Sweet Dreams Boxed Set (160 page)

Micki and Angelo agreed to interview the housekeeper first and had asked the other two to wait on the patio. They’d both seemed eager to get out of the house and into the sun.

Hunger had taken a left turn into a bad attitude. Micki decided if she didn’t get a sandwich soon, she just might bite somebody’s head off.

It didn’t help that they’d decided to conduct interviews in the enormous kitchen; she was having a hard time keeping her focus on the housekeeper. The lunch spread on the counter—including a triple layer chocolate caked decorated with strawberries and coconut—was starting to make her twitch.

“May I fix you a plate?”

Micki jerked her gaze to the housekeeper. Kind eyes. Somebody’s mother. Not hers. Not by a long shot.

“Thank you, Mrs. Cook, but no.”

“It’s just going to go to waste.”

“No, really—”

“Nonsense.” She stood and crossed to the spread. “Mr. Stanley is out of town and it wouldn’t be proper for me to take it.”

“Why not, Mrs. Cook?”

“Because it wasn’t offered to me. You’re guests in this house.”

She’d been called a lot of things by potential witnesses, but never that. It had a nice ring to it, she decided. No way she was going to refuse a third time.

The woman fixed the two plates, brought them to the table, then went back and poured two glasses of iced tea from the pitcher.

Two tumblers, Micki realized. Two plates. “You say Mr. Stanley is out of town?”

“That’s right. A business…” She stopped, eyes widening. “I haven’t…how am I going…to tell him?”

“Don’t you worry about that, Mrs. Cook,” Angelo said gently. “We’ll notify Mr. Stanley.”

She nodded, eyes filling with tears.

Micki went on. “Was Vivianne, Mrs. Stanley, expecting company for lunch?”

Her expression went blank. “Yes, Steve. Her personal trainer.”

“The one out on the patio? Mr. Stone?”

“That’s right.”

Micki eyed the plate in front of her. Besides the chocolate cake, there was bacon quiche and flaky, miniature croissants, both glistening with fat. A fat and carb nightmare. What kind of personal trainer ate that? Certainly not Mr. Iron Abs, Arms, and Ass out on the patio.

Luckily, her job didn’t require her to wear spandex shorts. She took a big bite of the quiche and almost melted like the butter used to make it.

Angelo stepped in. “You hesitated, Mrs. Cook. You’re certain she didn’t expect someone else?”

“Well, Bitty Vanderlund was here earlier. I just assumed lunch was with Steve…Mr. Stone.”

“Do Mrs. Stanley and her trainer have lunch together often?”

“Occasionally.”

“And how often do they see each other?”

“Several times a week.”

“This Bitty Vanderlund,” Micki managed around a mouthful, undeterred by the fact Angelo hadn’t touched his plate of food and was taking all the notes. “They were friends?”

“I suppose so. They’re on committees together.”

Angelo looked up. “Vanderlund. That’s not a typical New Orleans name.”

“I heard Mrs. Stanley call her an outsider before.”

Definitely not friends then. “What were they working on?”

“No idea.” She thought a moment. “With this being Mardi Gras, Mrs. Stanley had many events underway.”

“Like the Queen’s Tea?”

She looked surprised. “Yes.”

“I saw event RSVPs on her desk. What exactly is that?”

“An event for former queens of Carnival. Mrs. Stanley was chairing this year’s event.”

“Was this Bitty a former queen?”

“I don’t know, but—” She hesitated. “I don’t think so.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because she’s not from here. Not originally, anyway. But she’s very nice.”

And in a stratified society like New Orleans, that made a difference. Same in Mobile.

Angelo stepped in. “What time did Mrs. Vanderlund leave?”

“Ten-thirty. No, closer to eleven. I was on the phone with the caterer. Big party here tomorrow tonight. Oh dear, what do I do now?”

“And Mrs. Stanley was fine at that point?”

“Well, I’m sure. Why wouldn’t she have been?”

Angelo, Micki could tell, was struggling to keep his expression neutral. “Mrs. Cook,” she said gently, “because she’s dead now.”

Her expression went blank. Shock, Micki decided. She tried again. “You showed Bitty out, but didn’t see Mrs. Stanley?”

“Oh, I didn’t show her out. She called out goodbye and left.”

Angelo became alert. “You didn’t see her?”

