Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (11 page)

But Buck Wainwright was difficult to categorize; he displayed bits of all these behaviors. Sometimes he stared straight ahead. Other times he focused on Tony, gaze intense. Was it calculating? He thought so, until he uttered the word "murder" and saw a flash of shock in Buck's eyes.

"Mr. Wainwright, as you just heard, I'm Chief Superintendent Hetheridge. My intent is to help you get this sorted as soon as possible. For that to transpire, I require your complete honesty. Can you give me that?"

There it was again in Buck's eyes: shock, humiliation, misery. He looked like a cornered animal, and Tony had barely begun.

"Tell me about how you met Mr. Hardwick. Describe your relationship with him."

"Through my sister-in-law, Maisie. She lives in Shoreditch. Specializes in stuff that makes a velvet Elvis look classy. Dumpster-dives, drags in a kajillion things Goodwill would veto, and hot-glues it together while burning a doob."

Tony pondered this as he occasionally pondered conversation in Mandarin, of which he had only stock phrases. When Oscar Wilde described England and the United States as two countries separated by a common language, he'd had no idea what was to come.

"So your sister-in-law sifts through rubbish, fetches it home, and assembles it into 'found art.'" Sensing Kate about to interject, he concluded triumphantly, "Whilst smoking marijuana."

"You got it." Buck smiled weakly. "In fact, you sound just like her. Maisie was born in San Antonio. Nowadays her fake English accent puts Madonna's to shame. Anyway, my wife and I—Sunny's her name—were having problems. We married too young, I reckon. Couldn't have kids, got frustrated trying to adopt. She had all these hobbies: salsa dancing, yoga, meatless cooking. Meatless! Can you believe that?" He shook his head. "Me, I worked. Threw myself into my daddy's ranch. Before he passed, I'd taken it from a broken down piece of desert to what it is now: one hundred thousand acres of prime real estate, with the finest herd of Black Angus cattle in the Southwest, if I do say so myself."

"Happy marriage?" Tony asked.

Buck passed a hand over his face. "Whaddya think? I already told Miss Kate here"—he nodded politely in her direction—"I'm a drinking man. Always have been. But a working man, too, and one never interfered with the other. I'm up with the sun, I honor my commitments, I pay my bills." He spoke with the bone-deep assurance of one who'd justified his behavior with those three statements for many, many years.

"I did say
complete
honesty, Mr. Wainwright."

"So I drank. It never interfered with work till Sunny left. Then things got out of hand." His gaze swept over the table as if noticing it for the first time. "No ashtray. I suppose smoking's off-limits?"

"I'm afraid so." Tony regretted those modern health and safety regulations. Nothing loosened up a nervous interrogee like sweet, soothing carcinogens.

"Figures. One day the federal government will tell me I can't smoke outdoors on my own land. What I wouldn't give to see the Marlboro man kick some politically correct butt."

"Didn't he die of cancer?" Kate asked. It was the first time she'd spoken, and already she sounded like the stereotypical bad cop going for broke. Tony expected Buck to bristle, but he didn't.

"Probably. You remind me of Sharada, Miss Kate. She found my cigarettes in a pants pocket and dumped them in her cat box. Dared me to pick 'em out of the litter." Buck chuckled. "Maybe that's why losing Sunny hit me so hard. I'm nothing without a woman to pull me up by the short ones."

Tony held back a smile. He would have commiserated, if not for his wife's presence. Another disadvantage to spouses working together.

"Anyway. With my wife gone and the place empty," Buck continued, "I bought more land, acquired more vacation property. Shifted funds around, selling this and developing that. Rode into the mountains, cleared brush, spent my evenings at a joint called the Hitching Post. Drank more tequila than I ever have in my life. Anything to keep from hearing myself think. I was almost at peace, telling myself Sunny was off playing hooky with Maisie and sure to come home any day. Then a friend—son of a friend—had to up and tell me about Twitter." He shook his head bleakly. "You know what Twitter is, Mr. Hetheridge?"

"Sadly, yes."

