If Looks Could Kill Read online

  “I’ll hold you to that.” Reve tugged free, but let her lookalike lead the way.

  Genny scurried off the porch and met them in the yard. She hugged Jazzy with great affection. “It’s turned out to be such a gorgeous day, I’ve set up apple cider and tea on the porch. And I baked one of Granny’s apple dapple cakes. I’ll bring some out later.”

  “Genny, this is Reve Sorrell.” Jazzy presented Reve as if she were introducing her to royalty. “Reve, this is my dearest friend on earth, Genny Madoc Sloan.”

  Reve extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Sloan.”

  “My goodness, you two do look remarkably alike.” Genny grasped Reve’s hand firmly. “Please, call me Genny.” She shook Reve’s hand, then held it for a brief moment.

  Reve jerked her hand away.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean . . .” Genny smiled. “Most people don’t mind if I probe just a little. And I must admit that I’m curious about you.”

  “Did you pick up on anything?” Jazzy asked.

  Reve glared at Jazzy. She wanted to beg them not to include her in any of their forays into the psychic world, a world in which Reve did not believe.

  “Only that Ms. Sorrell isn’t comfortable making this visit.” Genny spread her arm out in invitation. “Why don’t we go sit on the porch and relax?”

  Be polite, Reve told herself. Make an effort to get along with these people. “Genny, you must call me Reve. And I apologize for—”

  “No need to apologize,” Genny said. “You don’t know me and you’re skeptical. You have every right to be. I don’t expect you to accept my gift of sight as a natural, God-given talent. Nor do I expect you to like me instantly just because Jazzy and I are best friends.”

  An odd feeling of relief eased Reve’s tension. She wasn’t quite sure why or how it happened. There was something strangely comforting about Genny’s voice. She projected a gentleness that seemed to encompass everything around her.

  Once the three were seated in big wooden rockers, Genny’s chair turned so that she could face the other two, Genny asked, “Tea or cider, Reve?”

  “Neither, thank you.”

  Genny poured hot liquid from an earthenware teapot that looked hand-painted, then gave Jazzy a cup. “Well, I’m going to come right out and say it. I had a vision this morning.”

  Reve sighed. Here we go, she thought.

  “Was it about us? About Reve and me?” Jazzy asked.

  “Part of it was. The good part. The happy part.”

  “Tell us,” Jazzy all but begged.

  “I sensed laughter,” Genny said. “And wonderful happiness. A oneness as if the two of you were a single entity. You are separate and yet together. Individuals, but linked from birth.”

  “Then you sensed that we’re twins, didn’t you?” Jazzy asked.

  Genny smiled at her friend, but Reve picked up on something not quite right about the smile. She sensed a sadness in Genny. Stop doing that! Reve scolded herself. You’re playing right into Genny’s hands by letting your imagination play tricks on you.

  “Yes, I believe you and Reve are twin sisters,” Genny said. “I have no doubt about it.”

  “That’s good enough for me.” Jazzy looked at Reve as if she expected her to respond by grabbing her, proclaiming them sisters and hugging her. Instead Reve stiffened her spine and sat up straighter in her chair.

  “I believe I prefer to wait for the DNA test results.” Reve hated that she’d been unable to mask the coolness in her voice, but she simply could not accept some hillbilly psychic’s sixth sense.

  Jazzy glared at Reve, then fixed her gaze on Genny. “You said that was the good part of your vision. What was the bad part?”

  Genny hesitated, as if she didn’t want to tell them more. Was her hesitancy real or was it a way to dramatize the moment? Reve wondered. She could not—would not—take Genny’s psychic abilities at face value.

  “I sensed evil.” Genny’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “And danger.”

  “Danger for Reve and me?”

  “I’m not sure. But . . . y’all must be very careful.”

  “This is nonsense!” Reve shot out of her chair.

  “Why must you be such an uptight, unfeeling, unhappy bitch?” Jazzy stood and faced her. “Believe me, I’m having as much trouble accepting our being sisters as you are. For all your millions and hoity-toity ways, you’re no grand prize yourself, you know.”

