Killing Her Softly Page 13

  Valerie entered the living room, removed her cashmere jacket and laid it and her leather clutch purse on the sofa. "I wasn't aware that we had a relationship with Ms. Vanderley."

  Randall downed a large gulp of bourbon, wheezed slightly and released a long sigh. "We knew her socially and I met with her on several occasions to discuss her selling her house in Chickasaw Gardens."

  "Really?" Valerie stared at him questioningly. "You never mentioned it to me."

  "Didn't I?"

  She shook her head. "Why did answering a few questions for the police rattle you so badly?"

  He could tell her everything, fall to his knees and beg for mercy. After all, if the police questioned her, they would dis­cover that he hadn't come home straight from the office on Friday night, that he hadn't been home with his wife as he said he'd been.

  "It seems someone put the ridiculous idea in their heads that I was having an affair with Lulu." He forced a laugh, which sounded ridiculous, even to his own ears.

  Valerie walked over to him and looked him right in the eyes. "Are you a suspect in her murder?"

  "No. Not yet."

  "Did you kill her?"

  "Valerie!"

  "Did you?"

  "No, of course I didn't."

  "Do you have an alibi for the time she was murdered?"

  "Not exactly."

  "What did you tell them when they asked you where you were?"

  "I told them I was working late at the office and came straight home."

  "Will Geneva lie for you?"

  Randall shook his head knowing full well that his secre­tary would not lie to protect him. "I don't think so. But she can truthfully say I was at the office until seven."

  "Did you tell the police you came straight home?"

  "I messed up. I couldn't think straight. I told them I left the office around nine and came right home."

  "That was very stupid of you, wasn't it?" Valerie took the half-full glass of bourbon from his shaky hand and set it on the portable liquor cart. "If you're asked again, you'll tell them that you were confused about the time. You left the of­fice at seven and came directly home. You and I spent a quiet evening alone together since Friday night is the staff's night off."

  "Valerie, my dear, how can I ever thank you for—" She placed her index finger over his lips. "Randall, you're a philandering swine. You've cheated on me with so many women that I've lost count. But you've been a good father to our daughters and an excellent provider. I ceased to love you years ago and haven't given a damn for ages what you did or with whom you did it. I don't care that you had an affair with Lulu Vanderley and I really don't care if you killed the little bitch. But I will not allow anything you did to affect me and our daughters. Do I make myself clear? Whatever I do, it won't be for you. It will be for me and the girls."

  "For whatever reason, I'm grateful. And I swear to you that I didn't kill Lulu."

  Annabelle took the elevator from her suite at the Peabody to Griffin Powell's suite that afternoon only moments after he phoned her. She had parted company with Wythe at the police station, warning him when he followed her outside to steer clear of her during his stay in Memphis. He knew her well enough to take her seriously, especially with Griffin's employee, Bruce Askew, working as her part-time body­guard. She'd never come right out and told Wythe she knew the sordid details of his perversion, but she suspected he was aware she possessed some knowledge of his numerous sins. After all, he'd have to be a total idiot not to realize how thor­oughly she detested him and to what lengths she'd gone to for several years now to avoid his company.

  And neither of them would ever forget that day, shortly after Chris's funeral, when Wythe had tried to rape her. Naturally, he told her that he'd simply misunderstood the sit­uation, that he had thought she wanted him because she'd come on to him and led him on.

  Lies. All lies. Fabricated in his sick mind.

  When Annabelle reached Griffin's suite and knocked, he opened the door himself and escorted her into the lounge. She stopped dead still when she saw Quinn Cortez standing near one of the windows, the afternoon sunlight turning his hair a shiny blue-black. Her stomach did an evil flip-flop.

  "When you phoned me, you didn't mention that Mr. Cortez was here."

  "I assumed you'd know he was either here or on his way here," Griffin said. "I work for both of you, jointly. Whatever I have to say, I say to both of you at the same time."

  "Yes, of course. I understand."

  "Why don't we all sit down and I'll bring you both up to date on what we've found out so far." Griffin indicated the seating area with a hand sweep.

