Finding Laura Read online

“Is your mother coming down?” Alex asked Daniel.

  “I believe so. She seems … better today.”

  Josie came to sit on the sofa nearest Laura, joined a moment later by Kerry, while Anne slouched down on the sofa across from them. Anne was dressed more casually than the other women, in a skimpy silk T-shirt and long print skirt—and a pair of the clunky ankle boots Kerry had earlier commented on. Josie was in very dark green, a beautiful long dress with a deep V neckline, and wore her auburn hair piled on her head with casual elegance.

  Kerry wore a long black satin skirt and dark blue silk blouse, an outfit that would have looked fine except for the peculiar sweater vest she had chosen to wear over the blouse.

  “I thought that dress would suit you,” she remarked softly as she sat down and looked back over her shoulder at Laura.

  Unable to return the compliment, Laura merely said, “Thanks again, Kerry.”

  “So, what did you think of the maze?” Josie asked, half turning to look up at Laura with a smile.

  “I think it’s diabolical.” Laura very carefully didn’t look toward Daniel, but she knew he was listening. “But fascinating. And the center is just lovely.” She looked at Kerry. “The gazebo especially.”

  Obviously pleased, Kerry said, “I change the interior in the spring and late fall, so it’s almost time. Darker, warmer colors for winter.”

  With a sigh, Josie said, “I’d spend hours every day out there if I could. Even after you learn the key, it’s a nice, brisk walk to the center, and then you just want to stay there.”

  “It’s my favorite place in the world,” Kerry said.

  “It’s a bunch of bushes,” Anne said petulantly, swirling the ice around and around in her glass. “We ought to use the space for a tennis court.”

  Looking across at the dark woman, Laura couldn’t help wondering if Anne was always so fractious, or if Peter’s murder and its aftermath had affected her more than the others. She certainly seemed wired, her entire thin body tense and her movements jerky, and her voice was so sharp that it cut off even an attempt by the others to keep the conversation going.

  Madeline walked into the silence. Wearing a simple black dress of a medium length, her hair and makeup once more flawless, she smiled vaguely at the assembled group. “How nice. Amelia isn’t down yet?” Her eyes were clearer than they had been the day before, so her manner appeared to be more normal and less influenced by sedatives—but Laura had to wonder if the positioning of the comment and question implied what it seemed to.

  It was Alex who chose to answer her, his tone light and somewhat careless. “I’m sure she will be now that the audience is here. Can I get you something, Madeline?”

  “No, dear, the doctor says not,” she told him as she went to sit on the opposite end of Anne’s sofa. “But thank you.” Then, in the same sweet tone, she added, “You really shouldn’t say such things about Amelia, Alex. She wouldn’t like it.”

  “It’s all right, Madeline. Amelia and I understand each other.”

  Amelia came into the room, elegant and regal in her usual black, leaning only slightly on her silver-headed cane. “Do we, Alex? Have you been insulting me?”

  With a wounded expression, he said, “Never. I’m always admiring, Amelia. Always. Sherry?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She went to the chair in the grouping around the fireplace and sat down, smiling pleasantly at the others. “You all look very nice,” she said in satisfaction, and although it was obvious she more or less ignored Anne’s outfit, she did add, “Kerry, dear, not the vest.”

  “Sorry, Amelia,” Kerry said meekly.

  Alex brought Amelia her drink, and was just turning back to the bar when the doorbell rang. “Who’d be out on a night like this?” he muttered. “Should I get it, Amelia, or ignore it?”

  Laura found the question a bit odd, but no one else seemed to. Amelia was frowning just a bit, and she seemed more resigned than gracious when she said, “They got past the gatehouse, so I don’t see that we have a choice. See who it is, Alex.”

  He went promptly, and the others waited in silence. They heard the low sounds of voices, both male, and a few moments later Alex came back into the parlor with an expression that was both wry and somewhat guarded. As another man came into the room behind him, Alex said to the room at large, “Not a social call, I’m afraid.”

