Killing Her Softly (17 page)

Kendall wrapped a towel around her head dried off and grabbed her silk robe from the hanger on the back of the bathroom door. She stood there behind the closed door and listened. Quiet. No noise at all. She breathed a sigh of relief, then opened the bathroom door and hurried into her bedroom. There in the doorway leading into the hall, she caught a glimpse of a shadow. A man's shadow.

Adrenaline flooded her body. Fear clutched her throat.

Who was inside her house? How had he gotten in?

Oh, God. Oh, God!

The nightstand was on the other side of the bed. If she tried to get to it, whoever was hovering in her doorway would see her. Not only was her gun in the nightstand but also the telephone was sitting on top of it. And her cell phone was in her purse, out there in the kitchen.

What was she going to do?

The shadow moved.

He was coming into her bedroom.

Light from the bathroom cast a soft glow over the man, partially revealing his features. Kendall sucked in a deep
breath. Then she thought she recognized her uninvited visitor.

Releasing a relieved sigh, she called, "Quinn, is that you? My God, you scared me half to death."

She had recognized him, had called him by name and had felt relief that she knew and trusted the intruder. Poor darling.

As he drew closer, the fading light from outside peeking through the closed blinds in Kendall's bedroom, her welcoming smile wavered. Was she wondering what it was about him that had changed? Did she realize she was dealing with someone she really didn't know? He wasn't the Quinn who had been her friend and lover.

When he stood directly in front of her, she reached out as if to touch his face. Her hand froze in midair, lie saw realization dawn in her dark eyes. Now she knew the truth, and just as the others had done, she looked at him in horror.

"There is no reason to be afraid," he told her.

"What. .. who .. . My God!"

He clasped her hand brought it to his chest and laid it over his heart. "I promise
1
will make it quick and painless."

She snatched her hand away. "No. No . . . don't.. ."

She opened her mouth to scream. He couldn't allow that to happen. If she screamed, someone might hear her. And if anyone came to help her, it would ruin his plans.

He grabbed her and clamped his hand over her mouth. She struggled. Why did they always struggle so hard against him when all he intended to do was put them out of their misery? Didn't they understand how much better off they would be once he gave them release from all their pain?

Kendall fought like a wildcat, kicking and thrashing, doing her best to get away from him. But he was far stronger than she, making her effort to escape totally useless. Keeping one hand over her mouth, he turned her so that her back was to his chest, then he dragged her toward the bed. When he

tlung
her around and down onto the bed, her loose-fitting robe came apart several inches, revealing the inner curves of her breasts.

For half a second she stared up at him, agonized fear in her eyes. She probably thought he was going to rape her.

"Did you kill Lulu
Vanderley
?" she asked in a breathless, quivering voice.

So like a lawyer,
he thought.

"Yes, we killed her."

"We?"

He laughed. "That's right, you've never met bad Quinn, have you? Not until tonight."

"Bad . . . ? You're bad Quinn." He nodded.

"You're going to kill me, too, aren't you?" He nodded again.

Trembling, her features etched with sheer panic, she moaned deeply, then tried to scream, but only a screeching whimper emerged from her throat.

Hovering over her, straddling her hips, he grasped her wrists, flung her arms over her head and pinned her to the bed. He stared deeply into her terror-stricken eyes and felt pity for this unhappy, lovesick woman.

"Poor foolish darling," he told her. "Don't you know you shouldn't waste your love on someone who can never love you in return?"

"What—what are you talking about?" Her voice quivered.

Smiling, he loosened his hold on her hands. "We can never love you."

The moment he released her wrists, she reached out for him, but before she could claw at his face, as he was sure she had intended to do, he lifted the pillow from the other side of the bed and brought it down over her face. She fought him, cursing and crying all the while.

"It's useless to struggle," he told her. "I'm doing what is best for you . . . for us."

He pressed the pillow down harder and harder. Her struggles grew weaker and weaker until she finally stopped moving.

