Killing Her Softly (3 page)

"Hmm. . . Okay, pick up with when you arrived tonight and let yourself into the house."

"I walked inside and called Lulu's name, but she didn't respond so I went down the hall and straight to her bedroom. I assumed she was in there waiting for me."

"The master bedroom is downstairs?"

"That's right."

"And was she in the bedroom?"

"Yes. She was lying on the bed flat on her back, wearing a black teddy and. . . well, at first I thought she was asleep." Quinn clenched his teeth. Lulu had looked lovely lying there, her eyes closed her body resting in a languid pose. He'd bent down over her, intending to kiss her. But the minute he touched her shoulder and she didn't even flinch, he'd known she wasn't simply sleeping, even though she'd still felt warm to the touch. At that same time, he'd smelled the stench of death and had noticed there in the dim candlelight, the waxy, translucent look of her skin. "She was dead. Probably an hour or less at the time I found her. Rigor mortis hadn't set in and her body was still warm."

"Hmm. . ."

Quinn could tell by the quiet, contemplative way the lieutenant was studying him that the guy would probably wind up hauling his ass down to headquarters for further questioning. There was only one way out of this mess and that was complete cooperation. Tell the police the truth and prove he hadn't harmed a hair on Lulu's pretty little head.

But could he prove he didn't kill Lulu? He had no alibi for the time of her death—he'd been en route from Nashville and had stopped for a quick nap when he'd gotten so groggy he couldn't keep his eyes open. He'd pulled off Interstate 40 somewhere between Nashville and Jackson and had slept for well over an hour and a half.

Norton glared at Quinn. "Considering you and Ms.
Vanderley
were lovers, you don't seem too torn up about her death."

"I'm not the emotional type. I don't fall apart in a crisis. If I did I wouldn't be
the
Quinn Cortez. But I'm not a completely heartless bastard." Quinn looked Norton right in the eyes. "I cared about Lulu, as a friend. And as a lover. If I could change what happened to her, I would. But all I can do—all any of us can do now—is determine how she died. And if she was murdered, find the person responsible."

Norton eyed Quinn skeptically.

"And no, lieutenant, I didn't kill her. I had absolutely no motive."

Before Norton had a chance to respond a man of probably fifty, with a receding hairline and a potbelly hanging over his belt, came into the room.

"That you, Jim?" the man asked.

Norton turned and nodded. "Yeah, it's me. What have you got for us,
Udell
? Suicide? Accident? Murder?"

Jim Norton. Jim Norton. Quinn repeated the name several times and suddenly a light clicked on inside his brain. Jim Norton, a running back for UT twenty years ago. That's where Quinn had seen Norton. Norton had been star-athlete Griffin Powell's teammate and best friend. The entire South— and that included Texas—had kept track of the two men who'd been destined to turn pro. Oddly enough, considering both had had NFL star quality written all over them, neither man had played professional football.

"Murder," the ME said. "Asphyxiation."

Quinn had suspected as much. When he had found Lulu lying there so peacefully, he'd desperately wanted to believe she wasn't dead that he could somehow save her. His first impulse had been to perform CPR, but when he'd lifted her right arm to check for a pulse and seen her bloody hand he'd known that he had arrived too late. If only he hadn't stopped for that damn nap, he might have gotten here in time to prevent her death.

"There's one other thing," the ME said.

"What's that?" Jim Norton asked.

"The index finger on her right hand was amputated. Postmortem."

Annabelle Austin
Vanderley
was at her best playing hostess. It was a role she'd been born and bred to perform, as had generations of women in her family. Tonight's gala event—a buffet supper to raise funds for the Christopher Knox
Threadgill
Foundation—hosted society's elite from Mississippi, Alabama and several other surrounding states. Tickets had been a thousand dollars each and all proceeds went directly into the foundation that Annabelle had established ten years ago, shortly after her fiancé, Chris
Threadgill
, had become the victim of a nearly fatal car crash that left him a paraplegic. The foundation was dedicated not only to research, but also to assisting paralysis victims and their families. Not everyone was as fortunate as Chris had been—to have been born into a wealthy family who could afford to provide him with the best possible care.

