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