Killing Her Softly Read online

Forget about trying to convince Annabelle Vanderley of your innocence. You don't need her. Let her doubt you. Let her suspect you. As long as she doesn't work against you, you can get out of this mess without her help.

  But not without Griffin Powell.

  No, not without the investigator coming up with at least one other viable suspect. Considering how many men Lulu had known—in the biblical sense—there had to be at least one angry, jealous ex-lover. It was just a matter of finding him.

  Quinn whipped his Porsche off the street and into Kendall's driveway. At least here he was assured of a warm welcome. He'd be heading across town later this afternoon to the house Marcy had leased for their indefinite stay in Memphis. She and the guys had flown in earlier today and would have everything set up by tonight. But in the meantime, he was in need of a little ego soothing. Who better than Kendall? She was a willing woman, wasn't she?

  She's your lawyer. You 're a fool if you mix business with pleasure. It's one of your cardinal rules. If you break it, you 'll regret it. Besides, they had come to an agreement, of sorts, this morning, hadn't they?

  Kendall met him at the door. Smiling. And looking damn good, even if she wasn't the blue-eyed blonde who'd given him a hard-on.

  "How did it go?" she asked.

  "Let's just say I didn't earn any brownie points with Ms. Vanderley."

  Kendall looked into his eyes and he realized she knew what was going on with him. He reached for her then, right there in the open doorway. She didn't hesitate. Not for a sec­ond. When he grasped the back of her neck and drew her to him, she threw her arms around him and pressed herself in­timately against his erection.

  Kendall's mouth was warm and wet and sweet. Her tongue darted out and into his mouth. He groaned deep in his throat. Images of another woman flashed through his mind. Her mouth would be sweeter, hungrier.

  Quinn shoved Kendall backward into the foyer, then reached behind him and closed the door. While they kissed he ran his hands inside her spandex slacks and panties, cup­ping her buttocks. Inserting her hands between their bodies, she worked his belt loose and unzipped his jeans.

  Lifting his head he paused long enough to ask, "Are you sure about this?"

  She answered him by removing a condom from her pants pocket and handing it to him. Then she yanked off her slacks and panties.

  Quinn freed his sex, sheathed himself and lifted Kendall so that she straddled him. He braced her back against the foyer wall and rammed into her. With his eyes shut, he pre­tended he was fucking Annabelle Vanderley, taking her with brutal force and giving her what she so desperately needed. Kendall came first, crying out and raking her fingernails deep into the material of his brown leather jacket. His cli­max hit him hard releasing the pent-up anger and sexual hunger his encounter with Annabelle had created.

  As he eased Kendall down and onto her feet, he opened his eyes and found her staring at him. "Thanks, honey. I needed that." Realizing how impersonal his comment had sounded he added "I needed you."

  Smiling sadly, she shook her head. "Don't you think I know what that was all about? I knew you'd come back here frustrated. Why do you think I had a condom in my pocket?"

  "What are you—?"

  She placed her index finger over his lips. "Hush. Don't lie to me."

  "Kendall, I. . ."

  "You weren't fucking me. You were fucking Annabelle Vanderley. I had a pretty good idea when you left here that you'd come back to me with your tail tucked between your legs." Laughing, she shrugged. "That's how much I wanted you—enough to let you use me."

  "Honey, I'm sorry. I never meant to—"

  "I know. And I'm okay. Really. It's not your fault that we women are such fools when it comes to you. You don't make any promises. You're honest up front. And yet we still give you whatever you want, knowing you'll break our hearts."

  "Kendall?"

  "This was a one-time-only thing." Her gaze didn't quite connect with his; it settled somewhere in the middle of his chest. "From here on out, I'm just your lawyer. It's better for both of us that way. So, the next time you need a warm body—and you will—find somebody else." She bent over and picked up her discarded clothing.

  When she walked away from him, he wanted to say some­thing to soothe her hurt feelings, but what could he tell her that wouldn't be a lie? Damn, he felt like the biggest heel of all time. What was it about him that made him hurt people? He never meant to hurt anybody, least of all a great gal like Kendall.