Almost two years had passed since Chris's death and even now Annabelle found it difficult to accept that he was gone. She had made him the center of her life for many years, even though they had never married. His choice, not hers.

Annabelle strolled from room to room in her uncle Louis's antebellum mansion, where the charity supper was being held checking on everything from the string quartet playing in the front parlor to the caterers working feverishly in the kitchen. She was the consummate hostess, with the ability to multitask with the aplomb of a juggler balancing half a dozen balls in the air at once. But this event was only one of three she had overseen this month—the other two being a circus for underprivileged kids and a Winner Takes All charity event at one of Biloxi's many gambling casinos.

At twenty-three, when she'd been planning her wedding to Chris, she had thought by the time she was thirty-four, she would be the mother of several children and the wife of either the governor or a senator. Chris had been destined to follow in his father's and grandfather's political footsteps. But instead of living her dream, she was still single, childless and filled her days—and as many nights as possible— with overseeing the various Austin and
Vanderley
philanthropic organizations.

"You look lovely tonight, Annabelle," her cousin, Wythe
Vanderley
, said as he came up behind her and slipped his arm around her waist.

Annabelle froze to the spot. Then forcing a smile, she eased away from Wythe and turned to face him. "And you look handsome, as always." Wythe was an attractive man, in an aristocratic way that drew women to him like moths to a flame. And most of those women—the ones who'd gotten too close to that flame—had been badly burned. Wythe was a scoundrel and despite their being first cousins, Annabelle disliked him intensely. He'd been a disappointment to Uncle Louis, who supported Wythe in grand style, as he did
Wythe's
younger half sister, Lulu. To quote her aunt,
Perdita
Austin, "Neither of Louis's children are worth a damn."

"Lovely but cold Annabelle," Wythe said softly so that no one passing them in the hallway could overhear. "The right man could thaw you out and melt that frigid heart of yours."

"If you'll excuse me, I have—"

Before Annabelle could escape her annoying cousin, he grasped her wrist to halt her. She glared at him, her look demanding he release her immediately.

"I'm volunteering for the job, you know," he told her. "I'm just the man who could heat you—"

"Unless you want to make a spectacle of yourself, I suggest you release me," Annabelle said with absolute conviction. "Otherwise, I'll have no choice but to slap that smug look off your silly face."

He released her instantly, but leaned close and whispered, "One of these days, bitch, you'll get yours."

She offered him a deadly smile. "Maybe so, but I won't get it from you."

Annabelle rushed away as fast as she could walk without bringing undue attention to herself. If she didn't adore Uncle Louis and feel tremendously sorry for him, she'd never come to this house again, never subject herself to her cousin's harassment. As she made her way down the hall toward the dining room, intending to make sure everything was in order, she smiled and spoke to half a dozen acquaintances. Annabelle knew everybody who was anybody and cultivated superficial friendships as easily as she performed her hostess duties.

When she entered the dining room, her uncle Louis's butler, Hiram, spoke her name quietly as he came to her side. "Miss Annabelle . . ."

"Yes, Hiram, what is it?"

"Sheriff Brady's at the front door, ma'am, and he's asked to speak to you."

"Sheriff Brady? Did he say what it's about?" Had Wythe gotten in trouble again? Except for Uncle Louis's wealth and political connections, Wythe would already be in prison for statutory rape. Everyone in the county knew Wythe
Vanderley
had a penchant for teenage girls. And a sick hunger for rough sex.

"No, ma'am, but it can't be good. He said it's about Miss Lulu and he wanted to speak only to you."

How could something Lulu had done be of any concern to Sheriff Brady? Lulu had moved off to Memphis five years ago and was living in her mother's old house there in Chickasaw Gardens, the house Uncle Louis had bought his ex-wife as part of their divorce settlement when Lulu was twelve.

"Show Sheriff Brody into Uncle Louis's study, please, Hiram, and take him around the back way. Tell him I'll join him as soon as possible."