  Reve felt as if she’d been slapped. Taken back by Jazzy’s outburst, she stared at her look-alike, then smiled. “You’re quite right. I’m not a grand prize, am I? I’m sure you’d never have chosen me to be your sister. I’m rich, well- educated, socially prominent and yet I don’t have one single close friend. And not one man has ever cared about me just for me, whereas men seem to fall at your feet.”

  “Well, well, well.” Jazzy laughed. “You are human after all.”

  “Oh, yes, only too human.” Reve turned her gaze on Genny. “I don’t believe in hocus-pocus stuff. But I apologize if I’ve been rude. And if letting you do a reading, as Jazzy calls it, will make her happy, then by all means—”

  “You are not what you seem,” Genny said, her dark eyes pinning Reve with their intensity. “You and Jazzy are two halves of a whole, and very soon both of you will begin sensing your oneness.”

  Reve wasn’t sure how to react. Genny wasn’t telling her anything that couldn’t be true about any set of identical twins. But the way Genny stared at her, as if she could see beyond her body and into her spirit, unnerved Reve.

  “You’re very lonely,” Genny said. “That loneliness will soon end. I see you surrounded by family. You will never be lonely again.”

  Chapter 5

  The Cherokee Country Club was just barely within the city limits of Cherokee Pointe. The two-story frame Federal- style house had once been home to a wealthy banker who’d lost a fortune in the Crash of 1929 and shot himself in one of the upstairs bedrooms. His widow had taken her children and returned home to Mississippi several years later, letting the house go for back taxes. Farlan MacKinnon’s father had purchased the house and surrounding twenty acres for a song. He’d been a young husband with a wife growing increasingly unhappy living with her in-laws, so he’d packed up his wife and two young sons and moved into the old Watley house in 1936. Farlan supposed that was the reason he felt so at home here, because he’d lived in this house as a boy, before he’d been shipped off to military school in Chattanooga.

  When, over forty years ago, the most prominent citizens m the county had decided they needed a country club, Farlan had offered this house, which by then had been empty for a good many years, except for a few odds and ends of furniture his mother had left when she’d run off. Farlan had been eighteen at the time of his mother’s great escape and had been preparing to enter college that fall. Moonshiners used to run rampant in the hills making illegal whisky, and that summer the federal agents had swarmed the county in search of stills. He remembered Agent Rogers—a robust, devil-may-care bachelor who’d set local feminine hearts aflutter. But never had he imagined that the woman who could capture Agent Rogers’s heart would be Farlan’s forty-year-old mother. Helene MacKinnon had run away with her lover, leaving behind her two sons and their heartbroken father. Farlan never saw his mother again, although he did attend her funeral in Baltimore many years later, where he’d met his young half-sister.

  Water under the bridge. The past should stay in the past, he’d told himself countless times. He could no more change anything that happened in the past than he could stem the tide of the Tennessee River, although the Tennessee Valley Authority had done their best to control the raging river with their numerous dams.

  A man shouldn’t look back, Farlan reminded himself. But it was hard not to think about what might have been, especially when a man’s present life was less than satisfactory. He supposed there were others worse off and knew he should count his blessings. The only problem was, his blessings were few. Being fi
lthy rich was, he supposed, a blessing. But when had it ever brought him happiness? In their youths, he and Jim Upton had both offered sweet Melva Mae everything money could buy and she’d turned them both down flat. She’d married a penniless quarter-breed and lived happily ever after. He supposed he’d come out of that ill- fated love triangle far better than old Jim Upton because Jimmy had been madly in love with Melva Mae and never did quite get over losing her.

  Farlan, on the other hand, had fallen deeply in love again—with the prettiest little Atlanta debutante who’d ever come out. Veda Parnell had taken his breath away the first moment he laid eyes on her. They dated less than six months before he proposed, but at first she’d been reluctant to accept and leave the social whirl of Atlanta behind. Eventually he’d won her over and they married, but she never seemed really happy. Having her younger half-brother move to Cherokee Pointe when he finished law school had helped her finally adjust to life in the small mountain town. But the young, vibrant girl he’d married soon disappeared and was replaced by a melancholy woman he’d never been able to please.

