were hers on the murder weapon. “I suppose I might be,” she admitted.

  “But not me?”

  “You weren’t in there.”

  “Maybe Detective O’Hara would let me be, if he’s not still mad at you. You could ask him.”

  Molly sighed. “Brian, I am not going to drag you off and have you fingerprinted just to add a little excitement to your life.”

  “It’d be great for show-and-tell. I’d probably get an A.”

  “If it takes being fingerprinted to earn a top grade, you just may have to settle for a B.”

  “I’ll never get into some fancy school with lousy grades. Isn’t that what you and Dad are always telling me?”

  “Your father tells you that. I just want you to do your best.”

  “Maybe I could talk to Detective O’Hara myself.”

  “You do and I’ll ground you for a year with no Saturday morning cartoons or video games.”

  Brian’s eyes were wide as saucers by the time she’d finished the threat. “You really don’t like that guy, do you?”

  “He’s just doing his job,” she said, deciding a little circumspection was called for, especially since her feelings were oddly contradictory. Her son had been known to innocently blab her opinions far and wide. The prospect of his sharing his astonishing insights with the detective did not please her. In fact, before he shared any more with her, she hurried him off to school, a written excuse in hand. He’d drafted it himself, printing it neatly on lined notebook paper.

  She should have had him jot one down for her as well. Her boss scowled ferociously when she finally walked in. Molly scowled right back at him. She was in no mood for one of his snits this morning.

  “You’re late,” Vincent Gates announced unnecessarily. He glanced pointedly at the clock that hung on the wall opposite her desk in the cramped film office. It was twenty-five after eleven.

  “I can tell time, Vince. Don’t start on me. I’ve had an awful morning.”

  His management duty taken care of, he settled into his more familiar sulking posture. He reminded her of a pouting star, upset over an unflattering camera angle. “You’ve had an awful morning? If you’d been here, you’d know the real meaning of awful. The mayor’s furious because he got caught in a traffic jam on the Rickenbacker Causeway.”

  “Which mayor and how is that our fault?”

  “The county mayor. He’s blaming us because it was caused by gawkers watching the filming of that new soft drink commercial.”

  Molly hadn’t expected sympathy from Vince. The man had the sensitivity of a coconut shell. She had accepted that within a week after taking the job with the Miami/Dade Film Commission. He had one agenda in life, his own. Unless she’d been personally murdered in her sleep, he didn’t think it should interfere with her work. It was pointless to belabor her own lousy morning.

  “The sexist ad with all the women in bikinis?” she asked dutifully.

  Vince glared at her. His own opinion of all the bouncing boobs was much more liberal. She was surprised he hadn’t been out there gawking himself. Then, again, the producer had left a copy of the storyboards with him so he could indulge his fantasies at his leisure.

  “That’s the one,” he confirmed. “I’m not sure if he was more upset about the slowdown on the causeway or because his view was blocked. On top of that Larry Milsap called. He needs the permits to shoot in Crandon Park no later than three. He’s running over budget and they want him to finish up by the weekend. I can’t find the damned things on your desk. I told him you’d run them over the minute you got in. I expected you hours ago,” he added accusingly.

  Molly lost patience. It rarely took longer than five minutes with Vince to accomplish that. “And I expected to be here hours ago. I was detained by a murder. I would have called, but they wouldn’t let me near a phone. I guess it’s only the accused who gets to make a phone call.” Okay, so she was stretching the truth a little. Without missing a beat, she added, “I sent those permits to Larry last week. He’s lost them again. I’ll get him a new set.”

  Vince’s irritated expression faltered. “Forget the permits for a minute. What’s all this about a murder? Run it by me again.”

  The only thing Vince loved more than seducing women was gossip and intrigue. For the next minute or two, she had him right where she wanted him. “Only if you’ll get me a very large cup of very strong coffee.”

  He didn’t waste time protesting that serving coffee was beneath him. He grabbed the mug from her desk and filled it from the pot sitting on the credenza at the back of the conference room. “Drink. Then talk. Fast. We don’t have all morning.”

  “Your concern is touching.”

  “Okay. Okay. I’m concerned. That goes without saying.”