  Not for the first time, he thought there must be some hor­rible defect in him because not once in his life had he ever truly loved a woman.

  * * *

  Quinn's in there right now screwing his lawyer. She's as big a fool as all the others. How many have there been? Hundreds? Why were they all such stupid cunts? He doesn't love her anymore than he loved any of the others. They mean nothing to him; they 're just willing sex partners.

  I can't blame him, can I? What man wouldn't take what was so freely offered? But how many lives has he destroyed? How many women have gone mad after they lost him? And who should know better than I do what it's like for those poorfoolish women? How they suffer. How they make others suffer.

  lean't believe that he's finally been caught in a trap of his own making. But it was inevitable. And with the police inves­tigating Quinn and that private detective searching for an­other suspect, it's only a matter of time before the truth comes out about those other women.

  I shouldn't stay here any longer. Someone might see me, might remember this car. No one must ever suspect that I keep close tabs on Quinn, that I know every move he makes.

  Chad George patted his chest, directly over the inside pocket of his sports coat. Finding Lulu Vanderley's date book might turn out to be of no help to the investigation at all. On the other hand if they could rule out the other men in Lulu's life as suspects, then they could concentrate only on Quinn Cortez.

  His gut instincts told him Cortez was as guilty as sin.

  But they had one major problem—they had no real evi­dence against the guy. Not yet.

  Chad had made copies of the twenty pages in the date book and brought them with him to show Lulu's cousin. He and Jim had read over the entries a couple of times yesterday and found little of interest. Except one guy's name kept pop­ping up. And it wasn't Quinn Cortez. Randy. Randy who? Lulu had seen this Randy guy half a dozen times in the past couple of weeks or at least she'd written times and places in her date book that implied they had made plans. The people they'd questioned—friends, acquaintances and neighbors— had no idea who he was or if they did weren't telling. Other than Quinn's name and Randy's name, there were a few odd entries about somebody Lulu referred to only by a nickname— Broo. "Broo called and we talked for an hour," had been written in the margins of the date book. "Called Broo and told him the big news," was written down on the date for three days ago.

  Who was Randy? Who was Broo? Could either of them have killed Lulu and if so, why? He sure as hell didn't want either of these people to be the person who'd killed Lulu. He wanted it to be Quinn Cortez. Yeah, he'd admit the truth to himself. Nailing a guy with Quinn Cortez's prestigious repu­tation could make his career.

  Besides, he didn't like Cortez.

  The elevator stopped on the fourth floor. Chad stepped out and headed down the corridor. As he passed a large dec­orative mirror, he paused to check his appearance. He knew he was handsome and women usually responded to his good looks by fawning over him. He'd never had a problem dat­ing. He'd kept a steady girlfriend through high school and college, although not the same girl. He'd changed every six months or so, usually when his latest girlfriend found out he'd been cheating on her. He'd broken up with his most re­cent girlfriend about a month ago, after she'd stopped by his place unexpectedly and found him bonking Mary Lee Norton.

  Chad knew he'd have to get married in the next year or so. A man with his aspirations needed the right kind of woman at his side, a lady who would impress people. There were a couple of su
itable candidates right here in Memphis, but he'd been biding his time before deciding which one to pur­sue. That of course had been before-Annabelle Vanderley walked into his life yesterday morning. She had everything he wanted in a wife—and more. The fact that she was stink­ing rich was simply icing on the cake. Annabelle was attrac­tive, intelligent and a real lady. Right now, he was nothing to her. Barely a bleep on her radar. But if he could draw her into the police investigation, that would give him a reason to see her often. The upcoming days were bound to be difficult for her. She'd need a shoulder to cry on, wouldn't she? By the time he nailed her cousin's killer and ingratiated himself to her and her family, she'd already think of him as a dear and trusted friend.

  Humming to himself silently, Chad smiled at his reflec­tion in the mirror, then sauntered down the hall and straight to Annabelle's door.

