Читать книгу Black Silk - Metsy Hingle - Страница 10

Five

Anne looked up from the sink in her parents’ kitchen as Charlie came through the door, carrying the plates following dinner. She plopped them on the counter next to the sink. “You rinse and I’ll load the dishwasher,” she said in that same brusque tone she’d used with her all evening.

Anne started to argue, but decided against it. “Fine. But I set the table and did the salad because you were late, so you rinse and load the dessert dishes by yourself.”

“Girls, quit fussing and finish the dishes. Your father’s already setting up for the bananas Foster,” her mother called from the next room.

But not even the prospect of bananas Foster—one of her favorites—did anything to lighten her mood. And it was all Charlie’s fault. Fuming silently, Anne scraped the remains from the plates into the disposal. She’d known Charlie was angry with her the minute she’d come through the front door. Her sister had trained those blue eyes on her and looked as though she’d wanted to strangle her. Then she had barely said ten words to her all evening. And when she’d mentioned her coup—being the first reporter to break the news about the cancellation of the Stratton/Hill wedding—Charlie had ruined the moment by cutting her off. Since Charlie was working a case that involved Stratton, she couldn’t discuss or listen to any of the society drivel that she reported if it involved J. P. Stratton.

Society drivel, my fanny, Anne thought, her irritation growing. Just because Charlie was a police detective and she was a TV reporter didn’t mean her job was a piece of cake. Maybe she didn’t put the bad guys in jail, but she worked her rear end off just the same. Besides not all of her stories were fluff. More than a few of them had resulted in improved conditions for people caught up in the red tape of bureaucracy or forgotten by the system. Why, she even had a file folder thick with thank-you letters from people whose lives had been changed for the better as a result of her investigative reports.

Continuing to stew over her sister’s unfair attitude toward her, she attacked the next plate with a sponge and dishwashing liquid. When Charlie returned with the serving dishes, Anne practically growled as she said, “I don’t know why we bother with the dishwasher at all if we have to wash everything first.”

“Because that’s the way Mom wants it done.”

Anne shoved the washed plate at her sister for loading in the dishwasher. “Well if you ask me, it’s dumb.”

“Nobody asked you.”

Anne threw the sponge in the sink, sending suds flying. “What is your problem?” she demanded.

“As if you don’t know.”

“I don’t,” Anne insisted.

“Fine. Play innocent. We’ll discuss it later. Dad’s waiting to do the flaming dessert thing.”

“I want to discuss it now.”

“Will you keep your voice down?” Charlie chided with a glance toward the door. “You know how upset Mom gets when we argue. And it’s been a tough enough day for them as it is.”

Charlie was right. Today had been tough for their parents. Although they had moved past the grief that had paralyzed them following Emily’s death, some days—like Emily’s birthday—were more difficult for them than others. It wasn’t all that easy for her either, Anne admitted. Even though it had been six years since Emily’s murder, sometimes she still walked into the kitchen and expected to see her there. Maybe because there had been many a spat waged among the three of them over kitchen cleanups. She’d lost count of the times Emily had weaseled out of her turn to do the dishes by giving her a lipstick that she’d wanted or offering to lend her a blouse she’d admired. It had infuriated Charlie and she’d taken Emily to task for it more than once.

Anne shifted her gaze over to the breakfast nook where the same yellow and white curtains were draped across the bay window, where the garden was once again abloom with pansies in bright yellows, purples and white and camellia bushes and early blooming azaleas were bursting with red and pink flowers. The same porcelain vase was filled with fresh-cut roses and sat in the center of the table that smelled of the lemon oil her mother had used to polish it. For a moment, Anne could almost see the three of them seated at that table again as they had done so often while growing up. She could almost see them that last year before Charlie went off to college with Emily eating her egg-white omelet and lecturing Charlie on her diet. With Charlie ignoring Emily while she scraped the burnt parts off of her toast and washed it down with coffee. With her loading sugar on her cereal and following Charlie’s lead by tuning Emily out.