When he was certain that she was dead he rose up and off her. Standing beside the bed he gazed down at her lifeless body and sighed.

"Now, that's better, isn't it? You aren't suffering anymore?"

Reaching inside the pocket of his jacket, he removed a small glass vial filled with formaldehyde and set it on the nightstand. Then he took the switchblade from his other pocket and snapped it open. For several seconds he stared at the sharp edge of the knife, mesmerized by the shiny metal surface.

"This won't hurt a bit," he told her as he spread out her right hand and eased her index finger apart from her other fingers.

Gripping her index finger tightly, he took the knife and hacked off the long, slender digit, just above the knuckle.

Humming softly to himself, he closed the dirty knife, dropped it back into his coat pocket and then studied the prize he held in his other hand. Such a pretty finger, the nail painted a bright red. He unscrewed the lid to the vial, dropped the finger into the formaldehyde and recapped the vial before slipping it into his pocket.

He would add this one to his collection. A reminder of his good deed—he had put one more foolish woman out of her misery.

Chapter 12

Annabelle stared at the single cream white rose nestled in the long, narrow florist box that had just been delivered. Knowing before she read the enclosed card exactly who had sent the rose and why, she hesitated.
Dump the box, flower, and card all in the trash,
she told herself.
And do it now before you talk yourself out of making the wise choice.
Halfway to the wastebasket in the bathroom, she paused to take another look at the rose. Long-stemmed fragrant and perfect. Most men would have sent a dozen red roses as a way of apologizing. Someone like Quinn Cortez had probably sent dozens of women dozens of red roses. She had figured him for the type who would have gone the extravagant route and sent her half a florist shop. But no, not even half a dozen flowers. Only one. Cream white. Why only one and why white? Odd that she'd misjudged him. Ordinarily she had a knack for sizing up people correctly.

Don't pick up that card,
her inner self warned. But she didn't listen. Acting purely on instinct, she laid the box on the vanity, removed the card and read the message.

Forgive me. Quinn
                            

Straight to the point and succinct. Was the sentiment heartfelt and sincere? She had no idea, but she wanted it to be. And that fact bothered her greatly. She shouldn't care how Quinn felt or what he thought or even what he did. The man meant nothing to her—unless he turned out to be Lulu's murderer. And that was a definite possibility. She couldn't allow herself to forget that fact.

Annabelle dropped the card back into the florist box, closed the lid and dumped the box into the trash.

Apology not accepted.

Apology not really necessary.

Quinn didn't know her—the real Annabelle
Vanderley
—anymore than she knew him. They were practically strangers who had been brought together only because of a terrible tragedy. And they were temporarily bound to each other because of their business arrangement with Griffin Powell. If there was another family member she could trust to work with Griffin, there would be no need for her to ever see Quinn Cortez again. But there was no one else. If Wythe were the man he should be, the son his father wanted him to be, the brother Lulu had deserved he would be here in Memphis alone, representing the family. But Wythe was weak, mentally sick, his mind warped.

Several fast, firm knocks at the outer door of her suite vanquished unpleasant thoughts of her cousin. She hadn't been expecting anyone, but as she squared her shoulders and walked out of the bathroom, a flash of insight hit her.

That
's
probably Quinn.

He had no doubt timed his arrival perfectly, so that his apology in the form of one perfect white rose would be delivered shortly before he showed up at her door. She had several choices, but was uncertain which to choose. If she didn't answer the door, he might simply go away. But if she did that, he would probably come back later. If she opened the door and told him to go away, how would he react? Or she could invite him in and try to make him understand that whatever he wanted from her—understanding, friendship, a new conquest—he would never get.

Licking her lips nervously, Annabelle peeped through the viewfinder. An odd sense of disappointment fluttered inside her. The man standing outside in the hallway was not Quinn.

Opening the door, Annabelle smiled warmly. "Good evening, Sergeant George. Is there news about—"

"I'm not actually here in any official capacity," he told her. "I just wanted to drop by and see how you're doing and find out if there's anything you need."