  Both men waited for Annabelle. After she sat in one of the chairs across from the sofa, Quinn and Griffin sat on op­posite ends of the striped silk couch. They were both large, broad-shouldered men, Griffin several inches taller and a good twenty-five or more pounds heavier. They were like two sides of a coin. One a blue-eyed, blond Viking. The other a dark-eyed, black-haired savage.

  Good heavens, where did such vividly descriptive thoughts come from? she wondered.

  "I'll tell you both up front that when I take a case, I al­ways do a check on the client," Griffin admitted. "In this case, I ran a check on both of you."

  "Was that necessary?" Annabelle asked.

  "Find out anything interesting?" Quinn crossed his arms over his chest and surveyed Annabelle from head to toe. "I'd love to hear all about Ms. Vanderley."

  Griffin looked at Annabelle. "It's standard procedure as far as I'm concerned. That's all." He turned to Quinn. "I learned all I need to know about both of you. And anything you want to know about Ms. Vanderley, I suggest you ask her."

  Grinning, Quinn nodded. "I just might do that."

  "Hmm . . ." Griffin nodded toward a file folder on the coffee table. "That's a preliminary report on Louisa Margaret Vanderley. I concentrated on the past two months since one of the scenarios the police are considering is that the father of Lulu's baby killed her and they're betting that you, Quinn, turn out to be the father."

  "I'm not," Quinn said.

  "Let's hope you're not." Griffin readjusted his large frame so that he could relax more into the sofa back. He crossed one leg over the other at the knee. "That report only scratches the surface, of course, since we've just begun the investiga­tion. But we already know that Quinn wasn't the only man in Lulu's life these past two months."

  "Yes, I'm aware of that fact," Annabelle said. "The police showed me the entries in her date book. She was seeing quite a bit of Randall Miller, but he swore to the police that it was strictly business. But the man lied to Sergeant George when he said Lulu had consulted him about selling her house."

  "How do you know he lied?" Quinn asked.

  "Because Lulu never would have sold her home. It meant too much to her. It was her mother's house and Lulu loved the memories of the time she shared with her mother there after her parents divorced."

  Griffin nodded. "Randall Miller is married and a highly respected Memphis businessman. If Lulu's baby was his . . ."

  "Then they were having an affair?" Quinn asked.

  "More than likely," Griffin replied. "But Lulu also saw quite a bit of another man, but of course, we can rule him out."

  "Why's that?" Quinn asked.

  Annabelle knew the answer. "Because that man was Wythe."

  "Yes," Griffin said. "One of the men she spent time with was her brother."

  "One of the men?" Quinn asked.

  "She didn't see much of the other man, but we have rea­son to believe that they had a sexual relationship and that they had sex at least once, about six weeks ago."

  "Then he could be the father of Lulu's baby," Quinn said. "Who is he?"

  "Aaron Tully." Griffin watched Quinn for a reaction.

  "Who is Aaron Tully?" Annabelle sensed that the name meant something to Quinn.

  "Lulu was sleeping with Aaron?" Quinn shot up off the sofa. "Where the hell did you get your information?"

  "Aaro
n Tully is Quinn's employee, a sort of valet/butler cum gofer," Griffin explained. "As for where we got that information—Quinn's personal assistant, Marcy Sims, claims that she caught them in the act one afternoon when Lulu was in Nashville visiting." Griffin glanced at Quinn. "When you were in court one day, Lulu and Aaron had sex . . . in your bed."

  Quinn stomped around the room for a couple of minutes, then stopped and laughed. "It's a wonder he survived Lulu, a kid like him. She had a way of chewing a man up and spit­ting him out in little pieces if he didn't know how to protect himself."

  Griffin cleared his throat. "Are you forgetting that Lulu was Annabelle's cousin?"

  Quinn's eyes closed to mere slits as he focused on Annabelle. "You have no illusions where Lulu's concerned, do you? You know what she was, how she treated people, es­pecially men. Lulu had no respect for a man unless he could give as good as he got. She was a man-eater. If I'd known she was sniffing around Aaron, I'd have tried to protect him from her."

