LITMIR.BIZ

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      “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.

      He was a man who noticed details, had built his career on his shrewd intuition as much as his intelligence. The house told him clearly that Kendall slept here, occasionally ate here and probably had sex here, but this place wasn’t her home. The woman didn’t have a home anymore than Quinn did. They were, by nature and nurture, vagabond loners.

      He owned a penthouse in Houston, a vacation home in Jamaica and a time-share in Vail. But he didn’t have a home. Not even the ranch he’d bought in the hill country adjoining his old friend Johnny Mack Cahill’s property was really home.

      He’d never needed a home. He’d been too busy building a career and getting filthy rich to be bothered with matters as mundane and unimportant as a home. But that had been in the past. He now had everything he’d ever wanted. And more. So why did he feel so empty? And so alone?

      Kendall paused by the counter separating the state-of-the-art, stainless-steel kitchen from the great room. “I could fix us some hot tea or if you prefer, I can make you a stiff drink.”

      “How about some hot tea and a couple more aspirins.” He rubbed his left temple with his forefinger.

      “Hot tea and aspirins coming right up.” She nodded toward the hallway opening to the right of the great room. “I have two guest bedrooms. Take your pick. They both have their own private bath.”

      Quinn nodded. “I’m not picky. Not tonight. I’m just grateful you offered me a place to stay. At a time like this, a little tea and sympathy is appreciated.”

      She looked at him suspiciously, as if doubtful about his sincerity. “I’ll give you all the tea you want, but no sympathy.”

      Quinn heaved a deep sigh, then chuckled mirthlessly. “I meant that literally, honey, not metaphorically. I didn’t think you’d brought me home with you so you could have your way with me.”

      She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve changed.”

      He shrugged. “Not really. Not much. But all I want from you is a cup of tea, a couple of aspirins…and maybe a little genuine sympathy. I haven’t been on the wrong side of the law since I was a teenager. I don’t like the feel of it—being a suspect in a murder case. And even though Lulu and I weren’t in a serious relationship, I did care about her.”

      “As much as you can care about a woman. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

      “Did I hurt you…back when we—”

      Kendall laughed. “God, what an ego. No, you didn’t hurt me. And before you jump to any other erroneous conclusions—I have not been pining away for you all these years. It’s just that I know you. Correction, I knew you.”

      “I never realized how much you disliked me,” Quinn said.

      “I didn’t dislike you back then and I don’t dislike you now,” she told him. “Hell, Quinn, if I disliked you so damn much, do you think I’d have come when you called, that I’d have invited you to stay here with me if—”

      She stopped midsentence as she watched him drop his overnight bag on the floor and walk toward her. When he was within a foot of her, he reached out and caressed her face with his fingertips. “It’s not me, is it? It’s your ex. The guy must have done a real number on you.”

      Kendall sighed, then turned and moved away from Quinn. With her back to him, as she reached up in a cabinet for the box of tea bags, she said, “His name was Dr. Jonathan Miles. I was madly in love with him. The sex was great. His kids were holy terrors and both of them hated me. We thought that would change. It didn’t. In the end, he chose his kids. Can’t blame him. After all, he was still in love with his wife—his dead wife—and they were her kids.”

      “You’re well rid of him, honey. The man didn’t deserve you.”

      “No, he didn’t.” Kendall blew out a deep breath, then filled a kettle with water and placed it on the eye of her ceramic-top range. She glanced at Quinn and offered him a weak smile. “Why don’t you pick out a bedroom, freshen up and by then I’ll have the tea ready. I don’t figure you’ll get much sleep tonight.”

      He nodded, then headed down the hall. No, he probably wouldn’t get any sleep tonight. He didn’t want to close his eyes because he knew what he’d see. Lulu’s lifeless body lying there on her bed. Beautiful and sexy, even in death. And her bloody hand, one digit missing. Why would anyone cut off her index finger?

      Annabelle waited for Dr. Martin on the far side of her uncle’s bedroom, Wythe at her side. He’d been remarkably well-behaved, keeping his own emotions in check and actually putting his father’s needs first. She supposed in his own selfish way, Wythe did love Uncle Louis.

      “No, please, please, tell me it isn’t true,” Louis Vanderley moaned as the sedative his personal physician had given him began to take effect. “My little Lulu. My precious baby girl. She can’t be dead.”

      “Just lie back and relax, Louis,” Dr. Martin said.

      “Annabelle?” her uncle called for her.

      She went to his bedside. Dr. Martin looked at her sympathetically, then moved aside. Annabelle leaned over and took her uncle’s hand.

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