THE DEEP END (23 page)

Twenty-Six

Hunter Tafft’s hands were warm on my shoulders, his lips were parted, and his eyes, normally flinty, lawyerly chips, had heated to the approximate temperature of lava. Also, he’d just told me he cared what happened to me. For one insane moment, I was tempted to reach my fingers to the back of his neck and pull him close enough to kiss me.

He released one of my shoulders and used his free hand to brush a strand of hair away from my face, and I caught the scent of expensive ink and leather and privilege. I felt as frozen as a deer caught in headlights.

Then he sighed and drew away and my ability to move returned.

Hunter moved back to the other side of the island. “You don’t think Barb Evans knew it was Henry blackmailing her?”

Really? He wanted to talk about Barb Evans? I could hardly catch my breath. I took a surreptitious gulp of air and tried to focus on blackmail. “I didn’t know she was an actress.”

“Your first instinct—did you think she was lying or telling the truth?”

“Telling the truth.”

He offered me a tight smile. “Trust your instincts.”

I blinked.
Trust your instincts
? Just a moment ago, my instincts had told me to kiss Hunter Tafft.

Hunter rested his forearms on the counter. Crisp white cotton cuffs peeked out from the arms of his navy suit. He was back to being the perfect lawyer, our moment of closeness forgotten. Maybe he hadn’t felt what I had. Maybe he’d been comforting a client and missed the instant when I’d wanted to kiss him and melt into his arms.

“Your instincts tell you it’s not Rand Hamilton,” he said.

They did. I shrugged, unable to form more than the most basic sentences, my tongue still tied in knots by the thought of it tangling with Hunter’s.

Maybe it was Rand. Maybe it wasn’t. If I knew who’d killed my husband I wouldn’t be sitting in the kitchen with a tempting man, I’d be with Grace.

“You said something about Prudence Davies and Kitty Ballew. Why?”

My cheeks prickled with heat. “One of them could have killed him.”

“Why?”

“You know about Henry and Madeline?” It wasn’t really a question and Hunter didn’t really answer. He jerked his chin once then waited.

“They spent a lot of time at Club K.” My voice barely rose above a whisper.

He jerked his chin again. “That woman at Roger’s runs the place.”

“Yes.” I studied a vein in the marble island top. Shaded somewhere between Mars yellow and yellow ochre, it wove its way through at least five feet of counter. I traced a section with my finger. “Prudence and Kitty go there too.”

He didn’t say anything, and I was unwilling to give up my study of marble to see his reaction. We sat in silence.

He finally spoke. “They were there together? The four of them?”

I nodded without looking up.

He exhaled loud enough for me to hear it. “Why did you stay married to him?”

“I didn’t know about Prudence and Kitty until after Madeline was dead.”

“You knew about Madeline.” His voice was kind. I
hated
kind. It too closely resembled pity.

“I stayed for Grace.”

“What an asshole.”

I jerked my gaze up in time to see his scowl.

“He had you and he fooled around with Madeline? He was an idiot.”

Hunter thought I could inspire monogamy? I didn’t know how to respond so I said, “I think both Kitty and Prudence wanted to replace Madeline.”

The scowl disappeared and his face took on its usual unreadable, lawyer’s mask. “That explains Madeline’s death not Henry’s.”

“I think they were each disappointed he didn’t contact them when he got back. Maybe one of them was upset enough to kill him.”

Hunter chewed on that for a moment. “Where was he?”

The laugh that escaped my lips sounded bitter. “You were there when he told me. Duluth. Maybe Toledo. Failing that, he went to Provo.”

“I assumed he was lying.”

“That’s the thing, I don’t think he was.” I dropped my gaze back to the marble slab. “Henry usually didn’t bother to lie.”

Hunter mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like
asshole.

My husband had cheated on me with multiple women, and he hadn’t cared enough about me to try to hide it. In fact, he’d taken a perverse pleasure in making sure I knew about it. He was an asshole. At least he hadn’t tried to murder me.

Unlike Rand.

The marble lost its ability to fascinate. “Rebecca Hamilton drowned.”