  The newcomer was tall, broad-shouldered though not heavily built, and his black hair glistened wetly from the rain. He was a strikingly handsome man, with hawklike features and penetrating gray eyes. He had obviously discarded a raincoat, since his very nice suit jacket was dry, and he didn’t seem at all disturbed to walk into a room filled with numerous Kilbournes.

  “Hello, Brent,” Daniel said.

  “Daniel. Ladies.” His gaze fell on Laura, and he added, “Hello again, Miss Sutherland. I don’t know if you remember me, but—”

  “I remember you very well, Lieutenant.” How could she forget? Laura wondered. She had spoken briefly to this man while still trying to scrub ink off her fingers from the fingerprinting the Monday after Peter’s murder. Brent Landry, a homicide lieutenant, had asked her only a few questions, and those politely, but he hadn’t expressed much belief in Laura’s innocence.

  Amelia, who had her back to the door and, so, to the guest, and who made no effort to turn, said sharply, “I detest this modern habit of calling on people at the dinner hour to be certain of finding them at home.”

  No one seemed surprised by the old lady’s temper. Laura, watching curiously, saw Brent Landry lift his eyebrows at Daniel questioningly. With a slight gesture indicating his own position, Daniel gave way for the other man, joining Laura behind the sofa nearest the windows, and Landry went to stand at the fireplace, where he could see everyone in the room—and where Amelia did not have to turn to see him.

  “Well?” she demanded, frowning at him.

  “I’m sorry for the hour, Miss Amelia,” he said gravely. “But policemen do sometimes have to be rude.”

  “Your grandmother would turn in her grave. She taught you better. How’s your mother?”

  “She’s fine, Miss Amelia. And, as Alex said, this isn’t a social call.”

  From that brief exchange, Laura gathered several things. That Brent Landry was evidently what Amelia would consider her social equal rather than a mere policeman, that he knew the family rather well, and that he had, gently but firmly, resisted Amelia’s obvious attempt to reduce him to the status of boyhood. He was not going to hand over command of this situation to the old lady no matter how well she had known his grandmother.

  His steel seemed to impress Amelia, or at least win her grudging respect, because her voice was milder when she said, “Very well, then. If this is official, let’s have it. What is it you want of us?”

  “I have a few questions, Miss Amelia, that’s all. I thought it would be better if I came out here and asked them. Quieter.”

  “About Peter’s death, I assume?”

  Madeline made a little sound, an intake of breath that was audible only because the room was so quiet in that moment, and her large blue eyes fixed on Landry with painful intensity. “Do you know who—?”

  Landry hesitated almost imperceptibly, then said gently, “No, not yet. I just have a few questions.”

  “Then ask them,” Amelia ordered impatiently. “Though God knows you people have asked us enough questions already. But I’d like an answer to a question or two of my own, if you don’t mind.”

  Without committing himself, he merely raised his eyebrows interrogatively.

  “Why, suddenly, are you involved in this, Brent? We’ve had policemen here since Peter was killed, but this is the first we’ve seen of you.”

  “I was given the investigation a few days ago,” Landry explained readily. “You’d have to ask my superiors why.”

  Laura glanced at Amelia in that moment, and when she saw those thin lips move ever so slightly in a Mona Lisa smile, she wondered suddenly if Amelia’s fri
endship with the commissioner had anything to do with Landry’s involvement. Had Amelia decided that a friend of the family would be better in the investigation? Did she expect to be able to control, or at least influence, Landry, in the event he focused his suspicions on any of the family?

  And if she had arranged Landry’s involvement, was it because she fully expected that someone in the family would fall under suspicion?

  Nodding a response to his explanation, Amelia said, “All right, then. If you’re in charge, why aren’t you out searching for Peter’s killer?”

  “I am, Miss Amelia, I promise you. And in that search, certain … evidence has come to light. You do want me to be thorough, of course?”

  “Yes.” But her eyes were narrowed now, and her lips tight.

  “Very well.” His gaze tracked around the room, touching each person fleetingly, and he spoke with measured calm. “In the motel room where Peter was killed, we found several strands of red hair, one of them caught in his fingers. This seemed to be further evidence that the redheaded woman the motel manager saw Peter arrive with might have been his killer.”

