Davee decided.
After thanking the housekeeper for the coffee and
taking a sip, Alex said, "I saw your husband last Saturday
afternoon in his hotel suite." She indicated the
sections of the morning edition scattered about. "The
newspaper write-ups subtly suggest that Mr. Pettijohn
and I had a personal relationship."
Davee smiled wryly. "Well, he had a reputation to
uphold."
"But I don't. There's absolutely no basis for that
implication. Although you'll probably think I'm
lying if my half-brother ever testifies against me."
"I read about him, too. In print Bobby Trimble
comes across as a real asshole."
"You flatter him."
Davee laughed, but as she watched the other
woman's face, she realized that the topic wasn't
pleasant for her. "You had it rough as a kid?"
"I got past it."
Davee nodded. "We all bear scars from childhood,
I guess."
"Some scars are just more visible than others,"
Alex said by way of agreeing. "In my work, I've
learned how clever people can be at hiding them.
Even from themselves."
Davee studied her for a moment longer. "You're
not what I expected. From the way you were portrayed
in the news stories, I would have thought you
were ... coarser. Harder. Devious. Even wicked."
She laughed again. "I would have thought you were
more like me."
"I have my flaws. Plenty of them. But I swear that
I met your husband only once. That was last Saturday.
As it turns out, not long before he was killed. But
I didn't kill him, and I didn't go to that hotel suite to
sleep with him. It's important to me that you know
that."
"I'm inclined to believe you," Davee said. "First
of all, you have nothing to gain by coming here and
telling me that. Moreover, and I mean no offense by
this, you're not my dearly departed's type."
Alex smiled at that, but her curiosity was genuine when she asked, "Why wouldn't I have been his
type?"
"Physically you would have passed muster. Don't
be offended by this, either--Lute would screw any
woman whose body was warm. Who knows? Sometimes
that might not even have been a qualification.
"But he liked his women to be in awe of him. Submissive
and stupid. Silent for the most part, except
maybe during orgasm. You wouldn't have appealed
to him because you're far too self-confident and
bright."
She refilled her coffee cup from a silver carafe,
then dropped two sugar cubes into the cup so that
they made soft splashes. "FYI, Dr. Ladd, some of the
people accusing you of killing Lute don't truly believe
you did."
Registering surprise, Alex blurted out, "You've
spoken with Hammond?"
"No. It wasn't..." A jolt of enlightenment halted
Davee in mid sentence "'Hammond'? You're on a
first-name basis with the man prosecuting your murder
case?"
Clearly flustered, Alex set her cup and saucer on
the coffee table. "I hope my coming here wasn't too
much of an imposition, Mrs. Pettijohn. I wasn't sure
you would even consent to see me. Thank you for
the--"
Davee stopped the chatter by reaching across the
space separating them and laying her hand on Alex's
arm. After a pause, Alex raised her head and stared
back at Davee with quiet dignity. They communi
cated on a different level. Defenses were down. Two
women seeing, understanding, accepting.
Peering deeply into the other woman's eyes,
Davee said softly, "You're the one who is not just
complicated but impossible."
Alex opened her mouth to speak, but Davee forestalled
her. "No, don't tell me. It would be like reading
the last page of a juicy novel. But I can't wait to
find out how the two of you managed to get yourselves
into this mess. I hope the circumstances were
absolutely decadent and delicious. Hammond deserves
that." Then she smiled ruefully. "Poor Hammond.
This must be one hell of a dilemma for him."
"Very much so."
"Is there anything I can do?"
"He may soon find himself in need of friends. Be
his friend."
"I am."
"So he says." Alex slid the strap of her handbag
onto her shoulder. "I should go."
Davee didn't summon her housekeeper but walked
Alex to the front door herself. "You haven't commented
on my house," she observed as they crossed
the front foyer. "Most people do the first time they
come. What do you think?"
Alex gave a quick look around. "Honestly?"
"I asked."
"You have some lovely things. But to my taste it's
a little overdone."
"Are you kidding?" Davee chortled. "It's gaudy as
all get-out. Now that Lute is dead, I plan on detackying
it."
The two women smiled at each other. This was a
rare thing for Davee--feeling a kinship with another
woman. With characteristic straightforwardness, she
said, "I don't care whether you slept with Lute or not,
I like you, Alex."
"I like you, too."
Alex was halfway down the front walk when
Davee called out to her. "You were with Lute shortly
before he was killed?"
"That's right."
"Hmm. The killer might think that you're holding
something back. Something you saw or heard. Are
you?" she asked bluntly.
"Shouldn't we leave the questions to the police?"
She continued down the walk and let herself out
through the front gate. Davee closed the door and
turned. Sarah Birch had come up behind her.
"What is it, baby?" She reached out and smoothed
away the worry lines creasing Davee's forehead.
"Nothing, Sarah," she murmured absently. "Nothing."
CHAPTER
36
Very early that morning, before leaving for the office
and his conversation with Steffi, Hammond had
checked his voice mail. He returned only one message.
"Loretta, this is Hammond. I didn't get your messages
until this morning. Sorry I put you in a huff last
night. I mistook your pages for a wrong number. Uh,
listen, I appreciate what you did. But the fact is, I
don't want you to bring in this guy you talked to at the
fair. Not now anyway. I have my reasons, believe me,
and I'll explain everything later. For now, keep him
on ice. If it turns out I need him, I'll let you know.
