The Alibi (17 page)

deliberately trying to distract him.

"Do you honestly think they'll suspect me of murder?"

she asked.

"You'll inherit a lot of money now."

"There's that, yes," she conceded thoughtfully.

"And then there's the common knowledge that my

late husband's main goal in life was to pork as many

of my friends--and I use the term loosely--as possible.

"I don't know if he was working his way through

them because they are, generally speaking, the most

desirable women in Charleston, or if they were desirable

to him only because they were my friends. Probably

the latter, because Georgia Arendale's ass is

bigger than a battleship, but that didn't stop him from

taking her over to Kiawah for a day at the beach. I bet

she got a serious burn because it would take a whole

tube of Coppertone to cover that much cellulite.

"Emily Southerland has a complexion that would

stop a clock, despite countless chemical peels, but

Lute balled her anyway, in that ghastly downstairs

powder room of hers--it has a faux fur toilet seat

cover--at her New Year's Eve party."

Hammond laughed although Davee wasn't trying

to be funny. "While you, of course, were entirely

faithful to your marriage vows."

"Of course." Letting the sheet slip an inch or two,

she batted her eyelashes at him to underscore her lie.

"Yours wasn't exactly a marriage made in heaven,

Davee."

"I never claimed to love Lute. In fact, he knew I

didn't. But that was okay because he didn't love me,

either. The marriage still served its purpose. He

wanted me for boasting rights. He was the one man

in Charleston with balls big enough to bag Davee

Burton. In return, I..." She paused, looking pained.

"I had my reason for marrying him, but it wasn't the

pursuit of happiness."

She lowered her arm and shook her hair free while

Sandro went to work on her lower spine. "You're

wincing, Hammond. What's the matter?"

"Everything you say sounds like motive to commit

murder."

She laughed scornfully. "If I was going to kill Lute,

I wouldn't have gone about it like that. I wouldn't

have trotted myself downtown on a hot Saturday afternoon,

when this city is crawling with stinky,

sweaty Yankee tourists, toting a handgun like white

trash, and shooting him in the back."

"That's what you would want the police to surmise,

anyway."

"Reverse psychology? I'm not that clever, Hammond."

He looked at her in a way that said, Oh, yes, you

are.

"Okay," she said, accurately interpreting his expression.

"I am. But I would also have to be industrious,

and no one has ever accused me of

inconveniencing myself, or sacrificing creature comfort,

no matter what the reason. I'm just not that passionate

about anything."

"I believe you," he told her, meaning it. "But I

don't think there's any legal precedent for basing a

defense on laziness."

"Defense? Do you truly think I'll need one? Will

Detective Smilow seriously consider me a suspect?

That's crazy!" she exclaimed. "Why, he would come

closer to killing Lute than i would. Smilow never forgave

Lute for what happened with his sister."

Hammond's brow furrowed.

"Remember? Smilow's sister Margaret was Lute's

first wife. Probably she was an undiagnosed manic-depressive,

but marrying Lute was her undoing. One

day she went over the edge and ate a bottle of pills for

lunch. When she killed herself, Smilow blamed Lute,

saying he'd been neglectful and emotionally abusive,

never sensitive to poor Margaret's special needs.

Anyway, at her funeral, they exchanged bitter words

that caused a huge scandal. Don't you remember?"

"Now that you've reminded me, I do."

"Smilow has hated Lute ever since. So I'm not

going to worry about him," she said, repositioning

her hips on the table under Sandro's guidance. "If he

accuses me of killing Lute, I'll just turn the tables by

reminding him how many death threats he's issued."

"I'd pay to see that," Hammond told her.

Returning his smile, she said, "You've finished

your champagne. More?"

"No, thanks."

"I'll have some." While he was pouring, she

asked, "Monroe Mason contacted you, I suppose?

You'll be prosecuting when they capture the killer?"

"That's the program. Thanks for the recommendation."

She drank from the flute he handed her. "For what

ever else I am, Hammond, I'm a loyal friend. Never

doubt that."

He wished she hadn't said that. County Solicitor

Mason had informed his staff of his pending retirement.

Deputy Solicitor Wallis was terminally ill; he

wouldn't seek the top office in the upcoming November

election. Hammond was third in the pecking

order. He was virtually guaranteed Mason's endorsement

as his successor.

But Davee's speaking to Mason on his behalf

made Hammond uneasy. While he appreciated her

recommendation, it could later turn out to be a conflict

of interest if she was the one put on trial for her

husband's murder.

"Davee, it's my duty to ask . . . how good is your

alibi?"

"I believe the term is 'ironclad.'"

"Good."

Throwing back her head, she laughed. "Hammond,

darlin', you are just too cute! You're actually

afraid you'll have to charge me with murder, aren't

you?"

She slid off the massage table and moved toward

him, holding the sheet against her front and trailing it

behind her. Coming up on tiptoes, she kissed his

cheek. "Lay your worries to rest. If I was going to

shoot Lute, it wouldn't have been in the back. What

fun would there be in that? I would want to be looking

the bastard in the eye when I pulled the trigger."

"That's no better a defense than laziness, Davee."

"I won't need a defense. I cross my heart I did not

kill Lute." Putting her words into action, she drew an

invisible X on her chest. "I would never kill anybody."

He was relieved to hear her deny it with such conviction.