"You got that right. Amazing what people do these days to entertain themselves. Phones! I don't even like to talk on a phone, and this boy spends every waking minute staring at one," Buck said. "Anyway, turns out Sunny was on Twitter. Tweeting, that's what they call it. Sharada lit into me when I called it posting. Sunny had been tweeting night and day about her 'return to romance.'" Buck's mouth tightened; his eyes went cold. "And not just lovey-dovey stuff. Not just pictures of her and Hardwick at parties, hugging and kissing. No, sir, Sunny went all the way, putting it out there for the whole world to see. She tweeted, 'I can't wait to divorce my husband's sorry ass and marry Granville, the man of my dreams.'"

There it is
, Tony thought.
The smoking gun, as it were, in the form of a seventeen-word tweet.

Chapter Seven

But even as that passed through his mind, he recalled Buck's look of shock at the word "murder." And although the motive fit, experience suggested the circumstances didn't. Yes, rejection, contempt, and humiliation formed a familiar unholy trinity, but it was a rare man who did in his romantic rival instead of his wife. Even someone like Buck, tall and strong, was statistically most likely to vent his rage on the hundred and ten pound woman he knew, not an unknown man who might fight back. Moreover, a successful rancher like Buck, used to delegating unpleasant tasks, was far from alone in the world. Why would he fly to London and personally beat Hardwick to death? Whether for business or pleasure, rich men who murdered their competitors almost always outsourced the kill.

He did mention tequila. When sufficient alcohol is involved, all other factors go out the window.

"So you were angry enough to kill someone." Kate still sounded resolutely bad-cop, despite—or perhaps because of—Wainwright's obvious warmth toward her. "Is that what brought you to London? Sunny's tweet?"

Buck looked embarrassed. "Do you remember when I said I have a blackout temper? Well, truth is, I'm a blackout drinker, too. Not all the time. Not every day, or even every week. Up with the sun, commitments honored, bills paid, I swear to God.

"Anyway. I was doing shots at the Hitching Post when that boy took it upon himself to show me Sunny's tweet. I stormed out, went to the store, and bought myself a dad-burned smartphone after swearing I never would. Last thing I remember is going through her public account, looking at every picture, reading every word. A few hours later, I woke up on an airplane. Forty thousand feet above the Atlantic."

"You flew from the United States to England during a blackout?" Kate gaped at him.

"It's not the strangest thing tequila's ever made me do. I guess it might sound far-fetched if you don't know any drinkers, Miss Kate, but—"

"I know drinkers," she cut across him. "Go on."

Buck's gaze lingered on her hand. It had puffed a bit, the plaster across her knuckles stained with blood. "So. Even drunk, I managed to book first class. The people are snobs but the seats recline all the way back, and when your legs are as long as mine, that's worth a pretty penny. Took another four hours to touch down in Heathrow, and by then I was sober. Sober in jolly old England without a friend in the country, unless you count Sunny. Which I don't."

Kate looked sidelong at Tony. It was just a quick flick of the eyes, but enough to reveal she was verging on another outburst, or what some interrogators called "forceful redirection." He shook his head fractionally. Perhaps Buck was deliberately stalling. Or perhaps this slow, detailed buildup to the simple question "How did you meet Mr. Hardwick?" contained nuggets of information that would mean everything, later.

"Since I'd come such a long way, I decided to confront Sunny. Ask her why she never told me she'd met someone else, much less wanted a divorce," Buck continued. "I knew she was staying with Maisie, so I took a cab to Shoreditch. Spent awhile pacing in front of her building. During the flight, I thought about telling her where to go, getting up in her face, you know? But standing there in my right mind, hungover in a strange city, all I wanted to do was…." He trailed off, looking ashamed.

"Find a pub?" Tony suggested gently.

"Yeah." Buck brightened. "Makes sense, doesn't it? I was staring down the barrel of another twelve-hour flight. Best to calm my nerves. Put myself in a good mood first."

"Wait." Kate put a wealth of skepticism into that one word. "Are you telling us you saw a tweet mentioning divorce, flew into a rage, traveled all the way to England, then decided to go home without even talking to Sunny?"

"Yeah. That's what I'm saying. Sure I was furious over that tweet, but as I stood outside Maisie's building, I realized Sunny probably never guessed I'd see it. She knows how much old Buck hates phones and technology." He shrugged. "I reckon she was just happy. Happy to be moving on. So yeah, I hailed a cab and told the driver to pick a bar, nothing snooty, no rap music or kids with blue hair. He dropped me off at a corner joint called Lucky's, and it was the luckiest day of my life."

