BEVERLY BARTON - The Ex

He was a man who noticed details, had built his career on his shrewd intuition as much as his intelligence. The house told him clearly that Kendall slept here, occasionally ate here and probably had sex here, but this place wasn’t her home. The woman didn’t have a home anymore than Quinn did. They were, by nature and nurture, vagabond loners.

He owned a penthouse in Houston, a vacation home in Jamaica and a time-share in Vail. But he didn’t have a home. Not even the ranch he’d bought in the hill country adjoining his old friend Johnny Mack Cahill’s property was really home.

He’d never needed a home. He’d been too busy building a career and getting filthy rich to be bothered with matters as mundane and unimportant as a home. But that had been in the past. He now had everything he’d ever wanted. And more. So why did he feel so empty? And so alone?

Kendall paused by the counter separating the state-of-the-art, stainless-steel kitchen from the great room. “I could fix us some hot tea or if you prefer, I can make you a stiff drink.”

“How about some hot tea and a couple more aspirins.” He rubbed his left temple with his forefinger.

“Hot tea and aspirins coming right up.” She nodded toward the hallway opening to the right of the great room. “I have two guest bedrooms. Take your pick. They both have their own private bath.”

Quinn nodded. “I’m not picky. Not tonight. I’m just grateful you offered me a place to stay. At a time like this, a little tea and sympathy is appreciated.”

She looked at him suspiciously, as if doubtful about his sincerity. “I’ll give you all the tea you want, but no sympathy.”

Quinn heaved a deep sigh, then chuckled mirthlessly. “I meant that literally, honey, not metaphorically. I didn’t think you’d brought me home with you so you could have your way with me.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve changed.”

He shrugged. “Not really. Not much. But all I want from you is a cup of tea, a couple of aspirins…and maybe a little genuine sympathy. I haven’t been on the wrong side of the law since I was a teenager. I don’t like the feel of it— being a suspect in a murder case. And even though Lulu and I weren’t in a serious relationship, I did care about her.”

“As much as you can care about a woman. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

“Did I hurt you…back when we—”

Kendall laughed. “God, what an ego. No, you didn’t hurt me. And before you jump to any other erroneous conclusions— I have not been pining away for you all these years. It’s just that I know you. Correction, I knew you.”

“I never realized how much you disliked me,” Quinn said.

“I didn’t dislike you back then and I don’t dislike you now,” she told him. “Hell, Quinn, if I disliked you so damn much, do you think I’d have come when you called, that I’d have invited you to stay here with me if—”

She stopped midsentence as she watched him drop his overnight bag on the floor and walk toward her. When he was within a foot of her, he reached out and caressed her face with his fingertips. “It’s not me, is it? It’s your ex. The guy must have done a real number on you.”

Kendall sighed, then turned and moved away from Quinn. With her back to him, as she reached up in a cabinet for the box of tea bags, she said, “His name was Dr. Jonathan Miles. I was madly in love with him. The sex was great. His kids were holy terrors and both of them hated me. We thought that would change. It didn’t. In the end, he chose his kids. Can’t blame him. After all, he was still in love with his wife—his dead wife—and they were her kids.”

“You’re well rid of him, honey. The man didn’t deserve you.”

“No, he didn’t.” Kendall blew out a deep breath, then filled a kettle with water and placed it on the eye of her ceramic-top range. She glanced at Quinn and offered him a weak smile. “Why don’t you pick out a bedroom, freshen up and by then I’ll have the tea ready. I don’t figure you’ll get much sleep tonight.”

He nodded, then headed down the hall. No, he probably wouldn’t get any sleep tonight. He didn’t want to close his eyes because he knew what he’d see. Lulu’s lifeless body lying there on her bed. Beautiful and sexy, even in death. And her bloody hand, one digit missing. Why would anyone cut off her index finger?

Annabelle waited for Dr. Martin on the far side of her uncle’s bedroom, Wythe at her side. He’d been remarkably well-behaved, keeping his own emotions in check and actually putting his father’s needs first. She supposed in his own selfish way, Wythe did love Uncle Louis.

“No, please, please, tell me it isn’t true,” Louis Vanderley moaned as the sedative his personal physician had given him began to take effect. “My little Lulu. My precious baby girl. She can’t be dead.”

“Just lie back and relax, Louis,” Dr. Martin said.

“Annabelle?” her uncle called for her.

She went to his bedside. Dr. Martin looked at her sympathetically, then moved aside. Annabelle leaned over and took her uncle’s hand.

“I’m right here,” she told him.

“Go to Memphis. Find out what happened. Our Lulu can’t be dead.”

She squeezed his age-spotted hand. “I’ll leave first thing in the morning. And I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

“Someone has lied to us,” Louis said, his voice a mere whisper. “Lulu isn’t dead.”

Annabelle leaned over and kissed her uncle’s forehead. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. She eased the satin coverlet up and over his chest. Uncle Louis was her father’s elder brother. Her father had been the youngest of four, fifteen years his elder brother’s junior. There had been two sisters born between them. Meta Anne, who’d passed away only a few years ago, an unmarried, childless career woman who’d devoted herself to helping Louis oversee the vast Vanderley empire. And Annabelle, the sister who’d died in the forties with infantile paralysis at the age of three. That Annabelle, as well as the present Annabelle Vanderley, had been named in honor of a great-great-grandmother who’d come from France as the bride of Edward Vanderley in 1855.

“Rest, dearest.” Annabelle adored her uncle Louis, who’d been a second father to her since her own father had died of a heart attack seven years ago. “I’ll find out what happened to Lulu. I promise.”

Dr. Martin stopped her on her way out of the room. “Annabelle?”

“Yes?”

“He’s seventy-eight, in poor health and has received a terrible shock,” Dr. Martin said.

“Are you trying to tell us that he might die?” Wythe asked.

“Hush.” Annabelle glanced at her uncle, who seemed to be asleep, then glowered at Wythe. “He might hear you.”

“He’s out cold,” Wythe told her.

“All I’m saying is to prepare yourselves,” Dr. Martin said. “Louis could well survive this, but…Well, it will depend on his will to live, at least in part. I’ve seen it happen before, patients who give up the will to live and die in a few weeks or a few months.”

“I’ll give him something to live for,” Annabelle said. “Once he accepts that Lulu is dead, he’ll want to see her killer punished. That alone will keep him going.”

Dr. Martin shook his head. “Revenge can be a strong motivator. Just be careful that it doesn’t turn on him. And on you.”

“I wasn’t referring to revenge. What I want—what Uncle Louis will want—is justice.”

Quinn lay in the bed, the back of his head resting in his cupped hands, his fingers entwined. A cup of tea, a couple more aspirins and a sympathetic ear had partially eased his headache but hadn’t helped him fall asleep. In a few short hours, he would have to return to police headquarters and answer more questions. Be grilled about Lulu’s death.