Delicious Torment Read online

  It was so out of character for her, he had to fight back a grin, but he gestured gallantly. “Be my guest.”

  Angry shivers ran down her arms, down her back, up again. She’d get Parker for this. Hadn’t he heard payback’s a bitch?

  Okay, no more stalling. She took a deep breath and turned to Sullivan. “Where do you want my John Hancock?”

  As the lawyer pointed and turned, pointed and turned, pointed and turned, she scribbled down her name, initials, current address, whatever he asked for.

  Just before she thought she was going to get writer’s cramp, he reached the last page. They were done. Sullivan gathered up the papers as one of the other suits handed her a set of keys.

  With a grunt, she shoved them into her pocket. Take that, Parker, she thought, glaring at him. Be as smug as you like. Once what I just did sinks in, you’ll be begging me to give back your house.

  And she bet it wouldn’t take six months.

  As the lawyers packed up and drifted out of the room, Miranda glanced at her watch. She had about twenty minutes to get to Saint Simon’s. Wait—wouldn’t Parker and his dad be going, too? Not good.

  She eyed Parker’s father. “Terrible news about Desirée Langford, isn’t it, Mr. P?”

  He shook his head, his expression growing serious. “Dreadful. In business, Eli Langford is my worst enemy, but I certainly feel for his loss.”

  She nodded toward Parker and tried to sound casual. “That’s right. Your son mentioned that you and Langford are rivals.”

  He scoffed, straightening his jacket. “That’s putting it mildly. We bid against each other on properties and it can get very ugly at times, but that’s the least of it. The truth is, I can’t stand the man.”

  “Really?”

  Mr. P shuddered, as if thoroughly repulsed. “Not an ounce of finesse. Has all the civility of a German U-boat. And the way he’s raised his daughters.” He shook his head.

  Now he’d piqued her curiosity. “What do you mean?”

  Mr. P rubbed his white mustache with his manicured fingers a moment, shot his son a wary glance, as if weighing how much he should say. “The girls’ mother died when they were in their teens. Eli immediately took up with another woman he’d been seeing on the side for years. After that, he paid little attention to his daughters. While they were growing up, he ignored his girls, let them run wild in their teens. When they inevitably got into trouble, his method of discipline was to belittle them in front of his friends. I’ve seen him bring both of them to tears in public more than once.”

  Miranda felt her skin prickle. “Good grief. He sounds like an ogre.”

  Mr. P’s crystal blue eyes turned dark, as all the charm drained from his face, replaced by anger and insult. “Eli Langford is a brute of a man. It’s no surprise what happened to Desirée.”

  Miranda cast a glance at Parker. A story like that ought to bring out the rescuer in him, but today his face was a rock.

  She turned back to Mr. P. “I read in the paper the funeral’s this afternoon. Guess you and Parker will be going.”

  His thick white brows knitted together as he pulled at his lapels again. “Uh, no. Eli and I can’t be in the same room together without arguing. Unlike him, the Parker family has some sensibilities. It would be cruel to make an appearance at the service. We have sent flowers and our condolences, though.”

  Emerging from the corner, Parker finally broke his silence. “As the Agency has,” he added. “Unfortunately, given the tension between us, it would be ungracious for anyone in our family to attend. And for anyone in this office.” He eyed her carefully.

  She met his gaze. Did he sense she had plans? Didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be there and what Parker didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  But she moved her head up and down, like a good little employee. “Sure, I understand. I guess the police concluded their investigation.” They wouldn’t have released the body otherwise.

  Parker nodded sternly. “They determined it was suicide. They found high levels of PCP in her bloodstream.”

  “Angel dust? So she took an overdose.”

  “Yes, tragically.”

  Or she was given one. Miranda bit her lip and looked down on the carpeted floor, taking in his words. Did Parker really buy that? Why wasn’t he getting involved?

  “Well, I’d better get back to work.” She picked up her copy of the contract and held out a hand to Mr. P.

  He shook it heartily. “A pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Steele.” His voice was warm again. Genuine, and as musically Southern as his son’s.

