Any other time, she would have marveled at the luxurious design. Today, her mind whirled. Two days had passed. Two. Days. Forty-eight endless hours. Had she received word from Conrad? Noooo. She’d even called and left him a message. And she was marginally certain she’d asked a question at some point during her two-minute ramble.
Bottom line: A murder had occurred in her backyard and the “special agent” couldn’t bother to update her on the case? He was so not a romance-novel hero. Heroes broke curses. Or at least fought them. Heroes didn’t ignore you at the most critical junctures of your life.
Fiona had one theory other than a jealous boyfriend or husband. They’d discussed it Friday night when they’d knitted at Jane’s. Something they did every week. Her friend wondered if someone from the clinic did the deed. Rumors suggested some kind of fight had erupted among the staff the day before the murder.
The darling Fiona had provided more than information. She’d passed along the name of a new security expert in town. Someone willing to work cheap. Except the owner of Peach State Security had failed to return Jane’s call too. Was she that forgettable?
Whatever! Onward and upward. Jane was taking matters into her own hands. If Conrad—Special Agent Ryan—considered her a suspect, fine. She would work to solve the murder and clear her good name. Bonus, she would end the besmirching of her family’s legacy.
The absolute, utter jerkholes at Aurelian Hills Cemetery had begun a whisper campaign on the Headliner, claiming “guests” at Garden of Memories were no longer safe. That “underground home invasions” were rampant. Jane clenched her teeth.
An aluminum-foil-wrapped casserole was nestled on the passenger seat. No one could resist Jane’s fried red-potato salad.
She parked in the circular driveway of the Hotchkinses, noting the plethora of cars. Different models, colors and price tags, yet each one intimidated her. Oh, wow. Some of the vehicles were tagged with neon-blue spray paint. The same fleur-de-lys symbol covered hoods and doors. On purpose?
Focus. A quick internet search had revealed the number one suspect of any homicide: the spouse. So Jane’s plan was simple. Lean on the age-old Southern tradition of bringing food to the bereaved in order to stealthily question Tiffany. My first official interrogation. Should be a piece of cake. Jane had spoken to lots of people in her life. Both dead and alive. Making words wasn’t difficult.
Had there been trouble in paradise? Fiona called earlier this morning to mention some rumors.
A deep breath fortified Jane’s courage. After swinging her purse over her shoulder, she grabbed the still-warm casserole dish and exited the hearse. A soft wind scented with hyacinths and azaleas rippled over the pretty black-and-white dress she’d found at Très Chic Consignment for a steal.
The home intimidated her more than the cars. Three stories of wealth and elegance.
On the wraparound porch, Jane checked to make sure she’d remembered her notebook. Excellent. She forced the corners of her mouth to lift. A comforting smile, probably. The one usually reserved for those who visited the Garden of Memories. She rang the bell.
To her surprise, Tiffany herself answered the door. Red-rimmed green eyes looked Jane over. The widow’s tanned skin was now blotchy from tears, but not one strand of her dark bob dared move out of place. A skintight black dress hugged her perfect curves.
Am I looking at grief? Or guilt? Both?
Jane remembered the other woman as an effortless trendsetter who always knew the right thing to wear and say. Based on the soft roar of conversation pouring from somewhere inside, guests packed the Hotchkins’s home. The number of guests proved double or maybe triple the number of cars outside.
“Hello, Tiffany,” she began with her best Garden of Memories smile. An expression that said, I’m here to help. Everything will be okay. “You might not remember me, but we attended Aurelian Hills High together. Go, Miners! Anyway. I’m Jane Ladling, and I’m so sorry about—”
“Another one?” Tiffany interjected, her tone both furious and overwrought. She glared down at the floor and stomped her foot. “You slept with Cemetery Girl, Marcus?”
Someone remembered Jane, at least. “I never slept with your husband. I barely even spoke to him. I just thought—”
“Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway.” The scowling widow opened the door wider. “You might as well come in and join the others.”
“I…thanks?” Jane’s low heels clicked on the black-and-white marble as she entered the foyer. As her hostess led the way deeper into the home, she asked, “What happened to the cars?”
“What does it matter?”
Okay then. Her first interrogation had earned a solid F- so far.
The deeper she traveled, the louder the cacophony of voices became. Tiffany led her into a spacious sitting room overflowing with dozens of women. They lounged everywhere: the couch, the loveseat and even the uncomfortable-looking mahogany Queen Anne chairs someone must have dragged in from the formal dining room. Others stood here and there or leaned against the wall sipping a mimosa. A few guests openly cried.