God, but she missed Emily. And she missed being one of three.

“You going to wash that plate or just stare at it?”

At Charlie’s sharp comment, Anne shut off the memories. Picking up the sponge, she began washing the plate. And as she washed, she wondered what she could have possibly done to make her sister so angry with her. Before running into her and Vince at the Stratton house, she hadn’t even seen Charlie for days. And hadn’t she backed off when Charlie had refused to comment? Anyone else would have dogged her heels for answers. Why, she had even undercut her own news scoop by not revealing that it had been homicide detectives seen leaving the Stratton home. So where did Charlie get off being angry with her? She was the one who should be angry with Charlie for the way she had spoken to her. Right? Right! Feeling indignant, Anne slapped the sponge against the next plate, then shoved it at Charlie.

“There’s still gravy on the corner. Wash it again,” Charlie said and shoved the plate back at her.

That tore it. Turning to face her sister, she snapped, “You want it washed again? You wash it.” And without stopping to reconsider, she threw the sponge at Charlie. The soapy square of foam caught her right between the boobs before falling to the floor with a plop. Anne felt a moment of immense satisfaction at her sister’s stunned expression—until Charlie scooped up the sponge with astonishing speed.

“Why, you little witch,” Charlie began, brandishing the sponge like a weapon in her fist. “I should make you eat this.”

“You can try.”

“Don’t tempt me, Annie. That stunt you pulled on the news this evening was bad enough—”

“What stunt?”

“—And now you’ve ruined my blouse.”

“Your blouse isn’t ruined and you know it. And what are you talking about? What stunt?”

“Don’t play the innocent,” Charlie told her. “You announced to a half-million people on live TV that the Stratton wedding was called off and intimated that your unnamed source told you it was because of Francesca Hill’s murder.”

Francesca Hill was dead?

Shocked, Anne held on to the sink. She couldn’t believe it. Oh, she’d known something was wrong, even suspected that someone close to the Strattons had gotten tangled up in something bad and had died. But she’d never dreamed it was Francesca Hill or that the woman had been murdered.

“I guess it doesn’t matter to you whether or not you compromise an investigation—just as long as you get your story.”

Both stunned and hurt, she said, “My God, Charlie. Do you honestly believe I’d do that?”

Charlie hesitated, eyed her closely. “You saw me and Vince leaving the Stratton house. Then you go and do that report. What was I supposed to think?”

“That I would never do that to you. Or anyone.”

Charlie looked away for a moment, then tossed the sponge in the sink. “Maybe I should have,” she said. Grabbing a dish-towel from the counter, she dried her hands, then dabbed at the wet spot on her blouse. “But you made that crack about an unnamed source. The captain and everyone else thought you were referring to me.”

“Well I wasn’t. For your information, my unnamed source was a doormen at the Mill House Apartments. He said that when he came on duty, he’d heard that the police had been all over the place and in Mr. Stratton’s lady friend’s apartment and that they carried someone out in a body bag. I thought it was Holly Stratton.”

“J. P. Stratton’s daughter?”

Anne nodded. “Everyone knows that she and Francesca didn’t get along. She moved out of the Mill House when her father moved Francesca in and she wasn’t at all happy about the wedding. Besides I’d heard Holly has emotional problems and even attempted suicide. When I heard someone had died, I thought she tried again and succeeded this time. I also thought she’d done it where she knew her father would find her.”

Charlie sighed. “I’m sorry, Annie. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” she said firmly. But she had never been one to stay mad for long. She couldn’t do so now. More softly, she asked, “Did you really get in trouble?”

She nodded. “So did Vince. Apparently, the chief came down on the captain and he came down on us. Everyone assumed I was your source.”

“Well first thing tomorrow morning, I’m marching down to the police station and telling your Captain he was wrong, that you didn’t tell me a thing.”

“Thanks, but you don’t need to do that. I told the captain it wasn’t me and Vince backed me up.”

“I should hope so,” she said.

