“Some scars are just more visible than others,” Alex said by way of agreeing. “In my work, I’ve learned how clever people can be at hiding them. Even from themselves.”
Davee studied her for a moment longer. “You’re not what I expected. From the way you were portrayed in the news stories, I would have thought you were… coarser. Harder. Devious. Even wicked.” She laughed again. “I would have thought you were more like me.”
“I have my flaws. Plenty of them. But I swear that I met your husband only once. That was last Saturday. As it turns out, not long before he was killed. But I didn’t kill him, and I didn’t go to that hotel suite to sleep with him. It’s important to me that you know that.”
“I’m inclined to believe you,” Davee said. “First of all, you have nothing to gain by coming here and telling me that. Moreover, and I mean no offense by this, you’re not my dearly departed’s type.”
Alex smiled at that, but her curiosity was genuine when she asked, “Why wouldn’t I have been his type?”
“Physically you would have passed muster. Don’t be offended by this, either—Lute would screw any woman whose body was warm. Who knows? Sometimes that might not even have been a qualification.
“But he liked his women to be in awe of him. Submissive and stupid. Silent for the most part, except maybe during orgasm. You wouldn’t have appealed to him because you’re far too self-confident and bright.”
She refilled her coffee cup from a silver carafe, then dropped two sugar cubes into the cup so that they made soft splashes. “FYI, Dr. Ladd, some of the people accusing you of killing Lute don’t truly believe you did.”
Registering surprise, Alex blurted out, “You’ve spoken with Hammond?”
“No. It wasn’t…” A jolt of enlightenment halted Davee in midsentence. “ ‘Hammond’? You’re on a first-name basis with the man prosecuting your murder case?”
Clearly flustered, Alex set her cup and saucer on the coffee table. “I hope my coming here wasn’t too much of an imposition, Mrs. Pettijohn. I wasn’t sure you would even consent to see me. Thank you for the—”
Davee stopped the chatter by reaching across the space separating them and laying her hand on Alex’s arm. After a pause, Alex raised her head and stared back at Davee with quiet dignity. They communicated on a different level. Defenses were down. Two women seeing, understanding, accepting.
Peering deeply into the other woman’s eyes, Davee said softly, “You’re the one who is not just complicated but impossible.”
Alex opened her mouth to speak, but Davee forestalled her. “No, don’t tell me. It would be like reading the last page of a juicy novel. But I can’t wait to find out how the two of you managed to get yourselves into this mess. I hope the circumstances were absolutely decadent and delicious. Hammond deserves that.” Then she smiled ruefully. “Poor Hammond. This must be one hell of a dilemma for him.”
“Very much so.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“He may soon find himself in need of friends. Be his friend.”
“I am.”
“So he says.” Alex slid the strap of her handbag onto her shoulder. “I should go.”
Davee didn’t summon her housekeeper but walked Alex to the front door herself. “You haven’t commented on my house,” she observed as they crossed the front foyer. “Most people do the first time they come. What do you think?”
Alex gave a quick look around. “Honestly?”
“I asked.”
“You have some lovely things. But to my taste it’s a little overdone.”
“Are you kidding?” Davee chortled. “It’s gaudy as all get-out. Now that Lute is dead, I plan on detackying it.”
The two women smiled at each other. This was a rare thing for Davee—feeling a kinship with another woman. With characteristic straightforwardness, she said, “I don’t care whether you slept with Lute or not, I like you, Alex.”
“I like you, too.”
Alex was halfway down the front walk when Davee called out to her. “You were with Lute shortly before he was killed?”
“That’s right.”
“Hmm. The killer might think that you’re holding something back. Something you saw or heard. Are you?” she asked bluntly.