  Miranda gave him a wink. “Likewise.”

  She shot a fake grin at Parker. “See ya later, boss.” Then she turned and headed back to her cube.

  After waiting a few minutes, she looked around and found the coast clear, then quietly pulled her purse out of the drawer. There were no classes this afternoon. She could finish the skip tracing she had to do later.

  After running her fingers through her thick hair and straightening her clothes, she slipped out of the back without anyone seeing her. She wouldn’t be gone long. Not more than a couple hours. Parker would never be the wiser.

  Good thing she was already wearing black.

  Chapter Seven

  The high gothic columns of Saint Simon Episcopal echoed with the strains of somber organ music that was punctuated, after a pause, by the hollow coughs and stifled sobs of the crowd seated down below. In dark clothing, too warm for this time of year, a subsection of Atlanta’s wealthy grieved the loss of one of their own.

  One so young, so vibrant, with so much success and promise, that this age-old ritual only served to underscore what these mourners had in common with the rest of humanity.

  Death.

  The Grim Reaper knew no difference between the affluent and the needy. Between the glamorous and the plain. Between the pampered and the poor. On his playing field, everyone was equal.

  Everyone was a loser.

  At the end of a long aisle, a robed priest stood behind a gilded altar, surrounded by pale statuary that stretched to the ceiling. Before the altar, a small forest of sympathy lilies, remembrance wreaths, and floral arrangements sat on flimsy stands. In front of the foliage the closed silver casket sat, covered with a huge spray of what must have been a hundred red roses. Along with the other flowers, they perfumed the air.

  Lovely. Silent. Alone.

  The music ended and the minister moved to an ornate podium. He began to speak, attempting to soothe the grieving listeners with images of the hereafter.

  Miranda scanned the crowd. Delta Langford was in the front row, a dark, wide-brimmed hat, thick with black netting covering her face. She lifted a black lace handkerchief to her lips to smother her sobs. Beside her, a large man with dark gray hair put an arm of comfort around her. Eli Langford, Miranda surmised.

  She thought of what Mr. P had said about the man. He didn’t seem like the brute who had humiliated his daughters in public when they were teens. Had they mended their fences over the years? Or was it this tragedy that had forced Eli to show some affection? In any case, the scene only made Miranda feel even more sympathy for Delta.

  Across the aisle, down a few rows, Miranda recognized Ferraro Usher, Desirée’s ex. He sat stiffly, his long blond hair combed and pulled back in a band, his clothes dark and muted, like everyone else’s, instead of the colorful garb he’d worn at the steeplechase. His eyes bore straight ahead, as if he were in a trance.

  The minister finished. The organ crescendoed. Pallbearers appeared to bear the casket away. The assembly rose, formed into rows and followed it down the aisle.

  Outside, Miranda lagged behind the processional, wondering whether to follow it into the cemetery. She hadn’t learned much yet, so she decided she might as well.

  The ceremony at the gravesite was just as bleak. She stood off to the side and watched the family, now seated under a blue canopy erected by the funeral home.

  The crying was louder out here. D
elta’s. Eli Langford’s. Usher’s. Especially Usher’s. When the priest sprinkled the coffin with a handful of dirt and bade the victim farewell, Usher broke down in bitter sobs.

  The awful sounds made Miranda think of her mother’s death over a decade ago. She had been just twenty, married to Leon a little over three years. She hadn’t spoken to her mother in months. A stern, detached woman, she rarely communicated with anyone her own age, let alone the daughter she had nothing in common with. A co-worker had found the body and called the police.

  Miranda had been numb. It was the first death she’d experienced in her family. She didn’t count her father’s abandoning her when she was little. Her father was still alive, for all she knew. At the time, she’d felt bewildered, lost. She’d reached out to Leon, but there was no comfort there. He didn’t talk to her either. Didn’t hold her. Later that night, she remembered him yelling at her again for something she’d forgotten to do.

