“Bryson was an expensive school. I imagine it still is.”
Daniel shrugged. “We were comfortable.”
Alex’s smile was wry. “No, you were rich. That school cost more than some colleges. My mother tried to get us in on a scholarship, but our kin hadn’t fought alongside Lee and Stonewall.” She injected a drawl into her voice and his smile was equally wry.
“You’re right. We had financial wealth. Simon didn’t graduate from Bryson,” he said. “He got expelled and had to go to Jefferson.”
To the public school. “Lucky us,” Alex said. “So that’s how Wade and Simon met.”
“I assume so. I was away at college by then. What was in Wade’s letter to you?”
She shrugged. “He asked my forgiveness and wished me a good life.”
“What was he asking forgiveness for?”
Alex shook her head. “It could have been any number of things. He wasn’t specific.”
“But you’ve got it narrowed to one,” he said, and she lifted her brows.
“Remind me not to play poker with you. I think Riley’s dog pals are more my speed.”
“Alex.”
She huffed a breath. “Fine. Alicia and I were twins. Identical twins.”
“Yeah,” he said dryly. “I got that this morning.”
She grimaced in sympathy. “I truly had no idea you’d be so startled.” He was still hiding something, but for now she’d play his game. “You’ve heard all the twin stories about switching places? Well, Alicia and I did that more than a few times. I think Mama always knew. Anyway, Alicia was the party animal and I was the practical one.”
“No,” he said, deadpan, and she chuckled, in spite of herself.
“A few times we’d switch places for tests, until the teachers wised up. I felt so guilty, cheating like that, so I told them and Alicia was so mad. I was a ‘downer,’ no fun at the parties, so Alicia started going alone. She had a string of boyfriends from Dutton to Atlanta and back and a couple times she double-booked. Once, I stepped in.”
Daniel became suddenly serious. “I don’t like the direction this is going.”
“I went to this B-list party—the one she didn’t want to go to, but didn’t want to get excluded from the next time around. Wade was there. He was never an A-list party kind of guy, although he always wanted to be. He . . . put the moves on Alicia. Me.”
Daniel grimaced. “That’s disgusting.”
It had been. No one had ever touched her there before and Wade hadn’t been gentle. It still made her sick to her stomach to remember. “Well, yes, but technically we weren’t related. My mother never married his father, but it was still gross.” And terrifying.
“So what did you do?”
“I slugged him, on pure reflex. Broke his nose, then kneed him in the . . . you know.”
Vartanian winced. “I know.”
She could still see Wade lying on the floor, in a cursing, bleeding fetal ball. “We were both shocked. Then he was humiliated and I was still shocked.”
“So what happened? Did he get in trouble?”
“No. Alicia and I got grounded for a month and Wade walked away whistlin’ Dixie.”
“That wasn’t fair.”
“But that was life in our house.” Alex studied his face. There was still something . . . But he was a far better poker player than she. “I never thought I’d get a deathbed apology. I guess you never know what you’re gonna do when the Reaper knocks.”
“I guess not. Listen, do you have that chaplain’s contact information?”
“Sure.” Alex dug it out of her satchel. “Why?”
“Because I want to talk to him. The timing’s too convenient. Now, about tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Your cousin leaves tomorrow, right? How about I bring Riley to meet your niece tomorrow night? I can bring some pizza or something, then we can see if Hope likes dogs before we take her to talk to Sister Anne.”
She blinked, a little stunned. She’d never thought he’d been serious. Then she remembered his hands on her shoulders, supporting her when her knees wanted to buckle. Maybe Daniel Vartanian was really just a very nice man. “That will work. Thank you, Daniel. It’s a date.”
He shook his head, his expression changing, almost as if he was daring her to disagree. “Not hardly. A date doesn’t typically involve children or dogs.” His eyes were totally serious and sent a shiver down her spine. A nice shiver, she thought. The kind she hadn’t had in a very long time. “And it definitely does not involve nuns.”
She swallowed hard, certain her cheeks were red as flame. “I see.”
