even tragedy looked good on Spencer Anne Montgomery. Huntington, he reminded himself, as he so often seemed forced to do.
He’d been avoiding her, and he knew it. She’d made it easy for him at first. Right after the funeral, she’d gone to one of her mother’s family’s estates in Newport; then she’d come back and worked in her own West Palm offices for a few months. But she’d been in Miami for nearly two months, and now she was standing in his office, staring at him with barely suppressed fury.
“I take the Miami Herald,” he told her.
“Taking it doesn’t mean you read it,” she said. She inched the paper closer to him with a long, slim, beautifully manicured finger, and he was convinced that if he didn’t pick it up soon, she would press his nose right into it. He knew the article; he’d already read it—and ached over it.
All this time, in the year since Danny’s murder, there hadn’t been an arrest. There still wasn’t even a solid suspect. The police had worked on the case continuously, and David had put all his energies into it, called in favors, prowled the streets. They still didn’t even have a firm motive, though a number of them had been conceived and then dismissed. Hell, he’d even been questioned. So had Spencer. Wives were automatically number-one suspects, just as best friends were often number two—unless, of course, there were a number of ex-wives or mistresses running around in the background.
“Want to sit, Spencer?” he asked her, indicating the leather-upholstered chair in front of his desk. “Or do you want to keep standing there, glaring at me.”
“I want you to do something!”
By that time Reva had come to the doorway. “Spencer’s here, David,” she informed him cheerfully. No one else could have gotten past his kid sister. Reva knew how to stop anyone in his or her tracks—except Spencer. He almost smiled. It had been like that even when they’d all been kids.
“Thanks, Reva. Why don’t you suggest to Mrs. Huntington that she sit down?” David said.
“Spencer—”
“Reva, have you read this article?” Spencer demanded, swinging around. She and Reva were both of an age, and both striking women, David thought, watching the two of them, a bit distracted for the moment. He’d been feeling that way lately. Frustration did it, he thought. They looked a little like a pair of modern-day fairy-tale princesses, Rose White and Rose Red, Spencer with her sweeping golden hair and sky-colored eyes, Reva with a curling mass of nearly black hair, tanned to the hilt, and though her eyes were really a very deep blue, just like David’s, they often looked as if they were black. They had always liked one another, but their relationships with him, he knew, had kept them from ever becoming close friends.
“I’ve read it, Spencer,” Reva said. “But you’ve got to know that David has done everything in his power—”
“It’s not enough!”
“But, Spencer—”
Spencer turned to face David again. “He was your best friend. How can you just forget him? Read the article! The reporter is claiming police incompetence, that no one seems to care anymore.”
David stood. “Spencer, I did read the damned article. And in case you didn’t notice, that reporter is also suggesting that you should have been more thoroughly investigated.”
“And all the while the real murderer is walking around at large, laughing at everyone.”
“Spencer,” Reva said, beginning to grow protective, “David almost allowed his entire business to fall apart, he was so desperate to find Danny’s killer. You’ve got—”
“Then I’ll hire David and the entire damned agency, and that way no one will be worrying about anything falling apart.”
David stood. He’d had it with Spencer carrying on, and he would be damned if he’d have his little sister fighting his battles for him, even against Spencer.
“I won’t work for you, Spencer,” he said flatly. “And for the moment, you can either sit down, in which case I’ll go over everything I know, or you can get out.”
“Damn you, David, I will not leave.”
“You will leave, because I’ll set you out bodily, then call the cops and tell them you’re harrassing me and affecting my business,” he told her, then sighed with exasperation as she continued to stare at him as if she were about to explode any second. “Spencer, please, sit!”
She sat. Reva caught his eye. “I’ll get some coffee,” she said.
“If it’s for Spencer, make it decaf. She certainly doesn’t need the caffeine!” David said.
Spencer let that pass. When David sat down behind his desk again, he felt a wave of guilt and sorrow sweep over him. She was so pale, and so damned thin. All her life, she had dressed beautifully but simply, and that hadn’t changed. She was wearing a sleeveless dress that stopped just above the knee. But the cut was perfect, and David assumed it was some kind of designer original, although Spencer also made a point of buying things just because she liked them, not because there was a name attached to them. Spencer had never acted as if she came from money, but it was always there in the background, just the same. He had to admit, though, he wasn’t sure just who had buckled to the family pressure, him or her.
Whatever, the dress, simple, perfect, looked wonderful on her. One minute she seemed like a tempest, and now she seemed all but ethereal. She needed more meat on her bones, more color in her face. Her eyes were haunted. Hell, his probably looked that way, too. It had been rough, learning to live with Danny gone.
And hunting for his killer.
“It’s been a year, David,” she said almost tonelessly.
“Spencer, have you been to the police—”
“Of course. Lots of times. They’re always as nice as they can be—except, of course, when they start questioning me again.”
“They have to do that, Spencer.”
“How could I have killed him?” she asked bleakly.
He hesitated. “The way they see it, anything is possible. You might have run out, shot him, run home, then waited for someone to come and give you the news.”
“But you know—”
“I’m telling you what the D.A.’s office could come up with in terms of motive. You were his wife. You inherited a sizable fortune on his death.”
“But you found me—”
“Stark naked. What a great way to shed bloody clothing.”
She was standing again, staring at him as if he were a cold-blooded killer. “You bastard! What about you? He died in your arms!”
“Spencer, sit down, or I’ll make you sit down in about two seconds!”
She didn’t sit. He swore, rising. She sat, teeth grating, staring at him. “Spencer, damn you, they questioned me, too, over and over. Guys I worked with for years. They had to explore all the possibilities.”
Tears