"Yes, ma'am."

Whatever had brought the sheriff to their door, Annabelle didn't want their guests to be aware of the lawman's presence. After making her rounds through the dining room to check that the champagne was ready for the midnight toasts due to begin shortly, Annabelle discreetly slipped away and hurried to her uncle's study. The minute she entered the room, Sheriff Brody, a stocky, middle-aged man, removed his hat and walked toward her.

"Ms.
Vanderley
, I'm afraid I've come with some awfully bad news," he said.

Annabelle's heart caught in her throat. "Bad news about Lulu?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Has she been in an accident? Is she badly hurt?"

"I hate to be the one to tell you, but. . . your cousin Lulu is dead."

Annabelle's stomach knotted painfully. "Lulu's dead? How? When?"

"Tonight," Sheriff Brody said. "She was found dead in her bedroom. The Memphis police are treating her death as a homicide."

"Are you saying someone murdered Lulu?"

"It appears so. I'm terribly sorry, Ms.
Vanderley
. You can contact the Memphis PD, if you'd like, either tonight or in the morning. The lead detective on the case is Lieutenant Norton."

Annabelle shook hands with the sheriff and thanked him for coming personally to give her the terrible news about her cousin. As she turned and asked Hiram, who'd been waiting in the hallway, to escort the sheriff out, all Annabelle could think about was how on earth she was going to break the news to her uncle. Lulu was—had been—the apple of Uncle Louis's eye. He doted on his younger child who'd been born when he was fifty. With his health already so precarious, learning that the little girl he'd spoiled rotten and loved to distraction was now dead might easily kill him.

Chapter 2

Sitting alone in a quiet tenth-floor office of the Criminal Justice Center on Poplar Avenue, drinking a cup of coffee and waiting for his lawyer, Quinn Cortez kept telling himself that things weren't as bad as they seemed. After all, the police hadn't arrested him. He hadn't been charged with Lulu's murder. Not yet.

Not yet? Not ever. You didn't kill her. There is absolutely no evidence that you did. If the detectives suspect you—and they probably do—there is no way in hell they can prove you murdered Lulu.

Yeah, but there's no way you can prove you didn
't.

Quinn's head pounded as if a couple of giant hammers were being repeatedly thumped against each temple. He leaned his head back against the wall and using his forefingers, massaged the pressure points.

When he had awakened from the nap he'd taken when he'd pulled off the road on his trip from Nashville to Memphis, his head had been throbbing; and downing a couple of aspirins hadn't helped. Finding Lulu dead and then dealing with the police had only increased the tension, which had reached migraine proportions. He'd been healthy as a horse all his life, but during the past eight or nine months he'd had several really bad headaches. First came the extreme grogginess that led to an odd blackout spell. The headaches came after he awakened lasted for a while and then went away. He probably should have seen a doctor, but he'd kept putting it off, thinking each headache would be the last. After all, there hadn't been all that many spells—only three, counting the one tonight.

Although he'd defended countless clients accused of murder, he'd never been on this end of a murder case. Never been a suspect. And he'd never discovered a dead body.

Poor Lulu. God in heaven, who could have killed her? And why? She might have been practically worthless as a human being, having never worked a day in her life or gone out of her way to help another living soul, but she certainly had never intentionally harmed anyone. She'd been a free spirit, living life for the sheer pleasure of it. She was a good-time girl, fun to be around and a damn good lay.

Quinn winced.
That's no way to think of the dead,
he reminded himself, then huffed out a pained chuckle. Who was he kidding? Lulu would love being described as a damn good lay. She prided herself on her sexual prowess. The woman had been a tiger in the bedroom.

I don't know who killed you, honey, or why, but if the police can't find your murderer, I will.

The door opened and Sergeant George poked his head in and said "Your lawyer's here."

George had been a real pain in the ass, but Lieutenant Norton had conducted himself like the old pro he was. And it wasn't a matter of good cop/bad cop. It was a basic difference in men.