His hand lifted to her face, hesitating a moment before his thumb swept across her lower lip and she shivered again, harder this time. “Now I think you finally do,” he murmured, then flinched. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket where it had apparently buzzed him out of what was becoming a very interesting mood.
“Vartanian.” His face went expressionless. It was his case, then. Alex thought of the woman on the table in the morgue and wondered who she was. If someone had finally missed her. “How many tickets did she buy?” he asked, then shook his head. “No, I don’t need you to spell it. I know the family. Thanks, you’ve been a big help.”
He hung up and stunned her once again by pulling his sweatshirt over his head and jogging toward the stairs. On his way he balled the sweatshirt and shot it basketball style at a laundry chute in the wall. He missed, but didn’t stop to try again. “Stay there,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll be back.”
Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, she watched him disappear up the stairs. The man had a beautiful back, broad and well-muscled and covered with smooth, golden skin. The glimpse of his chest hadn’t been half bad either. Hell. There was nothing half bad about that man. Alex realized she’d reached out to touch. Ridiculous. She considered the look in his eyes just before his cell had gone off. Maybe not so ridiculous after all.
She drew a shuddering breath and picked up the sweatshirt, indulging the urge to sniff it before stuffing it down the chute. Be careful, Alex. What had he called it? Unfamiliar ground. She cast a wistful look up the stairs, knowing he’d probably pulled off the jeans when he’d reached the top. But damn fine unfamiliar ground it was.
In less than two minutes he was thundering back down the stairs, dressed in his dark suit, tugging his tie into place. Without slowing down, he picked up her satchel and kept walking. “Get your jacket and come on. I’ll follow you back to Dutton.”
“That’s not necessary,” she started, but he was already out the door.
“I’m going there anyway. I’ll bring Riley to your house by six-thirty tomorrow night.” He opened her car door and waited till she’d buckled up before closing her door.
She rolled down the window. “Daniel,” she called after him.
He turned to face her, walking backward. “What?”
“Thank you.”
His steps faltered. “You’re welcome. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
Dutton, Monday, January 29, 11:35 p.m.
Daniel got out of his car and looked up at the house on the hill with a wince. This was not going to be good. Janet Bowie had used a credit card to buy her own admission ticket to Fun-N-Sun and the tickets of seven other people, a group of kids.
Now he got to tell state congressman Robert Bowie his daughter was thought dead. With heavy steps he climbed the steep driveway to the Bowie mansion and rang the bell.
The door was opened by a sweaty young man wearing running shorts. “Yes?”
Daniel pulled out his shield. “I’m Special Agent Vartanian, Georgia Bureau of Investigation. I need to talk with Congressman and Mrs. Bowie.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “My parents are asleep.”
Daniel blinked. “Michael?” It had been nearly sixteen years since he’d seen Michel Bowie. Michael had been a skinny fourteen-year-old when Daniel had gone away to college. He wasn’t skinny any longer. “I’m so
rry, I didn’t recognize you.”
“You, on the other hand, haven’t changed a bit.” It was said in a way that could just as easily be taken as a compliment or as an insult. “You need to come back tomorrow.”
Daniel put his hand on the door when Michael started to close it. “I need to talk to your parents,” he repeated quietly but firmly. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t important.”
“Michael, who’s calling at this time of night?” a booming voice thundered.
“State police.” Michael stepped back and Daniel stepped into the grand foyer of Bowie Hall, one of the few antebellum mansions the Yankees hadn’t managed to burn.
Congressman Bowie was tying the belt of a smoking jacket. His face was impassive, but in his eyes Daniel saw apprehension. “Daniel Vartanian. I heard you’d come into town today. What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry to bother you at this time of night, Congressman,” Daniel began. “I’m investigating the murder of a woman found in Arcadia yesterday.”
“At the bike race.” Bowie nodded. “I read about it in today’s Review.”
Daniel drew a quiet breath. “I think the victim may be your daughter, sir.”
Bowie drew back, shaking his head. “No, it’s not possible. Janet is in Atlanta.”
“When did you last see your daughter, sir?”
Bowie’s jaw hardened. “Last week, but her sister talked to her yesterday morning.”
“Can I talk to your other daughter, Mr. Bowie?” Daniel asked.