“The truth is, I think Vince is the one who convinced him. He told the captain that you were smart and a good reporter, and that after you’d seen us at Stratton’s house and found out the wedding had been cancelled, you put two and two together.”

“He was right,” she told her as a trill of pleasure went through her. “DidVince really say that I was smart and a good reporter?”

“Yes, he did,” Charlie said dryly. She eyed her closely. “You want to tell me what’s going on between you two?”

Anne blinked, felt color rush to her cheeks. “Nothing. Why?”

“Because you both get this sea-sick look when I mention one of you to the other.”

“Girls,” their mother said as she came through the kitchen doors. “What on earth is taking you so long? And why is there water on the floor?”

“I dropped the sponge,” Anne fibbed. “Don’t worry, we’re almost done.” But as she tackled the remaining dishes, Anne’s thoughts were on Detective Vincent Kossak.

“I still can’t believe Francesca’s dead.”

“It’s true,” Cole told his sister Holly as he set her bag down inside of her apartment. After learning from Aaron about Francesca’s murder, he’d driven to the casino resort on the Gulf Coast where he’d sent Holly the previous night. He had thought that getting Holly out of New Orleans would be the best way to ensure his sister didn’t do something foolish—like crashing J.P.’s wedding—and making matters worse for herself. But once he’d learned of Francesca’s death, he’d known he had to act quickly. Holly had always been fragile emotionally and he hadn’t wanted her to hear the news over the phone. Nor did he want her to learn about it from the media. He’d wanted to break the news to her in person.

After the initial shock, she’d grown quiet. She’d remained quiet while she packed her bags and checked out of the resort hotel. And she had barely said ten words during the ninety-minute drive back to New Orleans. He eyed her carefully as she stood staring out of the picture window that offered a view of the Mississippi River and the night sky.

Unsure whether to be relieved or concerned by his sister’s silence, Cole took off his leather jacket and laid it on the chair beside Holly’s. He wasn’t blind to his sister’s faults, he admitted. Holly was spoiled, often unpredictable and gullible. Her emotions ran high—be they happy or sad. She also had the most tender, generous heart of anyone he knew. And despite the angry scene with Francesca the previous night, he didn’t doubt for a moment that she was already regretting the ugly words that had passed between them. She was probably also feeling a loss. After all, she and Francesca had been good friends at one time.

Until J.P. had come along.

The selfish bastard. He had ruined the friendship between his own daughter and her friend simply to satisfy his own twisted ego. He hadn’t been concerned about how his actions would affect Holly or anyone else. But then, J.P. Stratton had never cared about anyone other than himself. He’d learned that lesson firsthand a long time ago. What he didn’t understand and never would was why Holly continued to love J.P. after everything he had put her through. But then, he’d never understood why his mother had continued to love the man who’d used and abandoned her, either. Maybe he hadn’t been able to help his mother all those years ago, but he could help his sister now.

Walking over to the window, he stood beside Holly and stared out into the night. The rain that had come through earlier in the day had washed away the clouds. Stars glistened against a black velvet sky with a crescent-shaped moon that looked as though it was suspended above the river. It was a quiet, peaceful scene, but he knew the woman beside him was not at peace. “You want to talk about it?”

“No.” Turning around she said, “What I want is a drink.”

When she started toward the bar, Cole blocked her path. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” he told her firmly, knowing his sister had used alcohol as a crutch in the past and worried at her dependence on the stuff.

“Well, I think it’s a great idea,” she argued. “My nerves are shot. I need it to calm me down.”

“No, you don’t,” he insisted and caught her hands in his. “The booze is a crutch and you don’t need a crutch. You’re stronger than that.”

“No, I’m not,” she countered and tried to pull her hands free. “Ask anyone. They’ll tell you I’m just a spoiled little rich girl who gets herself into one mess after another and has to have her daddy or big brother bail her out,” she said, her self-loathing evident.

“You are so much more than that, Holly. Why can’t you see that?” he asked, pained to see his sister in such distress.

