Deceived (22 page)

“Stop laughing,” Taylor said, but she had a sinking feeling that Andi was correct, because at this point, Taylor couldn’t imagine not being with Brandon again. She wanted to see him, to talk to him, to see if she could bring out that gorgeous smile. But instead of acknowledging that Andi was right, Taylor repeated, “Brandon and I are not involved.”

“Honey, if you could see yourself from my point of view right now,” Carolyn said, “you might not be so quick to say that.”

“He doesn’t do relationships.”

Carolyn shrugged. “How do you know that?”

“He told me.”

Andi said, “I think that you should still go with him today.”

Taylor shook her head. “What are you talking about? You tell me my father will have a fit, then you tell me to go with Brandon.”

“When you talked about him, you seemed,” Andi paused, “different. I don’t want your father to influence who you fall for. So go. This afternoon. Why not? We’re planning everything for Collette’s services this morning, right? Actually,” she frowned, “you know darn well that your father is going to take the lead on all of the plans. And there are more people working on the patron party and gala than it would take to build a pyramid. All you and I are going to do this afternoon is sit around and cry,” Andi said, “and as much as I’d like to have you with me to do that, I think you really should take a break for the afternoon. I’m actually going to skip the party and the gala,” Andi narrowed her eyes, “as your father invited me to do last night.
My
father will understand.”

Taylor’s heart sank. “I wish that I had that option.”

“You do, Taylor. For once in your life, tell your father no. If you don’t start now, when? You know damn well he’s going to live until he’s a hundred and he’s going to be a force that you need to deal with, sooner or later, or else he’ll keep making your life miserable. It just isn’t right to get all dressed up, make small talk, and pose for pictures at a party tonight with Collette gone. I’m going to go to the beach house, stare at the waves, and not return until Monday.”

“Please don’t leave me,” Taylor said.

“I can’t go to those parties, Taylor.” Andi started crying. “I can’t do it. I’m sorry. I can’t act composed when my heart is broken. I can’t be like you. Please don’t ask me to stay here.”

Chapter Thirteen

The day and the night belonged to Andi Hutchenson. Andrew Hutchenson would lose his youngest child, his only daughter. He had twenty-four hours to make it happen, but he’d been planning this for weeks. It was not going to be difficult. At ten-thirty in the morning, he entered The Chocolate Croissant and ordered a double-shot cappuccino and an everything bagel with cream cheese. As he waited for his order, he glanced at the offerings on the news and magazine racks.

In addition to the usual local and national newspapers, the coffee shop had glossy social publications, the kind that catered to Southern society women. On the cover of one of the July publications was Collette, his redhead, Andi, his brunette, and Taylor, his honey-blonde piece of perfection. He selected the magazine with his women on the cover, another magazine, and two newspapers.

He sat and opened his iPad, where the GPS application reduced Andi to a blue dot. The tracking device was triggered by a sensor that he had placed in her car’s bumper. Actually, he had placed it in the bumper of both of her cars. She had two, after all. One sporty, the other more functional. Today, Andi was driving her SUV.

He chuckled.

Technology was wonderful. The blue dot departed from Taylor’s house then turned onto the interstate, and then west. The dot took the airport exit. He frowned. Surely she wouldn’t leave town. Her friend had died, and there were important events to get through for the weekend.

Unease knotted his stomach. Important events didn’t mean that Andi would stay in town. Andi wasn’t Taylor, and Andi’s father wasn’t George Bartholomew. Andi, unlike Taylor, didn’t have high expectations to live up to. The knowledge he had gathered about Andi indicated that she could do what she wanted, when she wanted to do it, and she did. She had finished college, but barely. It took her six years to complete a degree in art history. She called herself an artist, but he couldn’t find exhibited works. He guessed that artist was code for a rich girl who didn’t need to work and had no interest in it.

Of the two who remained, Andi was the one who was unpredictable. Predictably unpredictable, but unpredictable nonetheless. If Andi got on a plane with plans to disappear, killing her in the next twenty or so hours would become more complicated. He thought through the scenarios, which all began with him figuring out where she was headed. He could make it happen. He had the capability of tracking her through the use of cell phones and credit cards, two things that she could not live without. He drew a deep breath. He was tired, but that was the disease. There was nothing wrong with his mind, and when he needed it, he would have the energy. The hunt that led to a kill always gave him energy.

***

Brandon arrived at the airport at eleven, parked his car, and talked to Joe as he carried his briefcase to the jet. Joe had talked to Taylor prior to calling Brandon, and Joe was going to talk to Anton later.

“I’m not sure you’ll get anything out of him,” Brandon said, “but I was watching last night. The kid was certain that it wasn’t Tilly that dumped Lisa’s stuff on the sidewalk.”