Quinn eased his fingers down over his cheekbones, then let his hands drop to the tops of his thighs as he glanced up at the cocky, young policeman. His gut instincts told him that no matter what the circumstances were under which he might have met Chad George, he wouldn't have liked the guy.

"We haven't charged you with anything. And we weren't interrogating you, just asking you a few questions," the sergeant said. "You really didn't need to call in a lawyer."

"Oh yeah, I think I did." Quinn rose to his full six-one height and looked the policeman in the eyes. George wasn't a large man. Five ten, one sixty-five. And too damn pretty to be a man. Bet he got plenty of ribbing from the other officers about being so movie-star handsome. Like a young, redheaded Brat Pitt.

George's lips lifted in a hint of a smile, then he stepped backward and out of the way as Kendall Wells charged past him. She ignored the sergeant as if he were invisible. And when she closed the door behind her, Quinn grinned imagining the guy's indignant reaction to not only being ignored but also having the door practically slammed in his face. Bet Chad George wasn't accustomed to women treating him that way. But then, Kendall was no ordinary woman.

"I hope you've kept your mouth shut," Kendall said as she approached Quinn, her three-inch black heels tapping against the floor.

Quinn inspected his lawyer from head to toe. Ms. Wells was a looker. Tall, slender, leggy and though not classically pretty, attractive nonetheless. She dressed in the best her money could buy. Tailored suits. Simple gold jewelry. Her bright red sculptured nails made a statement that said although she was feminine, she could also be dangerous, possibly lethal.

He'd known Kendall for a number of years. They'd worked together on one of her first cases after she joined Hamilton,
Jeffreys
and Lloyd which was now Hamilton,
Jeffreys
, Lloyd and Wells. At forty-four, she didn't look a day over thirty-five. By keeping her body toned and the gray in her hair covered with a dark rinse, she managed to fool those who didn't know her true age. But Quinn knew. He knew a lot about Kendall. They'd been lovers briefly and she liked to talk— mostly about herself—in the afterglow of lovemaking. Even though he hadn't seen her in nearly five years, she'd been the first person he'd thought of when he decided he needed a top-notch Memphis lawyer right away.

"You're looking good" Quinn said.

Kendall smiled. "You look like hell."

He rubbed his head. "I've got a killer headache."

"Discovering a lover's dead body would give anybody a headache."

Quinn narrowed his gaze and looked directly at Kendall. "I didn't kill Lulu."

"That's good to know."

Inclining his head toward the closed door, Quinn asked "Do they think I did it?"

"Probably. The boyfriend or the husband is always a suspect. You know that."

"I told them the basic facts of my having a late date with Lulu, driving in from Nashville, showing up at her house and finding her dead in her bedroom. But when Sergeant George starting implying I might have had a reason to want to kill Lulu, I called a halt to the questioning."

"And telephoned me. Smart boy."

"Mrs. Cortez didn't raise no fools."

"Did
you have a reason to want to see Lulu
Vanderley
dead?"

Quinn lifted his brows and glowered at his lawyer. "Playing devil's advocate a little early in the game, aren't you, counselor?"

Kendall shrugged. "They'll pin this on you if there's any way they can. You're a big fish. A headline maker. Just think what it could do for not only George's and Norton's careers but the DA's. I know Steven Campbell. He's as ambitious as they come. He'd love nothing better than to convict
the
Quinn Cortez of murder."

"I had absolutely no reason to kill Lulu. We were friends . . . lovers."

"Nothing serious between you two?"

"Now when have I ever had a serious relationship with a woman?"

"Hmm . . ." Kendall looked him over from head to toe. "What about Lulu, did she want more than you were willing to give?"

Quinn shook his head. "Not that I know of. She drove up to Nashville and spent a couple of days with me about six weeks ago. I hadn't seen her since. She called this afternoon to congratulate me on winning the
McBryar
case and invited me to Memphis for a personal celebration."

"What about other boyfriends? Do you know if she was seeing someone else—someone who might have been the jealous type?"

"We didn't discuss other lovers when we were together."

"I sure hope she had a jealous boyfriend. That would at least take some of the focus off you."