“Because I can’t see what isn’t there. I’m not like you, Cole. I’m weak. I always have been. You’re the one who can’t see it.”

He tipped up her chin with his fingers. “What I see is a brave, beautiful and compassionate woman who is a lot stronger than she thinks.”

“I certainly don’t feel brave or strong.”

“That’s because you’ve been dealt some hard blows in the past few days. Why don’t you come sit down and try to relax. I’ll get us both some tea.”

“I don’t have any tea,” she said as she took a seat on the couch.

“What about coffee?”

“I have some instant.”

He hated instant coffee, had never understood how people could drink the stuff. But if it would help Holly, he’d drink dishwater. “Instant’s fine. You relax and I’ll go fix us each a cup.”

“It’s in the kitchen cabinet beside the stove.”

“I’ll find it,” he assured her.

He found it. Fifteen minutes later, neither one of them had taken more than a few sips of the horrible-tasting brew. But his sister had been able to listen without falling apart as he tried to prepare her for what would be coming. He’d had several messages already from a Detective Le Blanc, wanting to question him. It wouldn’t be long before they made their way to Holly. “The news about the wedding being cancelled has already made it on the local TV stations. By morning the news of Francesca’s murder will probably be out, too. I’m guessing word about your run-in with Francesca at the rehearsal dinner last night has already reached the police.” And he didn’t doubt that his sister violating the restraining order by showing up at the dinner and throwing a glass of wine in Francesca’s face would make her a prime suspect. Needing to prepare her, he said, “They’re probably going to want to question you.”

“What am I going to tell them?”

“The truth. That you were unhappy about the wedding and the two of you had an argument, but that you didn’t kill her.”

“It’s true, Cole. I didn’t,” she said.

“I know, kiddo. And you have nothing to worry about. You were nearly a hundred miles from here when she was killed and can prove it.” At least that was in her favor, he reasoned. Also in her favor was the fact that he had waited until Holly had called to say she was at the resort before going to see Francesca and the woman had still been alive when he’d gone to see her. “Once the police check with the resort and confirm you were there, you’ll be in the clear.”

“What if they don’t remember me or know exactly when I arrived?”

He smiled. “Trust me. They’ll remember a beautiful redhead and the time you checked in will be on your receipt and in the reservation system.”

“But I didn’t check in right away,” she told him. “I mean, there was a line at the desk, so I played the slot machines for a while.”

“That’s okay. They’ll just check the surveillance tapes. CS Securities installed the system there. There are cameras capturing every angle of the casino and recording the dates and times. The tapes will put you in the clear,” he explained.

“No they won’t,” she said and her eyes filled with tears.

“Why not?” he asked, a sinking feeling in his gut.

“Because I wasn’t at the casino when I called you last night. I called and said I was because I didn’t want you to worry. But I didn’t get there until later that night.”

“Then where were you?”

“In New Orleans. I was more than half-way to Biloxi when I turned around and came back. I went to see Francesca, to apologize and try to convince her not to file the charges.”

“What time did you go see her?” he demanded.

“I don’t know. Late. She told me that you’d already been there, pleading my case and that she’d turned you down. Then she said she wasn’t going to wait until morning, that she was calling the police now and telling them I’d violated the restraining order twice that night. When she picked up the phone, I rushed out, got in my car and went to the resort. I’m so sorry, Cole. I’ve made a mess of everything, haven’t I?”

“We’ll work it out,” he said, but he was worried. He didn’t believe for a second that Holly had killed Francesca. But she had motive and no alibi—something that the police would latch on to quickly.

“How? What are we going to do?”

“The first thing I’m going to do is call Margee Jardine and let her know what’s happened. Then I’m going to find out who else visited Francesca last night.” He’d seen the bottle of champagne chilling and two glasses when he’d gone to see her. So he knew she’d been expecting someone.

“What can I do?”

“You can stay calm and trust me to take care of this.”

“I do trust you, Cole,” she said, her expression somber. “Whenever I’ve needed someone, you’ve always been there for me. You’re the one person who’s never let me down.”