Otherwise, just... I guess you can . . . what I'm saying
is, you're free to take on other work. If I need you
further, I'll be in touch. Thanks again. You're the
best. Goodbye. Oh, I'll send you a check to cover yesterday
and last night. You went above and beyond.
'Bye."
Bev Boothe listened to the message twice, then
stared at the telephone, her fingers tapping lightly on
the number pad as she reflected on what to do with
the message--save or delete?
What she would like to tell Mr. Cross to do with
his message was anatomically impossible.
She was tired and cranky. Overnight someone had
dented her car while it was parked in the hospital personnel
parking lot. A dull lower backache took hold
every morning following her twelve-hour shift.
Mostly, she was worried about her mother, whose
bedroom was empty and undisturbed. Where had she
been all night, and where was she now? Bev remembered
that when she left for the hospital last evening,
Loretta had seemed preoccupied and depressed.
This message indicated that she was out doing the
county solicitor's dirty work for him, at least for a
portion of the night. The bastard didn't sound very
appreciative of her mother's efforts.
Spitefully, Bev depressed the numeral three to
delete the message.
Five minutes later, as she was stepping from the
shower, she heard her mother call into her room.
"Bev, just wanted to let you know that I'm home."
Bev grabbed a towel and wrapped it around herself.
She tracked wet footprints down the hallway
into her mother's bedroom. Loretta was sitting on the
side of her bed, easing off a pair of sandals that had
cut vivid red stripes into her swollen feet.
"Mom, I was worried," Bev exclaimed, trying not
to sound surprised and relieved that her mother was
sober, although she looked haggard and unkempt.
"Where've you been?"
"It's a long story that can wait until we've both put
in a few hours of rack time. I'm exhausted. Did you
check the voice mail when you came in? Were there
any messages?"
Bev hesitated only a heartbeat. "No, Mom. None."
"I can't believe it," Loretta muttered as she peeled
off her dress. "I busted my ass, and Hammond pulls
a disappearing act."
Having stripped to her underwear, she pulled back the covers and lay down. She was almost asleep by
the time her head hit the pillow.
Bev returned to her own room, slipped on a nightgown,
set her alarm, readjusted the thermostat to a
cooler temperature, and got into bed.
Loretta had come home sober this time. But what
about the next? She was trying so hard to keep her
tenuous hold on sobriety. She needed constant reinforcement
and encouragement. She needed to feel
useful and productive.
Bev's last thought before drifting off to sleep was
that if Mr. Hammond Cross was going to relieve her
mother of the job she desperately needed for her present
and future well-being, then he could damn well
relieve her of it in person and not via the lousy voice
mail.
"What's that?"
Rory Smilow glanced up from the manila envelope
that Steffi had just plunked down on top of a littered
desk. As soon as Hammond left her office, she
wasted no time driving to police headquarters. She
found the detective in the large, open Criminal Investigation
office.
She felt no compunction about informing Smilow
of this latest development. Loyalty to her former
lover never entered her mind. Nor did she let her
pledge of confidentiality deter her. From here on, she
was playing for keeps.
"It's a lab report." She retrieved the envelope,
holding it flat against her chest as though cherishing
it. "Can we talk in your office?"
Smilow came to his feet and nodded her in that direction.
As they weaved their way through the maze
of desks, Detective Mike Collins greeted Steffi in a
singsong voice. "Good morning, Miss Mundell."
"Up yours, Collins."
Ignoring the laughter and catcalls, she preceded
Smilow down the short hallway and into his private
office. When the door closed behind them, he asked
her what was up.
"Remember the bloodstains on Alex Ladd's
sheets?"
"She nicked her leg shaving."
"No, she didn't. Or maybe she did, but it wasn't
her who bled on the sheet. I had the blood typed and
compared to another specimen. They match."
"And this other specimen would be ... ?"
"Hammond's."
For the first time since she had met him, Smilow
seemed completely unprepared for what he'd just
heard. It left him speechless.
"The night he was mugged," she explained, "he
bled. Quite a lot, I think. I got to his place early the
following morning to tell him that Trimble was in our
jail. He was acting weird. I attributed his weirdness to
the rough night he'd had and the medication he was
taking.
"But it was more than that. I got this feeling that he
was lying to cover up a shameful secret. Anyway, before
we left, I impulsively sneaked a bloody washcloth
out of his bathroom."
"What prompted you to do that? And to test it
against the stains on Ladd's sheets?"
"The way he acts around her!" she cried softly,
flinging her arms out to her sides. "Like it's all he can
do to keep from devouring her. You've sensed it, too,
Smilow. I know you have."
He ran his hand around the back of his neck and
said the last thing Steffi would have expected. "Jesus,
I'm embarrassed."
"Embarrassed?"
"I should have reached this conclusion myself.
Long before now. You're right, I did sense something
between them. I just couldn't lay my finger on what
it was. It's so unthinkable, I never even thought of
sexual attraction."
"Don't beat yourself up over it, Smilow. Women
are more intuitive about these things."
"And you had another advantage over me."
"What?"
"I've never slept with Hammond."
He grinned wryly, but Steffi didn't find the statement
humorous. "Well, it really doesn't matter who
sensed what when, or who first defined what is going
on between them. The bottom line is that Hammond
has been in bed with Alex Ladd since he was appointed