“Like I said, I was on the phone.” She brought a hand to her head. “I don’t feel so well.”

“Why don’t you get some fresh air? And tell Mr. Hernandez to come in.”

The woman gratefully agreed and started toward the door. Micki stopped her on her way out to the patio. “One last question, Mrs. Cook. Did Mrs. Stanley have a secretary or personal assistant?”

“Yes,” she said, looking uncomfortable, “but she…fired her last week.”

Angelo jumped in. “Why’s that?”

She blinked. Twice. “I don’t know.”

Which was complete bullshit. Micki would bet Mrs. Cook knew everything that went on in this house, from something as minuscule as a purloined pastry to as major as the reason a personal assistant was up and fired at the most inconvenient time.

Micki glanced at Angelo. “Firing your assistant right before Mardi Gras? Mrs. Stanley must have had a really good reason.”

Angelo agreed. “It must have been something bad.”

“It was all a big mistake.” She twisted her fingers together. “You’ll have to ask Ginny about it.”

“Ginny? That’s her name?”

“Yes, Virgina Boudloche.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Cook. We’ll need to get her number from you before we leave.”

Chapter Three

2:40 P.M.

They spoke to the yardman next. He knew little. Bitty Vanderlund had arrived as he was leaving for the nursery. Something was eating the azalea bushes; Mrs. Stanley was not happy about it. He had arrived back at the property only minutes before Mr. Stone.

They saved the trainer for last. A fact he was bristling with indignation over.

“This is outrageous,” he said. “I’ve had to cancel three appointments.”

“I feel for you, Mr. Stone.” His expression made it clear to Micki that he didn’t buy it, so she got to the point. “Tell me about your relationship with Mrs. Stanley.”

“It was professional. I was her personal trainer.”

“And that’s it?”

“Seriously? She was seventy-two. What other relationship could we have had?”

That emphatic a denial, especially considering the circumstances, usually meant someone with something to hide. “Mrs. Cook told us you often had lunch with Vivianne.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“She was a wealthy woman.”

“Yeah, she was. She could afford to hire someone like me to keep her fitting in her designer labels. That’s it.”

Angelo stepped in, unperturbed. “Your professional relationship was good. No arguments, anything like that?”

“Of course.”

It seemed to Micki he’d hesitated a moment before answering. “What time was your appointment with Mrs. Stanley?”

Again, hesitation. “One o’clock.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t seem certain.”

“Would you like to check my calendar?”

“That would be helpful.”

He called up the calendar on his phone, handed over the device. Sure enough, her name was entered, today at one.

“Did you know her personal assistant?”

“Ginny? Yeah, what about her?”

Defensive. Interesting
. “I understand Mrs. Stanley fired her last week.”

His face took on a ruddy hue. “That’s right.”

“Do you know why?”

“Why would I?”

“You had Mrs. Stanley’s ear. I suspect she was quite…fond of you.”

“Old ladies like me. I make them feel good about themselves.”

“And Ginny? Did she like you, too?”

“What did Margaret tell you?”

“Mrs. Cook? She told us all about Ginny being fired.”

A slight misdirection; she hoped it worked.

It did. He found a chair and sat, demeanor changing from tough-guy to troubled. Resigned. “She was jealous of Ginny,” he said after a moment.

“Because the two of you had something going.”

“Yeah.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “She made up some shit about Ginny stealing from her. Used that as an excuse to let her go.”

He glanced down at the floor, then back up at her. “I flirt with the old birds. Make them feel attractive. Sexy. That’s it. I never take it any further. A little charm helps pay the bills. You know?”

“Sure,” Angelo said. “I get it.”

Micki wasn’t so nice. “Ever try making it strictly on your training abilities?”

He looked pointedly at her breasts. “Did you?”

Micki narrowed her eyes. “We can do this here, Mr. Stone. Or downtown at headquarters.”

He flushed. “You have any idea how hard it is to make a go of it out there? Doing what I do? I’m a damn good trainer, but so are a lot of other guys.”

Obviously, she had pushed a button. She wondered if Stanley had pushed a button, too?

Angelo stepped in. “So, you confronted Mrs. Stanley about firing Ginny? Maybe tried to get her job back.”

Micki took over. “Maybe things got a little crazy. Heat of the moment.”

“No.”

“You lost you temper,” Angelo said. “I get it.”

“No,” he said again. “God, no.”