“It’s late. Patricia’s asleep.”
“I know it’s late, but if we’ve made a mistake, we need to know so we can keep searching for this woman’s identity. Somebody is waiting for her to come home, sir.”
“I understand. Patricia! Come down here. And make sure you’re properly dressed.”
Two doors opened upstairs and both Mrs. Bowie and a young girl came down the stairs, the girl looking uncertain. “What’s this about, Bob?” Mrs. Bowie asked. She recognized Daniel and frowned. “Why is he here? Bob?”
“Calm down, Rose. This is all a mistake and we’re going to clear it up right now.” Bowie turned to the young girl. “Patricia, you said you talked to Janet yesterday morning. You said that she was sick and not driving down for supper.”
Patricia blinked innocently and Daniel sighed inside. Sisters covering for each other.
“Janet said she had the flu.” Patricia smiled, trying for sophisticated. “Why, did she get a parking ticket or something? That’s just like Janet.”
Bowie had grown as pale as had his wife. “Patricia,” he said hoarsely, “Agent Vartanian is investigating a murder. He thinks Janet is the victim. Don’t cover for her.”
Patricia’s mouth fell open. “What?”
“Did you really talk to your sister, Patricia?” Daniel asked gently.
The girl’s eyes filled with horrified tears. “No. She asked me to tell everybody she was sick. She had somewhere else to go that day. But it can’t be her. It can’t.”
Mrs. Bowie made a panicked sound. “Bob.”
Bowie put his arm around his wife. “Michael, get your mother a chair.”
Michael had already done so and helped his mother sit while Daniel focused on Patricia. “When did she ask you to cover for her?”
“Wednesday night. She said she was spending the weekend with . . . friends.”
“This is important, Patricia. Which friends?” Daniel pressed. From the corner of his eye he watched Mrs. Bowie sink into a chair, visibly shaking.
Patricia looked miserably at her parents, tears streaming down her cheeks. “She has a boyfriend. She knew you wouldn’t approve. I’m sorry.”
Ashen, Bowie looked at Daniel. “What do you need from us, Daniel?”
“Hair from her brush. We’ll need to fingerprint the room she uses when she’s here.” He hesitated. “The name of her dentist.”
Bowie blanched, but swallowed and nodded. “You’ll have it.”
“Oh, God. We never should have let her have that apartment in Atlanta.” Mrs. Bowie was crying, rocking, her hands covering her face.
“She has an apartment in Atlanta?” Daniel asked.
Bowie’s nod was barely perceptible. “She’s with the orchestra.”
“She’s a cellist,” Daniel said quietly. “But she comes home on weekends?”
“Sunday evenings, mostly. She comes home for supper.” Bowie tightened his jaw, struggling for composure. “Not so much lately. She’s growing up. Away. But she’s only twenty-two.” He broke, dropping his chin to his chest, and Daniel looked away, giving him privacy in his grief.
“Her room is upstairs,” Michael murmured.
“Thank you. I’ll have a CSU van out here as quickly as possible. Patricia, I need to know everything you know about Janet and her boyfriend.” Daniel put his hand on Bob Bowie’s arm. “I’m so sorry, sir.”
Bowie jerked a nod and said nothing.
Dutton, Tuesday, January 30, 12:55 a.m.
“What’s going on here?”
Daniel stopped short. A wave of anger swept through him and he tamped it back. “Well, if it isn’t the elusive Sheriff Loomis. Let me introduce myself. I’m Special Agent Daniel Vartanian and I’ve left you six messages since Sunday.”
“Don’t get sarcastic with me, Daniel.” Frank scowled at the small army that had descended on Bowie Hall. “Goddamn GBI has overrun my town. Like locusts.”
In truth, only one car and one van belonged to GBI personnel. Three of the police cars were from Dutton’s small force and one was from Arcadia. Sheriff Corchran himself had come, offering his condolences to the Bowies and his help to Daniel.
Deputy Mansfield, Loomis’s second in command, had arrived shortly after Ed’s crime scene van had pulled into the drive, outraged at not having been the one to process Janet’s bedroom, in direct contrast to Corchran’s helpful attitude.