"Mrs. Bhar said she met you in a pub," Tony said.

"Yup. I gave her my seat. Bought her a ginger ale with two maraschino cherries, and she loved it. Sharada doesn't care for liquor or beer. Not even a glass of white wine. She's a real lady."

"I cannot pretend to know Mrs. Bhar well. But regarding her ladylike qualities, I'm inclined to agree," Tony said. "So be assured I mean no disrespect when I call her an unlikely choice for your, er, rebound romance. My staff did a cursory check on you, Mr. Wainwright. You and Sunny share a fortune of over twelve million dollars. It's not uncommon for a man of your means to divorce and start anew. But for you to do so with a woman like Mrs. Bhar…."

Buck's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"What do you think? She's older than my iPhone and weighs more than a postage stamp," Kate snapped. "Men in need of an ego boost don't fall for women like Sharada Bhar."

Planting his shoe firmly atop his wife's foot, Tony applied pressure until she squirmed. Buck, for his part, absorbed the statement in silence. Tony expected an angry outburst, but he smiled.

"Miss Kate, when you own some land and a few head of cattle, pretty women make themselves available. Young. Giggly. Looking to go clubbing and drink mojitos and spend money. My money." He sighed. "I tried that route, and they seemed to have fun, but I didn't. Reckon I still carried a torch for Sunny. Then that tweet laid waste to everything, burned the crops and salted the earth. So yeah, you're right, I went into Lucky's hoping for an ego boost. I gave Sharada my stool, fell under her spell, and found exactly what I was looking for." As he spoke of Sharada, Buck sat taller, sounded happier, and seemed unashamed at last.

"She listened to my story, the whole sorry mess. How Sunny and I met, built a life together, drifted apart. I showed her the tweet." He laughed. "Boy, did I get a lecture about 'unfollow' and 'block.' Then she told me about her husband, Haresh, and all the sh—stuff he pulled. Put Sunny's behavior in perspective, that's for sure. We talked and talked, and I didn't even drink that much. Saw her to her door, then hailed another cab to the nearest Holiday Inn. I was in London, so I figured, why not stay awhile? Besides, I wanted to see Sharada again. And every time we got together, whether we had dinner, went dancing, or stopped off for a couple of ginger ales, I forgot about everything but her."

"How long have you been in London, Mr. Wainwright?" Tony asked.

"I don't know. Eight or nine weeks. I manage the ranch by phone. My overseer's a good man, and my admin assistant's a genius. All I had to do was check in, tell them how my sabbatical was going. Hinted I might come back with a new bride."

Kate snorted—probably imagining Paul Bhar's reaction to his beloved mum disappearing overseas, deep in the heart of Texas—but even as Tony stepped on her foot again, Buck misunderstood that derisive noise and shifted to the matter at hand.

"All right. Fine. I didn't stay in London all this time just for Sharada. On day two, I called the credit card company to let them know I'd be running a tab overseas, and that's when I found out how much Sunny was spending. Not just on living expenses. Buying bullsh—sorry, bullcrap art through Hardwick with my money, which was the same as
giving
Hardwick my money."

"So after twenty, twenty-five years of marriage, you thought the money in your joint account belonged only to you?" Kate asked.

"I worked for it," Buck said stubbornly. "I sweated for it, I bled for it, I made it grow. All she ever did was blow it on her hobbies."

"To whom did you complain about this state of affairs?" Tony asked. "Sunny, or Mr. Hardwick?"

"Both of them. First Sunny, of course, but she wouldn't listen. Kept saying I was jealous, mean, a tightwad, you name it. So I tried to talk to Hardwick." Buck shook his head. "The first ten thousand pounds were gone. There was nothing I could do about it. I accepted that. But a week after I warned Sunny to stop, she did it again. Bought another ten thousand pounds worth of ready-made junk from that green-haired weasel. The credit card company denied my appeal. I told Hardwick I hadn't authorized it, but he didn't care. He as good as stole twenty thousand dollars from me and thought it was a big joke."