The Demise

by Diane Moody

  “You came back.”

  “I told you I would.”

  She stepped back to let him enter then closed the door. “Can I get you something? Another cup of coffee? Water?”

  He shook his head as he passed her then nodded toward the sofa. She followed him as they took the same places they’d sat before.

  “First, I need to ask you to let me say what I need to say without interruption. Agreed?”

  She nodded, tucking her leg beneath her and trying to control her nerves. “Agreed.”

  “Good. You know why I’m upset. You know that I asked you repeatedly to stay out of this investigation. I told you how important it is that this one gets done by the book. Regardless of what you may think, it isn’t about making a name for myself. It’s about doing what’s right and abiding by the law. Because if I find out that someone was behind Lanham’s death and discover who that person is, it has to be a clean case. Not even a hint of anything that would interfere with bringing that person to justice. Meaning, I will not let anything stand in the way of doing my job. Not even you.”

  Julie tried to swallow the boulder lodged in her throat, but never lost eye contact with him.

  “I need to know that from this time forward, you will stay completely out of the investigation. No more snooping. No more stealing—deposit slips or anything else. And if I catch you within an inch of my case notes or any other evidence I might have, I won’t hesitate to haul your cute butt down to a cozy little cell at Braxton’s bed and breakfast, otherwise known as jail.”

  Julie gasped. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Oh, but I would.”

  Julie clenched her jaw and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “But here’s the thing,” he began, his voice softening a degree. “As much as I know I should walk away and keep a safe distance from you to avoid any further complications . . . the fact is, I really like you.”

  She turned, surprised.

  “And much more than you probably know.”

  Her heart rate began to slow. Is he serious?

  “But Julie, if you and I are to have any chance at this, we have to set some rules.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” she whispered.

  “I’m sure you don’t. But it’s the only way. Either we keep the necessary boundaries so I can do my job, or we end it here and now.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that either.”

  “Then promise me you’ll back off, and let me handle the investigation.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, you know.”

  “Otherwise I’m out of here.”

  “But can I still—”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t let me finish!”

  “No buts. Either agree or disagree. It’s that simple.”

  Julie raked her fingers through her hair, then gave in. “Okay, fine. I agree. I’ll stay out of the investigation.”

  “Good.”

  “But—”

  “No buts!”

  “All right, all right!”

  By the time Matt drove back to the motel, he was already second-guessing his decision to give Julie another chance. It went against everything inside his head. There was so much at stake and everything to lose if she went back on her word. Could he trust her to be that strong? Clearly, Julie was propelled by emotion and curiosity. She reminded him of those pop-up games at arcades where the plastic moles keep popping their heads up, and no matter how hard or how fast you whack them with your rubber mallet, they just keep popping up.

  Back in his room, he tossed his briefcase on the bed, kicked off his shoes, and went to the bathroom to wash his face with cold water. When he looked up at the mirror, he was surprised to find a smile on his face.

  “Oh yeah. You’ve got it bad for her.”

  He dried his face and shuffled back across the carpet to the bed where he flopped down. Lying on his back with his arms folded behind his head, he wondered how everything got so complicated so fast. It wasn’t rocket science—he had a job to do, and he needed to stay focused to get it done. Period.

  He’d always prided himself on knowing what he wanted, mapping out a game plan to make it happen, then methodically moving forward until he achieved or acquired his goal. If he’d learned anything during all those years living in his brother’s shadow, he’d learned that hard work, honesty, and perseverance were the keys to making life happen instead of letting it pass you by. He might never be as successful as Mitch, but nothing would stop him from finding his own life journey.

  Until now.

  Until her.

  He took a deep, deep breath then slowly let it out. The long walk had helped tamp down his initial anger. He’d decided to make a swift, clean break from her before it was too late. It had to be done. He wasn’t about to let someone he’d known only a matter of days sabotage his case before he barely got started. He was good at what he did, and he intended to wrap up the details of Lanham’s suspicious suicide in a way that would prove his competence, not just to Berkowitz and his superiors, but to himself as well. It would be the launching pad for a career he’d wanted since he was a kid. He’d never doubted that he’d be good at it. Not once.

  Until tonight.

  He’d walked back up the stairs to the loft, knocked on the door, and the minute he saw her, he knew he’d cave. He couldn’t walk away. So he’d put on his best bravado, and tried to sound assertive as he laid out the conditions and boundaries she’d have to agree to. He was actually surprised when she promised to abide by his rules.

  But the million-dollar question remained: could she keep her promise? And what would he do if she didn’t?

  He sat up rubbing his hand over his stubbled chin. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was only eight-thirty. Plenty of time to get some work done. After grabbing a Coke from the vending machine down the hall, he spread out his notes on the small desk in his room. For an hour, he shuffled papers, organized his interview notes, and tried to connect the dots.

  In retrospect, he was relieved he hadn’t told Julie about his visit to the Lanham estate earlier that afternoon. The ornate electronic gate had slowly opened after he’d identified himself on a closed-circuit television at the entrance. He guessed the paved driveway to be at least a quarter of a mile long as it cut through wooded countryside and gently wound up a hillside. He pulled to a stop in the circular drive where half a dozen other cars were parked, then got out. The view was breathtaking in every direction, and the sprawling mansion reminded him of an Italian villa.

