“So, what’d you find out?” I asked as soon as we were buckled in his Saturn Vue. He took the back way, Lewis Speedway, but I didn’t care about the route home. I wanted the scoop.
“The short of it is I traced Millie’s family. Her nephew, James Peters, age twenty-seven, was traveling in France when he met and married Yolette Girard, age thirty. He died about two years ago.”
“How?” I probed, so eager I nearly bounced in my seat. Now we were getting somewhere!
“At the fangs of a vampire involved in a sexual three-for-all with James and Yolette. According to Yolette, the vampire got too rough during sex, but there was some question about the death that was never resolved.”
I rolled the information in my head for a second. “James Peters and Holland Peters. Is that significant?”
He arched a brow. “Good catch. Holland was James’s dad, Millie’s sister’s husband. He died two years before James’s marriage.”
“But why did Gomer use that name?”
“He could be a con man, or he could know Millie.”
I digested that for a second and didn’t like where Saber would probably take it.
“What about Millie’s sister? Is she still living?”
“No. Sarah Upton Peters died a year to the day after the death of her only child. Cancer.”
I sighed. “Poor Millie. To lose her nephew and sister in a year must’ve been devastating.”
“And a possible motive for murder.”
There it was. Saber suspected Millie. “You really think Millie blamed Yolette for James’s death?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“But Millie couldn’t know Yolette would turn up in St. Augustine,” I argued.
“She could if she hired a private investigator to keep track of Yolette. He’d report the marriage and the trip.”
I thought that over. Maggie said Gomer might’ve been an undercover cop, but we didn’t think of him being a PI. Millie a murderer? I still couldn’t see that.
“You said a vampire was blamed for killing James. Female?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened to her? Was she executed?”
“She disappeared, and the trail went cold within a week of James’s death. Until now.”
He pulled a piece of paper, folded in quarters, from his inner jacket pocket and handed it to me. “Recognize her?”
I stared at the grainy image, trying to place her. Long, dark hair. Flashing eyes. Very pointed chin. Then I remembered the photo he’d shown me Thursday afternoon.
“This is the same woman who was killed in Daytona Beach.”
“Right. Rachelle.”
The paper rattled as I refolded it. “But, Saber, Millie couldn’t have killed Rachelle.”
He blinked. “Why not?”
“You’ve seen Millie. She couldn’t get close enough to a vampire to do harm in a million years.”
“She’s been close to you.”
“Not in a threatening way. If she pulled a gun on me, I’d be gone in a flash.”
He snorted.
“Okay, maybe flash is a stretch, but Millie wouldn’t be a match for a whole nest of vampires.”
“She might’ve hired an assassin.”
“Look, I know she’s not poor, but—”
“She’s wealthy, Cesca. Her family was one of the original oil families in Oklahoma. They made a bundle and parlayed it into a lot more. James had a trust fund.”
I thought about all the reasons why people commit murder. “Did Yolette inherit?”
“The inheritance laws in France are a good deal different than they are here, but they recognize prenup agreements. I figure Yolette inherited if she had a prenup with James, though some may have reverted to his mother.”
A wealthy young man who left his bride a boatload of money. Etienne had made a comment about Yolette ’s wealth that I didn’t pay much attention to at the time. Something about being able to indulge in her little whims —like the
Highlander
TV series paraphernalia and coming to St. Augustine for their wedding trip. Etienne ’s tone had sounded bragging and snobbish, and I’d forgotten it because, frankly, who cared?
Now I cared. If Etienne inherited, and we followed the money, Etienne was our murderer. Unless of course Yolette had not changed her will or had a prenup or whatever was needed in French law to keep him from inheriting. But there was always life insurance, right? Did they do life insurance in France?
I eyed Saber as he made the turn onto Charlotte that led to the bank building parking lot. “So are we talking to Millie, or is March doing it?”
“We?” he said with a raised brow.
“We,” I said firmly. “I landed in the middle of this, and Millie’s our best lead right now. If you’re going, I’m going. I want to hear what she has to say firsthand.”
“What happened to talking to her tonight on the tour?”
“Are you saying you want to wait?”
“Only until I catch some sleep,” he said, parking the SUV.
“You’re not going to sneak out on me?”
“No, because you’re right about her knowing and trusting you. March gave me the go-ahead to talk to Mrs. Hayward, and I’ll take you as long as you let me do the talking.”