Hunter reached for the envelope with Rand’s name on it. “Yes.”

“Where was Rand when it happened?”

“Having dinner with her parents.”

“Her parents? Without her? I assume he took the kids.”

Hunter consulted his notes. “They were at summer camp.”

“You’ve been married,” I said.

Hunter’s eyes rolled—just a little bit. “Three times.”

“Did you ever have dinner with any of your in-laws without your wife?”

He thought for a moment. “Never.”

“No man goes to dinner with his in-laws alone unless he has a damn good reason. Like creating an alibi.”

He scanned the file. “Says here she came down with something but insisted he go without her.”

“I don’t believe it. That’s a dinner you reschedule. What parent wants to think their son-in-law is out while their daughter is home sick? Rand killed Rebecca and used her parents for his alibi.” Despicable man.

“How did he kill her if he was with her parents?”

“How big was the insurance policy?”

“A million dollars.”

“He could have given her something to help her sleep. Only he gave her a lot of it. Then he paid someone to dump her in their pool while he was with her parents.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “He did it. I just don’t know if he killed Madeline and Henry.”

“Madeline and Rebecca’s deaths are very similar.”

“I know but I can’t see Madeline agreeing to meet a paunchy stockbroker at the club in the middle of the night. If she did, she definitely wouldn’t bother with her favorite dress.” I used my fingers to smooth the wrinkles in my brow. “May I see the envelope?”

Hunter slid it across the counter and I perused its contents. My guesses were spot on. Rand killed his wife but how had Henry figured it out?

I flipped through more pages and saw that Rand had withdrawn large amounts of cash from Henry’s bank prior to Rebecca’s death. Had Rand used it to pay the hit man? Was that how Henry found the grounds for blackmail?

Rand was a murderer. Rebecca deserved justice. Maybe I could send Henry’s proof to the police anonymously. That way, no one need ever know that Grace’s father was a blackmailer.

The jangle of the telephone interrupted my thoughts.

“Are you going to answer that?” Hunter asked when I made no move to pick up the receiver.

“It could be Mother. Or the police.”

He grinned at me. “It could be Grace.”

The ringing stopped and seconds later Aggie knocked on the kitchen door. “Mr. Tafft, it’s your office. They said they were sorry to interrupt but—”

“They don’t call unless it’s urgent. Do you mind if I take this?”

“Go ahead. I have to pack for Grace.” Aggie and I left him to his call.

She stopped me at the bottom of the front stairs. “Your daughter phoned while you were out. She gave me a list of everything she needed. I hope you don’t mind but I went ahead and packed it for her.”

Aggie truly was worth her weight in gold.

“I packed a bag for you too.”

Maybe platinum.

“Thank you, Aggie.” I looked around for something to do and lit upon the ever-growing stack of mail on the bombé chest. I scooped it up and headed to the family room to go through it.

Catalogues went directly into the trash. I wasn’t in the mood to shop—not even from the comfort of home. Then I opened envelopes. I dropped the electric, phone, and gas bills into the sterling toast rack that did double duty as my filing system, wrote a quick formal regret to an afternoon tea and sent a solicitation into the waste bin with the catalogues.

Finally, only one letter remained, one addressed to Henry, the dusty one that had spent a few days under the chest.

I opened it and withdrew a single handwritten sheet. Three names with addresses. Nothing more. No signature. No explanation. No return address. I almost threw it in the trash. Almost. Then I realized the addresses were in Duluth, Toledo, and Provo and my hand shook.

It was still shaking when Hunter walked in. “What?” he said. “What’s wrong? You’re white as a sheet.”

“Henry wasn’t lying.” I handed him the piece of paper.

It took him seconds to scan the addresses. “Do you know these people?”

“Never heard of them.”

“I’ll have Aggie check them out.”

The phone chose that moment to ring again. The damn thing was possessed. It never rang this often unless Grace was at home.

I snatched the receiver from its cradle. “Hello.”

“Ellison?”

“Who’s calling?” I barked. I’d had it up to my eyebrows with mysterious callers.

“It’s Marjorie. Daddy called me.”