  Whoa . . . apparently the grocery business is quite a lucrative one.

  “Agent Bryson?”

  Matt turned to find an attractive thirty-something woman descending the broad steps from the front entrance. “Yes, but please call me Matt.”

  “I’m Milly, Mrs. Lanham’s personal assistant. Please, come inside.”

  He followed her up the steps and tried not to gawk as he made mental notes of the home’s lavish exterior. He followed Milly through the front door and into a grand entry area, realizing his childhood home could have fit easily in this one room.

  “This is quite a place.”

  She glanced back at him. “It’s been in the Lanham family for decades. Peter and Patricia had it completely renovated about six years ago. It’s like a brand-new house.”

  A voice called from behind them. “Milly, what time is— oh, I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize you had a guest.”

  Matt turned to find an older gentleman approaching them.

  “No problem, Underwood. If you’re asking what time Mrs. Lanham wants to go into town, she’d like to leave at eleven-fifteen sharp.”

  “Good. That’s all I needed to know.” He nodded at Matt and headed toward the back of the house.

  “Come along.” Milly waved him to follow her. They walked through a state-of-the-art kitchen which included a round breakfast table in front of a bay window, seating for four at a working island, and more cabinets than anyone c
ould possibly need. Another hall, two more turns, and they finally arrived in what appeared to be a study. Bookcases, framed portraits, sitting areas, and indirect lighting gave the room a comfortable ambience. Seated near a window overlooking the wooded area to the side of the home, Patricia Lanham removed her reading glasses and stood.

  “Mr. Bryson, is it?”

  “Please call me Matt.” Once he neared her, he offered his hand to shake, startled by how cold her hand was. “Thank you for giving me a few minutes of your time, Mrs. Lanham.”

  “Have a seat, Mr. Bryson. Millicent, that’s all.”

  As Milly quietly left the room, Patricia took her seat again, directly across from him. “I’m not exactly sure what you could possibly need from me. I was questioned by someone the day after Peter died. I believe his name was Berkowitz?”

  “Yes, that’s my partner. He told me about his visit with you.”

  “I only have a few minutes, so I hope we can wrap this up quickly. I have to go into Nashville to pick out a casket for my husband.”

  By the tone of her voice and the chilly glint in her eyes, Matt had the distinct impression Patricia was inconvenienced about the pending task. He’d seen a picture of her in Lanham’s office and recalled thinking she looked much older than her husband. Now, he realized her striking silver-white hair cut stylishly short was either premature in its color or perhaps the work of an expert salon stylist. Regardless, he figured her to be in her late fifties. Her make-up was flawless, as was her black pinstripe slacks and jacket and white blouse. She held herself erect, the way wealthy people often do, and he couldn’t help notice the absence of tears or any trace of emotion. Somehow he doubted Patricia Lanham was the warm and fuzzy kind of gal.

  “Thank you for seeing me at such a difficult time. I’m very sorry for your loss,” he began. “It’s obvious your husband was well-liked and admired. I can’t imagine what you must be going through.”

  She said nothing, just stared at him with those gray-green eyes.

  “Yes, well, I’ll get right to it. As I told Milly—uh, Millicent—on the phone, I need to ask a few more questions about your late husband. You told my partner that he’d seemed distant and distracted the last few days before he . . . before he died. Do you have any idea what might have caused that?”

  She paused for a moment before answering. “Peter was larger than life. People often said he could walk into a room full of people, and his mere presence would take their breath away. Every last one of them. And that was true. He was handsome and charming, intelligent and clever, with a wit that made him extremely popular. And not just here in Nashville, but all over the world. He enjoyed life to the fullest and never met a stranger.”

  Matt waited, thinking she might continue. When she didn’t, he asked, “He sounds like a great guy. How long were you married?”

  She stared at him again before answering. “Mr. Bryson, if these are the questions you intend to ask, I suggest you pick up a copy of the Tennessean and read Peter’s obituary rather than take my time. Nonetheless, we met when I was a student at Vanderbilt. He was a senior; I was a sophomore. We married a month after he graduated. He continued in graduate school, and we both graduated two years later.”

  “I apologize for not reading the obituary this morning before coming here. My partner told me there are no children. Is that correct?”

  She pinned the same glare on him. “Yes.”

  “What about close friends? Colleagues?”

  “Peter had lots of friends. People adored him. It would be impossible to provide a list of all of them. The same applies for his colleagues. I wouldn’t begin to know them all.”

  “Not even close friends? Everyone has at least one or two friends who are—”

  “What is it you’re getting at? Are you’re asking if I know why my husband killed himself, I do not. If you’re asking if one of his friends or business acquaintances had something to do with his death, I have no idea. As I told you—”

  “Were you aware of any financial problems with Lanham’s Fine Foods? Any threats to the company? Talk of a hostile takeover?”

  “No.”

  “Mrs. Lanham, were you and your husband having marital problems?”