I didn’t argue, but I didn’t agree, either. Saber was so beat, he didn’t notice. In the condo, he fell fully clothed onto Maggie’s bed.
I had to crash soon, too. I left my purse and keys on the dining table and went to lay out my clothes for later in the afternoon. One less chance for Saber to get the jump on me.
I came fully awake at three in the afternoon and leapt out of bed. Had Saber gone to Millie’s without me?
I rushed to the kitchen in a thigh-length flamingo T-shirt to find him standing at the sink munching on a bagel—a bagel we didn’t have in the house last night. Which meant he must ’ve gone out to a nearby coffee shop, but he’d come back. Yep, there were my purse and keys on the table, and he’d probably memorized the elevator code when I punched it in Friday evening. Well, what do you know? He
had
waited for me to wake up.
He gave me a long, slow once-over from my bedhead to my bare feet. A look that scorched a trail of awareness on my skin.
That darned light musky scent flared, but I brazened out getting what I needed in the kitchen: Starbloods. I strolled to the mini-fridge as if I were fully dressed, took out a bottle (my behind facing away from him, of course) and turned back to my suite. I felt his eyes on me all the way, and I felt…power. Feminine power. Whoa, this was just like it looked in the movies—a real rush.
Except I let the rush go to my head and didn’t watch where I was going. I nearly smacked into the doorframe.
“Uh, I’ll be ready in ten minutes,” I said, not daring to make eye contact.
“Great. Fine. I’ll wait.”
What, no snickering? No make-it-five-minutes comeback? Was his voice a little hoarse? Like Neil’s got with Maggie?
I didn’t need to go there. If his voice was hoarse, it was probably from lack of sleep. Maybe allergies. I threw on the dark blue jeans and gold knit top I’d laid out, then put my hair in a ponytail with a heavy -duty scrunchie, and slid on a pair of gold sandals. I didn’t realize until I skidded back to the kitchen that Saber was in blue jeans, a yellow polo shirt, and the black jacket to cover his holster. Except for his jacket, we looked like we’d coordinated our clothes, for heaven’s sake. He gave me another long, appraising look that made goose bumps prickle on my arms. Then one corner of that sensuous mouth lifted in a half grin. That’s all it took to forget my fledgling feminine power and bolt for the door.
Millie Hayward lived on the island in an older but gorgeous condo building on the beach. Built in a U shape so every condo appeared to have an ocean view, her unit was front and center of the U on the first floor. It wasn’t gated, so she had no warning we were coming. She opened the door wearing pink slacks, a sweater set, and an expression of surprise.
“Francesca?”
“Hi, Millie,” I said, good manners coming to the fore to cover my nervousness. “Do you remember meeting Deke Saber on my tour Thursday night?”
She nodded. “I remember.”
“Mrs. Hayward,” Saber said, “we need to speak with you.”
“About that awful man who threatened Cesca?”
“Do you mind if we come in?” Saber countered.
She eyed me for a long minute, reluctantly, I thought. It took a quick mental scrolling of vampire lore to figure out why she might be hesitating. So much for trusting me.
“It’s safe to let me in, Millie. This isn’t an open invitation for me to invade your home.”
Relief—subtle but there—swept her features, and she stepped back to allow us by.
“Thank you,” I said as she closed the door.
She motioned us to a cozy living room seating area of four overstuffed armchairs in sea foam green and a wood and glass coffee table. Original seascapes in oils and acrylics dotted the walls, and potted palms stood at the sides of the room-wide oceanview windows.
“Sit, please,” Millie said. “Would you like anything to—” She broke off, looking unsure what Miss Manners would offer a vampire guest.
She hugged me on the street but froze up with me in her home? I sighed. “We’re fine, Millie, thank you.”
With another flash of relief, she lowered herself into one chair, and we took the two opposite her.
“I don’t know what I can tell you about that awful man that I haven’t already said.”
Saber leaned forward, his forearms braced on his knees. “You can tell us about James Peters, ma’am.”
Millie’s lips thinned until they were pinched white. “So you know.”
“We know your nephew was married to Yolette before his death two years ago,” Saber said.
“It was eighteen months,” she said raggedly. “That woman killed him, you know.”
Saber and I exchanged a quick glance but didn’t speak.