“Oh?” Not the most welcoming response but Marjorie only participated in our family when disaster struck. The day to day happenings that create family—remembering birthdays, sending Christmas presents, calling just to talk—Marjorie had turned her back on them all.

“I’m sorry about Henry. Is Grace okay?”

“She’s up at the farm with Daddy. I’m going up there in a little while.”

I could almost see my sister nod her approval. “How are you?” she asked.

“Fine.”

Hunter snorted then raised a sardonic eyebrow.

I cradled the phone against my shoulder, picked up the letter opener from the desk, and tested its sharpness.

His lips twitched. I’d amused him. So happy to oblige.

“When’s the funeral?” Marjorie asked.

“I don’t know. The police are investigating and haven’t released his body.”

“Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

A meaningless offer if I’d ever heard one. Marjorie was in Akron. She couldn’t even bring me a Bundt cake. “Are Akron and Toledo close to each other?” I asked.

“Not really. Why?”

“I think Henry went to Toledo to meet with a man named—” I gestured for Hunter to hand over the paper with the addresses, “Jack Gillis.”

“Jack Gillis? Really?”

“You know him?” I asked.

“I know of him. He’s been throwing money around state politics.” She sniffed. “New money. The man has no class.”

This from a woman whose husband’s top selling product was a condom called the King Cobra. Mother would have pointed that out. I refrained. “What does he do?”

“Lord, I don’t know. He bribes politicians and throws parties. His wife looks like a cocktail waitress at a strip club.”

How would Marjorie know what cocktail waitresses in strip clubs looked like? Besides, the King Cobra, Ten Inches of Bliss, and the Rough Rider paid her country club bill. She had no business passing judgment on cocktail waitresses.

“They’re trying to buy their way into Toledo society,” she said. Then she paused as if she realized she’d uttered something oxymoronic. “What I mean to say is they’re supporting the symphony and the art museum and they wrote a huge check to help restore the governor’s mansion. They’re buying art and naming hospital wings and—”

“So they’re being charitable.”

“They’re being social climbers.”

“Any idea why Henry might have gone to see him?”

“Henry and Jack Gillis?” She laughed.

Hunter glanced at his watch.

“Marjorie knows that man in Ohio,” I said by way of explanation.

“Who are you talking to?” Marjorie demanded.

“Hunter Tafft. He’s representing me.”

“Hunter?” Her voice turned silky. “Let me talk to him.”

My fingers tightened on the phone. I forced them loose and put the receiver in Hunter’s hand. “Marjorie wants to talk to you.”

He took the phone. “Marjorie.” One word. He said it like he was wrapping it in black velvet and tying it with a red satin bow. Bleh.

Hunter listened to whatever Marjorie was saying. Then he laughed. The sound was every bit as grating as nails on a chalkboard. It would be rude to walk out—I did it anyway. After all, the car wasn’t going to load itself.

Two small suitcases waited in the front hall. I picked them up and carried them out to the car. Had Aggie packed us every volume of the encyclopedia? The damn things weighed a ton. I’d swung the first case into the trunk like I was swinging a golf club and I wanted to obliterate the ball when Hunter appeared.

“Let me do that.” He effortlessly wedged the second case into the tiny trunk.

“Thank you. I have to go.”

“I thought you wanted to discuss that list of addresses.”

The list. The one I’d dropped on the table and forgotten in the red haze of memory. In high school, all I had to do was hint that I liked a boy for my sister to flirt with him. She was married, I was widowed, and nothing had changed. Did I like Hunter Tafft? I had in high school, then Marjorie had batted her eyelashes and they’d dated for all of their senior year.

Twenty odd years ago. I needed to get a grip.

How was it that my mother and my sister could bring out the worst in me without even trying?

I slammed the lid to the trunk. “I do have to go.”

“You’re angry,” he said.

“I’m exhausted.” It was true and it explained why I’d ended up in a ridiculous snit because my sister and my lawyer had chatted on the phone. “And, I want to see Grace.”

“What about the list?”

I opened the door to the car, fingered my keys. “You said Aggie could look into it.” I was eager to get away, so eager I didn’t care about the list anymore. Talk about your huge mistakes.