  “So far,” Daniel said, “this is not news.”

  Landry shook his head slightly, his sharp eyes still scanning the people in the room. He was good at holding his audience. Very good. And even the storm seemed to wait for him, to quieten, so that his voice was the only sound in the room. “No, it isn’t. But the lab analysis was. It seems the hairs came from a wig.”

  Laura’s first reaction was sheer relief, and the fleeting glance from Landry seemed to confirm her own thought: Why would a redhead wear a red wig? No good reason, unless her own hair was in some way damaged—and Laura’s, very obviously, was not. She couldn’t even remotely be a suspect now—could she?

  But hard on the heels of that relief other questions tumbled. If the woman the motel manager had seen with Peter had been wearing a red wig, then the field had widened rather than narrowed. And why had the woman worn a wig? As a disguise, to hide her natural hair? Because Peter had wanted to have sex with a redhead?

  Alex, who had moved to lounge negligently against the back of the sofa between Madeline and Anne, said quietly, “All right, you’ve got our attention. But we haven’t heard any questions yet.”

  “You will.” But Landry wasn’t about to allow himself to be rushed. He continued to speak in a calm, methodical way. “The hairs came from a very expensive wig. Not many of them made in that particular shade of red, and even fewer sold here in Atlanta. It took some time, but we managed to trace those wigs to the buyers. There were three. Two have been eliminated as possible suspects in Peter’s murder.”

  “And the third?” Daniel asked.

  Landry allowed the tension to build for a beat or two, then said, “The third wig was sold, just a month ago, to Anne Ralston.”

  But she’s his cousin, was Laura’s first thought. But as she stared at Anne’s white face and the dark, darting eyes, she realized that the older woman definitely knew something—and that she was terrified.

  “What—what would I want with a wig?” she demanded tensely, staring down at her glass now rather than at the policeman.

  “You bought it, Anne. The store owner identified you from a photo.”

  Anne tried a laugh that didn’t come off. “Okay, so I bought a wig. So what?”

  Alex, frowning, said slowly, “As one of this family’s attorneys, I’d have to advise Anne that she has no obligation to answer your questions. In fact, I’d have to urge her not to say anything else. I haven’t heard the Miranda warning.”

  “Anne isn’t under arrest,” Landry said. “I’m merely asking her a few questions to help me in my investigation.”

  “Be that as it may, you know better, Brent.”

  Landry looked at the lawyer, then turned his gaze to Amelia. Calmly he said, “The sooner we clear this up, the sooner I can … move on to the next piece of evidence.”

  Amelia was staring at Anne. “Do you know anything about this, Anne? Do you?”

  “Amelia,” Alex warned.

  “We’ll hear this now,” she snapped, her dark eyes fierce. “Right now. Anne, did you kill Peter?”

  “No!” Anne gasped. “Oh God, Amelia, I swear I didn’t!”

  “Where were you the night Peter was killed, Anne?” Landry asked her, his voice subtly harder now, more commanding.

  She sat hunched and tense, both her hands wrapped around her glass and her eyes darting around the room, and she made Laura think of a wild animal in a cage, desperate to escape.

  “I was out,” she whispered. “I already told the police—I was out. I went to a party. I told them—”

  “The party started at nine,” Landry said. “Nobody remembers seeing you until around midnight.”

  Peter was killed around midnight, Laura remembered.

  Anne gulped air, tears beginning to trickle down her ashen cheeks, and she wailed, “I didn’t kill him! I didn’t!”

  “But you were with him that night, weren’t you?” Landry insisted. “It was you in his car, you the motel manager spotted. I showed him your photo, Anne. What do you suppose he said?”

  She looked up at him finally, stricken, guilt written so clearly on her face that it might as well have been in indelible ink. Her voice shaking, hardly more than a whisper, she said, “I was with him. All right, I was—was with him. But I didn’t kill him!”