"That's very kind of you." Chad George was incredibly good-looking in a male model sort of way, as if Mother Nature had airbrushed out all the physical imperfections. "Won't you come in?"

"Thanks." He entered the suite and followed Annabelle into the lounge area. "I hope you won't think I'm stepping over the line here, but I was wondering if you'd like to go out for dinner? Nothing fancy. And if you need someone to talk to about things—about Lulu, her murder, the suspects. Anything. I'm a good listener."

Why not? Why not go out to dinner with this hand-some detective?

"You aren't married or engaged or anything are you?" she asked.

Chad laughed. "No, ma'am. If I were, I wouldn't be asking you out, even if this won't actually be a date. I wouldn't want to put that kind of pressure on you. It'll just be two people sharing a meal and getting better acquainted."

"That sounds an awful lot like a date to me," she told him, her tone light, the comment made jokingly.

He grinned. "Is that a yes?"

She nodded. "Give me a few minutes to freshen up."

"Take your time. I didn't make reservations or anything."

Annabelle rushed off to the bedroom, then called out before closing the door, "I'll be right back."

There was no point in changing clothes since she looked perfectly presentable and her available wardrobe was limited.
Brush your hair, use some mouthwash, add afresh coat of blush to your cheeks and put on some lipstick

While flying about from one thing to the next, she considered the fact that she hadn't been out on a date of any kind in ages and she was looking forward to spending the evening with Chad. What woman wouldn't? After all, he was young, handsome, charming and trustworthy.

Quinn awoke gradually. Groggy and slightly disoriented he opened his eyes and looked around wondering where he was. Then it all came back to him—he'd been on his way over to see Kendall and had stopped by the florist to order flowers for Annabelle. He had decided on a single white rose instead of the six dozen he'd considered sending in way of an apology. A cream white rose as smooth and beautiful as Annabelle's flawless skin.

Lifting himself upright from where he'd been halfway slumped on the car seat, Quinn glanced outside and noticed it was dark. Where was he and what had happened?

Think, man, think.

He'd left the florist and thought about going straight to the Peabody to see Annabelle, then decided it wasn't such a good idea. Better to let the rose and the note speak for him. At least for the time being. She needed time to forgive him.

After nixing the idea of seeing Annabelle, he returned to his original plan and headed toward downtown. But he hadn't made it to Kendall's, had he? He vaguely remembered feeling odd of becoming terribly drowsy.

Taking another look outside, he realized he was in a parking lot that serviced a restaurant and several shops. Had he pulled off the main thoroughfare and parked here? Yeah, that's what he'd done. He remembered now, remembered thinking he should stop for coffee because he was so damn sleepy. Stress, restless nights, constant worry. It all added up. He'd probably just been totally exhausted and— No, that wasn't it and he knew it. He'd had an odd spell like this before—several in the past year. How many episodes had there been? Two or three? No, this one made four. He had dismissed it the first time, could barely remember when it had happen-
ed
or the details. The other episodes of feeling woozy, then passing out and coming to an hour or more later had occurred months apart, but this spell had happened only days after the last one, which had occurred the night of Lulu's murder.

Maybe he shouldn't keep putting off seeing a doctor.

But now wasn't the right time, considering he was embroiled in a murder case where he was one of the suspects. Later, when all this hullabaloo about Lulu's death had been cleared up, when her real killer had been caught and put behind bars, he'd have a complete physical. But there was no rush, was there? It wasn't as if these spells had any real effect on his life. Having four blackout spells in the span of a year hardly warranted any real panic. After all, once he came to after an hour or two, he was able to function normally despite a headache that lingered for several hours.

Rubbing his palm across his face, he grunted then leaned over and looked at himself in the interior rearview mirror. Other than his hair being slightly disheveled he didn't look any worse for wear. But he had a damn crick in his neck. As he massaged the back of his neck, he twisted his head from one side to the other.