  “Vince, almost every kind, compassionate thought you ever have, assuming you have any, goes without saying. Some of us would occasionally prefer to hear the words spoken aloud.”

  He blinked. “You’re upset.” He seemed startled by the concept. Since flashes of such insight were rare with him, she could understand why.

  “Bingo,” she confirmed.

  “At me?”

  “Among others.”

  “Why?”

  “Vince, I started my day by discovering that our condo president had been stabbed in the back.”

  “So what? I thought you said he was a pompous ass. Isn’t he the one who dug up all the rare tropical plants and replaced them with impatiens?”

  “Please don’t share what I thought of his gardening taste. At this point, it might be considered a motive.”

  “They don’t know who did it?”

  “They don’t know who. They don’t know why. The only thing they seem to know for sure is that I found the body and that he was killed with one of my knives.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “That about sums it up.”

  “You want to go home?”

  This time it was Molly’s turn to gape in astonishment. Vincent was not in the habit of doling out leave time. “No, thanks,” she said, wondering if she should have taken it just to establish a precedent.

  “Oh.” He hesitated. “Then I guess you might as well take care of those permits.”

  She sighed. “Right away. By the way, if you’d get Jeannette to do the f
iling she was hired to do, you’d be able to find the permits yourself.”

  “I refuse to tangle with that woman.”

  Molly barely suppressed a grin. The Haitian clerk absolutely adored muttering imprecations that could be interpreted as curses. Vincent was convinced if she aimed one at him it would forever limit his prowess as a stud. He hadn’t issued a direct order to Jeannette since her first week. When it suited him, he claimed it was Molly’s job to run the office. It did not suit him, however, to pay her accordingly. Therefore, it frequently didn’t suit her to run the office. Meanwhile the filing was stacking up.

  Molly found the permits for Larry Milsap’s Palm Productions and grabbed her purse. She stuck her head in Vince’s office. “I’m off to see Milsap. If he calls, tell him …”

  Guessing the snippy comment that was to come, Vince substituted his own more politically sound version. “I’ll tell him we’re absolutely thrilled to be of service. The man spends three hundred fifty thousand dollars a year on production in the county. Even if he wastes a small portion of our time, it’s worth it.”

  “Then let him waste your time.” She held out the permits.

  “I have meetings all afternoon.”

  “You mean you’re playing golf with some Hollywood producer again, hoping he’ll let you on his set to ogle his starlets.”

  “I don’t ogle.”

  “Like hell,” she muttered, turning away to grab the ringing phone. “Yes.”

  “Molly, what the hell’s going on?” her ex-husband demanded.

  Molly had to swallow a groan. The day had just gone from bad to worse. When Hal DeWitt had that tone in his voice, it meant nothing but trouble.

  “Could you be more specific?” she replied cautiously.

  “I just heard about the murder. It’s all over the goddamned radio. I told you moving there was a mistake, but would you listen? No, you had to prove yourself. Well, I’m telling you now, I want my son out of there.”

  “Our son,” she reminded him furiously. “Brian is our son, though frankly, there are times when I regret your role in that more than I can tell you.”

  “I’m picking him up today.”

  “You do and I’ll slap you with a court order so fast it’ll make your head spin.” Her own head was pounding. There hadn’t been one conversation since she and Hal divorced that he hadn’t found some way to let her know how inept he thought she was, how unfit a mother. He’d threatened her with a custody battle so often, she should be used to it by now, but she wasn’t. Even though she knew rationally that he didn’t have a shred of evidence on his side and that the accusations were the unjustified slurs of a sick, pitiful man who thrived on demeaning her, it didn’t stop her from trembling with fear.

  “I have to go. We’ll discuss this sometime when you can be more rational about it,” she said. Her voice was calm and deliberate, but inside she quaked as she replaced the phone in its cradle.

  “You okay?” Vince asked.

  “Just fine,” she snapped, turning away and straight into the arms of Detective O’Hara. Again. She took a deep breath before meeting his eyes.

  “Running away?” he inquired.

  At the moment, the idea of fleeing held tremendous appeal. “No,” she said with a sigh. “Just doing my job.”

  “Which is?”

  “At the moment it’s delivering permits to an irresponsible producer.”

  “Mind if I tag along?”