“Taylor told me about her trip to the murder scene and her feeling that someone was watching the two of you when you were at Lisa’s house on Thursday night. Do you think someone was there?”

“I didn’t see him if he was there, and when I was outside I didn’t see evidence of him.” Brandon boarded the ladder and nodded hello to the two pilots. The jet could seat twelve, with two passenger areas. The rear compartment was designed for rest, with a long couch and two reclining chairs. The forward compartment had a table in a booth-like configuration and two separate, stand-alone chairs. Brandon settled into the jet’s forward compartment, at the table, and placed his briefcase on the bench next to him.

“Taylor was on edge,” he explained. “I had taken her to Marvin’s house, and she’d already been to the murder scene. Still, she doesn’t strike me as the type to hallucinate. I saw the same kind of car yesterday, and I’d swear whoever was in it was watching us, because he sure as hell sped away when I spotted him.”

“Tell me more about Lisa’s research,” Joe said. “Taylor’s got me curious.”

Brandon gave Joe some background. “Lisa’s theory seems to be that my grandfather was framed.” He drew a deep breath. “And I can’t figure out why that was her theory, because her laptop was stolen and it looks to me like chunks of her research are missing. There’s boxes that are taped and sealed that are labeled research, and all that’s in there are empty binders. I think someone went through her work,” Brandon said, “though the place doesn’t look like anyone was in there. I think we need to at least explore whether her research could be related to her death.”

“Maybe so, but right now,” Joe said, “Tony and I are focused on finding Tilly Rochelle, though with Anton’s statements to Taylor, I’m seriously doubting whether that’s going to be productive.”

“As of nine this morning, Marvin had a lead on Rochelle’s location in Jackson, Mississippi. If he’s there, Marvin will bring him to you. I’m flying to Texas in a few minutes. Lisa talked to the granddaughter of Rorsch, the man who caught my grandfather. She went to Texas to read his memoirs. You’re more than welcome to come with me. Wheels are up pretty soon though.”

“You need to stop doing police work.”

“You can’t stop me from talking to someone about history that involves my grandfather. Besides,” Brandon said, “the NOPD owes me leeway.”

“We made a mistake back then. We don’t owe you anything.” Joe paused. “I should be pissed, but hell. Reality is that I barely have time to do anything on the Smithfield case. Tony and I are in it up to our chins on last week’s triple shooting, and we’re both set to give another interview to the feds today on internal matters. If I get to talk to Anton and if we get Tilly in for questioning, that would be a home run of a day. I certainly don’t have time to go to Texas. I might never have that kind of time. But promise me one thing.”

“Depends on what it is.”

“If things start deteriorating, let me know before you jump on a fast train to hell, all right?”

“Sure. Will do.” Brandon broke the connection, then stood and walked to the cockpit, where the pilots were performing final checks. He’d flown with both of them before. Brandon talked to them for a few minutes, then he settled at the table, opened his briefcase, and pulled out pleadings for an argument that he was giving on Wednesday.

“Mr. Morrissey?”

Brandon looked up at the pilot.

“Are you expecting anyone?”

Brandon glanced out of the window. A silver Mercedes SUV had pulled up next to his car. As Taylor stepped out of the passenger side, Brandon’s heart beat faster and he let out a deep breath.
Damn it.
He wished that he wasn’t so glad to see her.

“I guess so.”

The driver, a young woman with dark brown, waist length hair in a sleek ponytail, stepped out of the car, hooked elbows with Taylor, and the two walked to the jet as Brandon stepped down the boarding ladder. The two women, wearing large sunglasses, lightweight dresses, and sandals, exchanged a hug at the foot of the boarding ladder. “I decided that I could make it.” Taylor spoke loud so that she could be heard over the whirr of the engines. “Is that all right?”

Brandon nodded. “Of course.”

“Andi,” Taylor said, “Brandon.”

Andi extended her right hand and gave Brandon a firm handshake. “Nice to meet you,” she said, then leaned forward, with her mouth only inches from Brandon’s ear. “Please take care of her for the next six hours, then see that she gets home safely, no later than six, so that she can get ready for that damn party that she’s insisting on going to. Promise?”

As Brandon nodded, he shot a glance at Taylor. If Taylor heard her friend’s odd instructions, she gave no indication. Andi stepped back, the two women shared a long hug, then, after they exchanged a few sentences Brandon could not hear, Andi returned to her car, and Taylor climbed the jet’s boarding ladder.

She placed her purse and a soft leather satchel on the table, next to his work, then sat at the table where Brandon’s work was spread out. She didn’t remove her sunglasses. She sat still. Her hands were clasped, but gently. She wasn’t frowning and she wasn’t smiling. Brandon sat next to her, puzzled. He’d seen her give off an aura of coolness, but he sensed that now she was fighting for poise.

