Amnesia (31 page)

Long after Aunt Perdita went to her own room last night, Annabelle had stayed up working on the eulogy. She hoped that her words did justice to Louisa Vanderley, to the person she could have been, should have been, to the beautiful,
wide-eyed child who had embraced life with such exuberance. That Lulu Annabelle remembered so well. That Lulu Annabelle had loved.

As she looked out over the vast lawn of Vanderley Hall, kept in immaculate condition by a crew of hardworking gardeners, Annabelle thought about how much of her childhood had been spent here at her ancestral estate. Although several years older than her young cousin, she and Lulu had played together as if they were sisters. And indeed there had been a time when she’d loved Lulu as if she were her own sibling. They had hunted Easter eggs out there in the yard every year at the annual Easter celebration the family hosted for their friends. They had trapped lightning bugs in vented jars on warm summer nights after frolicking in the backyard pool all day. Although both of them had fair complexions, Lulu had tanned as brown as a little gingerbread girl, where Anna-belle had often blistered. And they had played hide-and-seek countless times, finding numerous hiding places within the gated walls. Always happy. Always safe. Or so Annabelle had thought.

If only Lulu had told someone what was happening to her. If she’d gone to Uncle Louis or to Aunt Meta Anne or to Annabelle’s parents. Or even if she’d come to Annabelle and told her. But she had kept the horrible secret, lived with it, endured it and let it change her from a sweet, innocent child into a wild creature with no morals.

She had finally told Annabelle, confessed her secret shame, only a few years ago, on one of those occasions when Annabelle had tried to persuade her cousin to do something meaningful with her life. And perhaps the truly awful thing about it all was that Annabelle hadn’t been surprised. Shocked? Yes. Surprised? No.

If only things could have been different for Lulu. If only…

It was too late for if only. There would be no tomorrow for Lulu, no future. At least not here on this earth.

Breathing in the fresh springtime air, Annabelle gripped the wrought-iron railing around the balcony and rejoiced in
being alive as only a person who had recently lost a loved one could rejoice. A death in the family reminded her how very fragile mortality is, how quickly a life could end.

A ringing telephone caught Annabelle’s attention. Listening for a couple of seconds, she realized that it was her cell phone. Could it be Quinn calling her again? Leaving the French doors wide open, she rushed into the bedroom and to the nightstand where her phone lay. She picked the phone up, flipped it open and held her breath.

“Hello.”

“Annabelle.”

It was Quinn. She released her suppressed breath.

“How are you this morning?” he asked.

“Weepy. Nervous. Dreading giving Lulu’s eulogy.”

“It’ll be okay. You’ll say all the right things.”

“Will I?”

“You’ll tell everyone what a wonderful person she was, how much you loved her, how close you two were as children.” Quinn paused, apparently giving her time to respond, but when she didn’t say anything, he continued, “Lulu had a hunger for life. She wanted to do everything, try anything, take risks.”

“There was another side to her, you know.”

“No, I’m sorry to say I didn’t know,” Quinn admitted. “We didn’t share intimacies. We seldom talked about our personal lives. Our childhoods, our families.”

“How odd that you can say you and Lulu didn’t share intimacies when you were lovers. I can’t think of anything more intimate than that.”

After a long pause, he replied, “Lulu and I had sex. We didn’t make love. We didn’t love each other. Sometimes sex isn’t all that intimate.”

Have you ever loved a woman?
she wanted to ask, but didn’t. “I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I do.” A fluttering sensation swept through her stomach.

“If we ever had sex, it would be intimate,” he said, his voice low and deep. Seductive.

Sensual heat flushed her body, from head to toe. Feminine moisture gathered between her thighs. “Please, don’t…”

“Should I apologize for wanting you?”

“No. But I can’t…we can’t. You told me yourself that you want me the way you’ve wanted countless other women.”

“I lied. I’ve never wanted another woman the way I want you.”

Her accelerated heartbeat drummed in her ears. The muscles in her belly tightened. “You told me that you’d wind up breaking my heart.”

Deny that, too
, she pleaded silently.
Tell me that you’d never hurt me, never break my heart. Swear to me that I can trust you
.

He didn’t say a word.

“Quinn?”

“After the funeral, after you’ve done what you need to do there, come back to Memphis.”