  “I thought you had a murderer to catch.”

  “I do. I told you I’d be in touch.”

  “I wasn’t expecting you to show up quite this soon. I’m flattered that you’re willing to take time out of your busy investigation schedule to be with me. Wasn’t it just a couple of hours ago that you told me to stay far, far away from this case?”

  “Something’s come up. Could we do this someplace private?” he suggested, apparently catching sight of the fascinated gleam in Vince’s eyes.

  “Your car or mine? I have to get these permits out to Crandon Park before Vince ruptures a blood vessel.”

  “Before we lose thousands of dollars in revenue in this county,” Vince corrected, not bothering to hide his eavesdropping.

  “You tell me where else Larry Milsap is likely to shoot a commercial on Miami tourist attractions,” she snapped back. “Never mind. Come on, Detective.”

  “I had someone drop me off. You drive,” he said. “Maybe I’ll catch you speeding.”

  “Don’t tell me homicide detectives give out tickets in their spare time.”

  “Don’t test me. Actually, I was thinking of it more as a test of your moral character.”

  Molly glared at him, but led the way to her prized white convertible, one of her rare indulgences. When she’d turned onto Miami Avenue, she asked, “Since when did my morals come into question?”

  “Since I found out that the knife used to kill Mr. Winecroft is covered with just one set of fingerprints. Since you admit owning the knife and bringing it last night, I think we can assume for the moment that they’re probably yours.”

  There was a sudden sinking sensation in the pit of Molly’s stomach. The implications were not heartening. “Just one set? You’re sure? Maybe the murderer’s are blurred.”

  “One set. We’re going to need yours to match them up in the lab, of course.”

  “But his wife used that knife to cut the cake last night.”

  “No prints, unless you’d washed that knife clean and carried it downstairs wrapped in a towel. Did you?”

  “Of course not. Dammit, I watched Drucilla cut that cake.”

  “Did she wear gloves?”

  “Look,” she said impatiently, “I know society types tend to dress up for all occasions, but I can assure you that little white gloves would have been out of place at the bridge table. Someone would have noticed. Besides, how would she have handled the cards?”

  “How about those clear plastic throwaway gloves used by kitchen help?”

  “I didn’t see any. You don’t seriously think I killed him, do you?” She was not proud of the little catch in her voice. She really did not want to be a serious suspect in this case—or any other, for that matter.

  “Let’s just say I’m confused. I have a theory I’d like to throw out.” He glanced at the speedometer as she approached the Rickenbacker toll booths. Molly automatically lifted her foot off the accelerator as she guided the car into the emblem lane that provided access for residents who paid an annual fee. Then she noted that she was going only five miles an hour anyway. He grinned. “Guilt is a fascinating emotion, don’t you think?”

  “I am not guilty, either of speeding or murder.” She crept through the lane to make her point.

  “Just listen to my theory. What if Mrs. Winecroft used the knife to cut the cake, then wiped it clean. Her prints would be gone.”

  “But so would mine.”

  “Not if you came back later and used the knife to stab her husband.”

  The words landed as if they’d been dropped from the top of a thirty-story high rise. Inane individually, together they packed quite a punch, the sort of punch that could send her to prison. She was still reeling as she pulled to the edge of the road and hit the brakes. She whirled on him furiously.

  “That’s a really crummy theory. Why the hell would I do that? I don’t have a motive. I even won the damned bridge game.”

  “That is a problem,” he admitted.

  “Why couldn’t she have wiped it clean and then used the knife?”

  “Why would she bother to wipe off your fingerprints and leave her own?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. You’re so great at coming up with theories, you figure it out.”

  “I’m working on a couple of ideas.”

  “How lovely. Would you care to share them with me?”

  “Not yet.”

  She scowled at him. “We are talking about my motives here, aren’t we? Don’t you think I have a right to hear your speculations on the subject?”


  “Sure. Later, after I’ve tested them on a few other people and we have those fingerprints ID’d positively as yours.”

  Molly glanced at the stunningly blue water on either side of the causeway and tried to grasp some of the serenity the sight always brought her. Instead, this gnawing sensation seemed to be eating a hole in the pit of her stomach. “You really know how to ruin a perfectly beautiful day, don’t you?”