  "I'm well aware of the fact that Lulu was no saint, but. . ." There are reasons she was the way she was, Annabelle wanted to shout. But she didn't. Some things should remain secret. For the sake of the family, this one secret would go to the grave with Lulu. "If she slept with Tully, then he could be the father of her baby. We'll have to tell the police. They'll want a DNA sample from him, too."

  "Griffin can inform Lieutenant Norton," Quinn said. "I trust Norton. But even if it turns out Aaron was the father, the police can't pin Lulu's murder on him."

  "Why not?" Annabelle asked.

  "Because he wasn't in Memphis when Lulu was killed. He was on a plane with Marcy Sims and Jace Morgan head­ing back to Houston that Friday night."

  "As a matter of fact, he wasn't," Griffin told them. "The three didn't actually travel together to Houston that night." Griffin stood, bent over and picked up the file folder. After leafing through it, he pulled out several sheets of paper. "Ms. Sims took a late night flight out of Nashville, leaving at ten-fifty. Tully and Morgan took a morning flight."

  "I don't understand" Quinn said. "I thought all three of them went back to Houston together Friday night. They didn't mention anything about Marcy taking a separate flight and Jace and Aaron not leaving Nashville until Saturday morn­ing."

  "Any reason why they should have told you?" Griffin in­serted the pages back into the file folder and laid it on the table. "They were off duty, weren't they? Don't you usually give them a vacation of sorts after you've won a big case like the McBryar trial?"

  "Yeah, sure. And what they do in their free time isn't any of my business, as long as they keep their noses clean. You probably already know that all three of them were kids in trouble with the law before they came to work for me. But I'm telling you right now that Aaron might have fooled around with Lulu, but there's no way in hell that boy is capa­ble of murder."

  "Would you stake your life on it?" Griffin asked.

  Chapter 11

  Griffin excused himself and went into the bedroom to take a telephone call, leaving Annabelle and Quinn alone. Quinn could tell by the way she wouldn't look directly at him and by the stiffness of her spine that the lovely Ms. Vanderley felt decidedly uncomfortable. The very fact that she was not only unavailable, but also completely unresponsive to his charm made her all the more intriguing. She posed a chal­lenge to him, on every conceivable level.

  "Do you suppose that call will take long?" she asked but glanced anywhere but at him.

  "Depends," Quinn replied. "If it's personal, it could take a while. If it's business, it'll depend on who called and what they have to say."

  "Aren't lawyers capable of one-word answers?"

  Quinn chuckled.

  She hazarded a glance his way. He took full advantage of the moment by smiling at her and gazing into her big blue eyes. He figured she'd look away and do her best to avoid making a direct connection to him; but she surprised him. She kept her gaze linked to his. A strange undercurrent swept through him, drawing him deeper and deeper into unknown waters. What was it about Annabelle that not only fascinated him, but also unnerved him?

  She wasn't centerfold material, the way Lulu had been. Annabelle was several inches shorter, a few pounds heavier, not as bosomy, but elegantly lovely. Her hair was a darker blond, probably natural, whereas Lulu had lightened hers to almost white. And where Lulu's skin had been tan from hours spent in tanning beds and on beaches at private resorts around the world, Annabelle possessed a peaches-and-cream complexion.

  "Do you suppose that phone call has anything to do with our case?" she asked.

  "Our case?" Smiling, Quinn maintained eye contact as he rose from the sofa and walked toward Annabelle. She broke eye contact immediately and leaned back in her chair, her shoulders tensing, her spine stiffening. "You really hate hav­ing to share Griffin Powell with me, don't you?"

  "Yes."

  That one word said a great deal. For one thing it told him that Annabelle wouldn't lie to him for the sake of courtesy or to spare his feelings. She might be a lady to whom good manners was of tantamount importance, but she could be di­rect and absolutely honest if the circumstances called for it.

  "I'm sorry you've been put in this situation," he said. "And you may not believe me when I say that we both want the same thing."

  "I want to find Lulu's murderer and see him brought to justice."

  "That's exactly what I want."

  "I'd like to believe you."