  Suddenly, her mind snapped to three weeks ago and she was back in that wine cellar with him. The gleam of his knife slashing at her. The smell of old wine. The terror crushing her chest. The pain shooting through her back as she fell to the hard, stone floor.

  With a jolt, she came back to the present. The priest was announcing that there was food for everyone in the Fellowship Hall.

  She glanced around, self-conscious. Maybe Parker was right. Maybe she did need a shrink.

  She peeked at her watch. Food, huh? She hadn’t had lunch and she hadn’t made much headway so far. Might as well check it out.

  She turned to follow the others and felt someone come up beside her. “Oh, Ms. Steele. You’re here. You got my message. Thank you for coming.”

  It was Delta Langford.

  Miranda nodded silently. Wouldn’t have missed it for the world didn’t seem appropriate.

  “Does this mean you’ll take my sister’s case?” she asked, a pitiful quiver in her voice.

  Guilt pricking her conscience, Miranda thought about what Parker had said earlier. “The police think it was suicide.”

  Delta stopped walking and blinked at her. Then her catlike gaze bore into Miranda with the intensity of a stalking leopard. “It wasn’t suicide,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “I know Usher did it. My poor sister. What he put her through. And now she’s gone.” She gasped a sob into her black lace handkerchief. “He has to pay, Ms. Steele. Someone has to make him pay for what he did to her. Only another woman could understand. You know what we go through at the hands of men who say they love us.”

  The woman sure knew how to push her buttons. But she’d better come clean. “Look, Ms. Langford, I have to be honest with you. I’m not authorized to take cases for the Agency. I have to go through Parker.”

  Her eyes took on an even wilder look. Almost like panic. “Isn’t there some way around that? You’re an excellent investigator. You just solved a high-profile murder.”

  The woman knew how to play the ego card, too. Miranda blew out a frustrated breath. “Why don’t you come into the office tomorrow and talk to Parker about it?”

  Delta took a step backward, hugging herself tightly. “I couldn’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  She looked away. Then began to talk quickly. “I don’t want my father to know. I’ve had two failed marriages, Ms. Steele. The last one nearly ruined me financially. To protect me, my father keeps an eye on my bank account. He’d know if I wrote a check to the Parker Agency. An investigation would be too much for him right now.”

  Miranda felt her stomach twist. Delta Langford was living with her father? And he handled her finances for her? This family was bizarre. But she knew the real reason the woman didn’t want to go to Parker was that “unpleasant history” he’d mentioned.

  “You could talk to one of the other detectives,” she suggested gently. Senior investigators could take on cases. Maybe Judd.

  Delta’s eyes grew watery. “I want you, Ms. Steele. You’re the only one who truly understands.” She lifted the lacey black kerchief in her hand as if speaking to it. “My life has been so difficult over the past few years. Now my dear sister is gone. Murdered. And I’m the only one who knows it.” She pressed the hanky against her face and began to sob again.

  Miranda shifted her weight, her heart breaking for the poor women. Well, she’d come here to snoop around, hadn’t she?

  “Look, Ms. Langford, while I’m here, I’ll do a little preliminary investigating.”

  Delta raised her head, hope spreading over her face. “Will you?”

  She’d try. “I can’t promise you anything, but I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Oh, thank you, Ms. Steele.” She reached out a gloved hand and squeezed her arm in that crushing, emotional grip.

  “Don’t thank me yet. In the meantime, while I’m here, pretend you don’t know me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Miranda lowered her voice. “If a certain somebody thinks we’re pals or something, it won’t be good.”

  She nodded. “Of course. I understand.” She let go of Miranda’s arm. “Thank you, again, Ms. Steele,” she whispered, “Please let me know what you find out.”

  Miranda nodded, then watched Delta Langford turn and join the other mourners as they somberly moved into the Fellowship Hall.

  Chapter Eight

  The smell of garlic, basil, and baked bread made her mouth water as Miranda descended the stony steps into the cool of the hall. Two long tables stretched out on either side of the large, open room, both crowded with delicious-looking goodies. Already, people were busy serving themselves.