  Wythe Vanderley poured himself another drink. Scotch and soda. His third in the past hour. How many would it take for him to get stinking drunk? How many before the pain eased before he could think about Lulu and not cry? His mind knew she was dead; his heart didn't. He had loved Lulu more than anyone on earth and he'd hated her with equal passion. She had been many things to him over the years, giving him the greatest joy and the most agonizing pain. She'd toyed with people's feelings as if she were a puppet master who enjoyed pulling the strings and controlling lives. At least he could take comfort in the fact that he wasn't the only one who had danced to Lulu's chosen tune. Their father had been as much her slave as he had been; and now the old goat was hanging on to life by a thin thread.

  Their father? When had Louis Vanderley ever been a real father to him? He had only vague memories of his dad dur­ing his childhood and even fewer after he'd been shipped off to military school at twelve, only months after his mother died. The old man had been running Vanderley, Inc. back then and was far too busy to waste his time on a child—even his own child. But by the time Lulu came along, things were different. From the moment she was born, their father had doted on her. As much as Wythe had loved his little half sis-

  ter, he'd hated her because dear old dad had given her all the love, adoration and time he'd never given Wythe.

  What did it matter now? Lulu was dead.

  Wythe lifted his glass tumbler in a salute. "Here's to you, Lulu, my love. You finally got what you deserved."

  Emotion tightened in Wythe's chest, making it difficult for him to breathe. Tears swam in his eyes and trickled down his cheeks. As he took a hefty swig of the Scotch and soda, salty tears dripped into his mouth.

  A mournful keening sound rose from inside him and erupted in an agonized cry. He threw the tumbler across the room. When the glass hit the wall, it shattered into several large chunks and numerous tiny shards. Wythe dropped to his knees and wept.

  "I tried to warn you, didn't I? I told you to be careful. But you liked playing with fire. None of them loved you the way I did. Didn't I tell you that I was the only one you could count on, that I was the one who'd never leave you?"

  Wythe sucked in deep gulps of air and forced his emo­tions under control. Now wasn't the time to fall apart. He had to show the old man that he could count on him just as much as he counted on Annabelle. Dear cousin Annabelle. Blessed Saint Annabelle.

  He should be the one in Memphis representing the Vanderley family. After all, Lulu was his sister. If he was there instead of Annabelle, he'd be the one who could tell his father when Lulu's killer was caught and brought to justice.

  It's not too late, he thought. / can still go to Memphis. I have every right to be there.

  Wythe came up off his knees, stood shakily on his feet and went straight to the telephone on the nightstand beside his bed. Earlier today, he had memorized the number for the Vanderley apartment in Memphis, intending to call Annabelle to check on the investigation into Lulu's murder. He sat on the edge of the bed lifted the receiver and dialed the num­ber.

  Annabelle answered on the second ring. "Hello."

  "I assume you don't have any news I can relay to Father," Wythe said.

  "No, Wythe, I don't. If I had news, I would have called Uncle Louis."

  "Don't the police know anything more than they did yes­terday?"

  "Wythe, have you been drinking? You sound odd. If you're drunk, whatever you do, don't go in to see Uncle Louis until you've sobered up. The last thing he needs is—"

  "You always know what everyone needs, don't you, Anna­belle? Well, you sure as hell didn't know that Lulu needed protection, did you? You didn't see that one coming, did you?"

  "Please, don't drink anything else. Have Hiram prepare you some coffee and—"

  "I'm coming to Memphis."

  "What?"

  "She was my sister. I loved her. I'm the one who should be there overseeing things, not you."

  "Wythe, do not come to Memphis."

  "I'm coming. And you can't stop me."

  Annabelle sighed. Wythe hated her little exasperated sighs, those disgruntled utterances that let him know how displeased she was with him.

  "If you're determined to come to Memphis, at least wait until you've sobered up."

  "I'll leave first thing in the morning," he said. "I'll stay there with you, of course."

  "No, you won't. Get a suite at the Peabody."

  Wythe laughed. Damn the high-and-mighty bitch. "You get a suite at the Peabody if you don't want to share the fam­ily digs there in Memphis. I have as much right to stay there as you do." Before she could say anything else, utter one more word of protest, he hung up on her.

