The Alibi

“Get away from my house and leave me alone.”

“It wouldn’t be a good idea to get me riled. Especially not now. Where have you been all day?”

She refused to answer.

He grinned, seemingly amused by her stubbornness. “Never mind. Get in.”

Leaning across the seat, he opened the passenger door. As it swung open, she had to leap back to keep it from striking her shin. “If you think I’m going anywhere with you, you’re crazy.”

He reached for the ignition key. “Fine, then I’ll come in.”

“No!”

He chuckled. “I didn’t think so.” Patting the passenger seat, he said, “Put your sweet little tush right here. Right now.”

She knew he wouldn’t give up easily and go away. Sooner or later she must confront this, so she might just as well get it over with. She climbed into the car and angrily slammed the door.

* * *

Hammond decided not to postpone offering his condolences to Lute Pettijohn’s widow. After concluding his conversation with Mason and seeing Steffi off, he showered and changed. Within minutes, he was in his car and on his way to the Pettijohn mansion.

Waiting for the bell at the gate to be answered, he mindlessly observed the people enjoying their Sunday evening at the Battery. Two tourists across the street in the park were taking photographs of the Pettijohns’ mansion, despite his presence in the foreground. The usual number of joggers and walkers showed up as moving silhouettes along the seawall.

He was let in by Sarah Birch. The housekeeper asked him to wait in the foyer while she announced him. Returning shortly, she said, “Miss Davee says for you to come on up, Mr. Cross.”

The massive woman led him upstairs, across the gallery, and down a wide corridor, then through an enormous bedroom into a bathroom that was unlike any Hammond had ever seen. Beneath a stained-glass skylight was a sunken whirlpool tub large enough for a volleyball team. It was filled with water, but the jets weren’t on. Creamy magnolia blossoms as large as dinner plates floated on the still surface.

What seemed to be acres of mirrored walls reflected scented candles that flickered on elaborate candlesticks scattered throughout the room. A silk-upholstered chaise piled with decorative pillows stood in one corner. The gold sink was as large as a washtub. The fixtures were crystal, matching the countless vanity jars and perfume bottles arrayed on the counter.

Hammond realized now that the gossips were probably conservative in their estimate of what Lute had spent on the house’s refurbishing. Although he had been inside many times for various social functions, this was the first time he had ever been upstairs. He had heard rumors of its opulence, but he hadn’t expected anything quite this lavish.

Nor had he expected to find the recent widow naked and cooing pleasurably as a beefy masseur stroked the back of her thigh.

“You don’t mind, do you, Hammond?” Davee Pettijohn asked as the masseur draped a sheet over her to cover everything except her shoulders and the leg he was presently massaging.

Hammond took the hand she extended him and squeezed it. “Not if you don’t.”

She gave him a wicked smile. “You know me better than that. Not an ounce of modesty to my name. A flaw that liked to have driven my mama crazy. Of course, she was crazy anyway.”

Propping her chin on her stacked hands, she sighed as the masseur kneaded her buttock. “We’re right in the middle of the ninety-minute session, and it’s so divine I just couldn’t bring myself to ask Sandro to stop.”

“I don’t blame you. Funny, though.”

“What?”

“Lute had a massage in the hotel spa yesterday.”

“Before or after he got himself murdered?” His frown caused her to laugh. “Just kidding. Pour yourself some champagne, why don’t you?” With an indolent wave, she indicated the silver wine cooler standing near the vanity. The cork had already been popped, but on the silver tray near the cooler was an extra flute that hadn’t been used. It flitted through his mind that Davee might have been expecting him tonight. It was an unsettling thought.

“Thanks, but I’d better not,” he said.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she said impatiently. “Don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud. You and I have never stood on ceremony, so why start now? Besides, I think champagne is the perfect drink for when your husband gets blown away in the penthouse suite of his own freaking hotel. While you’re at it, pour me another, too.”

Her champagne flute was sitting on the floor beside the massage table. Knowing it was usually futile to argue with Davee, Hammond refilled her glass, then poured half a flute for himself. When he brought hers back to her, she clinked their glasses together.

“Cheers. To funerals and other fun times.”

“I don’t exactly share your sentiment,” he said after taking a sip.