LITMIR.BIZ

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security tapes from her building. It would help us if you could tell us when you last saw Ms. Hill.”

      When Stratton started to object, Aaron said, “They’re just trying to get a time line on when Francesca was killed.”

      “Your son’s right, Mr. Stratton,” Vince informed him. “If we can narrow down the last time anyone saw or spoke to her, it would help.”

      Stratton sat down and retrieved a cigar from a humidor on the desk, but he didn’t light it. “I saw her at her apartment around nine o’clock last night. We had a rehearsal dinner earlier that evening and Francesca had a bit too much to drink. I wanted to make sure she was okay.”

      From the looks of the apartment, Francesca had continued to party after she’d returned home, Charlie thought as she took out her notebook and pen. “Was she okay?” she asked.

      “She was fine, just tired from all the excitement.”

      “How long did you stay?” Charlie asked him.

      “Until around nine-thirty. Francesca wanted to make it an early night so that she would be rested and beautiful for today.”

      “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Ms. Hill?” Vince asked.

      “There was an ex-boyfriend, some lowlife she was seeing before we met. He wasn’t happy about being dumped and accosted Francesca outside her apartment building a couple of weeks ago. I had Francesca take out a restraining order against him.”

      “Does this guy have a name?” Charlie asked.

      “Schwitzer. Marcus Schwitzer,” Aaron told her. “I assisted Francesca with the restraining order,” he explained.

      Charlie wrote down the information. “Do you know where we can find him?”

      “He was working as a bouncer at the Red Slipper Club,” the older man advised her. “But when the club’s owner was made aware that there was a restraining order out on him, his employment was terminated. I suggested he leave town and I believe he took my advice.”

      In other words, he’d had the guy canned and railroaded out of town, Charlie surmised. “I don’t imagine he was too happy about that.”

      J. P. Stratton gave her a smug look. “Would you be, Detective?”

      She didn’t bother to answer. Instead, she asked, “Did this Schwitzer make any threats against Ms. Hill before he left?”

      “None that I know of.”

      “Can you think of anyone else who might have had a grudge against your fiancée or you?” Vince asked.

      “Detective, a man doesn’t get to be in my position without making some enemies along the way,” Stratton told him.

      “Any of those enemies hate you enough to kill your fiancée?” Charlie asked.

      “You’d have to ask them,” he replied.

      “We’ll need a list of their names,” Charlie informed him.

      “Aaron can provide you with them. He’s my attorney. He’ll know of any business deals that didn’t sit well with other parties.”

      “I’ll get a list to you as soon as possible, Detective,” Aaron replied.

      “Thank you,” Charlie told him and directed her attention once more to the father. “What about on a personal level? Was there anyone besides this Schwitzer fellow who was unhappy about the upcoming wedding?”

      “Other than my last ex-wife who’s deluded herself for years that I’m going to remarry her, everyone was very happy about the wedding.”

      He was lying through his capped teeth, Charlie decided. She hadn’t missed the look exchanged between father and son.

      “Is there anything else?” J. P. Stratton asked, clearly annoyed.

      “Just one more thing,” Charlie said, following a hunch. “I’d like a list of the guests who attended last night’s dinner party.”

      The older man narrowed his eyes, causing his heavy brows to form a dark angry line. “Why would you need to know who my dinner guests were?”

      “Because it’s possible one of them saw or heard something that might help us find the killer.”

      “I’ve tried to be cooperative, Detectives, but my patience is wearing thin. Instead of wasting time questioning me and my friends, you should be out looking for Schwitzer.”

      “I assure you, we’ll find Schwitzer and bring him in for questioning. But I still need that list.” She offered him her card and when he failed to take it, she placed it on the desk.

      “I’ll see that you get the list,” Aaron Stratton said. “Let me show you the way out.”

      She directed her attention back to the older man. “Once again, we’re sorry for your loss, Mr. Stratton.”

      Aaron Stratton hustled them out of the room. “Please excuse my father,” he began, his voice sincere as they stepped into the corridor. “Francesca’s death has hit him harder than he lets on. He truly did love her.”

      Right, Charlie thought. And she had a bridge she’d like to sell him, too. “Here’s my card,” Charlie told him. “Just call me when you have that list and I’ll have it picked up.”

      “I’ll do that,” he replied, brushing his fingers against hers as he took the card.

      “Thank you for your time, Mr. Stratton.”

      “Aaron,” he corrected, giving her a smile that she suspected was meant to charm before he turned and extended his hand to Vince. “Detective.”

      Vince nodded.

      “Henry will show you out,” he told them and, like magic, the butler appeared almost instantly.

      “This way, please,” he said.

      Once they exited the mansion, they remained silent while they negotiated the elaborate walkway. Starting toward the iron-lace gate that led to the street, Vince asked, “What do you think of our grief-stricken groom?”

      “I think he’s a pompous ass,” Charlie informed him.

      “You buy his story?”

      “No. He’s hiding something,” Charlie told him. “And I intend to find out what it is.”

      As they neared the gate, Charlie spotted the Channel 4 News truck and one of the station’s reporters with a microphone in hand. “Aw hell,” she muttered, because it wasn’t just any reporter—it was her sister Anne.

      * * *

      The moment Anne Le Blanc recognized the pair exiting the home of millionaire J. P. Stratton, adrenaline skyrocketed through her system. Her piece for the TV station’s evening broadcast had just gone from lifestyles of the local rich and famous to something a whole lot more serious. “Kevin, set up the camera,” she instructed the cameraman who had accompanied her.

      The hastily planned nuptials of one of the city’s wealthiest and most flamboyant businessmen to a much younger former casino hostess had set tongues wagging three weeks ago. The citizens of New Orleans liked nothing better than a juicy scandal, and despite his protests to the contrary, J. P. Stratton seemed to like providing the members of his adopted city with something to talk about. And the former Texan had given them plenty over the years with his business triumphs, lavish lifestyle and string of trophy wives. The man’s exploits read like a soap opera script—lots of money, lots of sex and lots of scandal. So it came as no surprise that the wedding scheduled that evening at the New Orleans Museum of Art with a guest list that read like a who’s who for the state of Louisiana had guaranteed J. P. Stratton another fifteen minutes of fame.

      Personally, she didn’t give a fig who the old goat married. But apparently

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