Christmas Cover-up. Cassie Miles
at the cul-de-sac in front of Bob Lindahl’s house. It was almost five o’clock, and the sun had begun its descent behind the mountains. Streaks of gold colored the sky and glimmered on the faded lawn and shrubs. The bare branches of a honey locust danced in the winter breeze. If there hadn’t been five police cars and a television van parked farther down the street, this view might have been serene.
Most of the other cars were gone. The guests had been interviewed and sent home. The caterer and his crew had packed up and left. She hadn’t seen Cody Berringer leave, and she found herself hoping that he was still here.
Though she had no explanation for why he was so concerned about her, she liked his attention. Who wouldn’t? With his black hair and blue eyes, he was every woman’s dream date. Protecting her seemed to come naturally to him.
With her fingers, she twirled a long curl. Her hair hung loose past her shoulders. After the paramedics had checked her out, she’d run a brush through her hair and splashed water on her face. Though she’d taken off her burgundy apron, she still wore the bloodstained white blouse and black slacks.
Repeatedly, Rue had spoken to various homicide detectives and given her story so many times that the sequence of events was permanently imprinted in her brain. The image that stuck with her was Uncle Bob on his knees with his chest covered in blood.
Danny told her that one of the bullets had punctured his heart. A direct hit. He also told her that the gunman had gotten away without a trace—except for the murder weapon, which he so thoughtfully had left behind.
The door to the parlor opened and Danny stepped inside. He had his campaign manager with him. Jerome Samuels was an athletic-looking blond guy in his thirties whom she’d known since childhood. Politically savvy and ambitious, Jerome was looking forward to being appointed to an important position when Danny took the oath of office.
He gave her a calculated but friendly grin. “You ought to be able to leave in just a few minutes.”
“Good.”
“Here’s the deal,” Danny said. “I want you to come home with me, Rue.”
“Why?”
“Bob Lindahl’s murder looks like a professional hit, and you’re a witness.” Danny never sugarcoated the truth. “Somebody might come after you.”
“I can’t identify him. He wore sunglasses and the hood of his sweatshirt was pulled up. I didn’t even see his hair color.”
“You shouldn’t be alone,” Danny said. “I have plenty of security at my house.”
There was also a new wife and her young children from a previous marriage who wouldn’t be thrilled to have Rue as a guest. “I have to work,” she said.
“Someone else can do it.”
“No way. I make custom cakes. They’re unique.” Her business was brand-new, and she had a reputation to build. “I have to decorate these cakes myself.”
“You’re being unreasonable.”
“Nothing new about that,” Jerome added.
Usually, she didn’t mind Jerome’s teasing, but he’d changed, taken on an air of self-importance that matched his designer suit and solid-gold wristwatch. Plus she was in no mood to be pushed around. “I’m going home to my house. And that’s final.”
“Think again,” Jerome advised.
“My mind is made up, Jerry.”
He hated being called Jerry. His full name—Jerome—had dignity. Jerry was a cartoon character. His upper lip curled in disgust. “You sound like your mother, Ruth Ann.”
Low blow. Her mother had called three times and was on her way here. “Not even close, Jerry. But you might want to brace yourself.”
“Why?”
“She’s on her way. Ought to be here any minute.”
She turned toward the window again and looked out as a familiar car pulled up and parked. The driver’s-side door flung open and a well-dressed woman burst out. “Speak of the devil. It’s Mom.”
“Your mother?” Danny’s voice sounded as if his lungs were being squeezed in a vise. He turned to Jerome. “See if you can stop her.”
Attempting to control Rue’s mother was like commanding a hurricane to turn the other way. She didn’t envy Jerome.
“She’s not going to listen to me,” he said.
He was well-acquainted with Leticia Grant-Harris-Mason-Lopez-Jones-Wyndemere. Adding to his woes, Rue said, “She’s married to a judge now. If she doesn’t get what she wants, she’ll take you to court.”
“Aw, hell,” Danny muttered. “Might as well get this over with. Come with me, Rue.”
They left the parlor and went down the hallway to a grand foyer with marble floors, a sweeping staircase and an ornate crystal chandelier. A couple of the plainclothes detectives were talking to Cody Berringer. As soon as Cody spotted her, he moved to her side.
In spite of everything that was going on—the cops, the danger, the murder—Cody’s nearness ignited a happy little spark inside her. When he took her hand, the flicker became a warm glow.
The front door swung open and her mother stalked inside. Her blond-streaked hair swept back from her forehead. Her crimson silk blouse and black wool suit outlined a slender, expensively maintained figure. She went directly to Danny and confronted him. “I told Ruth Ann that it was a mistake to bake cakes for your party.”
“It should have been a good opportunity,” Danny said.
“Nothing good ever came from Bob Lindahl.” Her blue eyes scanned the opulent foyer. “Although I’ve got to admit that this house is impressive.”
Rue could almost hear the cash register in her mother’s head ringing up the cost of the chandelier and the oil paintings on the walls. Leticia had a sensible appreciation for the bottom line.
She held out her arms. “Oh, Ruth Ann. If anything had happened to you—” Her voice choked off. Her eyes welled. Tears? That was so out of character. Her mother never cried.
Leticia pulled her into a ferocious embrace that went on long enough for Rue to begin to feel a little uncomfortable. Then Leticia held her at arm’s length, studied her and frowned. “Is that blood on your sleeves?”
“It’s not mine.”
“Why are you still wearing that shirt?” She swung back toward Danny. “Couldn’t you find her some clean clothing?”
Cody stepped forward. “You’re right, Mrs. Wyndemere. Rue needs to get home and change clothes. She’s had one hell of a rough day.”
Leticia surveyed him from head to toe. “Who are you?”
“Cody Berringer.”
As he shook her hand, she said, “I’ve heard of you. You work at T&T. Taylor and Tomlinson.”
“That’s correct.”
“A very successful firm,” she said.
Rue wasn’t in the least bit surprised that her mother knew of Cody. Leticia had an encyclopedic knowledge of Denver’s social scene. It was part of her job as a wedding planner—a skill she’d developed when planning her own five marriages.
“And you’re Judge Wyndemere’s wife,” Cody said.
“Small world.” The barest hint of a smile touched her mother’s lips. “How do you know Ruth Ann?”
“We’re going to dinner on Saturday. At Chez Mona.”
Hoping to head off any questions about how long she’d been dating Cody, Rue said, “I’m tired. I’d like to leave now.”