  She hadn’t eaten all day and since she had to blend in, she grabbed a plate and got in line.

  She was digging into a pan full of cheesy lasagna covered with thick tomato sauce when she heard an accent just as thick and almost as Italian. New York Italian, that was.

  “Well, if it isn’t Ms. Congeniality herself.”

  Miranda looked across the table and met the murky stare of a woman about five-two, with short dark hair. She was dressed as a server in a black long-sleeve shirt with a black bow tie at the neck.

  “Fanuzzi.” Miranda hadn’t seen her in ages. Well, at least a few weeks.

  She folded her arms over her trim chest. “Guess after that splash about you in the papers, you don’t have time for your old friends on the road crew.”

  Miranda winced. “Sorry. I kind of suck at relationships.”

  Her dark brows drew together. “I’ll say.”

  Back in the day—before Miranda’s job at the Parker Agency—Joan Fanuzzi had been the Dump Person on Miranda’s paving crew, directing the hauling units around the job site, and Miranda had been a Lute Person. It was the best job she could get when she first came to town. Fanuzzi had always been nice to her, had acted like she wanted to be friends. Especially when she heard Miranda was working for Wade Parker.

  Miranda had promised to keep in touch, but she hadn’t.

  She caught the cheese that was hanging from her plate, twirled it around her plastic fork, and scooped up some noodles with it. “Nice to see you.” Quickly, she stuffed the forkful into her mouth so she wouldn’t have to answer questions. It didn’t work.

  Fanuzzi narrowed her eyes at her. “What the hell are you doing at the Langford funeral, Murray?” She always called her Murray. It was a nickname the road crew had given her. “You trying to rub elbows with the local lords and ladies?”

  Miranda glanced around, hoping no one had overheard the woman. She chewed the noodles, swallowed, and dodged. “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “Hey, I got business here. I’m the caterer.”

  Miranda looked over the tables again at the spread of food. There were a couple of younger helpers dressed in the same black shirt and tie Fanuzzi had on. “Caterer? What happened to the road crew? Did you lose your job?”

  “Nah. But I got bills to pay. My ex can be slow with his child support. So I started this business on the side. I always wanted to cat
er fancy events.”

  “Really? I never pictured you as the domestic type.”

  “What are you talking about?” she said defensively. “My mother was from Tennessee. She taught me how to fry a chicken. But my specialty is lasagna. So?”

  “So?”

  “So what’d ya think?”

  Guess she wasn’t too mad for a compliment. “It’s good. Delicious.” Miranda eyed the table. “You got any hot sauce or anything?”

  Fanuzzi scowled. “You gonna ruin my lasagna with hot sauce?”

  “I like my food with a kick.”

  Now Fanuzzi looked wounded.

  “Sorry. It’s good. Really. Even without the kick.” She put another bite in her mouth to prove it.

  Fanuzzi put her tongue in her cheek and eyed her carefully. “You never answered my question.”

  “What question?” Miranda said, still chewing her last bite.

  “What are you doing here at the Langford funeral?”

  Miranda put down her fork, leaned over the table and whispered as quietly as she could. “I’m sort of working a case.”

  Fanuzzi blinked. “Really? Is Wade Parker here?”

  “No.”

  She looked disappointed. Fanuzzi had gushed like a giddy teenager over the idea that Miranda was working for Parker.

  Miranda wiped her mouth with a paper napkin and gazed over the crowd. Halfway across the room, huddled near a supporting column, Eli Langford was talking to a couple of men who looked like they might be business cohorts. Eli was large, heavyset, and dressed, as she would expect, in an expensive-looking solid black suit. He leaned on a cane for support and there were dark circles under his eyes. As he shook his head woefully, his jowls jiggled. He seemed to be in genuine pain.

  Behind Langford, a door opened and Usher strode into the room. He glanced about, but didn’t speak to anyone. Finally, he sauntered toward the far corner and sank into a chair, stretching his long, lanky body as if every muscle ached with grief. Blankly, he stared out a window.