  Her eyes narrowed again. “No more than anyone else. Peter and I are both—were both—very strong-willed people. When things would come between us, we would hash it out like any other couple, kiss and make up, then move on.”

  “Any recent disagreements?”

  “No.”

  “Any infidelities?”

  Again the glare. “How thoughtful of you to suggest such a thing just hours before we bury my husband. Are you always so considerate of those who’ve just lost loved ones?”

  He fixed a smile on his face and continued. “I understand Mr. Lanham was quite proud of his yacht. Did you usually accompany him on his boat trips?”

  She stood up abruptly. “We’re done here. I’m sure you can find your way out.”

  “Yes, I can. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Lanham.”

  Milly appeared when he opened the door. Had she been listening by the door? Or had Patricia somehow summoned her?

  “I’ll walk you out.”

  “Thank you.”

  He followed her, wondering at the formality of these people. Was it just for show? Or was this how they lived?

  Milly opened the front door. “Goodbye, Mr. Bryson.”

  “Thank you, Milly. Goodbye.”

  As he crossed the wide front porch, he encountered a portly man coming up the steps in a rush. Matt couldn’t help noticing the obvious toupee riding precariously on the side of his sweaty head. He reminded Matt of a somewhat thinner Dom Deluise, the comedic actor his father had always loved.

  “Milly! Thank goodness! I have to see Patricia at once.”

  “She’s about to leave, Harley. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Probably, but I think she’ll want to see me when she hears what’s happened.”

  They stepped into the house and closed the door, leaving Matt in suspense. He noticed the white panel van parked behind his car; on its side, a huge likeness of the man he’d just passed along with his business name—Harley Creech Floral Designs—in an elegant, swirly font. As he neared the van, he realized he was blocked in.

  “Don’t you hate when that happens?”

  Matt turned to find the man he’d seen in the house earlier approaching. The driver stood beside him, hands on his hips.

  “Yes, I do. You don’t have any idea how long he’ll be in there, do you?”

  “Harley? If Mrs. Lanham weren’t headed to town, he’d stay all morning. How else can he update all that gossip he spreads?”

  Matt extended his hand. “I’m Matt Bryson, TBI.”

  “Jim Underwood, but everyone calls me Underwood.” He shook Matt’s hand. “I’m the Lanham’s driver and lead gofer. Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise. I guess it’s been pretty rough around here the last couple of days.”

  Underwood ran a hand over his close-cropped silver head and beard. “That it has. I still can’t believe he’s gone. Even harder to believe that he jumped.”

  “Do you mind if I ask why?”

  Underwood looked at him, obviously sizing him up. “Because Mr. Lanham had it all together. He’s the kind that takes charge of every situation, knows exactly how it will play out.” He shook his head. “Man like that doesn’t jump. He gets pushed.”

  “Any idea who might have wanted him dead?”

  A commotion behind interrupted them. Patricia Lanham descended the steps with the florist at her heels. “Deal with it, Harley. I haven’t got time for this. I don’t care if you have to overnight them from Paris, just do it.”

  Her eyes locked on Matt’s. “Mr. Bryson, why are you still here?”

  “He’s blocked in, as you can see,” Underwood graciously intervened. “I was just about to come for your keys, Harley.”

  Harley whipped his head around, almost losi
ng his rug, his lips pursed. “I’m going! I’m going!”

  As the florist gunned his van down the long driveway, Patricia ignored Matt as she walked toward the Mercedes. “Underwood, we’re late.”

  He dashed to open the back door for her, and once he closed it, Matt slipped Underwood his card as he walked by him. “We need to talk.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  Matt climbed in his car and started the engine. As the black Mercedes turned out of the drive, Patricia glanced at him briefly before sliding on a pair of sunglasses.

  Now, sitting in his motel room thinking back on the whole scenario, he couldn’t help the thoughts marching through his mind. He quickly keyed them into a file on his laptop.

  Patricia Lanham: ice cold, calculated, used to getting her way, no love lost between her and the deceased. Possible motivation: get rid of her cheating husband once and for all? End the humiliation? Check on Peter Lanham’s life insurance . . .

  Matt leaned back in his chair and tapped a pen against the table. It seemed too easy, pegging her as the murderer—if this was a case of murder. Spouses are always considered suspects; even in the most unlikely cases, they must be ruled out first. If she had pushed him—whether physically or otherwise—wouldn’t she make some pretense to act like a grieving widow? Try to convince everyone that she couldn’t possibly have killed her husband?

  Then again, Matt already knew she’d snuck over to Donella’s the night after Peter’s body was found. Julie felt sure something was amiss when the new widow suddenly turned up at the home of his assistant.

  Julie.

  Part of him wished she’d kept that cute button nose of hers out of his business. The other part, echoing her speech to him that first night at Denton’s, acknowledged what a tremendous asset she could be, having grown up in this peculiar little town. She knew the backgrounds on everyone in town, and then some. But tonight he needed some space and time away from her. To jump back in with questions and theories would once again lure her into the vortex of his investigation like a moth to a flame.

  He took another long sip of his drink then tossed the empty can toward the trash can and missed. He checked his cell phone, but no calls or messages showed since the last time he’d checked ten minutes ago.