The Ex. BEVERLY BARTON
Kevin I’ll see him at six-thirty.”
Before giving Mary Lee a chance to say anything else, Jim hung up. One of these days he’d be able to have a conversation with his ex and not think about what might have been. “If only” was a game for idiots.
Annabelle emerged from her white Cadillac, hoisted her leather bag over her shoulder and took a deep, calming breath. On the drive over from Austinville, she’d made a dozen phone calls, using her On-Star system, which made phoning while driving an easy, risk-free task. She’d spoken to the president and two vice presidents at Vanderley, Inc., and helped their top PR person word a press release about Lulu’s murder. She’d also spoken to her uncle twice and it had broken her heart to hear the sound of his weak, trembling voice. Knowing that Dr. Martin had arranged for nurses to be at Uncle Louis’s side twenty-four/seven gave her some comfort.
Before leaving early this morning, she’d fielded numerous calls from local, state and even national newspapers and televisions stations. Her cousin’s murder was front-page news throughout the state of Mississippi and most of the South. Even now, a good twelve hours after hearing the news from Sheriff Brody, Annabelle was having difficulty believing it was true. Accepting the death of a family member was always difficult—she’d gone through the agony with her aunt Meta Anne’s and both her parents’ deaths and again when she lost Chris. When someone young died, someone only twenty-seven as Lulu had been, the loss seemed all the greater because you felt that the person hadn’t gotten a chance to live a full life. She’d felt that way when Chris died two years ago. He had been the center of her world for so long that shortly after the funeral, she’d fallen apart completely. But in typical Annabelle style, she hadn’t allowed herself to wallow in self-pity for very long. She’d pulled herself up by the proverbial bootstraps, dusted off her bruised and bloody emotions and thrown herself back into work. Thank God for work. It had been her salvation more than once over the years.
As she approached the Poplar Avenue entrance to the Criminal Justice Center, she recited the directions she’d been given over the telephone by the helpful police officer she’d spoken to an hour ago while she’d been en route. With her mind on other matters—finding the homicide division of the police department within this huge complex, as well as thinking about what she’d be told concerning Lulu’s murder— Annabelle failed to notice the small crowd gathering around her. Suddenly, someone shouted her name. She jerked her head up and searched for the speaker.
“Ms. Vanderley? Annabelle Vanderley?” A short, wiry man with a camera in hand moved toward her.
“Who are you?” she asked. “What do you want?”
“You are Lulu Vanderley’s cousin, Annabelle, aren’t you?” a small, slender blonde holding a microphone in her hand asked as she zeroed in on Annabelle.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” another reporter joined in the fray.
“I have no comment,” Annabelle told them. “The spokesperson for Vanderley, Inc. will make a statement at noon today at our headquarters in Jackson, Mississippi.”
“Is it true that Lulu was killed by her latest lover?”
“Was she raped and then killed?”
“How was she killed? Was she shot? Strangled? Stabbed?”
The questions bombarded her as the reporters drew closer and closer, shoving microphones and cameras in her face.
“Please, leave me alone.” She tried to move past the throng that seemed to be multiplying by the minute, but she was surrounded. Try as she might, she couldn’t find an escape route.
As if from out of nowhere a tall, broad-shouldered man cut a path through Annabelle’s tormentors, slid his arm around her waist and all but shoved the reporters aside. When they complained, he paused, faced them and snarled. With her breath caught in her throat, Annabelle took a good look at her rescuer. The fierce expression on his face would have backed down the devil himself. The reporters continued to grumble, but didn’t make the slightest move in her direction.
Whoever this man was—her protector—he took her breath away.
“You heard the lady. Leave her alone,” he said, his voice baritone deep and rich.
Annabelle sighed with relief as she offered her white knight an appreciative smile. Who is he? she wondered. Could he possibly be a plainclothes police officer?
She studied him hurriedly, taking in his appearance. He was a devastatingly attractive man with wavy jet black hair and large dark brown eyes. Handsome, but not pretty. Suave yet rugged. He was dressed in an expensive navy blue suit. Tailor-made, unless she missed her guess, which meant he was rich. So he probably wasn’t a policeman. She doubted the base pay, even for a detective, was more than forty or fifty thousand a year. This man’s suit had probably cost several thousand.
He kept his arm around her waist, her body pressed against his side. Annabelle’s heart beat faster and her stomach fluttered. Sheer nerves, she told herself.
“Thank you so much, Mr.—”
“Cortez. Quinn Cortez.”
“I appreciate your coming to my rescue, Mr. Cortez.” Her gaze locked with his as they stared into each other’s eyes. He was looking at her as if he wanted to say something.
“These people can be real jerks,” he told her. “You’ve just lost your cousin—”
“How did you…Oh, you probably read about Lulu in the newspaper.”
A tall, dark-haired woman came through the crowd and walked straight up to Quinn. “I’m sure Ms. Vanderley will be fine now,” the woman said. “We have an appointment”— she tapped her gold wristwatch—“in five minutes. You don’t want to be late.”
He didn’t budge and made no move to release his protective hold on Annabelle.
“Please, don’t let me keep you from an important appointment,” Annabelle said. “I’ll be fine now. Surely they won’t follow me.”
His gaze caressed her, creating a fluttering sensation along her nerve endings. “Let me see you safely inside.”
Suddenly one of the newspaper reporters shouted out, “Ms. Vanderley, how well do you know Mr. Cortez? Obviously you don’t think he had anything to do with your cousin’s murder, right?”
What had the reporter said? Why would he think Mr. Cortez had any connection to Lulu’s murder?
Annabelle broke eye contact with Quinn and looked right at the reporter. “What are you talking about?”
“Did you and your cousin both have a romantic relationship with Mr. Cortez?” the same reporter asked.
When Annabelle glared at him, puzzled by his question, he added, “Seeing how chummy you are with Mr. Cortez and how he came rushing to your rescue, are we to assume that you two are close…friends?”
“I never—” Annabelle realized she wasn’t handling this media attack very well. Speechlessness and shock wouldn’t work in her favor.
“Ignore them,” Quinn whispered in her ear as he urged her into movement.
Escape was the best plan of action, so she allowed him to guide her toward the entrance.
“You didn’t kill Lulu, did you, Ms. Vanderley, when you found out she was sleeping with Quinn Cortez?” The blond reporter held out her microphone as she trailed behind Annabelle, Quinn and the dark-haired woman.
Annabelle turned and faced the reporter. “Go away. Leave me alone. I don’t know what you’re talking about and I don’t care.”
“You don’t care that your cousin was murdered or that Mr. Cortez might have been involved?” Someone in the crowd shouted the question.
“Let’s go inside and get away from them,” Quinn said. “Then I’ll explain what’s going on.”