Of the other cars that lined the drive, one belonged to Dutton’s mayor, two others to Congressman Bowie’s aides. Still another belonged to Dr. Granville, who was currently overseeing the near- hysterical state of Mrs. Bowie.
One of the cars belonged to Jim Woolf. The Bowies had given him no comment and Daniel had held him off with the promise of a statement when the ID was confirmed.
It had been, just minutes before. One of Ed’s techs had brought a card bearing the victim’s fingerprints with him and had almost immediately matched the prints to those taken from a crystal vase next to Janet Bowie’s bed. Daniel himself had confirmed the news to Bob Bowie and Bowie had just climbed the stairs to his wife’s room.
Shrieking from the upstairs bedroom told Daniel that Bowie had told his wife. Both he and Frank looked toward the upstairs, then back at each other. “Do you have something to say, Frank?” Daniel asked coldly. “Because I’m a little busy right now.”
Frank’s face darkened. “This is my town, Daniel Vartanian. Not yours. You left.”
Again Daniel tamped down his temper, and when he spoke, it was evenly. “It may not be my town, but it’s my case, Frank. If you really wanted to be of some help, you might have returned any of the messages I’ve left on your voicemail.”
Frank’s gaze never faltered, becoming almost belligerent. “I was out of town yesterday and today. I didn’t get your messages until I got back tonight.”
“I sat outside your office for nearly forty-five minutes today,” Daniel said quietly. “Wanda said you couldn’t be disturbed. I don’t care if you needed to get away, but you wasted my time. Time I could have been looking for the man who killed Janet Bowie.”
Frank finally looked away. “I’m sorry, Daniel.” But the apology was stiffly delivered. “The last week has been difficult. Your parents . . . they were my friends. The funeral was difficult enough, but the media . . . After dealing with reporters all week, I needed some space. I told Wanda not to let anybody know I was gone. I should have called you.”
A little of Daniel’s anger melted away. “It’s okay. But Fr
ank, I really need that police report—the one on Alicia Tremaine’s murder. Please get it for me.”
“I’ll get it for you first thing in the morning,” Frank promised, “when Wanda comes in. She knows how everything’s filed in the basement. You’re sure it’s Janet?”
“Her fingerprints match.”
“Dammit. Who did this?”
“Well, now that we know who she is, we can start investigating. Frank, if you needed help, why didn’t you call me?”
Frank’s jaw squared. “I didn’t say I needed help. I said I needed space. I went up to my cabin to be alone.” He turned on his heel and headed for the door.
“Okay,” Daniel murmured, trying not to feel stung. “Frank?”
Frank looked back. “What?” It was very nearly a snap.
“Bailey Crighton. I think she really is missing.”
Frank’s lip curled. “Thanks for your opinion, Special Agent Vartanian. Good night.”
Daniel shook off the hurt. He had work to do and couldn’t afford to worry about Frank Loomis. Frank was a grown man. If and when he needed help, Daniel would be there for him.
Ed came up behind him. “We’re dusting her room. I found a few old diaries in a drawer. A few matchbooks. Not much else. What did you find out about the boyfriend?”
“His name is Lamar Washington, African-American. He plays in a jazz club. Patricia didn’t know where.”
Ed held out a baggie filled with matchbooks. “Could be one of these places.”
Daniel took the bag. “I’ll write down the names, then give them back. Patricia said Janet made it sound like a fling, that Janet never intended to bring him home.”
“That could make a man mad enough to beat a woman’s face in,” Ed said. “But it doesn’t explain copying the Tremaine scene.”
“I know,” Daniel said. “But it’s all I have for now. I’m going to check out the jazz clubs once I’m done here.”
“We’re going to check out Janet’s apartment.” Ed held up a key ring. “Janet’s brother Michael got us the key to her place.”
When Ed was gone, Daniel went into the sitting room, which was standing room only. Michael Bowie was the only family member in the room. He’d changed into a black suit and his face was haggard in his grief, but he was ever the politician’s son. “Can you give them a statement so they’ll go?” Michael murmured. “I just want them all to go.”