"Look, honey, we can talk particulars later. I'd like to get out of here. Tonight."

"That can be arranged. If they want to ask you more questions, we can come back in the morning. This early in the investigation, they apparently don't have any reason to hold you." Kendall slipped her arm through his. "Do you have a place to stay tonight?"

"I'll check into the Peabody or—"

"You'll stay with me."

Quinn gave her an inquisitive look. The last he'd heard Kendall had gotten married about four years ago.

"We're separated" she said as if reading his mind. "The divorce will be final next month."

"Sorry it didn't work out."

"Yeah, me, too." She shrugged. "He was a nice man. Widower. A couple of teenage kids. I thought it was what I wanted, but it wasn't. I should have stuck to my own kind."

"And that would be?"

"No-good heartbreakers like you, Quinn."

*
   
*
   
*

"Annabelle?" Wythe
Vanderley's
voice vibrated with anticipation. "Hiram said you wanted to see me immediately. Dare I hope you've changed your mind about—"

Annabelle whirled around and glared at her loathsome cousin. "For God's sake, don't say anything else."

He stared at her, speculation in his gaze. "You've been crying. What's wrong?"

When he approached her, she held up a restraining hand. He stopped immediately.

"Sheriff Brody just left. He came personally to deliver some bad news. . . about—she swallowed fresh tears—"about Lulu."

Wythe's
face turned pale. "What's happened? Has she been in a car wreck? Damn, how many times have I warned her not to drive so fast."

"It wasn't a car wreck."

"What is it? What? Is she in the hospital? Do we need to—"

"Lulu was murdered" Annabelle forced the words, hating the very sound of them. Saying them aloud made the unbearable truth more real.

"Murdered?" Wythe shook his head. "No, that's not possible. Who'd want to hurt Lulu? Everybody loved her. You know that." Pale and trembling like a leaf in the wind Wythe stared at Annabelle, a dazed look in his eyes.

"Pull yourself together. Right now. I can't have you falling apart. I need you to help me tell Uncle Louis."

"Daddy? Oh, Lord this will kill him."

"What I want you to do is telephone Dr. Martin and tell him what's happened. Ask him to come over to the house immediately," Annabelle said. "I have duties to attend to, but as soon as Dr. Martin arrives, the three of us will take Uncle Louis aside and tell him."

"You know I was never jealous of her." Wythe smiled, the expression on his face pathetic. "I was fifteen when she came along and I should have hated her, but I didn't. I adored the little puss from the first moment I saw her. Even knowing Daddy loved her far more than he ever did me didn't change the way I felt about her."

Annabelle did not want to hear this. Not now. Not ever. She had no time—and no stomach—for any of
Wythe's
confessions. And she felt he was on the verge of one.

"Use the phone in here to call Dr. Martin." As Annabelle walked past her cousin on her way to the door, she paused momentarily and offered him a sympathetic glance. The caring, nurturing part of her wanted to reach out and hug him, offer him comfort. But she could not bring herself to touch Wythe, not knowing what she did about him.

Once outside in the hallway, she hurried down the corridor, her head held high, her eyes dry. And all the while her heart was aching. Poor Lulu. No matter how wild and crazy she'd been, no matter how useless her life or how many times she'd disappointed her father, she didn't deserve to die. The murder of a Memphis socialite, the daughter of a Mississippi multimillionaire and the reigning emperor of the
Vanderley
empire, would be front-page news by morning. Once she told Uncle Louis about Lulu, she'd make plans to drive to Memphis first thing in the morning. She would take charge, do her duty and represent the family. She intended to make it her mission to see that Lulu's murderer was found and punished.

Quinn parked his Porsche in the two-car garage alongside Kendall's BMW. She waited for him to retrieve his overnight bag from the trunk, then held the door open for him to enter through the kitchen of her South Bluff home, a downtown "zero lot line" house. As he followed her into the great room, he noted that the decorating style reflected the lady herself. Sleek, smart and modern. Nothing homey about the place. Lots of glass and mostly basic black-and-white, with a few tans and creams thrown in for good measure.