  Quinn knelt down in front of her and reached out to take her hands. She slid her hands on either side of her hips and drew them into tight little fists. "You really would like to be­lieve me, wouldn't you? You'd like to believe I didn't kill Lulu," he said. "I appreciate the fact that you aren't con­vinced I'm guilty. It means a lot to me that you're willing to keep an open mind."

  "Why does my opinion matter one way or another?"

  He clasped her chin, cradling it in the hollow between his thumb and forefinger. Gasping softly, she met his gaze head-on.

  "Do you want the honest truth?" he asked.

  "Yes." Her voice quivered ever so slightly.

  "I don't know," he admitted then released his hold on her chin. Of their own accord as if he had no control over them, his fingers glided gently down the side of her neck, pausing when he felt the beat of her pulse. "I usually don't care what anybody thinks of me. I've always lived my life by my own rules and thumbed my nose at society. When you're as rich and powerful as I am, people tend to cater to you, not the other way around. Being a Vanderley, you understand what I'm saying, don't you? You've had people kowtowing to you all your life."

  Her pulse quickened as her heartbeat accelerated. He could feel her life's blood pumping beneath his fingertips. She was either excited or agitated. Perhaps both.

  "The difference between us, Mr. Cortez, is that having been born to wealth and privilege, I was taught at an early age not to abuse my wealth and power. My parents told me that with great privilege comes great obligations. I don't live my life by my own rules and I do care what other people think of me."

  He eased his hand from her neck and moved across her shoulder. She trembled. He lifted his hand away, but re­mained kneeling in front of her. "Haven't you ever wanted to break free? Don't you sometimes dream of what it would be like to walk on the wild side, just once?"

  She stared at him as if he were an alien creature speaking in an unknown tongue. Was she so totally buried in Vanderley tradition that she had lost the ability to think for herself? How was it possible that she and Lulu were first cousins? He'd never known two women as vastly different.

  "What are you suggesting?" she finally managed to say.

  "Take a chance. Throw caution to the winds. Trust me completely, Annabelle."

  "I can't."

  "Yes, you can. You want to." He stood up and held out his hand to her. "Tell me that you know I didn't kill Lulu, then work with me to prove who did."

  She glared at his offered hand then looked up at him. "We're already working
together to find Lulu's murderer. Isn't the fact that I agreed to be your partner in hiring Griffin enough for you? If I truly believed you'd killed Lulu, do you think I'd have done that?"

  "Tell me. I need to hear you say it." He hated the urgency in his voice, a pleading tone he hadn't used since he was a kid. Was she aware of the fact that he was practically beg­ging her to believe him? Until that very moment, he hadn't realized how desperately he wanted Annabelle to believe in his innocence. And heaven help him, he honest-to-God didn't know why.

  She stood slowly, as if fighting a battle within herself. When she faced him, only inches separating them, she tilted forward as if her body was drawn to his by some invisible magnet.

  "I don't think you killed Lulu."

  He let out the breath he didn't even know he'd been hold­ing. Exhilaration welled up inside him. He couldn't explain how he felt except to say it was as if he'd been given a rare and precious gift. Annabelle's trust.

  Quinn wanted to kiss her. Don't do it, he told himself. Don't even attempt it. If you touch her, you '11 want more than a kiss.

  "Sorry about that," Griffin Powell said as he came out of the bedroom.

  Annabelle jumped as if she'd been shot and moved hur­riedly away from Quinn. The tightly wound tension inside him momentarily coiled tighter and he had to fight the arousal that had been building since the moment he touched Annabelle.

  Griffin glanced from Quinn to Annabelle. "Is everything all right in here?"

  "Yes," Annabelle replied.

  "Was that phone call anything we need to know about?" Quinn asked eager to change the subject and take his mind off how much he wanted Annabelle.

  "Why don't we all sit down," Griffin suggested.

  "What is it?" Annabelle asked. "Whatever it is, just tell us."

  "The Commercial Appeal is going to run an expose on Lulu's life in tomorrow's paper," Griffin said. "They're going to show what they believe was the real Lulu, warts and all."

  "Oh, God!" Sudden tears glistened in Annabelle's eyes. "How much do they know? And will they really print things about her personal life knowing the family will sue the paper?"