Only Holly was wrong. He hadn’t always been there when she’d needed him, Cole thought as he hugged her close. Eight years ago when she’d been a pregnant sixteen-year-old and J.P. had forced her to have an abortion, he had been thousands of miles away. She’d gone through that nightmare all alone because he’d been on a Special Ops assignment, because he had chosen to re-up for another tour of duty instead of coming home where he was needed. While he hated J.P. for putting Holly through that, he hated himself more for not being there to protect her. He intended to protect her now.

He looked up at the television as the crime show in progress was interrupted by the sound of a breaking news report. At last, he thought and set aside the papers he had stopped by his office to pick up. He’d been disappointed when the media had failed to report Francesca’s murder on the six o’clock evening news. Although phone calls had been made and favors called in by the Stratton family to handle the situation with discretion, he’d hated that no one was acknowledging his work. Instead, everyone seemed to have focused on the cancelled wedding—which didn’t deserve even the fifteen minutes of attention it had already garnered. No, the real story was him and what he had done.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt this program to bring you this breaking news story,” Bill Capo, the WWL-TV Channel 4 News anchor and reporter began. “Francesca Hill, the fiancée of real estate mogul J. P. Stratton, is dead, the victim of a robbery turned homicide. As reported early today, guests who were invited to the wedding of the former casino hostess and the multimillionaire began receiving phone calls shortly before the scheduled ceremony, notifying them that the wedding had been cancelled. At the home of J. P. Stratton, here is Anne Le Blanc with more on the story.”

The television screen switched to a view in front of the Stratton home where a flock of reporters and news trucks were gathered outside the wrought iron gates. Although it was nearly nine o’clock at night, the area was lit up like a Christmas tree thanks to the news crews. And standing there bundled in a fitted red leather coat that tied at the waist and fell just above the knee was the perky blond reporter who had been the first to report the cancellation of the wedding.

He’d recognized the name, of course, and had found it amusing to have Emily Le Blanc’s baby sister reporting on his latest accomplishment. But the one who had truly intrigued him was the older sister—Charlotte Le Blanc. In the few weeks he’d known Emily, he’d heard all about her two sisters—especially about Charlotte, the smart and serious one who was studying to be a lawyer. He hadn’t realized that she’d abandoned her plans to become a lawyer and become a cop instead. Smiling, he couldn’t help wondering if he had been the one to influence her change of career. He also wondered if she would put up more of a fight than Emily had. She would, he decided and found himself growing excited by the idea.

“Anne, what can you tell us?” Bill asked.

Holding the microphone in front of her, she touched her earpiece and stared directly into the camera. “Bill, I’m standing outside the palatial home of J.P. Stratton, who as you know, was scheduled to be married this afternoon and whose wedding was abruptly cancelled without explanation. Although we have not been able to speak with Mr. Stratton, his publicist and a member of the immediate family has confirmed that Ms. Hill is dead. Her body was found early today by the maid who had come to help her prepare for her wedding.”

“Anne, do we know how she was killed?” Bill asked as the screen split in two, giving views of the TV studio and of the reporter outside the mansion.

“Bill, the police have not released any details about how Ms. Hill died. But what we have been told is that cash and jewelry were missing from Ms. Hill’s apartment. And the case is being treated as a robbery turned homicide.”

Robbery turned homicide his ass, he thought, irritated. He didn’t know who the prick was that had stolen Francesca’s wallet and jewelry, but he had been the one who’d killed her. And the damn police better not screw up his plans. They should be looking for a murderer—not some petty thief.

Charlotte Le Blanc would be looking for a murderer, he told himself, growing calmer.

“Anne, do the police have any suspects?” Capo asked.

“None that they’ve reported.”

But they soon would, he thought and Detective Charlotte Le Blanc would uncover them all. He was sure of it. Smiling again, he turned off the set and gathered up the file he needed. Karma had brought her to him for a reason, he decided. And once she had served her purpose, he would kill her.