“I’ll think about it. But I have to go now.”

“I’ll be thinking about you today.”

And I’ll be thinking about you, too, wishing you were here
.

“Good-bye, Quinn.” She hung up the phone before she said something she would regret, before she made a promise she shouldn’t.

Afternoon sunlight, warm and pure, shimmered across the white casket and sparkled against the heavy gold trim. A gentle, barely there springtime breeze whispered through the treetops and caressed bare skin. The aroma of freshly shoveled earth, piled high on the far side of the grave mingled with the scent of newly mowed grass. As Dr. Porter, the Presbyterian minister, quoted scripture at the end of his brief graveside speech, Annabelle glanced at Uncle Louis, who
sat on her right side. He looked very old, very weak and unbearably sad. To his credit, Wythe stood behind his father, his hands resting protectively on Louis’s shoulders. He’d been a good son today, ever mindful of his father’s poor health and delicate emotional state. Although she despised her cousin with a passion, she forced herself to pretend that, only for today, he was the man he should have been instead of the man he was. When giving Lulu’s eulogy, she had done the same. Both of Uncle Louis’s children had turned out badly, the younger’s fate sealed by the actions of the elder. Lulu could be forgiven. Wythe could not.

After Dr. Porter ended with a prayer, the bagpiper played “Amazing Grace” and the small crowd gathered at the family cemetery began to disperse, most of them preparing to go on up to the house. Last night’s visitation at the mansion and today’s funeral at the downtown Austinville church had been public affairs, a chance for one and all to pay homage and say good-bye to Lulu. The graveside service had been a private affair, for close friends and family only. And it would be those few who would return to the house this afternoon to share their grief.

When leaving the church over an hour ago, Annabelle had seen Sergeant George in the crowd outside and had gone over to thank him for driving in from Memphis for the funeral. He’d been sympathetic and caring, offering to do anything he could for her. She’d found herself inviting him to come to the cemetery for the burial. It wasn’t that she had actually wanted Chad George at her side today, but he had been there, available and willing. Whereas the man she truly wanted—here today and in every way a woman can want a man—couldn’t be with her, even though he wanted to be.

When she rose from her seat, she helped Wythe get Uncle Louis to his feet. With the two of them flanking him, they walked him to the limousine and placed him in the backseat. Then she turned to Chad, who stood off to the side of the others, obviously waiting for her.

“Come back to the house with me,” she said.

“Are you sure you want me there?” he asked.

“I’m sure. If I didn’t want you to stay with me this afternoon, I wouldn’t have invited you.” She held out her hand.

Chad grasped her hand gently. “You know I’d do anything for you, Annabelle. Anything at all.”

She smiled at him. “Be my friend today. My caring, supportive friend.”

“It would be my honor.”

When they walked over to her Cadillac, he offered to drive and she readily tossed him the keys. It felt good to turn over even this small, insignificant job to someone else. Someone she could count on without reservations.

Chad was the type of man who should appeal to her. In some ways, he reminded her of Chris. Boyishly handsome. Almost too pretty to be masculine and yet all man. And Chad was a police detective, the nephew of a congressman. From a good family would be her guess. Not wealthy by Vanderley standards, but respectable. She could trust Chad. He wouldn’t lie to her. And he wouldn’t break her heart if she had an affair with him.

He wouldn’t break your heart because you don’t love him. You like him. You respect him because of his profession. And you wish you could feel for him what you feel for Quinn. But you don’t
.

No, I don’t, but maybe I could if I tried
.

After attending to both of his employer’s guests, Sanders handed Griffin a glass of bourbon. Quinn swirled the liquor around inside the glass, then lifted it to his lips and sipped. Perfection. Of course, he had expected Griffin Powell would serve only the best. Powell possessed a sophisticated polish that went beyond the surface, whereas Quinn’s was simply a thin veneer that barely disguised the roughneck beneath. Quinn wasn’t a connoisseur of fine wines or distinguished hard liquor. When he drank liquor of any kind, except for social occasions, he usually drank beer, but for the most part
he preferred iced tea. Maybe having a mother who fell into a whiskey bottle when he was a small kid, and never managed to drag herself out of it had turned Quinn against booze at an early age. Sheila Cortez, God rest her soul, had never met a bottle of whiskey she didn’t like. But whiskey had sure enough hated her. It had aged her before her time, ruined her health and eventually helped kill her.