“She was older and, I guess he thought, more worldly. She got him involved in unnatural sexual practices, spent his money like water, and ultimately killed him.”
“Did she inherit his estate?” I asked softly. Saber shot me a warning look, but I didn’t heed it, and Millie didn’t see.
“Not the whole of it, thank God. James wasn’t thirty yet and didn’t have full control of his trust fund, but she didn’t know that.”
Millie growled so low in her throat, I glanced around for a dog.
“The bitch called James’s mother, my sister Sarah. Not when James died, you understand. No, some French inspector told Sarah that James was dead. That woman,” she spat, “was too
grieved
to bother speaking with her mother-in-law until six months later. Then she had the nerve to call Sarah to complain about being out of money and ask for more.”
“Was Sarah already sick by then?” I asked.
“No.” Millie blinked back tears. “She didn’t even get to claim James’s body.”
“Why not?” Saber asked sharply.
“Because the little gold digger had him cremated. She said he wanted his ashes scattered in their garden or some such nonsense. Sarah had a memorial service in Tulsa, but—”
I spotted a box of tissues on a Swedish modern credenza and quietly retrieved them. When I’d set the box on the coffee table near Millie, Saber spoke gently.
“Mrs. Hayward, how did you know about James’s personal life with Yolette?”
Millie dabbed at her nose. “When James called Sarah to announce he’d gotten married, Sarah was crushed. There was no wedding celebration, and James didn’t invite Sarah to France for a visit. He didn’t even offer to bring his wife home so Sarah could meet her daughter-in-law. It just wasn’t like him—none of it. Sarah was heartbroken, but she carried on with a smile. I couldn’t let it go.”
“So you hired someone to kill her?”
I glared at Saber, and Millie snapped her spine ramrod straight.
“I hired a private investigator with contacts in Paris to find out what kind of trouble James had gotten himself into. I did not hire anyone to kill her.” She narrowed her eyes. “If I had, James would be alive, and so would Sarah. She was perfectly healthy before James died. No cancer, no problems at all.”
“Who did you hire, Millie?” I asked.
She held my gaze. “You haven’t figured that out?”
“The Gomer-looking guy on the tours?”
She smiled. “I told him not to go over the top, but yes. His name is Eugene Cassidy.”
“Where is he now, Mrs. Hayward?”
She blinked at Saber’s intensity. “I don’t know. I don’t have him on a full-time retainer. Why? Is he in trouble?”
“We want to question him about the murder,” Saber said, “and about a beating that took place early this morning.”
Bewildered, Millie looked at me.
“The troublemaker from the tour is Victor Gorman, Millie,” I said. “He’s in the hospital and hurt pretty bad.”
Millie shook her head. “Eugene wouldn’t kill or beat up anyone. He had no reason to unless—”
“Unless what?” Saber asked.
“Unless that madman went after Francesca.” She blushed. “Eugene told me you saw his gun Tuesday night and that you escaped as fast as you could. I haven’t heard from him since.”
“Have you tried to reach him?” Saber asked.
“Well, once. After I heard about that woman’s death, I called to find out what I owed him…in case I needed to transfer funds.” She waved it off. “He’ll bill me, I’m sure.”
I nodded, thinking about something that was bothering me. “Millie, I don’t mean to be insensitive, but did Yolette really run through all of James’s money? Did Eugene ever say?”
She snorted. “He reported she had plenty. She thought she could play the poor bereaved widow and bleed Sarah dry, but I’ll hand it to my sister. She didn’t send that woman a red cent.”
“This PI, Eugene Cassidy,” Saber said. “Did he mention anyone else he was working for?”
“Of course not. He’s an ethical PI,” Millie huffed.
“But he might’ve said something in passing,” Saber suggested.
“He didn’t.” Then she cocked her head as if considering. “I can tell you he’s been in Daytona a good deal, but then he has an office there.”
Saber and I traded another glance.
“Is Daytona important?” Millie asked.
Saber reached into his jeans pocket and handed her Rachelle’s picture. “Do you know this woman?”
Millie inhaled a harsh breath. “It’s the vampire from France. The one who was blamed for killing James.”
“Are you sure?” Saber pressed.
She rose and went to the same credenza where the tissue box had been, opened a cabinet door, and pulled out a photo album. With one flip, it opened, and she handed it to Saber. “Eugene’s Paris contact took these at some party or other about a month before James died.”