Quinn checked his watch. Seven fifty-two. Damn, he'd been out over an hour and a half. After spearing his fingers through his hair, he turned the ignition key, started the Porsche and exited the parking lot. Realizing he was only a few miles from his destination, he wondered why he'd stopped here instead of trying to make it to Kendall's house. He must have been really out of it when he left the flow of traffic.

With the late afternoon rush hour over and the streets not as congested as they had been earlier, it shouldn't take him long to get to Kendall's. He backed up his car and headed toward the main thoroughfare. His head hurt like hell. When he arrived at Kendall's, he'd get a couple of aspirin.

Less than ten minutes later, when he turned onto the street where Kendall lived he saw the whirling lights of an ambulance and patrol cars. A tight knot formed in the pit of his belly.
Whatever's going on, it's not at Kendall's house,
he told himself.
Don't expect the worst, don't think something's wrong with Kendall just because you were the one who discovered Lulu's body.

He slowed the Porsche to a crawl as he drew nearer the emergency vehicles, which were parked in a row along the street in front of Kendall's house. A small group of neighbors were huddled together in the street on both sides of Kendall's place, curiosity and concern fostering their vigil.

God, not again! This can't be happening. Please, let Kendall be all right. She can't be hurt. She can't be dead.

Quinn drove by slowly, going several houses down from Kendall's before he pulled his Porsche over to the curb and parked. After killing the engine, he sat there for a couple of minutes, willing himself under control. Although his gut was telling him he could now expect the worst, he couldn't quite wrap his mind around the possibility that something bad had happened to Kendall. Filled with dread, Quinn got out of his car and walked up the street. When he drew closer, he saw a patrolman manning the perimeter, keeping curiosity seekers and nosy neighbors at bay. He made it halfway to the front door when the young, freckle-faced officer stopped him.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to stop."

"What's wrong?" Quinn asked. "I know the lady who lives here. Kendall Wells. She's my lawyer and a good friend."

"I'm sorry." The officer's cheeks flushed. "I can't give you any information at this time."

Just as the paramedics came out of the house via the front door, a black Chevy Trailblazer pulled up behind one of the patrol cars parked on the street. Quinn immediately recognized the man who emerged. Memphis's medical examiner,
Udell
White.

Quinn's heart sank. Somebody inside Kendall's house was dead. If not Kendall, then who? As the ME came closer, he glanced at Quinn and apparently recognized him immediately.

"Did this guy find the body?" the ME asked the young officer.

"No, sir. He just showed up. The victim's ex-husband actually discovered the body. He's inside with—"

"Kendall's dead." Quinn felt sick. "How . . . who . . . ?"

"Cortez, you'd probably better wait around"
Udell
White said. "I'm sure Norton and George are on their way. They're bound to have a few questions to ask you."

"How did she die?" Quinn asked. "Did her ex-
hus
-band kill her? Was it an accident? Did an intruder—?"

"Keep him out here," the ME told the young policeman, indicating Quinn with a hitch of his thumb in Quinn's direction as he headed straight for the front door.

"Sir, if you'll just stay out of the way and wait here, I'd appreciate it," the policeman said to Quinn.

With his head pounding and his stomach churning, Quinn nodded then turned and walked to the curb. Disregarding his surroundings and the murmurs of the small crowd nearby, Quinn sat down on the curb, hung his head and dropped his clasped hands between his knees. How was it possible that in the span of seventy-two hours, two of his lovers had died?

Annabelle found herself enjoying Chad George's company a great deal. Since being seated and ordering dinner at Pat O'Brien's, located two blocks south of the Peabody on Beale Street, they hadn't mentioned Lulu or anything connected to her murder. Chad had relayed basic personal facts and she'd done the same. He was nearly thirty, never married his mother was a widow who taught English at Memphis State, his uncle was a congressman and his older sister was a pediatric nurse who lived with her husband and one daughter in Horn Lake, Mississippi, which was pretty much considered a suburb of Memphis.