Then she spoiled it by adding, "Those prison uniforms

are just too dowdy for words."

Davee lay on her back, eyes closed, replete and relaxed

from Sandro's massage, followed by sex that

had required no participation from her except to

enjoy her orgasm. She felt the pressure of his unappeased

arousal against her thigh, but she was ignoring

it. He lightly stroked her nipple with his tongue.

"Strange," he murmured in accented English.

"What?"

"That your friend made his hints, but he never

asked you if you had killed your husband."

Pushing him away, she looked up at him. "What

do you mean?"

He shrugged. "Because he's your friend, he doesn't

want to know for sure that you did it."

Davee's eyes moved to an empty spot just beyond

his shoulder and involuntarily spoke her thought

aloud. "Or maybe he already knows for sure that I

didn't."

CHAPTER

11

As hammond pulled away from the Pettijohn mansion,

he hoped to God that he never would have to

cross-examine Davee on the witness stand, for two

very good reasons.

First, he and Davee were friends. He liked her. She

was hardly a pillar of virtue, but he respected her for

not pretending to be. When she claimed not to be a

hypocrite, it wasn't an empty boast.

He knew dozens of women who gossiped viciously

about her but who were no more moral than

she. The difference was that they sinned in secret.

Davee sinned flamboyantly. She was considered vain

and selfish, and she was. But it was a reputation she

herself cultivated. She deliberately spoon-fed her

critics reasons to shudder over her behavior. None realized

that the persona they censured wasn't the real

Davee.

The finer aspects of her personality Davee kept

concealed. Hammond reasoned the charade was her

self-defensive mechanism against getting hurt even

more than her childhood already had hurt her. She

turned people away before they had an opportunity to

reject her.

Maxine Burton had been a lousy mother. Davee

and her sisters had been deprived of Maxine's attention

and affection. She had done nothing to earn their

love or devotion. Nevertheless, Davee visited her

mother faithfully each week at the elite nursing facility

where she was confined.

Not only did Davee finance and oversee her

mother's care, she was directly involved with it, taking

care of Maxine's personal needs herself during

her routine visits. Probably he was the only person

who knew that, and he wouldn't have known had

Sarah Birch not confided it to him.

The second reason he wouldn't want to cross-examine

Davee at trial was because she lied so beguilingly.

Listening to her was such a delight, one

ceased to care whether or not she was telling the truth.

Jurors found witnesses like her entertaining. If she

were called to testify, she would arrive at court

dressed fit to kill. Her appearance alone would make

the jury sit up and take notice. While they might doze

through the testimony of other witnesses, they would

listen to and anticipate every sugar-coated word dripping

from Davee's lips.

If she testified that, while she hadn't killed Lute,

she wasn't sorry he was dead, that he had been an unfaithful

husband who cheated on her too many times

to count, that he was basically wicked and cruel and

deserved to die, jurors of both sexes would probably

agree. She would have persuaded them that the son of

a bitch's character and misdeeds justified his murder.

No, he wouldn't want to put Davee on trial for her

husband's murder. But if it came down to that, he

would.

Being awarded this case was the best thing that

could have happened to his career. He hoped that

Smilow's team would provide him plenty to work

with, that the accused wouldn't plead out, that the

case would actually go to jury trial.

This was a case he could sink his teeth into. Certainly

it would be challenging. It would require his

total focus. But it also would be an excellent proving

ground. He fully intended to run for county solicitor

in November. He wanted to win. But he didn't want

to win because he was more attractive, or had a better

pedigree, or was better funded than the other candidate

or candidates. He wanted to merit the office.

Only rarely did a muscle-flexing case like the Lute

Pettijohn murder come along. That's why he needed

it. That's why he had omitted telling Monroe Mason

about his meeting with Pettijohn. He simply had to

have this case, and he was unwilling to let anything

stand in his way of taking it to trial. It was the perfect

vehicle to give him the public exposure he needed before

November.

It was also the perfect vehicle to spite his father.

That was the most compelling reason of all. Several

years before, Hammond had made a career decision

to move from defender to prosecutor. Preston

Cross had vociferously opposed that decision, citing

the differences in earning potential and telling Hammond

he was crazy to settle for a public servant's

salary. Not long ago Hammond had learned that a

prosecutor's income level wasn't his father's major

hang-up.

The switch had placed them in opposite camps. Because

Preston was partners with Lute Pettijohn in

some unscrupulous land deals, he had feared being

prosecuted by his own son. Only recently had Hammond

made that discovery. It had sickened him. Their

confrontation over it had been bitter, adding a new dimension

to the enmity between them.

But he couldn't think about that right now. Whenever

he dwelled on his father, he became mentally

bogged down. Peeling away the layers of their relationship

for closer examination was time-consuming,

emotionally draining, and ultimately unproductive. He

held out little hope for a complete reconciliation.

For the time being, he shelved that problem and

focused on what had immediately become his priority

--the case.

The timing of his breakup with Steffi had been fortuitous.

He was free of an encumbrance that was

making him unhappy and might have hindered his

concentration. She would be pissed to learn that

she'd been assigned the copilot's seat, but he could

deal with her peevishness as the need arose.

For Hammond Cross, today spelled a new start-- which actually had begun last night.

Steering his car away from the Pettijohn mansion