“I’ve ordered room service for dinner,” Griffin said. “I took the liberty of ordering for all of us. If you don’t mind, Sanders will join us.”

“Fine with me,” Quinn said. His gut instincts told him that there was more than an employer/employee relationship between Powell and Sanders.

“Certainly,” Judd Walker added.

“But business before the pleasure of a good meal.” Griffin set his bourbon glass on the desk, then picked up a piece of standard eight-by-eleven paper. “I just received information this afternoon that strengthens my theory that someone is murdering Quinn’s lovers.”

Quinn’s gut tightened. “Please tell me that another of my former lovers wasn’t killed.”

“Do you remember Carla Millican?” Griffin asked.

“Carla’s an interior designer,” Quinn said. “We met late last summer at a party given by a mutual friend, someone whose apartment she’d decorated.”

“Did you know that Carla was murdered four months ago?”

Nausea churned in Quinn’s stomach. His pulse rate increased, creating a buzzing hum inside his head. “No, I had no idea.”

“You two had an affair.” Griffin probed Quinn’s face, focusing on his eyes.

What was he trying to do—figure out whether of not he can trust me to tell him the truth? Is he searching for a sign that will tell him I wouldn’t lie to him?

“If Carla was murdered in Houston four months ago, I’d have read about it in the newspaper and I don’t remember—”

“She had moved to Dallas two months before her death.”

“Was her killer caught?” Judd asked.

Griffin shook his head.

“Was her killer’s MO the same as the person who killed Lulu Vanderley and Kendall Wells?” Judd asked.

“Yes. Carla was smothered. And her right index finger was cut off.”

“Goddamn!” Quinn set his glass on the coffee table, then bounded up off the sofa. “I can’t believe this.” Suddenly something hit him, a memory flashing through his mind. “I was in Dallas four months ago. Briefly. I flew there one day and back to Houston the next.”

“You flew in on November twentieth and back to Houston on the twenty-first,” Griffin said. “You were called in as a consultant. An old law school buddy was trying a big case and he wanted to pick your brain.”

“Don’t tell me—Carla was murdered on November twentieth.”

“You got it. She was murdered while you were there in Dallas. Do you happen to remember what you were doing between ten P.M. and one A.M. that night?”

“I was in my hotel room, asleep.”

“Can you prove it?” Judd and Griffin asked practically simultaneously.

“No, damn it, I can’t prove it. I was alone.”

“Someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to frame you,” Judd said. “Unless you’re Jekyll and Hyde and are murdering these women without one part of your personality knowing what the other is doing.”

“Don’t joke about something like this,” Quinn told his lawyer.

God, did I have one of those peculiar blackout spells while I was Dallas? Think, damn it, think. Try to remember
.

The first odd sleepy spell hit me in New Orleans nearly a year ago. Did the second one occur in Dallas? Yes. Oh, God, yes, it did. And both times a woman was murdered. Just like here in Memphis when Lulu and Kendall were killed. Is it
possible that I actually killed those women? No. No way in hell. I’m not a murderer. I had no reason to kill Joy or Carla or Lulu or Kendall
.

“Four women with whom you’ve had affairs are dead,” Griffin said. “All four murdered in the same way—smothered. And each woman had her right index finger cut off. I’d say we have a serial killer on our hands.”

“A serial killer who is somehow connected to Quinn,” Judd added.

Anger combined with guilt built up within Quinn. Rage screamed inside him. He stomped across the room, adrenaline surging through his body. He wanted to lash out, hit something, rip something apart with his bare hands.

“Take some deep breaths and calm down,” Griffin advised. “You’re about to blow a gasket and that’s not going to help you.”

“Someone has killed four of my lovers and made sure I was in a position to be blamed for each one. How the hell can you expect me to calm down? Four women are dead because of me.”

“Griffin’s right. You need to control that temper of yours or it’s going to wind up hurting you,” Judd said, and his lawyer’s cool and collected demeanor enraged Quinn all the more. “If some psycho has targeted women you’ve had affairs with, that’s not your fault. If you’re his real target, then why didn’t he just come after you?”