  Laura drew a breath, her gaze going immediately to Kerry. But Peter’s widow was utterly calm, showing no reaction as she looked across the coffee table at Anne. And it was in that moment that Laura suddenly felt like an intruder. She shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be listening to this—

  There was some thought in her mind of just slipping out of the room, of leaving this family to their pain, but before she could move, she felt Daniel’s hand lock around her wrist. She started in surprise and looked at him quickly, only to find him gazing at Anne with as little expression as Kerry showed. No one else would have noticed him holding her wrist, since the back of the sofa hid it, and Laura didn’t want to draw attention by struggling with him.

  At least, that’s what she told herself. What she knew was that his grip, though painless, was as unbreakable as if it had been made of iron.

  Amelia’s voice fell like chunks of ice into the sudden silence. “Do you mean to tell me that you were having sex with your cousin? Your married cousin?”

  A hectic flush of sheer humiliation brightly colored Anne’s pale cheeks, and she sent Amelia a look that was part resentment and part shame. “I didn’t rape him, for God’s sake! I didn’t even seduce him. Why can’t you blame him for it, Amelia? He made the first move, saying forbidden fruit tasted sweeter. Why can’t you—”

  “Peter is dead, Anne,” Amelia reminded her, still icy. “Whatever sins he may have committed appear to have caught up with him.”

  Landry spoke then, his tone as dispassionate as hers was disgusted. “How long had the affair been going on, Anne?”

  “It wasn’t an affair.” She was eager now as she looked up at him, anxious to deny the importance of her being with Peter that night. “It was only the second time, I swear it was. And he was alive when I left the motel at eleven-thirty. He’d just taken a shower and—and the cab driver must have seen him, because he went to the door when I left and he was only wearing a towel—”

  Breaking into the breathless account, Landry asked, “Did you call for the cab?”

  She nodded. “I don’t remember which company, but it was the first one listed in the Yellow Pages. But the driver must have seen Peter, must have seen him standing there alive when I left—”

  “All right, Anne. I’ll check out your story.” From his voice, it was impossible to tell whether or not Landry believed her. He glanced at the silent tableau around him, then added politely, “In the meantime, I think I’ve delayed your dinner long enough. I’ll see myself out.”

  As he walked past Alex, the lawyer said dryly, “Come again sometime when you have
another little bomb to drop on us.”

  Landry’s only response to that was to say “Good evening” to the room at large and then walk out of it. Nobody moved or spoke until they all heard the front door open and close a moment or so later. And the first to speak was, oddly enough, Madeline.

  “Well,” she said, “that was certainly … unpleasant.” She was not looking at Anne.

  “I call it nauseating,” Amelia said roundly, her gaze practically skewering Anne to the sofa. “How you could do such a thing—”

  Anne squirmed visibly, obviously without an answer that would have satisfied her grandmother.

  “I’ve got to know,” Alex drawled. “Why the wig?”

  “Why not?” Anne demanded belligerently. “It was a good disguise and—and it was exciting. And Peter likes—liked—redheads.”

  “Dear God,” Josie murmured not quite under her breath.

  Scrambling to her feet, Anne said, “You’re all staring at me as if I were a—a—”

  “I wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were you,” Alex murmured.

  She glared at him, then the others. “You don’t understand. None of you understand how it was. Peter made me feel—”

  “Spare us the details, if you please,” Amelia requested frigidly. “If you can’t find an ounce of proper shame, at least have the consideration not to offend the rest of us—particularly Peter’s mother and his widow.”

  Laura watched Anne realize just how indefensible her position was, watched it sink in to her that there was not a person in the room sympathetic to her. That it came as a shock to her was some indication of just how self-centered she actually was.

  With a choked little cry, Anne dropped her heavy glass to shatter on the marble hearth and ran from the room, the sounds of her clunky boots thudding on the stairs gradually fading to silence.

  “I’ll get a broom,” Josie said, rising.

  “No, leave it.” Amelia got up as well, leaning on her cane a bit more than she had earlier. “We’ll go in to dinner now.”

  Laura doubted that anyone had an appetite, but she wasn’t at all surprised to see the other members of the family move obediently to follow Amelia’s lead. Except Daniel. He didn’t move, and he didn’t release Laura’s wrist. They both stood there behind the sofa nearest the windows and watched the others leave the room behind Amelia, and only Alex sent them a curious glance before following the rest out.