“When we check Mrs. Stanley’s day planner, will we find an appointment with you for today at one? Or earlier?”

“This is bullshit. I showed you—”

“On your phone, Mr. Stone. You could have added or edited that entry after killing her.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Didn’t what? Edit the entry or kill her?”

His demeanor changed, indignation now mixed with desperation. Micki pressed harder. “You know what I think? You killed her, Mr. Stone.”

“What? No—”

“It was easy. She turned her back on you and—”

“Ginny needs this job! I was going to talk to Vivianne today. Try to convince her to take her back.”

His voice broke. “I was sure she’d listen to me.”

“But she didn’t,” Angelo said softly. “And you lost it.”

Stone looked up, expression panicked. “I didn’t kill her! I was just—”

“Just what?”

“I didn’t have an appointment today. You were right, I added that in my calendar while I was waiting out on the patio. To cover my butt.”

“Or someone else’s?” Micki offered.

“What do you mean?”

“Ginny had a motive,” Angelo said. “Opportunity, I’d bet.”

“Ginny couldn’t hurt anyone.”

Micki manufactured a sound of sympathy. “Can you guess the percentage of witnesses and loved ones we hear that from? Close to a hundred percent, Mr. Stone.”

“But it’s true.” He moved his gaze between them. “Besides, I was with her this morning.”

“Lovers don’t make good alibis. Not when they’re both suspects.”

He went white. “Suspects? That’s nuts! This place is totally wired. The exterior. Public areas. That’s how Vivianne found out about me and Ginny. Check the surveillance tapes, you’ll see neither Ginny nor I were here before I arrived at one o’clock.”

Video surveillance. Of course.  Micki gave herself a mental kick in the pants. “And we plan to review them. Thank you, Mr. Stone. We’ll be in touch.”

Chapter Four

3:20 P.M.

The Stanley’s home security system was badass—the kind stars and politicians installed to protect their homes. The exterior and every public area had been wired. Unfortunately, Stanley’s office was not one of those.

Micki sat in front of the monitors, Angelo beside her. They saw Bitty Vanderlund arrive in her Mercedes sedan, watched her climb out, smoothing her skirt. Typical uptown matron. Perfectly assembled in a smart suit and sensible, low-heeled pumps. Pearls at her throat. Clutch bag. Everything about her shouted wealth and position.

“Rookie move”—Micki said, not taking her gaze from the monitors— “not assuming this place was wired. I can’t believe I let that slip.”

“Let it go, Dare. Scene techs always check for that. Our focus is questioning witnesses and identifying possible suspects.”

“Not good enough.” She realized she was thrumming her fingers on her thighs and stilled them. “I expect better of myself.”

“Relax. Besides, tapes are always last.”

Because they’re tedious. She got that. But she should have considered electronic surveillance. She should have had that piece in mind as they questioned the housekeeper.

Which set her teeth on edge. Sort of the way Angelo’s laissez-faire attitude about it did.

They switched to an interior camera view: Margaret Cook leaving Vanderlund in the front parlor. The woman sat primly, waiting. She looked as threatening as a lap dog.

Micki started tapping her leg again. Anxious.

“When’d you say you moved up to Detective Bureau, Dare?”

“January one.”

“Not quite two months.”

She didn’t take her eyes from the monitor. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Detective work’s tedious. Dot the i’s, cross the t’s. You seem like a cop who likes action.”

“And you seem like a cop who doesn’t.”

Instead of taking offense, he laughed. “True dat.”

Micki forced her fingers to still again. “How long have you been DIU?”

“Fifteen years, give or take.”

On the monitor, Cook collected Vanderlund and escorted her to Vivianne Stanley’s office. A moment later, the door shut and the housekeeper hurried off.

“Fifteen years. So you’ve seen just about everything.”

“Most days it seems that way.” He tapped fast forward. “I’ve seen a lot of good cops get burned out, that’s for sure.”

“I guess that’s your politically correct way of suggesting I dial it down a notch?”

“Just trying to help. Fifteen years is a long time, a lot of cases.”

They fell silent. Several minutes ticked by. It felt like forever. Finally, Micki cleared her throat. “Advice noted, Angelo—”

The last died on her lips as she watched Bitty Vanderlund exit Stanley’s office. Proper gray suit splattered with blood. Blood on her hands, face, legs. On her head perched a crown.