The pilot gave them a two-minute warning, requested that they fasten their seat belts, then shut the door to the cockpit. After fastening his seatbelt, he reached over and lifted her sunglasses from her eyes. Her hazel eyes, more green than brown today, those beautiful, sharp, inquisitive eyes, looked into his and welled with tears as the jet started its ascent. His heart twisted.

“Please tell me that those tears aren’t about what happened between us.”

She shook her head. She mouthed a silent, “No.”

She wore no make-up that he could discern, but she was still beautiful. “Taylor?”

She wiped at her tears with her index finger. “Last night, after I left your house, I went to my friend’s house. Collette. I found her. She was,” she shuddered, “dead. It looks like an overdose of prescription medicine.” The jet taxied, then lifted. “I told Andi that I shouldn’t make this trip. I’m fine.” She reached into her purse and found tissue as uncontrolled tears fell. “Then this happens. And I have to get my act together, because we have the party tonight and the gala tomorrow night, and I have to be at both. I can’t imagine getting through the next hour. Or two. Without these tears. How am I going to give a speech tomorrow night?”

He had told himself that he’d keep his distance, but distance no longer seemed important. This wasn’t about sex, although one part of his body didn’t seem to get that message. This was about trying to ease her pain. He unsnapped his seatbelt, reached for her, then put his arms around her. She leaned into the space between his arm and his chest and pressed her forehead to his shoulder. Her body shook with sobs.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I should have known.” Her words came as her sobs eased. Taylor lifted her head. Her heartbreak was visible in her eyes. He softened his hug, giving her space. She sat up, reached for her satchel, and dipped her hand into the bag. She didn’t find what she was looking for. She pulled out
Gracious Homes and Glorious Gardens,
a magazine that Brandon recognized as being a gossipy, society publication about wealthy citizens of the deep South. He wouldn’t dream of paying for it, much less reading it.

She placed the magazine on the table then returned to her satchel, where she finally found more tissue. She swabbed at her eyes. “Andi and I both knew that Collette was having a rough time.” Her gaze fell on the magazine. Brandon glanced at the cover, where Taylor was photographed in a chair, with Andi standing at her left shoulder. A petite red head stood at Taylor’s right shoulder. They were dressed in classic feminine suits and looked fresh, rich, poised, and confident. The tag line read
Andi Hutchenson, Collette Westerfeld, and Taylor Bartholomew, three best friends, are planning the Fall’s most important social event
.

They looked to be about the same age. Where there were three, now there were two. Only three days earlier, a woman looking into the Morrissey treason case, a part of HBW history, was murdered. Now, a Westerfeld was dead. Although his heart pounded, he kept his voice calm as he asked, “There’s no suspicion of foul play?”

“No. If my father has his way, the official report will be that it was an accidental overdose of prescription medication.” She frowned. “It is the option that was most palatable to my father at our meeting with the coroner this morning. He wouldn’t dream of letting the coroner use the word suicide.”

Out of nowhere, in the same way that he got hunches about legal theories, cases, and juries, something told him that the timing of Collette’s death was too close to Lisa’s death to be coincidental.

Hell
.

He made a mental note to talk to Joe about it. Murder could easily be masked to look like suicide. Collette, a young socialite, who probably had never encountered a sociopath, would have been powerless in the crosshairs of one.

Taylor continued, “We knew that Collette was too dependent on meds. Antidepressants. Anti-anxiety pills. Sleeping pills. I was supposed to check on her yesterday, but I didn’t go there until I left your house. If I had gotten there at seven-thirty, or eight, I could have saved her.” She paused as fresh tears fell and her voice dropped to a whisper as she said, “Or maybe it wouldn’t have happened at all.”

Brandon focused his attention on the grief stricken woman next to him. He caught a tear with his index finger, then smoothed back her hair. His hand fell on her shoulder and rested there. He wished that he could impart to her some of his hard-earned strength. Instead, he only had words that portrayed his own journey with grief and guilt, a journey of which he had never spoken. Hazel eyes were seeking comfort. Waiting.

Aw. Damn.
There was something about Taylor that he couldn’t resist, on every level, even this deeply personal one.

He drew a deep breath as he searched for words that he could actually say about the worst time in his life, thinking that she might benefit from his mistake. “In my experience, grief can hurt so badly that it can derail your life. It can make you sick, physically and mentally.” Brandon hesitated as he fought through the gut-twist of memories and pain. “Grief, no matter how it comes at you, is a hard enough burden. Layer it with guilt, self-imposed or for good reason, it doesn’t matter, and grief becomes toxic.”