  Somebody needed to take dear cousin Annabelle down a peg or two. She was much too sure of herself and he was sick and tired of her thinking she was superior to him. They were both Vanderleys, weren't they? What gave her the right to treat him as if he were dirt under her feet?

  "You'd better start treating me good Annabelle, 'cause if you don't, you'll be sorry. I'll bet Lulu's sorry that she was so mean to me the last time I saw her."

  As the dial tone hummed in Annabelle's ears, she sud­denly realized that someone was at the door. Taking a minute to compose herself after her less than pleasant conversation with Wythe, she replaced the receiver, squared her shoulders and tilted her chin. That's probably Sergeant George, she thought, then sighed. At least with the young policeman, she'd be safe from confrontation. She'd had enough of that for one day, first with Quinn Cortez and then with Wythe.

  When she opened the door, she greeted her guest with a cordial smile, one she hoped told him that he was welcome. "Please, come in."

  He entered then waited for her to close the door and move ahead of him into the room. "I appreciate your seeing me, Ms. Vanderley."

  "May I offer you something to drink?" she asked.

  "No, thank you. Not right now." He studied her closely. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes, I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

  "Your cheeks are flushed."

  "Oh, it's nothing. I just had a disagreement with my cousin Wythe over the phone. My face tends to turn pink when I get upset. It's the curse of having a very fair com­plexion."

  Chad smiled warmly, then asked "Wythe is Lulu's brother, right?"

  "Half brother. Same father, different mothers." Chad nodded.

  "Where are my manners? Please,1 sit down, Sergeant George." She hoped he wouldn't ask her any questions about the disagreement with Wythe. Her personal animosity to­ward her cousin and the reasons for it were no one else's concern. Like the rest of the Vanderleys, she believed that family business should stay in the family.

  "I'd like it if you called me Chad."

  "All right. . . Chad. And you must call me Annabelle."

  After sitting on the sofa, Sergeant George—Chad— reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a neatly folded packet of papers. "These are copies of Lulu's date book entries for the past couple of months. My partner and I have gone over them and on the surface, there doesn't seem to be anything there that might help us . . . except. . ."

  "Except?"
>
  Annabelle sat beside Chad and when he held out the pa­pers to her, she took them from him. Even though her nerves were still a bit ragged after dealing with both Quinn Cortez and Wythe in the space of fifteen minutes, her hands were steady. She prided herself on keeping herself in check, in holding everything deep within her. Her emotions were pri­vate, not for public display. She'd learned how to pretend to be happy when inside she was dying during the years she struggled to be Chris's faithful and devoted companion.

  "Except there are two men, other than Quinn Cortez, mentioned in her date book during the past two months and I—we—were wondering if you know either man."

  Reading through Lulu's date book seemed like an inva­sion into her cousin's privacy. Seeing the little notes she'd scribbled in the margins, the funny doodles she'd made here and there, reminded Annabelle what a great sense of humor Lulu had. As a teenager, wherever she wrote anything, she'd always dotted the letter i with cute heart shapes and used hot pink and bright purple inks.

  "Do you have any idea who Randy is?" Chad asked.

  "Randy? I'm not sure, but it could be Randall Miller. Or it might be Randolph Chamness. I know Lulu was involved with Randolph in the past, but I don't recall her mentioning him in a couple of years. I'd start with Randall Miller. I seem to recall that Lulu called both men Randy. Actually, she re­ferred to them as 'my Randy boy one' and 'my Randy boy two.'"

  "Does Randall Miller live in the Memphis area?"

  "As a matter of fact, he does. He's in real estate, I believe."

  "That Randall Miller?"

  Annabelle smiled. "Yes, the one who's on TV and all the billboards. Mr. Memphis Real Estate."

  "Isn't he like fifty and married?"

  "Yes, he is."

  "Would he have a reason to kill Lulu?"

  Annabelle sensed that Chad wanted her to assure him that her cousin's married lover had no reason to want her dead. The sergeant thought he already had his man. He wanted Quinn Cortez to be guilty. But why?

  "As far as I know, no one had a motive to kill Lulu."