  He wasn’t sure when he’d come to realize that something wasn’t quite right about Veda. Looking back, he supposed he could have figured it out sooner if he hadn’t been so besotted with her.

  Cyrus, the waiter who had worked at the country club since it opened and had before that been a groom at the MacKinnon stables, entered the library. His appearance interrupted Farlan’s less than pleasant thoughts about his wife. This room in the old Watley home—Farlan’s favorite at the club—housed the Watley family’s books as well as numerous additions club members had made over the years.

  “Judge Keefer and Mr. Fennel have arrived, sir,” Cyrus said.

  “Show them in,” Farlan replied. “And as soon as my son and Mr. Truman complete their game, send them on in.” Brian and the county’s Democratic district attorney, Wade Truman, played golf together almost every Saturday afternoon. Farlan liked young Truman and had hopes of helping put the boy in the governor’s mansion when the time was right.

  “Yes, sir. Will that be all?”

  “Pour up some of my best bourbon for Dodd and Max.” Farlan swirled the liquor in the glass he held. “And make sure no one else disturbs us.”

  Cyrus nodded, then discreetly disappeared, leaving the pocket doors open. Max entered first, a big grin on his round, full face. Maxwell Fennel was Farlan’s first cousin, once removed. Max’s grandmother had been Farlan’s mother’s elder sister. Always dapper in his three-piece suits, Max considered himself somewhat of a ladies’ man, even at the age of fifty-nine. He kept his hair dyed dark brown, and Farlan suspected he’d had a few nips and tucks to keep his face from succumbing to the ravages of time.

  “Glad you set the meeting up for this afternoon,” Max said, a mischievous twinkle in his hazel eyes. “I have an engagement with a mighty fine young lady tonight.”

  “Not too young, I hope,” Dodd Keefer said as he followed Max into the library. “You wouldn’t want your penchant for sweet young things to mar your sterling reputation, now would you?”

  Max’s smile dissolved into a solemn frown. “Why do you insist on bringing up that one indiscretion? It was years ago. And the girl told me she was eighteen.”

  “A married man should be faithful to his wife and not out chasing young girls.” Dodd glared at Max.

  “Something you learned from experience,” Max shot back without blinking an eye.

  Cyrus appeared in the doorway, a tray of drinks in his hand. Farlan cleared his throat, cautioning his guests to watch what they said, then motioned for Cyrus to enter.

  “Is this some of that fine bourbon I’m so fond of?” Max asked as he lifted his glass from the silver tray Cyrus carried.

  “Yes, sir.” Cyrus offered Dodd the other glass.

  “Thank you.” Dodd lifted the crystal tumbler and took a sip of the corn mash whiskey.

  Farlan studied his brother-in-law, a tall, slender, elegant gentleman. Dodd was now, as he’d been for many years, Farlan’s best friend. It never ceased to amaze him how different he was from his older half-sister. As different as daylight is from dark, Dodd shared none of Veda’s mental and emotional problems. He was highly intelligent, soft spoken and easy to get along with. Farlan had always liked him. Physically, Dodd and Veda shared the same pensive blue eyes—the color inherited from the mother they shared— but Dodd’s once sandy hair was now a multi-colored brown and gray mix. At sixty-four, Dodd lived alone and had since his wife’s death ten years ago.

  “Have a seat and we’ll get started.” Farlan motioned to two tufted leather chairs flanking the fireplace. “Brian and Wade will join us when they finish their game.”

  After the two men sat, Farlan eased down on the overstuffed couch that faced them. He took a final swig of his liquor and set the glass atop a coaster on the sofa table behind him.

  “Well, don’t keep us on pins and needles. What’s this meeting about?” Max lifted his glass to his lips.

  “Politics. Our sheriff, our DA and our two circuit court judges are all Democrats, but we’ve still got a damn Republican mayor,” Farlan reminded them. “I want us to get a jump start on the next mayoral election by finding ourselves a suitable candidate before the first of the year. We want to spend time building him up, letting the folks in Cherokee Pointe know there’s a better man for the job than Big Jim’s man, Jerry Lee Todd.”

