Sandra Brown - Ricochet

“You noticed?” Jewelry wasn’t something DeeDee ordinarily paid attention to.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” she said to his back as they rounded the second-floor landing. “Damn near blinded me this afternoon when we were in the sunroom. Didn’t you notice the rainbow it cast on the wall?”

“Guess I missed that.”

“You were too busy gazing into her eyes.”

He stopped in midstep and looked over his shoulder.

“Well, you were,” she said defensively.

“I was questioning her. What was I supposed to do, keep my eyes shut?”

“Never mind. Just…” She motioned him forward. He continued climbing the stairs and she picked up her story. “So, the besotted judge throws himself this big, elaborate wedding. Under the circumstances, some thought it the height of tacky and tasteless, and attributed his extravagance to his greedy and demanding bride.”

Duncan had reached the third-floor landing. Ahead was a corridor lined on both sides with doors to various offices. Names were stenciled in black on frosted glass. A CPA firm, an attorney, a dentist advertising fillings for the low, low price of twenty-five dollars. All were closed for the night. But one door about midway down stood open, casting a wedge of light into the otherwise dim hallway. He could hear Kong talking to Napoli ’s secretary. Her voice rose and fell emotionally.

Before joining them, he wished to finish this conversation with DeeDee. He turned to face her, blocking her path. “What ‘circumstances’?”

“Pardon?”

“You said circumstances made the wedding tacky and tasteless.”

“The bride had no pedigree, no family of any sort. At least none turned up at the wedding. She had no formal education, no property, no trust fund, no stock portfolio, nothing to recommend her. She brought nothing to the relationship except…well, the obvious.

“And she wore white. A simple dress, not too froufrou, but definitely white, which some considered the worst breach of etiquette. She did, however, order personalized stationery. Good stock, ivory in color, with the return address in dove gray lettering. She sent handwritten thank-you notes on behalf of her and the judge to everyone who gave them a wedding gift. And she has a very nice script.”

Yeah. Duncan had seen her script. Scowling, he said, “Are you making this shit up?”

“No, swear to God.”

“Where’d you get your information?”

“The friend I mentioned. We go all the way back to Catholic school. My folks had to roll coins to pay for my tuition. Her family is very well-to-do, but we formed a bond because both of us hated the school.

“Anyway, I called her up, mentioned the shooting at the Lairds’ house, which she already knew about, because it’s caused such a buzz. Her mom is definitely in the know, plugged into the society grapevine. If you’re into this kind of stuff, she’s a reliable source.”

Duncan ran his sleeve across his forehead. The cloth came away wet. “Is there more? What color was the punch at the reception?”

She frowned at him, but continued. “Mrs. Laird never fails to RSVP to an invitation whether she’s accepting or declining. Evidently she picked up a few social graces when she became Mrs. Cato Laird, and she’s shown surprising good taste in clothes, but she’s still considered trash-and that word was emphasized in an undertone. She’s tolerated because of the judge, but she’s far from accepted. You can forget embraced.”

Duncan said, “You know what this sounds like to me? It sounds like Savannah ’s social set found an easy target for their malice. Here you have a bunch of snooty, jealous gossips who would give up their pedigree for Elise Laird’s looks. They’d sacrifice Great-grandma’s pearls in exchange for a chest like hers.”

“Funny you should mention that particular attribute.” DeeDee took the final steps necessary to join him on the landing. “The judge’s circle of acquaintances might have overlooked her other shortcomings, even the fact that she worked in the bar at their country club. After all, it’s an elite club, its membership limited to only the ‘best people.’ But what they couldn’t forgive is what she was before becoming a cocktail waitress.”

“Which was what?”

“A topless cocktail waitress.”

THE CREPE MYRTLE TREE WAS DRIPPING MOISTURE AND SO WAS Duncan. Elbows locked, his arms were braced against the smooth tree trunk, his body at an almost forty-five-degree angle from it as he stretched out his left calf muscle.

His head was hanging between his arms. Sweat dripped off his face onto the lichen-covered brick sidewalk in front of his town house. The sidewalk was buckled from roots of live oaks that lined the street and formed a canopy above it. He was grateful for the shade.

Breaking with tradition, he’d gotten up early and had decided to go for a run, before the sun was fully up, before it pushed the temperature from the eighties at six thirty into the nineties by nine. Even so, each breath had been a labored gasp. The air was as dense as chowder.

Most people were sleeping in this Saturday morning. In the next block a woman was watering the ferns on her porch. Earlier, Duncan had seen a man walking his dog in Forsyth Park. Few cars were on the streets.

He switched feet to stretch his other calf. His stomach growled, reminding him that he’d forgone the carry-out fried chicken last night, opting to come straight home after leaving Meyer Napoli’s office. While there, he’d lost his appetite and had skipped supper altogether.

He’d tried to get interested in a baseball game on TV. When that failed, he moved to the piano, but his playing had been uninspired and for once hadn’t helped him sort through his disturbing thoughts. He’d slept in brief snatches between long periods of wakefulness. Still restless at dawn, he’d kicked off the annoying bedsheet and gotten up, his mind in as much of a tangle as it had been the previous evening.

“Detective Hatcher?”

With a start, he turned. She was standing no more than three feet away. His heart rate, which during his stretches had returned to a normal, post-exercise rhythm, spiked at the sight of her.

He looked past her, almost expecting someone to be there playing a practical joke on him. He couldn’t have been more surprised had there been a rowdy group with balloons and noisemakers having fun at his expense.

But the sidewalk was empty. The woman who’d been watering her ferns was no longer on her porch. There was no sight of the dog and his owner. Nothing, not a single leaf, moved in the thick air. Only his rushing breath disturbed it.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Didn’t you read my note?” she said.

“Yeah, I read it.”

“Well then.”

“It’s a bad idea for us to meet alone. In fact, this meeting just concluded.”

He moved toward the steps of his town house, but she sidestepped to block his path. “Please don’t walk away. I’m desperate to talk to you.”

“About the fatal shooting at your house?”

“Yes.”

“All right. I’m interested to hear what you have to say. I have an office. Give me half an hour. Detective Bowen and I will meet you there.”

“No. I need to speak to you privately. Just you.”

He steeled himself against her soft-spoken urgency. “You can talk to me at the police station.”

“No, I can’t. This is too sensitive to talk about there.”

Sensitive. A bothersome word for sure. He said, “The only thing you and I have to talk about is a dead and dissected Gary Ray Trotter.”

A few strands of pale hair had shaken loose from a messy topknot. The hairdo looked like an afterthought, something she had fashioned as she rushed out the door. She was dressed in a snug cotton T-shirt and a full skirt that hung from a wide band around her hips, the hem skimming her knees. Leather flip-flops on her feet. It was a typical summertime outfit, nothing special about it, except that she was the woman inside, giving shape to the ordinary clothing.