  “You got somebody in mind, Farlan?” Dodd gazed down into his glass as if studying its contents.

  “A few names come to mind. But the reason for this meeting is so we can put our heads together and see if the same name keeps coming up. If it does, we’ll know we’ve got the right man.”

  “What about George Wyatt?” Max asked.

  “He’s better off left on the city council,” Dodd said. “My recommendation is Joe Duffy. He’s a good age—forty—and he’s married with two children. He attends church every Sunday, and since he has a thriving feed and seed business, he wouldn’t be put off by the pittance we’re able to pay our mayor.”

  Farlan nodded. “That’s one of the names that keeps popping up in my mind.” Farlan turned to Max. “Do you know of any dirt in his past that might jump up and bite him in the ass during a campaign?”

  Max shook his head. “Not that I know of, and I’ve known Joe since he was born. He’s lived here all his life, except for four years away at UT, University of Tennessee, that is. And he married a local girl, Emily Patrick.”

  “So, are you saying you’d okay Duffy for our choice as a mayoral candidate?” Farlan asked.

  “I suppose so.”

  “Good. But before we make a definite decision, I want to hear what Brian and Wade have to say. They’re closer to Duffy’s age and probably know him better than any of us.” Farlan relaxed into the comfort of the familiar old sofa, crossing his legs and motioning for Cyrus to bring him another drink.

  By the time Brian and Wade joined the older men in the library, they’d each polished off their third bourbon and even Dodd Keefer’s usually soft voice was a little louder than normal. They had discussed various subjects of interest to three wealthy, successful men, albeit neither Max nor Dodd possessed the sizable fortune Farlan did. As the afternoon wore on, they’d laughed and talked and enjoyed their whiskey. For the life of him Farlan couldn’t remember who’d brought up the subject of the article in this morning’s Knoxville News-Sentinel about the prostitute’s body being dragged out of the river near Loudon. But he figured it must have been Max, who had a tendency to talk too much, a quality shared by many in his profession.

  “Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.” Dodd downed the last drops of his third drink.

  “Do you mean to say you think it’s all right for someone to murder prostitutes?” Max asked, rather indignantly.

  “No, of course not.” Dodd’s olive complexion splotched with pink. “I spoke without thinking.” Dodd stood, set his whiskey glass aside and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that
overlooked the massive front lawn.

  “I hear it’s going to frost tonight.” Farlan quickly changed the subject, hoping to ease Dodd’s discomfort. His brother- in-law was a sensitive, emotional man. A good man.

  An apologetic look crossed Max’s face. He glanced from Dodd, who stood with his back to them, to Farlan, then nodded agreeably. “Yes, sir, cold weather is just around the corner.”

  Farlan studied Dodd’s drooping shoulders, his bowed head. If they were alone, he’d bring up that old taboo subject that haunted them both; and they would discuss it again, as they occasionally did when the burden of guilt and regret overcame them. But they weren’t alone and that shameful part of their pasts wasn’t something they ever discussed with anyone else, not even Max, whom they both trusted implicitly. That particular time in their lives was something Farlan would rather forget. And usually he was able to keep it buried deep inside, but occasionally he wondered if he should have done things differently. If he had, would his life now be better or worse?

  Apparently sensing he’d inadvertently upset Dodd, Max began talking about this and that, doing his best to lighten the mood. Maxwell presented a jovial face to the world, even to family and friends. Farlan knew Max as few others did, knew the demons that plagued him.

  “What are you jabbering about, Max?” Brian asked teasingly as he and Wade walked in, both ruddy-cheeked from having played a round of golf in the crisp October weather.

  “Did I hear someone say something about another prostitute being found in the Tennessee River?” Wade inquired.

  Farlan looked at the young man and thought not for the first time that the boy was too damned good-looking. Too pretty to be a man. “The prostitute’s murder was just something Max mentioned in passing. We’ve been shooting the bull for a couple of hours waiting on you boys to show up.”

  Wade meandered over toward the windows where Dodd still stood with his back to the room. “How are you, Judge?”

  “Well enough,” Dodd replied in a quiet, stilted voice.